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 is Country Cousin 
 
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HIS COUNTRY COUSIN 
 
 OR, 
 
 MERCY CRAVEN’S LOVERS. 
 
 A STORY OF HEARTS AND HOMES. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLOTTE M. STANLEY. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 GEOKGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 
 
 17 TO 27 Vandewater Street. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1885, by 
 GEORGE MUNRO, 
 
 m the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. 
 
hi ^9 A 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 “ And so you’re going to have Mercy Craven to come 
 and live with you? Well, to be sure! When Steve told 
 me so last night, I never was more astonished! ‘ What 
 for?’ I asked Steve. ‘ What under the sun does a young 
 wife like Polly, with only two little ones, and plenty of 
 servants to help her, want with a girl like Mercy Craven, 
 who’ll be as much the mistress as herself?’ But Steve 
 could tell me nothing; his mind is too full of pretty Ada, 
 there ” — with a glance at the further end of the handsome 
 room, where her youngest son stood leaning over a lovely 
 girl, who was seated at a piano — not playing it, but draw- 
 ing her fingers idly over the ke}^s — “ Steve sees and hears 
 little else than Ada, when Ada is anywhere near. So I 
 made up my mind to come and have a talk with you about 
 it. 1 know more about the Cravens than yoic do, my 
 dear; and, if the thing isn’t settled and done, take a little 
 time to consider and think before you do what we may all 
 be sorry for.” 
 
 The speaker was Mrs. Eaymond — “ Pretty Widow Ray- 
 mond ” folks had called her something over twenty years 
 ago, which was a few months before the daughter whom 
 she now addressed, and the son, who was busy playing at 
 love beside the piano yonder, made their joint appearance 
 in what seemed to their young mother a weary, weary 
 world; for she had had two fine, bouncing boys already, of 
 
 '701490 
 
6 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 the respective ages of five and seven, and therefore, when 
 these twins arrived within some seven months of the hus- 
 band and father^s sudden death, it really did seem to the 
 poor little sorrowful woman that the measure of her afflic- 
 tion was both piled up very high, and pressed down very, 
 very hard indeed. They were two such bewildering little 
 circumstances, and it was so hard for any one to quite de- 
 cide how they were to be properly provided for; for Tom 
 Eaymond, senior, while making sufficient, and even hand- 
 some, provision for his wife and two sons, had neither 
 known nor thought of, nor in any way prepared for any 
 further responsibilities; so that, when these posthumous 
 babies came upon the scene, they found their two elder 
 brothers in full and firm possession of whatever the father 
 had had to leave, and themselves not only fatherless but 
 penniless — not that there was any absolute danger of their 
 ever coming to want — their mother was too well provided 
 for, and too loving and dutiful to them to permit that, 
 unless— unless — (Widow Raymond was only twenty-five, 
 and very pretty) unless she should see fit to marry a sec- 
 ond time, in which case the poor little twins, in addition _ 
 to being penniless, would pass from the secure and natural 
 condition of safe dependence on a mother^s love to the 
 somewhat dubious, and often painful, state of reliance on 
 the cold kindliness of a step-father. 
 
 This state of things came ^f the peculiar conditions of 
 Mr. Raymond's will, made only a few months 'before his 
 death, but whether with any prescience of that death 
 — which was sudden and accidental — upon his mind, 
 who shall tell? Probably, however, as he was a careful 
 and cautious man, who had worked hard for his money, 
 and was no longer young, no further motive than a right 
 solicitude for the welfare of the dear ones dependent on him 
 was needed to account for that wise action which the 
 quickly following calamity of his death made appear so 
 providential and well-timed; be that as it may, however^ 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIK. 7 
 
 the will was made, and the following were its principal 
 conditions: 
 
 His business (he had owned a flourishing dry-goods store 
 in a good neighborhood) was to be carried on by persons, 
 and under the supervision of trustees, whom he himself 
 appointed, in trust for his two sons, until they should 
 come of age and be able to take charge of it themselves, 
 when it was to become wholly theirs, either upon the terms 
 of a joint partnership, or by such just and equitable divi- 
 sion as they might mutually agree upon. Between these 
 two boys he also equally divided all personal property and 
 moneys belonging to him at the time of his death, with the 
 exception of the sum of five thousand dollars, which he 
 directed should be paid to his widow. Three thousand 
 dollars per year was also to come to her out of the estate, 
 so long as she remained a widow, for her own and her two 
 children’s maintenance until the latter were of age, after 
 which the sum of two thousand dollars per annum was to 
 be paid her for her own exclusive use, always upon that 
 same condition of her continued widowhood, separate and 
 liberal provision being made for the two children’s educa- 
 tion; but if, on the other hand, Mrs. Raymond should 
 think proper to marry a second time, she, by such mar- 
 riage, forfeited this provision, as well as the control and 
 custody of her two sons, the testator explaining that, while 
 he had no wish to unduly, influence the actions of his 
 widoAv, he did desire to secure the mother entirely to her 
 sons; and, furthermore, had no intention of either dower- 
 ing another man’s wife, or permitting his children to pass 
 into a second husband’s custody. Pretty Mrs. Raymond, 
 when she heard the will read, smiled faintly amid her 
 tears, more pleased than vexed at “ poor, dear Tom’s fool- 
 ish, jealous notions.” 
 
 ‘‘ As if I should ever think of such a thing as a second 
 marriage!” she sighed. Such a husband as my poor 
 Tom was doesn’t fall to a woman’s lot twice in a life-time. 
 
8 
 
 HIS COUNTKY COUSIN. 
 
 I fancy. No. no, he needn^t have been afraid; I sha’n^t 
 replace him. The rest of my life will be devoted to the 
 care of his little ones — not only for the two boys he was so 
 fond and proud of, and has done so well for, but the poor 
 babe that will never know a father’s care, to whom 1 must 
 be father and mother both, alas!” and at that j^athetic 
 thought her faint smile died, and tears fell fast and sor- 
 rowfully. 
 
 She was not very much concerned, at first, as to the fut- 
 ure prospects of the expected infant. “ Dear Tom ” had 
 been so generous to her that she could easily save enough 
 money, by the time the child should be of age, to portion 
 it almost as well as its two brothers; but when the longed- 
 for and yet dreaded hour arrived, and a yair of helpless 
 babies lay upon her widowed bosom, the great, maternal 
 love aroused a thousand womanly anxieties, and she began 
 to doubt and question, timidly, how should she ever pro- 
 vide for the two? The sum which she might save out of 
 her allowance from the estate would seem a pitiful portion 
 enough, compared to that of her elder boys, when it should 
 come to be divided between two. Well, one thing at least 
 was very certain now: poor Tom’s wishes about her per- 
 petual widowhood would be fulfilled. Every thought must 
 be devoted to these two children — every nerve must be 
 strained to fill their father’s place to them, and make 
 amends for the unintentional wrong done by the will, 
 which was made before they came into existence. 
 
 The brave little woman kept her resolution well. There 
 came a time, when the twins were seven years old, when 
 she felt poor dear Tom’s ” conditions hard and selfish, 
 since they deprived her of the companionship of a con- 
 genial mind — the consolation of a husband’s love and care, 
 offered her then by oiie from whom she would have 
 accepted them, had anything less sacred than the interests 
 of her children been at stake; as it was, she did not hesi- 
 tate for an instant. 
 
HIS (X)UNTRY COUSIN', 
 
 0 
 
 ‘‘ So long as my cliildren need me, I belong to them/’^ 
 she told her suitor. “ If I married you I should come to 
 you penniless and with two little ones; and if you are so 
 generous, or think so much of me that you would under- 
 take such a responsibility for my sake, neither you nor J, 
 being made comparatively poor by such a marriage, could 
 make amends to these children for what they would lose. 
 I have saved and laid by five thousand dollars for them in 
 these seven years — only five thousand dollars. I, who 
 have hitherto belonged wholly to them and to their 
 father’s memory. Should I be able to do even half so well 
 for them as your wife? No. And I should feel that, for 
 my present happiness, I had jeopardized their future. 
 Therefore I say no. So long as my children need a moth-* 
 er’s service I can be no man’s wife.” 
 
 And these children were only seven years old. How 
 many weary years of waiting must elapse before they would 
 cease to need her! The man who loved her knew her to 
 be jealous of the superior wealth of her elder sons, and 
 ambitious to place these later children on something like 
 an equal footing. How long would it take her to accom- 
 plish that, seeing that, in seven long years she had saved 
 but five thousand dollars? She was a very woman who 
 would take the slow, sure, tedious road to moderate means 
 — not run bold risks for wealth; and he, on his part, had 
 enough for all, but no surplus with which to buy these 
 twins immunity from possible evils, or recompense them 
 for probable loss. He had cared enough for her to take 
 her and her children penniless and serve them as his own; 
 but he did not care enough to do what was much harder — 
 wait— wait through an indefinite time, with indefinite 
 prospects for a barely possible good, which, after all, 
 might never come to reward him, and through this weary, 
 hopeless waiting, see another preferred — ay, though that 
 other was only her own helpless child — preferred before 
 himselL Better have done with hope and love at 
 
10 
 
 HIS COUNTUY COUSIN’. 
 
 ouce,^^ he tlionglifc, “ and reconcile one’s self to the in- 
 evitable;” and it is to be presumed that he took this sensi- 
 ble and truly masculine course as soon as might be, for 
 within two years’ time of his rejection by “ Pretty Widow 
 Kaymond ” he was married. 
 
 She turned a shade paler when she heard of it, and, in 
 her own room that night I think she shed a few quiet 
 tears; but the warm lovelight in her eyes, as she looked 
 down upon her sleeping babes, soon dried the teardrops. 
 
 “ I have done my duty to you, darlings,” she whis- 
 j)ered, and found sweet consolation in the thought. More- 
 over, the tender little woman had her share of gentle, 
 womanly pride. ‘‘ He could not have rightly loved me,” 
 she thought, “ and put another woman in the place he 
 offered me so very soon; it was not me he wanted, but just 
 a wife. Ah, well, God make him happy with the one he 
 has wedded. I shall not waste regrets on one who did not 
 love me well enough to wait. I have my children still.” 
 
 Ten years later she had parted with one of these idolized 
 children — Mariana, familiarly called Polly, who had real- 
 ized and fulfilled all her mother’s most ambitious hopes 
 for her by a really prosperous and desirable marriage. 
 Polly became Mrs. Richard Lester, and Richard Lester 
 was considered (matrimonially) quite a catch by all the 
 ladies of his circle. As for saucy, merry, light-hearted 
 Polly Raymond, only just sixteen years old, and scarcely 
 released from her school-books yet, when she found that 
 the big fish had floundered into her careless net, astonish- 
 ment filled her mind so completely as to leave no room, 
 for awhile, for any other sentiment whatever. 
 
 “ The idea of Dick Lester ” — she had known him from 
 her birth, Mr. Lester, senior, being one of the executors 
 of the famous will that had left her penniless — “ the idea 
 of Dick Lester wanting to marry me she would exclaim 
 to marry me, you know ’’—with a change of emphasis 
 ^h-ich made it appeal" that she would have thought his 
 
ms COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 11 
 
 wanting to adopt her or beat her less extraordinary — “ a 
 giddy little thing like me! — and he twelve years my senior, 
 and so grave! Little mother — they always patronized 
 their mother, these twins, to whom she had devoted her 
 life, and she liked the patronage — “ little mother, it is at 
 once the most surprising and most ridiculous thing that 1 
 ever heard of !^^ 
 
 It flattered her girlish vanity, nevertheless; nor had the 
 seeds of ambition which the mother had most naturally 
 and innocently implanted in her young mind fallen upon 
 barren ground. When Mrs. Eaymond pointed out the ad- 
 vantages of the match, laughing Miss Polly grew grave 
 enough and listened attentively; and in the end — an end 
 only six months distant — she married Eichard Lester, and 
 had been his happy and fortunate wife for almost four 
 years at the time my story opens. 
 
 Following her mother’s example, but at the very outset 
 of her matrimonial career, she had presented her husband 
 with twins—with all reasonable expedition — and was en- 
 gaged in dancing one of them to Banbury Cross ” upon 
 her knee, while the other built up and knocked down brick 
 pyramids — of wooden bricks — around her feet, the while 
 the little mother, now a cosy, comfortable, handsome 
 matron of forty- five, poured mingled mischief and wisdom 
 into her willing ears, the result of which process, as well 
 as some other particulars of considerable importance to 
 my story, I shall reserve for another chapter. 
 
 OHAPTEE II. 
 
 FOREBODING EVIL. 
 
 The thing is settled and done,” sighed Mrs. Lester, a 
 little discontentedly. “ Aunt Craven came to town a few 
 weeks ago and called on us, and 1 was civil to her, of 
 course; but — well, you know, mother, I never liked her. 
 Not a word about Mercy’s coming does she say to me, but 
 
12 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 goes down to Eichard’s office, in the afternoon, and talks 
 him over; and he promises that the girl shall come here, 
 without consulting me, and come she must, of course, on 
 trial at any rate Still, there can^t be much harm done. 
 1 never saw Mercy; but the Cravens are decently born and 
 bred and taught, I suppose. What have you so very much 
 against them?^^ 
 
 “Mrs. Craven is an artful woman,^^ answered Mrs. 
 Eaymond, earnestly, “and ‘artful mother will rear art- 
 ful child. ^ Of course she appealed to Richard rather than 
 to you — that was always Jane Craven^s way. She was a 
 beauty ten years ago, when Mercy and you were children. 
 She had great blue eyes that fairly looked men’s hearts 
 away, and turned their heads. She might have been mar- 
 ried a dozen times since Craven died — if he did die — if 
 she’d chosen. I can’t see why she chose to struggle on all 
 alone, and so poor, with that child; a second husband 
 would have helped her so much! Ah ” — with a keen look 
 at Richard Lester, who sat, apparently reading, but really 
 listening, in his easy-chair — “ no doubt she had sufficient 
 faith in the memory of her old attractions to feel very sure 
 that Dick wouldn’t say her nay. You admired Jane 
 Craven, too, when you were quite a boy, Dick, didn’t 
 you?” 
 
 Her tone was one of good-natured banter merely; but 
 Mr. Lester answered curtly, and with a frown: 
 
 “ I thought her handsome, certainly — a youngster of 
 twenty is not apt to be critical on the subject of female 
 charms. My admiration did not induce me to marry her, 
 however, though she was a widow, I suppose, even then; 
 neither did it influence my decision the other day. She 
 tells me Mercy is pretty and talented, and is buried, as one 
 may say, in that out-of-the-way country village in Penn- 
 sylvania. What more natural than that she should wish 
 to come here? What more than decent, cousinly kindness 
 is there in our consenting to receive her? — which reminds 
 
HTS COUNTUY COUSIN*. 
 
 13 
 
 me/^ he added, in a pleasanter tone, “ that, as she is to 
 arrive his evening, I intended to ask Steve if he could spare 
 a couple of hours from his love-making to go over to Jer- 
 sey City and meet her.^^ 
 
 This caused quite a general outcry. Mrs. Eaymond ex- 
 claimed: 
 
 “ What! to-night? 1 had no idea you expected her so 
 soon!’^ 
 
 Stephen Eaymond grumbled, and his pretty sweetheart 
 pouted at being thus disturbed in their love-play, and 
 Mrs. Lester, hastily putting the child down from her knee, 
 turned upon her husband in extreme surprise. 
 
 “ To-night, Dick? — and this is the first word that I have 
 heard about it! And she was expected to-morrow! Real- 
 ly — with an indignant air~‘‘ your manner of arranging 
 Mrs. Craven^s affairs without consulting me is very ex- 
 traordinary. Why didnT you tell us sooner? The girTs 
 bed must be got ready at once. Have you had a letter 
 from her?^^ 
 
 “ From her mother, my dear. It came only about an 
 hour ago, and really 1 forgot — 
 
 But Polly was holding out to him an eager little hand. 
 
 “ Where is it? Show me the letter, Dick,^^ with wifely 
 confidence in his producing it. 
 
 But he did not. Though it was lying safely in his 
 breast pocket at that moment, he did not. But he looked 
 into his wife’s eager face instead with well-simulated sur- 
 prise. 
 
 “You want to see Aunt Craven’s letter? Dear me, I 
 never thought of bringing it to you. It came to the office. 
 ITl find it for you there, if I can, to-morrow. Will that 
 do? It’s only to say that Mercy will be here at eight, and 
 to ask that somebody may meet her. ” 
 
 He told that white lie glibly. Not that he was other 
 than a truthful and honorable man with a right detesta- 
 tion of all fibs and subterfuges, but be knew his little wife 
 
It 
 
 ins COUKTilY COVSW. 
 
 had a taint of jealousy in her bloody and he could not let 
 her see Jane Craven^s letter, of which a part ran thus: 
 
 I trust to you, my dear old friend and sweetheart, to 
 meet my girl on her arrival. By doing so you will give 
 her an opportunity to deliver into your own hands the 
 packet of old letters which 1 return to you according to 
 my promise. Mercy will take care, in any case, to give 
 them to you unobserved. They were precious to me as 
 souvenirs of what I thought was a true love, but I restore 
 them for your satisfaction and for Mercy^s sake. Be kind 
 to her, and thus keep your word to me, as 1 keep mine to 
 you. Faithfully yours, Jane Ckayen.^^ 
 
 He hadn’t any clear idea of what these letters contained. 
 They had been written ten'* years ago, when the handsome 
 widow, Jane Craven, had set his young blood afire, and a 
 certain tinge of mystery which clung about her had turned 
 his boyish head. But he felt guiltily conscious that he had 
 proposed marriage to her in one of them. Ay, and with 
 all a young man’s reckless impetuosity, eagerly urged his 
 wishes, too. What would that story sound like now? 
 How would Polly feel if she should hear of it? Why, she 
 rather ruled him already (this might be acknowledged in 
 the secret depths of his own consciousness)! Give her such 
 a string as this to harp upon, and farewell domestic peace. 
 Besides, the absurdity of the thing! Jane Craven was 
 almost ten years his senior. Good heavens! Suppose she 
 had married him, and made him the (secret) laughing- 
 stock of all his acquaintances. He drew his breath 
 sharply with a sense of relief as he realized what an 
 escape it was. 
 
 ‘‘ WTiy didn’t she take me?” he mused. That has 
 been a subject of wonder as well as thankfulness to me 
 ever since. I was a good catch even then; and she, so 
 much older than myself, could have had her own way with 
 me. A worldly, crafty woman, too, as I know now — most 
 
\ 
 
 \ 
 
 ins COUISITUY COUSIN. 
 
 15 
 
 strange that she should have let such a chance escape her. 
 Was she not really free to take it, I wonder? No one ever 
 seemed to know anything of when or where Craven died — 
 perhaps he was not dead at all. Well, no matter, since 
 she let me go free. Once let me get those confounded let- 
 ters out of her hands, and all is well!^^ 
 
 These thoughts had been passing through his mind 
 while he listened idly to his wife and her mother talking. 
 They gave him small chance for quiet musing afterward. 
 
 ‘‘At eight o^clock!^^ cried Mrs. Lester. “ Why, good 
 gracious, it^s seven now, and Steve will surely miss her. 
 Why didn’t you speak sooner? You are so thoughtless, 
 iJick! Steve dear — to her brother — “you will go, 
 won't you? Whether we want the poor girl or not, we 
 mustn’t let a poor country girl arrive in New York alone 
 at night, and lose her way, or be insulted and frightened, 
 perhaps, for want of some one to receive her. Ada, there, 
 isn't jealous of any number of country cousins, and will 
 spare you awhile to this one, I am sure.^^ 
 
 At which pretty Ada laughed and blushed, and said, at 
 first playfully, that it was nothing to her where Stephen 
 went, and his engagements did not concern her, and then 
 seriously, that she wouldnT for the world have this poor 
 girl neglected, and should think very ill of Steve if he 
 didn’t go and look after her at once; and all the time she 
 kept still another thought deep in her heart, though it 
 peeped out in the wistful glance of the soft brown eyes 
 that followed Steve as the door closed after him — a hope 
 that those famous great blue eyes of Jane Craven might 
 not have descended to her daughter, lest they should look 
 Steve Eaymond's heart away, and turn his head from its 
 allegiance to the girl who knew, by some mysterious femi- 
 nine instinct, that he as yet had only played at love with 
 her, while she, alas for her happiness and peace! only too 
 truly loved him. 
 
 “ We were so happy and merry!” she thought, starting 
 
HIS COUNTKY COUSIN. 
 
 from a reverie with a sigh^ to find the room deserted save 
 by Mr. Lester, who was dozing, and herself; for Mrs. Les- 
 ter had gone to prepare for the new-comer, and Mrs. Eay- 
 mond had carried the babies away to their nurse — “so 
 happy! I thought he was going to propose seriously to 
 me, when Mr. Lester spoke. And then this girl — this 
 Mercy, whose mother was a beauty, and an artful one— 
 comes upon the^scene and spoils all!^^ She sighed heavily, 
 and shuddered, with a sad foreboding. “ I doubt she will 
 prove no messenger of mercy to me,^^ she sighed, “ in spite 
 of her sweet, soft name — a minister of evil rather; my 
 heart forebodes it. 
 
 CHAPTEE III, 
 
 She looked up, 
 
 And loved him with the love that Wtis her doom. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 Steve started on his journey, truth to tell, somewhat 
 unwillingly. He had but little hope of reaching his des- 
 tination in time to be of use, and a bootless errand, on 
 such a night, was not a pleasant prospect, even to the 
 kindest and most good-natured person, and Steve was very 
 good-natured indeed. The weather was bitter cold; the 
 streets were covered with beaten-down and frozen snow, 
 hard as stone and slippery as glass, and he had to walk a 
 considerable distance before he could get a car. When he 
 finally did so, and settled himself into a seat, he sighed 
 almost as heavily as Ada had done, with genuine regret at 
 having been compelled to leave her. 
 
 “ 1 do believe 1 should have asked her that question to 
 which I know sheTl answer " Yes,^ in another moment,^^ 
 he thought, “ and then it would be all settled and over, 
 and the little mother would have her heart's desire, and I 
 should, of course, be a happy, lucky fellow. There 
 couldnT possibly be a sweeter girl than Ada; and I am — 
 
ms coui^TKY covsm. 
 
 17 
 
 well, as fond of her as fellows ever are of the girls they 
 marry, no doubt, only I don’t know that I particularly 
 care about being married. However, that’s a pill that 
 every decent fellow has to take, and nobody could sugar it 
 over better than Ada. I shall marry Ada, of course — con- 
 found the chance that takes me away from her side, bless 
 her bright eyes! and sends me on a cold, comfortless jour- 
 ney like this, for this Mercy’s sake!” 
 
 lie laughed to himself as the odd combination of words 
 struck him suddenly. 
 
 “ For Charity’s sake, or Decency’s sake would come 
 nearer the truth,” muttered he. If she wasn’t a sort of 
 relative, one of the servants could have gone to meet her; 
 or Dick himself might have done the gallant instead of 
 foisting his duties off upon me. But you mustn’t take 
 these married men from their own firesides, and we single 
 fellows have to pay the penalty. I’ll marry little Ada at 
 once, and come in for some of these pleasant privileges,” 
 he laughed. ‘‘ That decides it.” 
 
 By this time he was near the depot, and his natural 
 kindness of heart getting the better of his temporary vexa- 
 tion, he began to feel anxious about the girl he had come 
 to meet. 
 
 “ She’s only an ignorant country girl, of course,” he 
 thought, ‘'and she will feel terribly bewildered. Poor 
 soul! She’s coming to scant kindness and a cold welcome, 
 I fear; for Polly, kind as she is, is vexed about her com- 
 ing, and nobody seems to want her at all. There’s no 
 need to let her feel that at the very first, by refusing the 
 decent civility of meeting her. She sha’n’t, either, not if 
 I can help it and spare her. I’ll do that much, really ‘ for 
 Mercy’s sake,’ at any rate.” 
 
 He hurried into the depot, ascertaining by a hasty glance 
 at the great clock that he was full fifteen minutes late. 
 
 “ But the train may be behind time too; they generally 
 are,” he thought. “ That’s my only chance now.” 
 
18 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 It was a chance that failed him. The train had arrived 
 on time and discharged its passengers, and all the bustle 
 attendant on its arrival had subsided. He looked anxious- 
 ly into the waiting-room. 
 
 She^ll certainly wait awhile/^ he thought. 
 
 The usual quota of idlers strolling around and people 
 waiting for the next trains were there; but no simple, 
 timid, blue-eyed country girl, such as he had come to 
 meet, could be seen anywhere. Perhaps she had not ar- 
 rived. He turned to question one of the attendants of the 
 room. 
 
 Had the man seen such and such a person? A young 
 lady? Well, yes; but evidently a country girl. No; the 
 man, after considering awhile, decided that he had not. 
 
 ‘‘ There was only one passenger that hung around at all 
 as if looking for some one to meet her,^^ he said. “ And 
 she wasnT no country girl. I noticed her ^ cause she was 
 the out-and-out handsomest gal 1 ever set eyes on, and 
 Vve seen a-many. Tall and dark and proud she was, and 
 looked around her as if the city belonged to her. I heard 
 her mutter to herself, ‘ If Pm not worth meetiiig they^re 
 not worth waiting for,^ and her black eyes flashed. That^s 
 how I know she looked for somebody. By jingo added 
 the man, with a laugh, gals with eyes like hers aiiiT apt 
 to be kept waiting much. She was a beauty 
 
 Steve felt puzzled. This couldnT be the looked-for 
 country girl, bred up in a mountain village. 
 
 “ Did she make any inquiries?^^ he asked, doubtfully. 
 
 “ Asked me the way out to the ferry,^^ said the man, 
 “ By the bye, she must have been a stranger by that. 
 Well, it ainT three minutes since she went out that way; 
 if you hurry after her you might find her.^^ 
 
 Steve hurried out accordingly the way the man pointed 
 and passed along the crowded sidewalk in front of the 
 depot, looking eagerly into every face, not so much in 
 search of this belated beauty as of the simple and blue- 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 19 
 
 eyed little country girl whom he felt sure he had come to 
 meet. 
 
 His generosity and chivalry were up in arms as he 
 thought of the poor, bewildered child fresh from a tender 
 home and cast among strangers without one kind face or 
 voice to give her a welcoming word or smile. How fright- 
 ened and heavy-hearted she must be in this busy, noisy, 
 crowded, dangerous place, and how would she ever find 
 her way? He glanced around him at the bustling throng, 
 slipping and sliding over snow-ice. 
 
 If she ever attempts to cross the street alone she’ll get 
 knocked down and hurt to a certainty,"’ he muttered. “ I 
 do wish Dick Lester had spoken earlier and let me come 
 for her in time.” 
 
 He stood still for a moment glancing around. At that 
 instant an outcry arose close beside him. There was a 
 piercing shriek, a Babel of voices mingled in a wild confu- 
 sion of cries, prayers, oaths — the rattle of harness, the 
 lashing of whips, and the clang and clatter of horses’ feet 
 — and then Steve saw a woman’s form lying on the frozen 
 road, and two horses, forced back for the moment almost 
 on to their haunches, striking out their sharp, heavy, iron- 
 shod hoots in the air above her white, upturned face, from 
 which in another moment their descent would crush the 
 life and beauty out forever. 
 
 But they never touched her. With a cry of horror and 
 agony Steve flung himself between her and death, and 
 forced the struggling horses back, while others, animated 
 by his bold example, lifted her from the ground and placed 
 her on the sidewalk in safety. It was all done more rapid- 
 ly than 1 can tell it, and presently Steve, shaken severely, 
 with his arms almost torn from their sockets, and a sore 
 bruise on one shoulder where a hoof had struck, to say 
 nothing of torn clothes and a hat lost, was looking around, 
 anxiously and eagerly, for the woman whose life he had 
 saved. 
 
20 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 No commonplace woman she; for, in spite of her recent 
 danger and natural fright, she moved to meet him, look- 
 ing wonderfully calm and smiling, though deathly pale. 
 She had never lost consciousness through it all, but had 
 looked her peril bravely in the face, and declining the 
 offers of those around who volunteered to see her to some 
 resting-place, had waited quietly for her preserver. She 
 moved to meet him as he came to her, and frankly held 
 out her hand. 
 
 “ You have saved my life,^^ she said; and then emotion 
 choked her, and tears came both to eyes and voice at once. 
 
 I believe I have answered Steve, too proud and joy- 
 ful to feel his bruises. ‘‘ And 1 thank God for it! But 
 what else can 1 do to serve you? Can 1 call a carriage? or 
 — or take you anywhere?^ ^ 
 
 He had forgotten the poor, neglected country cousin 
 whom he had come to meet, and no wonder, before this 
 wonian’s beauty; it was of the kind that poets dream of — 
 dark, Juno-like, superb, and with an unusual charm of 
 softness added at this hour by her pathetic pallor; her 
 glorious dark eyes shining like soft stars through their 
 tears, thrilled through every fiber of his being and charmed 
 his soul. Alas! for Ada. 
 
 “ It might be best for me to have a carriage, as I am a 
 stranger to New York,"'^ she said, in soft, sweet tones that 
 confirmed her beauty’s spell. “ 1 wish to go to Seven- 
 teenth Street, to the house of a Mr. Lester.” 
 
 But Stephen interrupted her with a joyful cry: 
 
 ‘‘You are Mercy Craven! Can you be Mercy Craven 
 indeed?” 
 
 “ I am,” she answered, wonderingly. “ And you?” 
 
 He seized her hands in his delightedly. 
 
 “ Am Steve Eaymond, Dick Lester’s brother-in-law, 
 who was sent by him to meet you, but who missed the 
 train. My dear, charming cousin, welcome!” 
 
 This kindness coming upon her loneliness and after her 
 
ins COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 21 
 
 danger was too much; the proudj beautiful face glowed 
 and softened. 
 
 “ Oh^ thank you!’^ she said, impulsively. “ It seemed 
 so cold and lonely just at first. Thank you, both for your 
 goodness and for my life, my kind, brave cousin.-’^ 
 
 And she looked up into his eyes, his frank, kind, hand- 
 some eyes, so full of glowing admiration that her own 
 sunk before them; and instinctively a line out of one of 
 Tennyson^s idyls — the story of Elaine, with which she had 
 beguiled the tediousness of her journey that afternoon — 
 came into her mind, and almost seemed repeated in her 
 ears these words: 
 
 She looked up, 
 
 And loved him with the love that was her doom!'’ 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 MERCY. 
 
 Short as Mercy Craven^s experience of life had been — 
 she was but just eighteen— its bitterness, coldness, harsh- 
 ness, general unsatisfactoriness had sufficed to disgust and 
 weary her, at least with that particular phase of existence 
 in which her lot had hitherto been cast. The tender, sim- 
 ple, timid girl, going forth reluctantly to earn her living 
 among strangers, and grieving for the dear and loving 
 home which she had left; the sorrowful and lonely little 
 maiden who had moved Steve Kaymond’s kindly sympa- 
 thies had, as a matter of fact, no existence at all in Mercy 
 C ravelins person. 
 
 She was not tender-hearted, or, if she were, none of the 
 experiences or exigencies of her life, thus far, had made 
 her aware of it. Neither was she gentle, further than the 
 requirements of a lady-like demeanor rendered necessary. 
 As for timidity, I believe she both could and would, if re- 
 quired, have undertaken a journey to the North Pole and 
 back alone and unprotected, without one quickened heart- 
 
22 
 
 HIS COUKTRY COUSIK. 
 
 beat or nervous tremor troubling her from the commence- 
 ment of the pilgrimage to its end, especially if that end 
 had brought her money. For, at this period of her life, if 
 you had asked her what she esteemed the chief good of life 
 to be, she would certainly have told you, “ Moiiey!^^ after 
 which candid confession, 1 fear you will not think very 
 highly of the heroine of my story, though its heroine she 
 most undoubtedly will be in spite of this and other faults 
 of her foolish youth, of which time and its lessons will 
 either cure her, or else award to her the just and natural 
 punishment. 
 
 She had left her home upon the early morning of that 
 very day, not with regret or pain, but with rejoicing. Such 
 a dreary home it had been to her — so mean, narrow, poor, 
 and its life so wearily monotonous, that she had felt, as 
 she turned her back upon it, like a bird released from a 
 cage. It had held no loves to tear her heart at parting — 
 though Mercy was the type of woman who can hate bitter- 
 ly and love well; but the only creature who had a natural 
 claim upon her affection had checked and curbed the girFs 
 fresh feelings so that they were like a frozen current — 
 hard and cold upon the surface, however strong and swift 
 and deep might be their life beneath. 
 
 She had loved her mother dearly as a little child, and 
 would have loved her ever, but Jane Graven had apparent- 
 ly exacted respect and obediance rather than affection, 
 and, as her daughter’s powers of observation grew, and 
 she saw and felt her mother’s coldness intensify into some- 
 thing that appeared (to the sensitive girl) almost dislike, an 
 answering pride awoke to meet and match this coldness, 
 and she hid her heart-wound under an armor of silence 
 and reserve so perfect that even Mrs. Craven herself did 
 not penetrate it nor guess how warmly the heart-fires 
 burned beneath the crust of ice which her own unmotherly 
 coldness had created. 
 
 It was not that the mother did not love her child, after 
 
HIS COUNTKY COUSIK. 
 
 23 
 
 her own hard fashion. As there are natures and nat- 
 ures^ so are there loves and loves. Jane Craven^s nature 
 was hard, selfish, and cold; she cared for herself the first 
 of all. Only in two instances during her whole life-time 
 had she for a moment forgotten herself in her love for an- 
 other, and those two instances had been her husband and 
 their child. The first of these loves — Eoy Craven — had 
 proved the blight and ruin of her life; and the second — 
 poor Mercy — as she grew toward womanhood, and repro- 
 duced, as it were, before the angry, injured woman^s eyes 
 the father^s splendid southern eyes and darkly handsome 
 face, estranged the mother^s natural tenderness from her- 
 self by reawakening the vengeful feelings of the wife 
 against the husband who had wronged her. Jane Craven 
 would turn away with a shudder sometimes from her 
 young daughter’s smiling face, saying, in her heart, It is 
 as if he dared to stand and smile before me!” And then 
 the look which so chilled the young girl’s heart was a look 
 of dislike, indeed, and the misfortune of it was that Mercy 
 never rightly guessed at whom that dislike was directed. 
 
 And so she grew hard and cold. Jane Craven, seeing 
 that, was glad of it, for the girl’s own sake. Her own ex- 
 perience had gone to show that selfish coldness is a safe 
 armor for the heart, and that it is only when women deep- 
 ly love that they can be made to suffer deeply also. “ She 
 is harder than 1 ever was at her age,” she thought, com- 
 placently, and colder and prouder. No man will ever 
 take her heart out of her bosom to play with it awhile, and 
 then throw it back broken. If she did not look so like 
 him 1 might love her more, but I could do no better duly 
 by her than I do now in checking all girlish sentiment of 
 her nature, and teaching her that to love is to be always a 
 fool, and often a ruined one into the bargain. She may 
 not love me, but she will thank me some day; and, if she 
 has her father’s nature, as she has his face, I want no love 
 of his kind. I shall have done my duty by my child at least,” 
 
34 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 People have such strange ideas of duty. It never oc- 
 curred to Jane Craven to consider that this young nature, 
 intrusted to her care, might be different from that of both 
 father and mother, in that it was blended of each. As a 
 fact the girl had inherited the best qualities of both par- 
 ents, and therefore had so warhl and frank and generous a 
 disposition that, much as her mother’s selfish teachings in- 
 jured it, they could not vwholly spoil; and, by the laws of 
 compensation, they had one good effect at least: in that, 
 by turning her feelings inward and back upon themselves, 
 she was forced into acquiring patience, self-control, self- 
 reliance — most useful qualities in a battle with the world. 
 
 That battle began early. Mrs. Craven’s means were 
 very small, and took the form of a monthly income, which 
 had been hers before marriage (probably had been more 
 potent than her beauty in tempting Eoy Craven to woo her 
 for his wife), and certainly would not have been hers long 
 afterward, if the handsome scamp whom she had loved 
 could have got hold of it. But Jane Craven had been 
 much too acute and worldly wise for that. No amount of 
 cajolery could induce her either to cancel the instrument 
 which secured the modest monthly income to herself, or to 
 draw for any amount or any purpose whatever, upon the 
 principal. For how much of her wedded misery this mis- 
 chievous money was answerable, who can tell? 
 
 At least, it had served her well during her long years of 
 widowhood, enabling her and her child to live, poorly, it is 
 true, and in an out-of-the-way mountain village, but still 
 independently. Mercy could just remember their coming 
 there, when she was but four years old, and what a little 
 paradise the garden, with meadows and mountains beyond, 
 had seemed to her baby eyes. She had had time to grow 
 sick of them since then, and to almost hate them. So near 
 did she come to hating her home, indeed, that when, at 
 twelve years old, the old rector, who had taken a special 
 interest in the handsome, talented, fatherless child, de- 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 25 
 
 dared that she had got beyond the teachings of the village 
 school^ and needed better and more suitable instruction 
 than even he himself could give her, she hailed with joy 
 the prospect of any change, even a change so unpromising 
 as that which the rector purposed, namely, that as her 
 mother had not the means of paying for her education, she 
 should go and earn it among strangers. 
 
 So, as there seemed no better thing to be done, Mercy 
 was sent, at barely thirteen years of age, as articled pupil 
 to a high-class private school in Philadelphia, where, in re- 
 turn for her services as a governess-drudge, she was per- 
 mitted, in her leisure time, to acquire what education she 
 could, together with some smattering of the accomplish- 
 ments of a lady. The position was no worse than others 
 of a similar kind, and better than a great many; and the 
 girl was so j^atient, silent, industrious, and uncomplaining 
 that she gradually won the good-will of teachers and prin- 
 cipal alike, and was made much of by them, and grew to 
 look upon the place as her home. Her home for the pres' 
 ent — that is to say, for Mercy, at fifteen, knew as well as 
 any one that she was beautiful, and looked forward with a 
 purely mercenary ambition to the time when her beauty 
 should fetch its price, which, as she calculated, should be 
 a handsome home and a wealthy husband. 
 
 Considerations of love did not trouble her. If ever the 
 natural, womanly hunger for love cried out in her soul, 
 she thought it a weakness, and stifled it, and was ashamed 
 of it. Her mother had sneered and scofied at love — even 
 the natural love of her own child; and none of the teachers 
 ever spoke of such follies, and, if the girls did, what were 
 they but silly girls? Marriage, of course! — always provid- 
 ing that it should lift her from the poverty she hated and 
 place her in the golden paradise of wealth, of which she 
 constantly dreamed. A rich marriage was her one ambi- 
 tion and hope — a hope that filled her mind too completely 
 to leave any room for thoughts of love to enter there. 
 
26 
 
 ms corKTj^v rovsm. 
 
 She remained at school tliroiigh holidays and all until 
 her seventeenth year, when Jane Craven became seriously 
 ill and sent for her. Then long-outraged nature spoke out 
 in the poor girl’s heart. She longed for the mother who, 
 through three years of estrangement, must have loved her 
 still, since in her illness she sent for her. She journeyed 
 home to the far-off village with a softened heart, full of 
 hopes and loves that only needed a tender word and look 
 from Mr. Craven to warm them into happy, active life. 
 Alas! no such look awaited her. Jane Crav3n, who — for 
 she had nature in her too — had anxiously desired her 
 daughter’s presence, turned away with a shudder from the 
 beautiful dark face that greeted her so tenderly and 
 timidly. 
 
 “ You have grown like your father. Turn your face 
 away!” she said, and turned her own face to the wall with- 
 out even a kiss of w^elcome. 
 
 It was hard, after four years. No one ever knew how 
 hard to Mercy, for only the moon and stars looked on her 
 in her room that night, and saw the tears she shed over 
 this cheated, ruined hope as she crushed it down and 
 buried it. Ah, yes, one living friend was with her — a dog, 
 who had not forgotten her in these years, nor ceased to 
 love her. She held the faithful creature in her arms and 
 pressed his glossy head against her breast, as if she were 
 thankful for even this warm, living love to lean her lonely, 
 aching heart against. If Jane Craven could have looked 
 into her young daughter’s room just then, she might have 
 seen what would have been to her a revelation. 
 
 As it was, however, she only thought, half complain- 
 ingly: 
 
 “ How cold and hard she is! 1 was cold to her, it is 
 true, but she did not care. Well, all the better for her 
 peace, perhaps,” and never guessed at the love she had 
 put away from her, or the cruel wrong she had dealt 
 her daughter’s heart. 
 
HIS COUJSITRY COUSIK. 
 
 27 
 
 CIIAPTEK V. 
 
 MOTHER AND CHILD. 
 
 What wonder that life in this dull mountain home, 
 where no soul cared for her, or understood, or sympa- 
 thized with her, soon became to the lonely girl more intol- 
 erable than it had been before? Truly, Mercy had not one 
 companion or friend, for her mother, who had recovered 
 her health, and more than her usual coldness, was neither, 
 and the old rector who had been so good to her was dead. 
 To be sure there were some country lovers who, attracted 
 by her striking beauty, would have wooed her to share 
 their homes, if she had not almost harshly repelled them. 
 But the girPs ambition looked far higher than these, and 
 she met their advances with an angry scorn that at once 
 extinguished their hopes. She a farmer ^s wife! Ay, or 
 even a miller^s wife (for the miller had asked her, and he 
 was rich, according to country notions). She raged with 
 indignation at the thought. 
 
 Do I look as if 1 were meant for such a fate?'’^ she 
 demanded of her mother, drawing her tall figure to its full 
 height the while, and turning the dark splendor of her 
 hashing eyes upon her. “ Me vegetate for a life-time in 
 this wretched village, the companion of a man whom 1 de- 
 spise, and who has not money enough to make me tolerate 
 him! ITl go down to the mill-stream and give myself up 
 to death rather than to the miller. I mean to move among 
 the richest and proudest in the land. I have beauty, I 
 know, and Heaven knows how I have toiled for education 
 to fit me for the position I covet, and will yet command. 
 I will!’^ She brought her foot down forcibly as if the ob- 
 stacles between her and her ambition lay there beneath her 
 feet to be crushed. “ 1 will! I am sick of this life; sick 
 of poverty; sick of this place! Mother, she went on^ 
 
28 
 
 HIS COU^s^TKY COUSIK. 
 
 passionately, “ if you care for me at all, have pity on me 
 — help me to leave this place!^^ 
 
 This was after she had been at home almost a year. 
 Jane Craven had listened, silently and watched her intent- 
 ly. She nodded acquiescence now, and answered with a 
 cool quietude that contrasted strangely with her daughter's 
 passion and fire: 
 
 “ You have reason to know that 1 care for you, 1 think. 
 Who else has cared for you since you were born, and what 
 else have 1 cared for? Because 1 have not pampered and 
 spoiled you, and made you unfit for the battle of life, 
 which poor and beautiful young girls must fight if they 
 would gain any of lifers good gifts — because of this you 
 think me unloving! And yet I have loved you well enough 
 to devote my life to you; to hide myself in this dull corner 
 of the earth lest he should take you from me! Ah!^^ her 
 eyes rested on Mercy with a strangely tender and regretful 
 look in their blue depths — “ ah! that was many years ago; 
 you were my little baby darling then, and I never thought 
 that your sweet eyes and face would wound my heart by 
 growing to look so like him!’^ 
 
 She spoke musingly, as one who thinks aloud, looking 
 the while upon her daughter's face with the thoughtful 
 gaze we cast upon a picture. Perhaps she was scarcely 
 conscious herself of how much her words implied, but they 
 gave Mercy a glimpse — the first — into that past which had 
 been to her ever as a closed book that must never be 
 opened. She caught eagerly at this chance of hearing 
 something of that lost and unknown father whom she 
 loved — in her imagination, and because he was unknown. 
 She came and knelt down by her mother’s side, where she 
 sat brooding by the fire, and spoke passionately and im- 
 pulsively: 
 
 You have been a good, true, dutiful mother to me,” 
 she said, “ but 'not a loving one; and 1 have craved for 
 love sometimes, though you never guessed it. You say 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 29 
 
 you brought me here lest he — my father — should take me 
 from you. Did he love me then? And was he not dead? 
 Oh, tell me of my father! Why was 1 not permitted to 
 know him? Where is he?^^ 
 
 Jane Craven drew her hands away, for the girl had 
 seized and held them. 
 
 “In heaven, I hope,^^ she answered, bitterly, “since 
 now I know, thank God, that he is dead, indeed, and we 
 are bound in decency to wish the dead at peace. He 
 ruined my peace while he lived, however. ‘ Was he not 
 dead?^ you ask. 1 have long believed and hoped so, but I 
 never knew it for a fact until a year ago, for only one year 
 ago he died.^^ She turned her eyes upon the fire as if she 
 saw some vision there, and shuddered violently. “ He 
 died,^^ she repeated, in low, distinct tones, as if reassuring 
 herself about it. “ I saw him dead. 
 
 Mercy, still kneeling by her mother^s side, drew back 
 from her a little, the better to look up into her face~a 
 white, worn face just now, with only the ghost of its old 
 beauty left, and something that may have been the ghost 
 of an old love looking out of the deep-blue eyes. Hard, 
 cold, handsome eyes Mercy had often thought them; but 
 they were softened now. 
 
 As she gazed upon her mother a knowledge came to her 
 like a revelation. She said to herself, “ Poor woman, she 
 has suffered much.^^ And the conviction softened her 
 also. She slipped her arms around her mother^s waist 
 and laid her head against her. 
 
 “ Don^t put me away from you,^^ she pleaded. “ Sure- 
 ly I should be your comforter. If he wronged you and 
 made you suffer, be sure I will not resemble him in that, 
 however 1 may in looks. You might have been the hap- 
 pier, perhaps, if you had let me love you. At any rate, 
 you can forgive us, him and me, now that he is dead. 
 Tell me about him, mother — I am no longer a child — tell 
 me all.''^ 
 
30 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 Jane Craven suffered her daughter's embrace rather 
 than returned it. The long, habitual coldness of years 
 could not be broken at a word, however kindly; but she did 
 endure it, and that was much from her and quite content- 
 ed Mercy. 
 
 “ There ^s not much to teli,^^ she said, with a weary 
 sigh. My fate was a common one, that may happen to 
 any woman who has the folly and ill-luck to love a man 
 better than she loves herself. The best of men is not 
 worth it, and I loved one of the worst. Ay,^"" as the girl 
 shrunk back, “ those are hard words to hear of your 
 father; but no one ever heard of him any good, and that^s 
 the worst 1^11 say of him to you, now or ever. Being dead 
 let him rest I was warned against him; but what woman 
 ever yet listened to a warning against the man she loved? 
 So 1 married him, and was miserable. What did not I suf- 
 fer? Neglect, poverty, ill-usage, jealousy; the last did not 
 trouble me long though, for he wore my love out, and 
 then 1 was jealous no longer. 
 
 Then you came, and I bound my whole life up in you, 
 and only asked of him to go his own evil way and leave us 
 two together. Would he do it, think you? Ay, for a 
 price. 1 had a little money. We have lived on it, you and 
 I, all your life. He wanted me to give him that, and I 
 might take you and be free of him. He never cared how 
 we should live — 1, a pretty young girl, as 1 was then, with 
 a young infant. He told me; but no, I will not tell you 
 what he said, since he was your father. Enough that 1 
 hated him more than 1 had loved. You were nearly four 
 years old. 1 knew he would steal you from me, and I, 
 with my small means, should I ever get you back? I 
 would not risk it; I stole you instead, and came here and 
 hid all traces so carefully that he never tracked me out. 
 
 “We might have starved upon my money in the city, 
 but it did very well for us here; and I — if 1 had not happi- 
 ness, had peace. I called myself a widow, and hoped and 
 
HIS COUKTllT COUSm. 
 
 31 
 
 prayed that my words might prove true ones; but 1 had 
 always a terror over me that he might be alive and hiid 
 me out. He would impose on your credulity I thought; 
 act love and devotion — estrange you from a mother whom 
 you had not found too fond, and take you away. You, a 
 girl, a woman, and so pretty, in Eoy Craven^s hands I 
 What would have been your fate? To save you from sucli 
 a danger I lived buried here; but the loneliness and my 
 wearing fears imbittered me, and when you grew so like 
 him my heart hardened even to you. I would not inquire 
 about him lest he should find me out. 1 deprived myself 
 of your society in your holidays for four years, lest he 
 should meet you going or returning on your journey. Oh, 
 he was the evil genius of my life! One year ago — she 
 seized her daughter's hands and looked earnestly into the 
 pale, upturned face — 1 was sitting in this very room, 
 and it was evening. 1 had been out and brought the 
 ‘ Herald ^ in with me, and sat down to read it. Almost 
 the first thing I saw was a notice of the finding of a body 
 drowned. A man of forty, perhaps; very dark-complex- 
 ioned, and on his clothes the name ‘Eoy Craven.^ 1^1] 
 show you the notice some time. It struck me down like 
 death. The shock, the relief of knowing him dead, the 
 horror of his having died so were too much for me, and I 
 fainted. That was the beginning of my illness. I wouldnT 
 give way to it; 1 went to New York next day to see with 
 my own eyes if I were free, and I saw your father — the 
 man 1 had so loved and feared, and hated — dead 
 
 She gasped and sunk back in her chair overcome by the 
 recollection. Merc}q who had listened intently, pale as 
 death, spoke in an awed whisper: 
 
 You were sure ? You knew him?^^ 
 
 Mrs. Craven nodded. 
 
 “ Ay, I knew him. There was some white mixed with 
 his black hair, but }^ears did that of course; and the eyes 
 — though I pushed back the lids a little to look at them — 
 
32 
 
 HIS COUKTIiY COUSIN. 
 
 seemed smaller than Eoy’s eyes were; but then he had lain 
 in the water awhile, and death and time are mighty 
 change-workers; oh, yes, I knew him. The name was 
 written on his shirt by his own hand (he always used to 
 mark everything belonging to him; I wondered it wasn't 
 on his other clothes), and he wore upon his finger an old 
 gypsy ring that he was superstitious about. Oh! it was cer- 
 tainly Roy Craven.'’^ 
 
 Mercy persisted still: 
 
 “ The face — you would recognize the face?*^ she said. 
 
 Jane Craven shuddered violently. 
 
 “ There was no face!^^ she answered, in a low tone of 
 horror. 1 would not have told you if you had not 
 asked. The features had been all beaten in, only the eyes 
 were perfect. The skull was crushed and broken too, and 
 there was a deep, gaping knife-wound in the side of the 
 neck. Ugh! I fancy I can see it still! Is it any wonder 
 that the sight nearly killed me? I loved him once. But 
 he went foul ways and came to a foul end. Child, your 
 father had been murdered !^^ 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ROY CRAVEN. 
 
 There was confidence and amity between mother and 
 daughter after this, and Jane Craven bestirred herself to 
 advance the girPs interests by liberating her from the 
 prison of her home. 
 
 You shall go to New York,’^ she said. “ I think I 
 have sufficient interest with Richard Lester to get you into 
 his family for awhile. He made a fool of himself about 
 me once, and would not like it known — for he is a conceit- 
 ed fool. I’ll go and talk to him. The Lesters and the 
 Raymonds are rich, especially Janies Raymond, the eldest 
 of the sons. He has the store, and is a born money-get- 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 33 
 
 ter. If you can please him you may be content to take 
 him. The younger son is well off too, but I think he is 
 married, or going to_^be. If you can become an inmate of 
 liichard 1 jester’s home (I should have made it your own 
 home if your father had died long ago) — your own wits 
 and your beauty must do the rest. First let me see if I 
 can place you there.” 
 
 How Mrs. Craven succeeded in her design my readers 
 already know. She was an unscrupulous woman, who held 
 that life owed her some share of ease and comfort, and she 
 would secure them, at any rate for her child, by what 
 means she could. Her treachery to Polly Lester (it was 
 something very like treachery to deceive her so, at whose 
 table she sat, and whose courtesy she accepted) did not 
 trouble her at all. 
 
 “ There really is nothing in the letters,” she told her- 
 self; ‘‘but if I can make capital out of them, why 
 shouldn’t I? It is for Mercy’s sake. And I can’t help it 
 that Eichard is a fool.” 
 
 And so, working upon his vanity and his fears, she se- 
 cured Mr. Lester’s promise. 
 
 Then she went shopping, and purchased many pretty 
 things for Mercy, among them enough black silk to make 
 a dress. 
 
 “Out of my savings,” she said, as she laid these treas- 
 ures before the girl on her return. “ Oh, yes, I saved a 
 little out of my little during the four years you were at 
 school; pinched myself many a time for Mercy’s sake, 
 while Mercy thought 1 was forgetting her. Ah, child,” 
 she added, with something like tenderness in her eyes and 
 tone, as the young girl kissed her, “ I can forgive you for 
 looking like your father now, since he is dead.” 
 
 She seemed, indeed, like another person to the girl ever 
 since the day of that sad confidence. The ice of estrange- 
 ment and misunderstanding once, broken between them, 
 congealed no more. As they worked and planned to- 
 
34 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 gether^ preparing Mercy^s very modest outfit for her first 
 adventure, they talked hopefully of happiness to come. 
 
 “ Your beauty is about all you have/’ the mother said, 
 ‘‘ and you must turn it to account. Fortunately, you will 
 look handsomer in a calico gown than other women do in 
 silks and satins. Polly Lester will try to keep you in the 
 background, of course, but you must not sufter that. You 
 are going to New York to be seen and admired, and to sell 
 yourself in the best market, remember. Appeal to Mr. 
 Lester if his wife snubs you; he’s afraid of me; for, though 
 1 send his silly letters back, I keep my tongue, and he 
 would not like me to use it. Meantime 1 am here in the 
 old dull home, if ever you should need its shelter. Thank 
 Heaven I have trained you sensibly, so that you know 
 where your true interest lies, and will be in no danger of 
 making the same mistake your mother did, and spoiling 
 all your life for the sake of love!” 
 
 The scorn with which she spoke that word might almost 
 have stung the ears that heard it; but Mercy’s sentiments, at 
 this period of her life, were fully in accord with her mother’s. 
 
 “There is not much danger of my being a fool,” she 
 answered, curtly — “ thanks to your training, mother. I 
 understand it better now than 1 did, and I thank you. 
 There would be small excuse for a girl so taught, indeed, 
 and I never could comprehend this passion of love con- 
 ceived for a stranger hitherto unknown, who suddenly be- 
 comes to a woman more than home, friends, name, ay, life 
 itself. Your love will satisfy me, and to feel that 1 possess 
 it has all the charm of novelty. AVhen I secure this rich 
 husband, who is to give me wealth and home, you must 
 come to live with me always.” 
 
 And Jane Craven smiled, well pleased at the girl’s idea. 
 But when, a few days later, Mercy confided to her another 
 dutiful intention, which was to be put into execution by 
 this same anticipated husband’s wealth, she no longer 
 smiled. 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 3o 
 
 “ I mciui to iiuike him find and bring to justice my poor 
 fatlier^s murderer/^ the girl announced to her. “ No 
 matter what were his faults, mother, no one had a right 
 to cruelly murder him; and the wretch who did so shall 
 not go unpunished when I have means to seek for him. 1 
 will tell my husband — when I get one — 
 
 “ You will tell him nothing, absolutely nothing about 
 your father, excejit that he is dead,^^ Mrs. Craven inter- 
 rupted, hastily. ‘‘ The past must be left to rest, and he 
 must rest in the grave his own crimes made for him. I 
 would speak mildly if I could; I would spare his memory 
 to his child if she would let me, but she will not. Hear 
 all the truth then. Your father was a scoundrel — dis- 
 reputable, dishonorable, a swindler, a blackleg, a thief! 
 To marry his daughter would be accounted a disgrace by 
 any decent man. Eoy Craven was of low origin; his 
 mother a wandering gypsy girl; his father — who can tell? 
 Did I marry him knowing this? Certainly not. I took 
 him on his own showing, and he cheated me as he cheated 
 all who trusted him. Is it for me or mine to make a fuss 
 about his death, and publish our disgrace in having be- 
 longed to him? He would not have put his hands to- 
 gether, living, to do a good turn; and will you blight the 
 prospects of your life to find out the manner of his dying? 
 Be content, as I am, to thank God that he is dead. And 
 it is well we spoke of this, for the Eaymonds and Lesters 
 may question you. If they do, remember that 1 never 
 spoke of him to you. You know nothing of your father, 
 now or never, except that he is dead."^^ 
 
 This was the girTs last lesson before parting, and again 
 its effect was to crush a natural tenderness and harden her 
 young heart. 
 
 This was the man my mother spoiled her life for,'’^ she 
 thought. If ever I love a man I shall despise myself. 
 No; wealth for me, not love I 
 
 And she thought no more of revenging her father^s vio- 
 
36 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 lent death; and Jane Craven^s ])arting warning: ‘‘Ee- 
 membei% he is dead!^^ spoken meaningly^ as the train 
 moved out of the depot, was quite unnecessary to remind 
 her of her own interests. 
 
 So the girl went forth to meet the fate she knew not of, 
 and the love she mocked at and despised, and the mother 
 returned, with heavy heart and step, to the home that 
 must now appear so lonely. 
 
 Somehow she hated to go into the house, so turned aside 
 at the entrance to the lane, and was walking toward the 
 woods when a neighbor met her. 
 
 Oh, there^s been a man inquiring for you,^^ said this 
 woman, ‘‘ and I showed him the way to your cottage. 
 He^ll be in the garden now most likely. So Jane turned 
 back again to see. 
 
 He was in the garden now. A tall, strongly built, 
 swarthy fellow who, lounging heavily, with his back 
 against the porch, to wait, had thrust a pipe between his 
 lips, and pulled a slouched hat low down upon his brow to 
 keep the clear, bright, wintery sunshine out of his eyes. 
 The same sunshine was shining into Janets eyes too, or 
 perhaps a tear shed at that recent parting blinded her; but 
 she could not think where she had seen this man before, 
 though something about him seemed to her familiar. She 
 wished she had not had to see him now, however, when she 
 so much desired to be alone, and so she spoke to him 
 sharply: 
 
 “ I hear you were asking for me, sir. What is your 
 business with me?^^ 
 
 The man sprung to his feet at the sound of her voice, 
 and stared at her for a minute from under his hat with a 
 muttered oath of surprise. 
 
 ‘‘ By ! how changed she heard him mutter, and 
 
 an awful trembling seized her at the tone. 
 
 “Who are you? oh, who are you?^^ she gasped, scarce 
 knowing what she said. 
 
HIS COUHTKY COUSIN. 37 
 
 lie flung the hat aside, and her own groan of anguish 
 and horror answered her. 
 
 “ Great God! Is it you? Not dead — not dead in spite 
 of all! You— Itoy Craven !^^ 
 
 CHAPTEK VII. 
 already! 
 
 A CARRIAGE was quickly procured, and after driving 
 round to the baggage-room for Mercy^s trunk — a very 
 modest affair indeed, at which Polly Lester afterward 
 turned up her nose contemptuously, the two cousins start- 
 ed off for Seventeenth Street. 
 
 I call them cousins, chiefly because Steve was in 
 such haste to claim the title, which really belonged to him 
 by little more than courtesy, however, for Jane Craven^s 
 actual relationship to the Eaymoiids was probably some 
 dozen times removed. To call them “ sweethearts, even 
 at this early stage of their acquaintance, would be much 
 nearer to the truth, for already Steve had forgotten the 
 pretty face and wistful eyes that were watching for him at 
 this very moment — forgotten that the world contained any 
 other woman than the one who sat smiling by his side; 
 while she, on her part, was conscious of a singular interest 
 in this stranger, and felt her cheeks burn as a speculation 
 arose swiftly in her mind whether this might be that 
 “younger son, of whom Jane Craven had spoken, as 
 being “ also well to do, but either married or going to 
 be. Something like a pang smote Mercy ^s heart at that 
 word “ married.'’^ 
 
 “ 1 hope he is not!^^ she confessed to her own soul. “ If 
 he is only ‘ going to be,^ there may not be much harm 
 done. He shall not, if / can prevent him. Love is non- 
 sense, of course, but 1 could really like this man, and since 
 one must marry, better marry one who is agreeable at 
 
38 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 least. Since yon are rich, my pleasant, handsome Cousin 
 Steve, who knows but you may some day be my husband 
 
 Meantime Steve, who, wholly unsuspicious of his fair 
 companion's dreams, would nevertheless have desired noth- 
 in^i: better than to make them realities, was exerting him- 
 self to please her and make her forget her recent danger 
 and alarm; and presently had succeeded so well that she 
 had been laughing heartily at his description of the simple 
 little country girl for whom she had been looking and 
 waiting. And Steve laughed merrily too, as he thought of 
 the astonishment of Mr. Lester^s household, when, in a 
 few minutes^ time, he should introduce this beauty into 
 their midst. 
 
 “ They will not expect a girl like you any more than I 
 did,’^ he told her, with his usual frankness. ‘‘ Polly — ha, 
 ha, ha! it makes me laugh! Polly spoke of you as ‘ a poor 
 little ignorant country girl,^ arriving in New York at 
 night and alone, and perhaps getting frightened and lost. 
 You wouldnT get lost. Cousin Mercy; and you were not 
 even very much frightened I think. How did you contrive 
 to hold on to that satchel so cleverly?^’ with a glance at a 
 small black leather bag, which indeed had never left her 
 hand through all her danger. “ You must have as much 
 nerve and pluck as you have beauty, my fair cousin, if you 
 actually held it in your hand all the time!^^ 
 
 The compliment was so point-blank and outspoken that 
 it would have been offensive to many women; and indeed 
 might have been so to this woman coming from any other 
 man. But this man had saved her life and won her grati- 
 tude; this man had come to her when she was feeling soli- 
 tary, slighted, sore at heart, and had soothed her wounded 
 jiride and cheered her loneliness, and reconciled her to her 
 new circumstances and surroundings; moreover, there was 
 nothing coarse in Stevens outspoken bluntness; on the 
 contrary, his pleasant voice, winning manner, and a cer- 
 tain merry, boyish style and air, made him extremely lov- 
 
HIS COU^^TRY COUSIN. 
 
 80 
 
 able and pleasing. ]>esiiles wliiclu Mercy believed him to 
 be one of the two wealthy brothers whom her mother had 
 told her she might do well to win. For all these reasons 
 she only smiled and blushed at his blunt admiration, and 
 felt, on the whole, gratified at having attracted it. And 
 perha23S there was another reason still, if one could pierce 
 into such mysteries. Perhaps* into every woman’s life 
 some man comes like a fate; and Mercy, all unconsciously 
 to herself and him, had met her fate in Steve liaymond. 
 
 Be this as it may, one thing is certain: that these two 
 young peof)le on their very first acquaintance pleased each 
 other mightily. The drive from the depot to Seventeenth 
 Street seemed as brief as pleasant to them, though both 
 involuntarily grew silent and somewhat grave as they 
 neared their destination. 
 
 Secretly (for neither confided the feeling to the other), 
 they were both feeling rather anxious about the reception 
 in store for the new-comer. Mercy, with that natural anx- 
 iety made up half of antagonism and half of fear which the 
 “poor relation ” always feels on approaching richer kin- 
 dred; Steve, with a keen recollection of his sister’s un- 
 willingness to receive this new inmate into her household, 
 and a presentiment that her unusual beauty would not be 
 likely to make her welcome any more warm.’ Occupied 
 with these thoughts, silence had fallen between them as the 
 carriage drew up before Mr. Lester’s house in Seventeenth 
 Street. 
 
 Truth to tell, Polly Lester was peeping from behind the 
 curtains, and let them fall as she turned away on hearing 
 the coachman’s knock. 
 
 “ She mustn’t see us watching,” she said to Ada, half 
 ashamed of her own curiosity. “ It might make her think 
 too much of herself, and she must be made to keep her 
 place; 1 don’t expect to like her.” 
 
 A notion in which Mrs. Raymond was quick to coincide. 
 
 But kind-hearted Ada could not bear that the stranger. 
 
40 
 
 HIS COUHTKY COUSIH. 
 
 just coming among them — shy, timid, sore of heart no 
 doubt, should be thus harshly prejudged; she looked at 
 the two ladies reproachfully. 
 
 “ 1 don^t see why you should make up your mind to dis- 
 like her, Polly, she said, gently. “ She may be very 
 nice. For my part I feel sorry for the poor lonely girl, 
 coming to those who have no welcome to give her, and I 
 mean to do my best to be very kind to her. We are so 
 near of an age that perhaps we may be friends/^ 
 
 “ And when you and Steve get married she can come 
 and help you takeep house laughed Polly, careless that 
 she brought the conscious crimson to Ada^s cheek. “ All 
 right, my dear, I don^t object; all 1 say is that 1 don^t 
 want her. There, there, as Ada was about to answer 
 her; “ doiiT trouble to deny that you and Steve are sweet- 
 hearts, because 1 prefer to believe my eyes; and besides, 
 he might hear you, for here he comes and Mercy with 
 him.^"" 
 
 They all arose as the door opened, and Steve entered, 
 torn, dirty, and disordered in dress, but radiant with pleas- 
 ure. Adah’s foreboding heart sunk low at sight of his 
 glowing face. 
 
 ‘‘Here she is!^^ he cried, as if he took it for granted 
 that all would share in his own very evident pleasure. 
 “ Here’s Mercy!” 
 
 And he drew Mercy Craven into the room, where first a 
 low murmur and then a startled silence was for awhile her 
 only greeting. She stood in their midst with large, in- 
 quiring eyes fixed on Polly’s face, very silent, very pale; 
 somewhat reserved and proud, as one who feels doubtful 
 of her welcome; attired very simply and plainly indeed, 
 but oh, so beautiful! 
 
 Ada looked from the dark, proud, lovely face to Ste- 
 phen’s eyes, and read in them her own doom; she turned 
 away with a sickening sensation at her heart. 
 
 “ Already,” she thought; “ already she has supplanted 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 41 
 
 me. Already he forgets iny love, my hopes, his own pro- 
 fessions; I am despised and cast aside for Mercy^s sake. 
 Already 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ‘‘ WHICH SHALL WIN HTM?'^ 
 
 Polly was the first to recover herself and come forward 
 to welcome her guest. She did so with considerable grace 
 (under the circumstances), but not cordially, as Mercy was 
 quick to feel. Polly took the pale girl by the hand and 
 led her to a seat beside the fire. 
 
 “You must forgive me,^^ she said, easily; “I was so 
 startled at the sight of you; you are iiqt quite like the ordi- 
 nary type of country girls. Besides, I thought you would 
 look like your mother, but you do not, does she, Dick? 
 This is my husband, Mr. Lester, my dear. 
 
 “ She is handsomer than her mother ever was,^^ Mr. 
 Lester answered, much to his wife^s secret indignation. 
 “You are welcome, Mercy; I don^t wonder that you 
 didnT care to hide yourself in a mountain village all your 
 life; a girl like you will find a better fate in IMew York. 
 Polly, my love, she must be both tired and hungry after 
 her journey. 
 
 Mercy confessed to being both, but nevertheless Stevens 
 torn coat and lost hat had to be accounted for; and so the 
 story of her danger and bravery, and his prompt aid were 
 told, and excited general admiration. Mrs. Raymond, 
 however, noticed his enthusiasm with a certain uneasiness. 
 The almost tender glance with whicji Mercy^s splendid 
 dark eyes lingered on him while he spoke did not escape 
 her, nor the wistful expression and sudden pallor of Ada^s 
 usually rosy face. The prudent little mother — made by 
 stern experience worldly wise — took instant alarm. 
 
 “He has taken a fancy to this girl,^^ she thought. 
 “ For her sake, if the folly be not checked at once, he will 
 
42 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 throw over Ada^ the sweet, the good, who loves him. And 
 Ada is an heiress, while Mercy, like himself, is penniless; 
 such a marriage would be madness — they must be kept 
 apart. Why did I allow him to go and meet her — Jane 
 Craven^s child — and 1 knowing what her mother is? I 
 will go home at once!^^ 
 
 A resolution which she put into immediate execution, 
 much to Steven’s disgust, since her going home necessitated 
 his accompanying her. 
 
 “ Mercy must be tired, and you have preparations to 
 make, of course, she said to Polly; “ and I am not very 
 well, so we will leave you. Besides, Steve must need rest 
 after his adventure; and I am anxious to be assured that 
 he has no bones broken. I am very glad, of course, that 
 he was able to save you. Cousin Mercy (with anything 
 but a cordial or friendly glance at the silently observant 
 girl), “ neither will Ada,^" turning to her and thus skill- 
 fully* dragging her into the question; ‘‘neither will Ada 
 regret that she spared him to do so good a deed. You are 
 to come to us to-morrow for the whole day, rem ember, 
 she added to Ada; “ and I advise you to come along now, 
 and let Steve and me see you home.^^ 
 
 An arrangement which (as poor Ada gladly acquiesced 
 in it) screened her from the reproach which she read in 
 her son^s eyes and on his indignant brow, and which would 
 have inevitably fallen upon her as soon as Ada was safely, 
 got out of the way, had she not anticipated it by at once 
 breaking into earnest reproaches herself. 
 
 “ I am ashamed of you!^’ she cried, to his infinite dis- 
 comfiture and dismay. “ You come in with that black- 
 browed, gypsy-looking girl, and talk to her and of her as 
 if there wasnH another woman in the world, while your 
 own charming sweetheart is standing by unnoticed, evi- 
 dently slighted and hurt. There never was a better, 
 sweeter girl than Ada West, and better and wiser men 
 than you are, niy son, might and would be proud of her 
 
ITIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 43 
 
 affection. My heart ached to see the wound you gave her 
 by your thoughtless slight to-day; you deserve nothing bet- 
 ter than to lose her. 
 
 Steve listened like one stunned. His flirtation with Ada 
 had been to him a very pleasant pastime, to which he 
 might some day bind himself seriously, or from which he 
 might consider himself wholly free. To have it spoken of 
 and looked upon as an actual engagement, filled him with 
 a sudden and strange dismay; strange, because only a few 
 hours ago he would not have cared one straw about it. 
 
 ‘‘I donT quite understand you, mother,^^ he said, 
 gravely and anxiously. ‘‘ You speak as if Ada and 1 were 
 actually engaged. It is not so, I assure you; I have never 
 said one serious word that could bind me to her.^^ 
 
 “ The more shame for you!’^ answered the little mother 
 quite passionately in her indignation. “And the sooner 
 you do speak seriously to her, the better for your own 
 honor’s sake. Else you will make me believe you that 
 contemptible creature — a male flirt. What? you trifle 
 with this innocent girl’s heart, you seek her company, 
 profess to admire her, win her young affection, com- 
 promise her in the eyes of the world — (for all your ac- 
 quaintances look upon it as a match) — and then because 
 your fancy changes you whistle her down the wind, and 
 shelter yourself behind the mean excuse that you have 
 " never said anything serious.’ Say it at once then. Say 
 what you have given her the right to expect to hear: ask 
 her to be your wife!” 
 
 Steve answered rather sullenly: 
 
 “ I don’t know about ‘ giving her the right,’ mother. 
 We have flirted together, Ada and I, and that’s about all. 
 She may have been no more in earnest than I was; I hope 
 she hasn’t!” 
 
 “ You know better!” answered Mrs. Eaymond, keeping 
 him to actual facts with a resolution that would not be put 
 aside. “You know she loves you. Yesterday it pleased 
 
44 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN'. 
 
 your vanity well enough to see this good and pretty creat- 
 ure so fond of you; and I hoped that her real love and 
 actual worth would, when she became your wife, win such 
 a return as they merit. I hope so still. You are bound 
 in honor to propose to her. You have given her cause to 
 expect it. No man has a right to trifle with the heart of a 
 pure woman, and then wonder at her love for him, as if he 
 had assumed her to be a worthless coquette. A woman^'s 
 love is a sacred and serious thing, and the man who wrecks 
 it — whether in deliberate villainy or in thoughtless vanity 
 — too often wrecks her whole life. You must not commit 
 this crime. You must propose to Ada at once.'’^ 
 
 Her earnestness overpowered the young man; perhaps 
 the truth of her words convinced him too, yet he made one 
 struggle more. 
 
 “ I have heard you say that only love makes marriage 
 really sacred, he said, earnestly. I do not love Ada so 
 that I desire her for the partner of my life. Have I then 
 the right to marry her?^^ 
 
 But Mrs. Raymond was not to be entrapped so; she 
 stuck to truths and facts persistently. 
 
 If you could not love her enough to marry her you 
 had no right to seek and win her love,^^ she said. “ Hav 
 ing done this cruel wrong it is your duty to abide the con- 
 sequences. They will not be very terrible. No man 
 whose heart was free could long withhold true love from 
 such a wife as Ada will be; and your heart is free, of 
 course, my son? I need not ask you. 
 
 He did not answer that. He could not. The question 
 puzzled his own soul. Was his heart free? Uj) before his 
 mental vision rose a queenly form, a darkly splendid face, 
 a pair of star-like eyes whose gaze inthralled him; did he 
 love their owner? He shook himself and sighed impatient- 
 ly and could not tell. 
 
 Mrs. Raymond, glancing sideways at his brooding face, 
 forbore to urge him for an answer. She saw that Mercy 
 
HIS COUNTKY COUSIH. 
 
 4r> 
 
 had charmed him, but she did not believe it to be a real 
 love. Otherwise, and had he owned it to her, she was 
 much too sensible and honest not to have acknowledged 
 that “ two wrongs could never make a right,^^ and that to 
 offer his hand to Ada while Mercy held his heart, would 
 only be adding a second and worse injury to the first one. 
 
 ‘‘ But it is only a fancy,^^ she reassured herself. “ Once 
 let Ada be his wife and he will wonder how he could ever 
 have admired that gypsy 
 
 “ That gypsy, meantime, had had some supper, and 
 pleading fatigue, retired to the room which Mrs. Lester^s 
 hospitality had provided for her. She did not, however, 
 retire to rest immediately, but sat down awhile to think. 
 
 “ 1 am not welcome here,’^ she muttered to herself. 
 
 Ah, well! if every man/’s hand be against me, so shall my 
 hand be against every man. Steve likes me — Steve will 
 love me very soon — and I like Steve. That pretty girl is 
 my rival, though, and she has his mother on her side, and 
 the mother has taken fright at me already. She doesnT 
 want her wealthy son to marry a penniless bride. We 
 must do our love-making secretly, I foresee, if I am to win 
 him — and mother said I might be content to win him. 
 Well, ril try. My pretty rival — she is pretty! — and I will 
 fight for him, and let Fate decide between us- I wonder 
 if they are actually engaged? 1 hope not."^^ 
 
 And so, wondering and tired out, she fell asleep, whis- 
 pering to herself that Stephen was a pretty name, and re- 
 peating it softly, with a smile. But she had forgotten now 
 that line of Tennyson \s which had sounded in her soul when 
 first she looked up into Stephen’s face — that line which, 
 reminding her of fair Elaine’s fate, seemed sorrowfully 
 forewarning her of her own. Was poor Elaine herself as 
 ignorant, 1 wonder, when first the fatal spell of Lance- 
 lot’s eyes fell on her — when she, an innocent and happy 
 soul, looked up into the brave knight’s face, ‘‘ and loved 
 him with the love that was her doom?” 
 
46 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IN JANE craven's GARDEN. 
 
 There was in the cottage garden an old^ wide-spreading 
 cherry-tree, with a rustic seat under its branches — those 
 branches so softly, sweetly pink and white with bloom in 
 s LI miner-time, so stiff and hard and hoar with white frost 
 now, they might have served as an emblem of Jane's life, 
 in the first beautiful promise of its spring, and now in its 
 wintery blighting. Upon this rustic seat the woman sunk, 
 her limbs refusing to support her, and her heart in her 
 bosom felt as cold as the snow beneath her feet, and her 
 face looked like the ashen-gray face of the dead. Even the 
 man who watched her, rough and hard and callous as he 
 was, felt a passing pang of pity for her distress, and soft- 
 ened his harsh tones as he addressed her. 
 
 “I've startled you," said he. “ Well, that's natural. 
 Of course you thought me dead. But 1 ain't going to 
 harm you." Then, pausing for some word of answer and 
 receiving none, but seeing that she still stared at him in 
 silent horror, he added, more impatiently: “ Come, come! 
 you didn't use to be so nervous. Your face looks just like 
 death. Get up and let me help you into the house and out 
 of the cold, for God's sake!" 
 
 And he held out a hand as if to raise her; but she, re- 
 covering herself a little and shrinking away from him, 
 with a gesture of hatred and disgust, waved him back: 
 
 “ Don't touch me!" she cried, earnestly, in low, hoarse 
 tones of strong excitement. “ And understand that what- 
 ever you have to say to me must be said here. Fourteen 
 years ago — isn't it? — fourteen years ago since 1 said and 
 swore that the same roof should never shelter you and me 
 again together. Never, with my consent — not for one 
 single hour. Say what you've come to say, here and now, 
 and then go your way again and leave me." 
 
HIS COUHTllY COUSIN. 
 
 47 
 
 Sho drew herself up closer to the tree as she spoke^ and 
 sat up erect, though trembling with jmssionate excitement. 
 Koy Craven regarded her with an evil scowl; all that was 
 worst in his bad nature roused into life by her defiance. 
 
 “ SoV^ he said, very deliberately. ‘‘This is the wel- 
 come you give your husband, is it? The loving husband 
 whom you abandoned after robbing him of his child. 
 IJonT think that Tve come after you, you Jezebel! No; 
 but IVe come for my daughter. She^s a handsome girl, 
 the people hereabouts tell me — 
 
 She interrupted him, forgetting her horror of him so far 
 as to lay an eager hand upon his arm. 
 
 “ Stop! Let us understand each other. Have you told 
 any of the people about here that my Mercy is your child? 
 Have you?’^ 
 
 He hesitated for a moment. He wanted to frighten her, 
 but her imperative tones and passionate eyes compelled the 
 truth. Besides, what was the use of deceiving her? She 
 could ascertain the truth from the neighbors, so he an- 
 swerM, sullenly: 
 
 “ Fve told no one anything yet. 1 asked where you 
 lived, and whether your daughter was with you; and they 
 told me — you know what gossips country people are — that 
 Mercy Craven was such a real beauty as folks don’t often 
 see, and might take her jiick for a husband if she would 
 from the richest men in the place.’’ He glanced con- 
 temptuously around him over the surrounding hills and 
 woods and plains. “ 1 shouldn’t think by the looks of 
 things that millionaires were lying round here quite as 
 thick as flies in August, and my daughter—if she’s half 
 what they seem to say — ought to marry a millionaire and 
 make all our fortunes. To be candid with you, 1 intend 
 lier to make mine, at any rate. I mean to take her to San 
 Francisco. I’ve a friend there; she shall be seen by men 
 that’ll pay for beauty. She shall marry a millionaire if 
 she’ll play her cards well, and ride in her carriage with her 
 
48 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 loving papa by her side. What! Youh^e a woman of the j 
 world, 1 guess; you couldn't wish better for her than I'll 
 do by her. Where is she?" 
 
 He glanced round toward the house with that question, 
 as if he expected to see the darkly beautiful face that had 
 been described to him look forth from one of the windows. 
 Jane Craven saw the action, and clasped her hands. 
 
 “ She's out of your reach, thank God!" she cried, with 
 much more fervent thanksgiving than was usual with her. 
 
 “ Fate must have taken pity on the girl, I think, and 
 moved me to put her out of the way where you shall never 
 find her!" 
 
 She sprung up from her seat with those words, and 
 stood up to confront him. Whether the consciousness of 
 Mercy’s safety gave her courage, or w^hether her fear of 
 him, like the shock of his unexpected appearance, was 
 passing away, I can not tell, but all her old spirit and tem- 
 per seemed to have suddenly revived. 
 
 She spoke in tones that, though cautious and low, were 
 firm and clear, and her blue eyes flashed hatred and scorn 
 as she regarded him. 
 
 “ You do well by her!" she cried, with bitter contempt. 
 
 “ You, who would have robbed her of the miserable pit. 
 tance on which 1 have supported her; you, who to-day 
 would sell her for a price, ay, though it were to ruin and 
 dishonor, if you could! 
 
 “ I don't forget the advice you gave to me years ago 
 when I was a pretty girl; I know you, Hoy Craven! ‘ Men 
 that will pay for beauty ' forsooth. God forbid that my 
 beautiful girl should fall into the hands of friends of yours- 
 I've placed her with people who have character as well as 
 wealth, and I’ve told her all your story— who and what 
 you were — and she blushes for her father and despises him. 
 
 “ Don’t think to find her the soft-hearted girl you found 
 me. I've made her hard as you made me hard, and she 
 wouldn't hear you. Hear you!" she added, with a sudden 
 
niS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 49 
 
 recollection striking her. AVhy should she? Why should 
 1? Who and what are you? Mercy knows that her father 
 is dead — I have taught her so. I, who saw him dead, and 
 identified him as he lay murdered! 
 
 “Ha!^^ with hashing eyes fixed on him, and finger 
 pointed accusingly at his evil face, that whitened to a 
 ghastly pallor at that word — ‘‘ ha! I say murdered! I 
 identified Eoy Craven by his linen and his ring, but the 
 features I was once so fond of had been beaten out of all 
 human form by the hand of a brutal murderer. Who are 
 you that dares come here to me and claim to be my hus- 
 band? 
 
 “ I swear that Eoy Craven is dead and buried! Make 
 but one movement, say but one word — her voice dropped 
 to a deep and threatening tone — “ to injure my child or 
 molest me in any way, and as God sees me, I will denounce 
 you as an impostor!^’ She threw back her head with a de- 
 fiant gesture, and looked him full and boldly in the face. 
 
 “And not that alone, she went on, resolutely; “you 
 have come here in that dead man^s name to intimidate me 
 — me — drawing herself up proudly — “ his widow, who 
 stood beside his corpse so lately, and paid to have it laid in 
 a decent grave. If you know so much about Eoy Craven, 
 may be you can tell us how this dead man died. One 
 word from you to trouble mine or me, and I will denounce 
 you as his murderer !^^ 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 AWKWARD QUESTIONS. 
 
 Her intense and menacing tones, although she barely 
 spoke above her breath, seemed to ring so clearly through 
 the silent, frosty air that the man cast an involuntary 
 glance of alarm around him, and came a step toward her 
 with uplifted hand, as if to silence her. All his bold air of 
 braggadocio had departed, however, and his gesture was 
 
50 
 
 HIS COUNTEY COUSIN. 
 
 one of entreaty rather than menace. He had. turned pale, 
 under all his swarthy color, with a ghastly, sickly pallor 
 that reached his very lips, which were parched as well as 
 trembling, for he had to moisten them with his tongue 
 before he could speak; and, as he spoke, he cast that 
 frightened, furtive glance around once more behind the 
 tree, behind the garden hedge, behind and around the lit- 
 tle house itself, as if to assure himself there were no list- 
 eners. 
 
 Then he recovered himself a little, and tried to laugh, 
 rubbing his white lips with his open palm the while as well 
 as moistening them. 
 
 ‘^You’re a Tartar!'^ he said, with a most uneasy at- 
 tempt at easiness. ‘‘ It donT matter much what you say 
 so long as no one^s by to hear you, and women must talk 
 or die, they say; but such talk as that-^about murder and 
 such nonsense — isnT pleasant, even in jest, it it was over- 
 heard. You know well enough that I^m Eoy Craven. 
 Why, you owned to it when you saw me first. 
 
 “Not before witnesses,^^ answered Jane, sitting down 
 again beneath the tree, quite^ self-possessed and cool, now 
 that she saw her advantage. “ ‘ It doesnT much matter 
 what I say, ^ you know,^'’ giving him back his own words 
 with some of her own venom in their tone, “ ‘ so long as 
 no oriels by to hear me.^ When I speak before a witness 
 you’ll find it not very much to your advantage, I promise 
 you. And as to speaking in jest, donT be too sure of that 
 either. If you are Eoy Craven, as you claim, how came 
 you to let this murdered man be buried in your name, and 
 how came he to wear your linen and your ring? Awk- 
 ward questions you’d find these, my man, if it was a mag- 
 istrate that asked them!” 
 
 He did not answer her. He was silently regarding her 
 with a look so evil that it might have struck a chill of ter- 
 ror to any woman’s heart, being encountered in this lone- 
 ly place from a known enemy. But it did not frighten 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 51 
 
 Jane; she answered it in words and at once^ coldly and 
 scornfully: 
 
 “ YouM like to send me after the dead man^ to ask 
 those questions of his soul/^ she said, “ if you could do it 
 safely. I read that much in your eyes. But it can^t be 
 done, unless youh^e willing to swing for it. In this frosty, 
 silent country air, sound carries far, and one scream from 
 me would bring the people from those cottages. Besides 
 — she laid a firm hand on her bosom — ‘‘ living so much 
 alone as I do, I think it safest to go armed, and IVe a tiny 
 pistol here/^ pressing the hand upon her breast, “ that is 
 no plaything, I assure you. Best not provoke me to show 
 you what a markswoman I have grown. You know of old 
 that I can take my own part if you put me to it!^^ 
 
 While she spoke — evidently with desperate earnestness — 
 his look of hatred and menace had changed to one of sur- 
 prise that gradually merged into actual admiration. He 
 gave a long, low, astonished whistle before he answered 
 her. 
 
 ‘^This is my wife Jennie, is it? Pretty little, pining, 
 whining Jane! W^ell, Pm — he brought his hand down 
 on his thigh with a sounding slap, and finished the sen- 
 tence with an oath. “ Did I know you of old? No, by 
 the Lord! Not for the woman you are! If I had, a trifle 
 of money should never have parted us. And could you 
 take your own part in those days? Ay, on the sly, and in 
 secret, and by running away; not with the spunk and grit 
 of a man, as you do to-day, though. I believe you both 
 could and would shoot, me, with an amused laugh, ‘Mf I 
 provoked you to it. But Pm not anxious to. I don^t 
 want to vex you at all. Come now,^^ with a conciliatory 
 air and tone, ‘‘ we two are the parents of a handsome 
 young girl; why shouldn't we lay our heads together to 
 benefit her and ourselves? Why shouldn't we be friends?’^ 
 
 And he would have come toward her with those words, 
 but she waved him back again. 
 
52 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 ‘‘ I don^t choose my friends from your sort/^ she said/ 
 contemptuously. “You were a fine friend to me fourteen 
 years ago, were }"ou not?^^ 
 
 He laughed uneasily. 
 
 “ I don^t know as I was anything else/^ he said. “ I 
 never meant to take the child from you; no, nor the money 
 either. You were a silly girl, that knew no better than 
 take a man at his word, let him be ever so angry and 
 hasty. And youVe borne me malice all these years for 
 another idle word too that was no more in earnest than the 
 other. What if 1 did tell you that such a pretty girl as 
 you were need never want for money so long as men were 
 flush of dollars and short of brains. It was a rough, gypsy 
 joke of mine, no more. You didiiH take the hint I gave, 
 so it did no harm. Besides, the look of unpleasant ad- 
 miration deepened in his eyes, “ besides, 1 was young, and 
 a fool myself too in those days. I shouldn’t say so now. 
 Try me again, Jane.” 
 
 He held out his brown hands to her, but did not venture 
 near. 
 
 “ Whatever you’ve lost of beauty and youth you’ve 
 gained in pluck and good sense; and I wouldn’t wish for a 
 smarter, better partner. Come. You’ve had this girl of 
 ours on your own hands all ypur life, now let me share the 
 task and show you where and how to turn her beauty to 
 profit for us all. For us all, mind,” very earnestly as he 
 met her coldly thoughtful and half-contemptuous glance. 
 “ It’s no more for my own or your profit I’m planning 
 than for hers. Come, give a man credit for feeling a little 
 interest in his own child. I used to be fond of her, you 
 know, when she was a little one. I’ve got a plan for her 
 that’ll make her rich, I tell you. Let’s be friends then, 
 for Mercy’s sake?” 
 
 And again he would have come toward her, and again 
 she kept him off with outstretched hands and coldly scorn- 
 ful eyes. 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 53 
 
 “ Keep your distance/^ she said, quietly. Fm not a 
 girl to believe all a man says, now, remember. I give 
 you credit for ‘ a little interest ^ in your child, very little, 
 and a good deal of interest in yourself at the same time; 
 and ril hear what are these precious plans of yours con- 
 cerning her. But first, and before we go any further, 1^11 
 hear something else. If you’re Eoy Craven, where have 
 you been and what has been your life for these fourteen 
 years? If you’re Eoy Craven, who and what was the man 
 whom I saw dead, and whose body lies buried at my ex- 
 pense under your name, wearing your linen shirt, and upon 
 his finger your own dead mother’s ancient gypsy ring?” 
 
 CHAPTEE XL 
 
 ROY’S STORY". 
 
 Her blue eyes, hard and clear as polished steel and cold 
 as if they had stolen their light from the surrounding 
 snow, were fixed on his as if to read his soul. 
 
 He could not get away from them. He stood silent, 
 shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, with bent 
 head and half-downcast eyes; but still glancing up through 
 long, black, gypsy lashes to meet that accusing gaze. 
 
 Jane waited with evident impatience for his answer, 
 and receiving none, spoke again. 
 
 Who was the man?” she demanded, sternly. “ You 
 need not fear to answer me when none are by to hear you. 
 Who was the man I buried? How came he by your clothes 
 and by his death? Did you — she came a little closer, 
 and still looking straight into his eyes whispered the next 
 words low— “ did you kill him?’^ 
 
 But low as the whisper was it terrified him. He sprung 
 toward her, and before she guessed his purpose, laid a 
 heavy, coai^e brown hand upon her mouth. 
 
 “ Shut up, confound }"ou! Are you mad?” he growled. 
 
54 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 with a muttered curse and a fearful look around him. 
 
 Are you mad?^^ 
 
 Jane sprung to her feet, and struck the heavy hand 
 away contemptuously. 
 
 ‘‘You coward!’^ she said, deliberately, “what are you 
 afraid of? No one is near enough to hear us speak, unless 
 we raise our voices; nor do I wish to harm you, so you let 
 me alone. If you^re Eoy Craven, IVe no desire to see my 
 child^s father hung, however well he may deserve it; and 
 if, on the other hand, you are the villain that killed him, I 
 don’t consider that your crime did me any bad turn; I had 
 no cause to mourn my husband^s loss, you see. Sit down 
 there — she pointed to the stump of an old tree close by, 
 while she herself resumed her rustic seat — “ and answer 
 my questions quietly, and don’t use your hands again, as 
 you’ve just done, or some of the neighbors will see you 
 and come to my aid.” She laughed coldly as she said 
 that. “ We don’t want their company, I guess. Now ” 
 — with a look and tone of command, which he instinctively 
 and unconsciously obeyed — “ who was the man I buried?” 
 
 “ Black Ned, my cousin,” he answered, sullenly; you 
 remember him well enough. We were as like as two 2 ieas, 
 always; and when he — when he ” — it was as if something 
 stuck in his throat just there, he paused so long — “ when 
 he died” — his handsome, shifty eyes roved around and 
 away from Jane’s, meeting a nod from her and a mean- 
 ing smile — “ when he died — having some things o’ mine 
 upon him by chance — I thought to let the mistake go, on 
 the hope of finding you. A trap, you’ll say; but I swear 
 to you I set it accidentally — though ” — with a dark smile 
 — “ it has done better than a carefully laid one might, in 
 snaring the game 1 wanted, and that game was you, 
 Jane” — assuming a lighter tone — “and at last I’ve got 
 you!” 
 
 If he really thought he had got her, however, he made 
 no attempt to touch or take her— probably warned by her 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 55 
 
 thoughtfully brooding eyes and frowning face to be chary 
 of i)rossing his claims. Such as they were, Janets next 
 words quietly ignored them. 
 
 ‘‘ So it was Ned, was it? — no wonder I thought him like 
 you! And Ned is dead? — well, the rest of mankind are 
 better for his death, any way. Now, who killed him?^^ 
 
 At that question all his heavy sullenness returned, and 
 his eyes, that had been fixed on hers, began to rove around 
 again. 
 
 ‘‘How the devil should I know who killed liim?^^ he 
 answered, passionately. “ I don^t know that anybody 
 killed him at all. He was drunk when I saw him last, 
 and — and afterward they found him in the river. His 
 face may have beaten against boats or stones, or perhaps 
 the fishes— 
 
 Jane interrupted him sharply. 
 
 “Did you go to look at him after he was dead?^^ she 
 asked. 
 
 “ Me — with a look of terror— “ not likely!— what do 
 
 you suppose Fd want to look at a horrible thing like that 
 for? Most likely he was — 
 
 She interrupted him again, just as before. 
 
 “How do you know his face was crushed and spoiled, 
 then? How do you know he was a horrible thing to see? 
 There, there — as he first shrunk and then turned on her 
 a face of livid whiteness — “ liavenT I told you 1 wish you 
 no harm? Why are you afraid of me? I hated Ned, you 
 know — but 1^11 ask no more about his death. The one 
 thing I must know, and will know, is this: how came your 
 shirt and ring upon him?’^ 
 
 He answered that with an air of relief, as if reassured by 
 her words and manner. 
 
 “ Very simply and naturally. Ned and I had been sort 
 of partners for years after you left. AVe traveled together, 
 playing a sharp game and living on our wits, sometimes 
 well, sometimes ill, according as the luck went with us. 
 
56 
 
 HIS COUHTKY COUSIN. 
 
 One while we had a traveling show, another we kept a 
 gambling place, and there trouble came and we separated. 
 I hadiiH seen him for a long time before that last day we 
 met. I^d been ^most everywhere in the meantime; suffer- 
 ing my share, you can bet, and finally had scraped a few 
 dollars together, no matter how. He hadn’t a red. Not 
 a red cent had Ned, nor scarcely a rag to cover him, and 
 hungry into the bargain. Well, 1 took him to my room 
 and gs^ve him a better coat than his own, and a clean shirt 
 to make him comfortable, do you see?” 
 
 He paused for her answer. Jane, leaning an elbow on 
 her knee and supporting her chin in her hand, nodded 
 understandingly. 
 
 “I see,” said she, quietly. “I believe you’re telling 
 truth so far. Go on!” 
 
 ‘‘ There ain’t much more to tell,” answered the man, 
 growing uneasy again. ‘‘ 1 clothed him and took him out 
 for a feed, and then we came back to my room for a talk* 
 He soon found out 1 had a little money, and was eager to 
 have me start the gambling-house again. He boasted how 
 skillful he’d got to be at cards, and that led to us playing 
 a game or two. You know what a hold the cursed things 
 have on me. So did he. Luck was with him from the 
 first, or else he cheated so cunningly that the devil himself 
 couldn’t have caught him at it, but he very soon* broke my 
 little pile and cleaned me out. Cleaned me out he did!” 
 repeated the gambler, excitedly, wiping his brows and 
 speaking more to himself than to his frowning listener. 
 “ Left me without a dollar, curse him! When he got the 
 last, I threw him the canvas bag I’d kept them in. 
 ‘ You’d better have this too,’ says I; and he took it with a 
 cool laugh and a sneer, and tied my money into it, and 
 was putting it in his pocket when a thought seized me — 
 mother’s ring! That would turn the luck surely. 1 
 played him a last game for the little old ring and lost it 
 like all the rest.” 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN, 
 
 57 
 
 He had grown more and more excited as he talked. It 
 seemed as if this recalling of his wrongs had made him ob- 
 livious of caution. As he spoke those last words, liindng 
 his hat upon the ground before him with much the same 
 gesture probabl^^ as when he flung his last dollar down be- 
 fore Black Ned, he raised his voice so high that Jane put 
 up a warning hand, and said quickly and softly: 
 
 ‘'Hush! Not so loud. Speak lower. But goon: he 
 took the ring?^^ 
 
 “Ay, did he, curse him! and got up to go, knowing 
 that he was leaving me without a dollar. There was no 
 talk of partnership now, mind you, now when he^d ruined 
 me. I asked him to give me back the ring at least, he 
 added, more quickly. “ Mother^s ring— a worthless thing 
 in itself, but it troubled me to miss it from my finger. 
 He refused. He jeered at me for my bad play, as he tied 
 my money into the canvas bag and started to leave me. 
 He’d been drinking,” he went on after another pause, 
 “ so had I; and my blood was hot against him. Was I 
 going to let him carry that money ofi and leave me penni- 
 less? No! So 1 followed him.” 
 
 He stopped again, wiping his brow, on which a cold 
 sweat of some horrible excitement gathered, and glanced 
 around him. 
 
 Jane spoke, cautiously and low: “ You took the money 
 back. There was no money found upon the corpse — ■ 
 upon ”— she corrected herself, keeping close watch upon 
 his face the while — “ upon the murdered man.^’ 
 
 But the words alarmed him. He was upon his guard 
 again in an instant. 
 
 “ I don’t know anything about any murdered man,” he 
 said, sullenly; “ I’ve told you that before. We were two 
 drunken men, Ned and I, as we went out into the street — 
 a quiet side-street up-town it was, and » the hour about two 
 in the morning.” (Jane made a mental comment here: 
 “ All those side-streets up-town terminated at the river.”) 
 
58 
 
 HTS COUKTRY COUSIN’. 
 
 “We went out quarreling^ and we quarreled as we walked 
 along, I asking him for the ring at least, and he jeering at 
 me. Then very soon we went from words to blows, and — 
 and — He came to a dead pause here, looking into those 
 cold, clear blue eyes that held his own so unflinchingly. 
 Then he looked away and around, and burst into a short, 
 hard laugh. “ We went from words to blows,^^ he went on, 
 recklessly, “ as we^d often done before, and because I was 
 the strongest and Ned was the drunkest, the best of the fight 
 was mine. 1 gave him a good beating and took my money 
 back, and came away, leaving him where Td knocked him 
 down, lying quiet enough. That was the last 1 saw of 
 him. Two or three days later I heard about his being 
 picked out of the river. I knew it must be him by the 
 name and the ring, but 1 Eelt no call to bother about it. 
 Besides, 1 waited to hear if the report of Boy Craven’s 
 death would call forth any sign from you. You know 
 what success I had. When 1 heard that his wife had 
 claimed him, I was afraid for awhile to make inquiries as 
 to where you lived, for fear of attracting attention. I got 
 away from New York, and kept away for over a year, to 
 let inquiry blow over. Ned being dead and decently 
 buried, it was best to let him rest, you know; I ain’t anx- 
 ious to claim relationship. So now you know all about it, 
 Jane, and I hope you’re satisfied. I’ve got a trifle of 
 money still left, and I’m willing to use it for your interest 
 and the girl’s, and help you both to fortune. We can go 
 to San Francisco, take another name, leave all the past be- 
 hind us. Come, will you do it? Don’t sit there silent, 
 staring at me as if you saw a ghost! What d’ye say?” 
 
 Jane rose up, pale and stern, confronting him. 
 
 “ It would be no wonder if 1 did see a ghost, indeed,” 
 she said, solemnly — “the ghost of this man whom you 
 murdered!” 
 
HIS COUNTKY COUSIK. 
 
 59 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 JANE craven's answer. 
 
 Yes, whom you murdered!" Jane went on, excitedl}^ 
 “ Don't imagine that your lies deceive me, sir. The man 
 had been stabbed in the side and gashed in the throat, and 
 do 1 not know of old how ready with the knife you always 
 were, and how you always carried one? You put the 
 corpse into the river after you had beaten the face so 
 brutally that identification was almost impossible. Oh, 
 you villain! Not that I care," she added, suddenly recol- 
 lecting herself and controlling her natural horror. 
 ‘‘ Neither Black Ned nor Roy Craven was anything to 
 me but enemies whom I am glad to be rid of. But, as the 
 murderer is even a greater villain than the murdered, the 
 sight of you is loathsome to me. Go!" She stretched 
 out her hand with a stern dismissal. “For the sake of 
 the past and old ties I am silent and you are safe; but go, 
 and never let me see your evil face again!" 
 
 But the man she had to deal with was not to be so easily 
 cowed. He first stared at her in surprise, then scowled in 
 indignation, then laughed out aloud in bitter contempt. 
 
 “ Very fine!" said he. “ What d'ye take me for? Go! 
 Not 1, indeed, without what 1 came for. As for you " — 
 with a threatening look — “ I doubt you're too much of a 
 spitfire for a man to live with in peace. I fear you'd 
 tempt me some day to give you what I gave Black Ned— a 
 good beating. Think what you please about what else 1 
 gave him, but if you're wise, hold your tongue. It ain't 
 healthy to quarrel with me, Jane. My enemies ain't long- 
 lived. Now, understand one thing, for we've talked long 
 enough: I want to see my daughter, Mercy Craven. Where 
 is she?" 
 
 Jane looked him calmly in the face and folded her arms. 
 
60 
 
 HIS COUHTKY COITSIH. 
 
 “ I haven^t the slightest idea^, Black Ned Craven, where 
 your daughter may be/^ she answered, with the utmost 
 deliberation. “ In fact, I assure you that, until you men- 
 tioned her this moment, 1 had never even heard that Ned 
 Craven had a daughter at all.'^^ 
 
 At that his tamper gave way. He came toward her with 
 a savage oath and an uplifted hand; but she, stepping back 
 quickly, thrust a firm hand into her bosom. 
 
 “ Take care!'^ was all that she said> and said it quietly, 
 but j)erhaps her looks gave him a sufficient warning; at 
 any rate, he controlled his sudden passion and let his 
 clinched hand fall harmless to his side. 
 
 ‘^What d^ye mean by addressing me as Ned Craven?^^ 
 he demanded, fiercely. “ You know well, you jade, that 
 I am your husband Eoy!^^ 
 
 ‘‘ I know nothing of the kind,’^ answered Jane, throw- 
 ing aside her cool, indifferent air, though she still retained 
 her self-possession, and spoke with passionate intensity. 
 ‘‘ On the contrary, I now distinctly recognize you as Ned. 
 My husband is dead and buried. Identified by me, his 
 wife, and wearing his own clothes marked with his name, 
 as well as a ring which he regarded as an amulet, and was 
 never known to part from. Eoy Craven is dead, I tell 
 you. Disprove it — she paused and regarded him for a 
 moment with a smile of mingled mockery and triumph — 
 “ disprove it if you can!’^ 
 
 As for him, it would be impossible to describe the min- 
 gled emotions with which he watched and heard her, real- 
 izing all the time the situation in which he stood, and his 
 own actual powerlessness. 
 
 ‘‘ You know better! you know better!’^ was all he could 
 say at first, and he groaned with impotent rage at his own 
 helplessness. 
 
 Janets smile changed to an open laugh of triumph. 
 
 ‘‘ No matter what I know, or what we know,^^ said she, 
 
 that is what I say and shall maintain before all the 
 
HIS COUHTKY COUSIN. 
 
 61 
 
 world. You are Ned Craven, and my husband Roy is 
 dead. More than that — she cast a glance around her, 
 speaking with a proud, elated manner, though still in the 
 same cautious tone — “ by your own account you were the 
 last in Roy Crav^en^s company. By your own account you 
 were drinking and gambling together and had quarreled. 
 By your own confession a struggle took place, after mid- 
 night, in one of those quiet side-streets that lead down to 
 the river^s edge. You are both gypsies, and you both 
 carry knives. Roy Craven is never seen alive again, but 
 some days afterward is taken out of the river stabbed to 
 death. No money is found upon the corpse, although 
 some people must have known that he had money; but you 
 have doubtless been seen by many since with his money, 
 in his canvas bag, in your possession. Aha!’^ as he start- 
 ed, and his pallor increased, “ an ugly sort of case to go 
 into court with. Well, Ned Craven, take this warning 
 from me in time, then. The world is wide; choose your 
 road in it, and let it lie as far apart from me and mine as 
 possible. For, as God sees me, if ever you cross my 
 Mercy^s path, to cast the stain and shadow of your evil, 
 shameful life on hers, if ever you seek me again, or try to 
 fasten any claim upon me, I, on my part, will cast aside 
 all ties of blood that ever stood between us, and, knowing 
 what I know of you, will denounce you as your cousin^s 
 murderer 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LOVERS YOUNG .DKEAM. 
 
 M Y story returns to Steve Raymond and his mother, 
 whom it left, somewhat unceremoniously, pursuing their 
 way homeward upon the night of Mercy Craven^s arrival 
 in New York. The shrewd little woman had sense enough 
 to let the conversation drop when Steve showed an inclina- 
 tion to lapse into somewhat moody silence, and, fully 
 
62 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 aware that she had come out of the argument with flying 
 colors, and silenced, if not convinced, her son, forbore to 
 show any triumph over his discomfiture. All the same, 
 she was secretly joyful with a sense of Mercy^s defeat, and 
 congratulated herself upon having so quickly detected, and 
 jirobably routed, a possibly dangerous enemy. 
 
 “ She would have won him from Ada if 1 hadn^t spoken 
 ill time,^^ she thought. But now— well, I flatter myself 
 
 Vve put a spoke into that wheel. We shall see what fruit 
 my plain-speaking bears to-morrow. 
 
 It bore the very fruit she most desired. Ada came, ac- 
 cording to promise, looking all the prettier for a slight 
 shade of sadness that dimmed the usual rosy brightness of 
 her beauty, and gave her (now that his mother had given 
 him an unmistakable key to its cause) an additional charm 
 of interest in Steve’s eyes. She was no longer merely the 
 pretty girl with whom he had idly flirted and amused him- 
 self. He saw in her the woman whose serious affections 
 he had too lightly won, and whose happiness his fickleness 
 would compromise. ‘‘ Bound to her in honor,” he said to 
 himself, repeating his mother’s words, and could not help 
 feeling a thrill of natural masculine vanity and pleasure as 
 he realized what a very sweet and charming creature she 
 was to be bound to, after all. 
 
 So amiable, too. He had known her all his life, and 
 when had he heard a bitter word from those sweet lips, or 
 seen the placid fairness of her face disfigured by the black- 
 ness of a frown? A little pouting — which was rather be- 
 coming than otherwise — and a few bright tears; these gave 
 sufficient expression to the slight ruffling of a temper 
 which was gentle almost to a fault. 
 
 And she loved him. What wonder that his heart thrilled 
 with pride? And she would grieve, “ perhaps to death,” 
 whispered vanity, if he forsook her for another. What 
 wonder if his heart grew soft with pity at that thought, or 
 if^ being inexperienced and young, and wholly ignorant of 
 
HIS COUNTIlY rorSTN. 
 
 his own heai’t-mysfcerics, he quite mistook that tender j^ity 
 for another feeling, and believed, for the j)resent moment, 
 that he loved? 
 
 And that present moment was quite long enough to see 
 some serious mischief done. Under the influence of the 
 feelings to which Mrs. Raymond's “ plain sjoeaking had 
 given rise, his manner to Ada became tender, his eyes held 
 a new expression, his voice took a softer tone; under the 
 influence of this change in him, the girl who loved him 
 brightened like a flower that feels the reviving power of 
 sun and rain. The jealous doubts and fears that had so 
 pained her fled away; she listened to him like one in- 
 thralled, looked up adoringly into his eyes, and cast down 
 her own with smiles and blushes. What wonder that Mrs. 
 Raymond, having discreetly left them alone, the tempta- 
 tion to ask, “ Do you love me, Ada?^^ grew too strong to 
 be resisted, or that, when the timidly whispered, answer- 
 ing question came, “ Ah, Steve! but do you love 7neV^ it 
 won the answer that it would have won from ninety-nine 
 out .of every hundred men of his age and circumstances: 
 “ Yes, 1 do love you dearly! My Ada! My little wife!^^ 
 
 And, truly, the momentous words once spoken, the sat- 
 isfaction of this hitherto rather unwilling and doubting 
 lover seemed scarcely second to Ada^s own. She was so 
 pretty, so brightly radiant with love and happiness, and 
 yet so charmingly modest and shy, that he could not ad- 
 mire her sufficiently. There was a decided pleasure in 
 clasping her in his arms, unrebuked, and kissing the sweet 
 red lips, that coyly half returned and half shrunk from 
 the pressure. 
 
 To think that this lovely, loving, lovable creature was 
 his own forever! What man would not have been glad 
 and proud? and Steve was glad and proud accordingly; 
 satisfied with her, satisfied with himself, half intoxicated 
 with gratified vanity and natural pleasure in his sweet 
 prize. In short, his experience was that of a man who. 
 
64 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 being strongly attracted by two different women, but seri- 
 ously loving neither, finds himself yielding wholly to the 
 fascinations of the one, while the other is out of the way, 
 and honestly thinks (if he pauses to think at all) that this 
 present one is the one. that charms him, and that his tem- 
 porary intoxication of the senses and glamour of the mind 
 is, what it is not, and can not possibly be, the strongest, 
 highest, deepest, noblest, saddest of all human experiences, 
 namely, the master passion — love. 
 
 Stevens love was only a pretty counterfeit, but this 
 neither he nor Ada knew. It had not the ring of the 
 genuine metal, and would not stand wear and tear. But 
 how should he or Ada suspect this, when, like a great 
 many other pretty things in this age of shams, it looked so 
 exactly like the real thing upon the surface that only an 
 expert could possibly have detected the fraud? 
 
 Ada and Steve were not experts in love, but simple 
 novices, and so the ‘‘ brummagem gilt passed muster 
 with them for true gold ; and they feasted their eyes and 
 hearts upon beautiful Dead Sea fruit, all unsuspecting 
 that when they should need to turn to it for real nourish- 
 ment, it would fill their longing mouths with bitter dust 
 and ashes, being worthless and rotten at the core. 
 
 Mrs. Kayniond^s happiness, too, weighed for a great deal 
 with Steve. That dear little mother who had so de- 
 voted her life and hopes to him, it was something to make 
 her so glad. And how glad she was, to be sure! It was 
 not only that she believed her son^s happiness secured by a 
 marriage with Ada, but the thought of Mercy loomed up 
 before her mental vision, fraught with mysterious evils 
 and fears — a dangerous sunken rock, on which Steve’s 
 bark of life might have suffered shipwreck and gone down, 
 had not her own foresight and Ada’s charms brought it to 
 this safe matrimonial anchorage. 
 
 “ My darling!” she said, rapturously, as she kissed the 
 blushing girl. “ My heart’s own chosen longed-for daugh- 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 en 
 
 ter!^^ and then as she placed her in Steve’s outstretched 
 arms, she kissed his lips and whispered; “ You have well 
 repaid me for a life’s devotion; this pays for all!” 
 
 So Steve felt like a hero, and Ada was a lovely and 
 haippy fiancee, and Mrs. Eaymond glowed with joy and tri- 
 umph. And not one of them gave a thought to or took 
 any account of Mercy. And yet she was a woman whose 
 lure few men would even have tried to resist, and she had 
 looked with favor on this man, and whispered to herself: 
 
 “ I will try to win him!” 
 
 But no one knew of that. Steve had forgotten her; poor 
 Steve! it was the first forgetfulness and the last! Ada 
 feared her no longer. Was not Steve her own betrothed 
 now? Who could come between them? Not one of them 
 thought of Mercy Craven, except the little mother (with 
 that one passing fancy about sunken rocks and ship- 
 wrecked lives), and she only thought of her as of a danger 
 escaped and an enemy routed, and triumphed blissfully in 
 the belief that she had defeated her. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AWAKENING. 
 
 These three mortals dwelt in their fool’s paradise all 
 that day, believing it to be a true Eden as all mortals 
 will. They really were blissfully happy. There were so 
 many things to think and talk and plan about, all relat- 
 ing to the one pleasant topic — the marriage that was soon 
 to be. It could not be too soon, Mrs. Raymond declared; 
 and Steve seconded the opinion with so much warmth that 
 it did quite as well as if he had originated it; and pretty 
 Ada — though she uttered not a word — came in as a warm 
 and willing third, with her beautiful blushes and happy 
 smiles and lovelit eyes. Why not be married in the com- 
 ing spring? Mrs. Raymond suggested. But Ada timidly 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 OG 
 
 tlionght, with diarming visions of a trousseau arising be- 
 fore her mind, that she really could not be ready quite so 
 soon as that, the winter being now so nearly over. 
 Wouldn^t the summer do? she asked, with shamed red 
 cheeks that Steve kissed immediately by way of answer. 
 And so it was definitely settled that the early summer 
 should see them made man and wife, so that they could go 
 away from town to some secluded spot together. 
 
 Happy hours fly fast, they say, but this day, even when 
 measured by commonplace ordinary time, was not a long 
 one. Ada had some domestic business which demanded 
 her presence home at an early hour— as early as seven, in 
 fact. (It may be told here that she was an orphan as well 
 as an heiress, and dwelt under the care and chaperonage of 
 a widowed aunt, who loved her dearly enough to have 
 spoiled her thoroughly, if the sweet, amiable, child-like 
 nature* had been at all easy to spoil.) And who but 
 Steve should take her home, of course, and spend one hour 
 in converse sweet when he got her there, and almost 
 another hour in bidding her good-bye; so that it was very 
 nearly nine o^ clock when he found himself alone and in 
 the street again. 
 
 Alone, almost for the first time that day. A sudden 
 sense of waking from a dream came over him — a sudden 
 arousing to actual reality — a feeling of sobering down after 
 the state of excitement and elation in which he had passed 
 the day. A keen sense of his own individuality struck 
 him strangely, as if he had been masquerading in some 
 other man’s character, and had quite suddenly resumed 
 and recollected his own. Next he began to realize, sober- 
 ly, what he had done — not with regret — by no means. 
 Astonishment, bewilderment was what overpowered him, 
 as if he had been startled out of sleep by voices crying to 
 him, “ This is Steve Eaymond — Steve Kaymond, going to 
 be married almost directly!” and really the information 
 stunned him. 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN 
 
 G7 
 
 Presently soinetliing like misgivings began to mingle 
 with his surprise — a doubt, a fear, a question. 
 
 ‘‘ Have I been too hasty?^'’ he asked himself. “ Ada is 
 a sweet creature, and I love her; but wouldiPt it have been 
 better to take a little more time? To marry so soon!^^ 
 Suddenly he quickened his pace. ‘‘ ITl take a good long 
 walk,'’^ thought he, and think it over.'’^ 
 lie was at this moment on Broadway, not far from 
 Twenty - third Street. The night being fine, and the 
 weather having somewhat moderated during the past 
 twenty-four hours, the brilliant thoroughfare was gay with 
 groups of people hurrying merrily along, and musical 
 with sleigh“bells and happy laughter. 
 
 There^s too much noise for serious thought here,^^ was 
 Stevens conclusion; ITl take a turn or two in the quiet 
 park."^^ 
 
 So he started to cross the road to get to it; but he had 
 to wait a moment on the curb while a pair of splendid 
 sleighs, almost abreast, and with their gayly caparisoned 
 horses striving hard to get the lead, went dashing past so 
 rapidly that they made him catch his breath and start back 
 as from a sudden danger. 
 
 ‘‘By Jove!^^ said he, “ theyTe going the jmce in ear- 
 nest. If any one slipped and fell down in their road now 
 there wouldnT be much chance of saving them, as 1 last 
 night saved Mercy — Mercy — the very mention of her 
 name gave him a curious shock and thrill that startled 
 him — “ I had forgotten her,^^ he muttered, as her brill- 
 iant dark face and splendid eyes seemed almost to rise be- 
 fore him, filling his heart with a swift and strange uneasi- 
 ness — “beautiful, charming creature that she is, and all 
 day long 1 have forgotten her!^^ 
 
 It was an offense against her beauty and her power, 
 which he was doomed to expiate in many a weary, bitter 
 night and day of vain and sorrowful remembering. It 
 was an offense of only a few hours’ duration^ but its expia- 
 
G8 
 
 HIS COUNTKY COUSIH. 
 
 tion lasted through a life-time, and began at once; for 
 scarcely had he gained the sidewalk by the park when a 
 cry arrested his steps — alow, sweet little cry of gladness in 
 a woman’s voice — a sweet, musical voice that thrilled his 
 soul; and then he heard his own name spoken joyfully. 
 
 “ Steve! It is Cousin Steve!” and lo! beautiful Mercy 
 Craven was standing there beside him, her dark eyes, full 
 of a soft and tender light, raised to his own, while her two 
 hands clasped on his arm clung to him joyfully. 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 “the OTHER WOMAN.” 
 
 “ Don’t you recognize me?” she asked him with some- 
 thing of surprise in her look and tone, “ or is it that you 
 are not glad to see me?” 
 
 And a shadow of reproach stole into her eyes, and her 
 hands loosened their hold, and would have fallen from his 
 arm had not Steve caught and held them there. 
 
 “ Eecognize you!” he cried, enthusiastically. “Who 
 that had once seen you could be so blind? And as for 
 being glad to see you!” he drew one of the little hands 
 close within his arm in very expressive fashion. “ Dear 
 cousin!” (Oh, that convenient title of “cousin,” how 
 much it serves at once to express and hide!). “ But you 
 startled me so!” pursued Steve, his spirits rising in her 
 presence under the influence of a fascination which he 
 felt but did not either understand or realize. “I was 
 thinking of you, and of our last night’s adventure, when 
 here you suddenly appear before me like a — ” he broke off 
 with his own merry laugh, which already had grown sweet 
 and pleasant to her ears. “ 1 was going to say ‘ like a 
 ghost,’ ” said he, with most candid admiration looking out 
 of his handsome eyes, “ but 1 don’t suppose that anything 
 out of the flesh was ever half so beautiful as you are.” 
 
 Eather a promising speech for Ada’s betrothed husband. 
 
HTS COUKTRY COUSIN. 
 
 C9 
 
 was it not? lUit he was like the man between two loves, 
 and this time the other woman had her chance, and the 
 first was, for the time being, forgotten. Mercy found no 
 fault with his broad compliment; she laughed merrily, 
 looking coquettishly up into his eyes the while. 
 
 “You are a flatterer!’" she said, gayly. “But I am 
 glad to see you all the same. It seems fated that you 
 slioidd come to rny rescue, and I am in trouble again. 
 Yes,"" nodding merrily to the question in his eyes, “I 
 came out to mail a letter about an hour ago and took the 
 wrong turn, I suppose, for 1 am lost!"" She laughed out 
 gayly at the idea. “ Lost to-night, like a great big baby, 
 and last night nearly run over, like an adventurous child 
 that tries to cross the street alone, without its proper 
 guardians beside it! I have reason to be glad of this meet- 
 ing, you see, for really until you came there was nothing 
 to laugh at in being alone here at night. But you will 
 show me the right road again. And of course,"" she add- 
 ed, clinging a little more closely to his arm, and softening 
 the mischievous expression of her eyes into something dan- 
 gerously like tenderness, “ of course I am very, very glad 
 to see you without that I should be a most ungrateful 
 creature if 1 were not You seem the only real friend I 
 have in this strange place, dear Cousin Steve!"" 
 
 And again the seeming harmless, useful, mischievous 
 title came into play, and bridged over all safe and prudent 
 distance between these two (so lately strangers), most con- 
 veniently and dangerously. “Dear Cousin Steve "" drew 
 Mercy’s arm a little further within his own, and held her 
 soft hand so that his own warm and ignorant heart beat close 
 against it. And “ Dear Cousin Mercy "" made no objection 
 to the pleasant arrangement, and certainly saw no harm in 
 it whatever. As, indeed, neither should 1, had Steve been 
 free, instead of standing, as we know he stood, between 
 two loves. 
 
 “ I don"t want you to be glad to see me just out of grati- 
 
70 
 
 HIS COUNTKY COUSIK. 
 
 tude/^ said Steve, making excellent progress for a novice, 
 and really oblivious, for the moment> of any other woman 
 in the world except the one beside him. I want you to 
 like me for my own sake, as I do you. Do 1 seem like 
 your only friend in this strange place? Let me remain so, 
 Mercy. 
 
 They had turned into the park while speaking and 
 strolled around; but neither was yet sufficiently far gone 
 in love to resist the bitter weather. Moreover, it was after 
 nine o^clock and Mercy grew uneasy. 
 
 ‘‘You must take me home at once,^’ she said. “ Mrs, 
 Lester will wonder at my absence. Come. You see I 
 place myself entirely under your protection. Cousin 
 Steve. 
 
 And she raised her beautiful eyes once more with that 
 full glance that so intoxicated him. It thrilled him now 
 so that he forgot prudence and caught her hand up to his 
 lips, leaving a passionate kiss upon it. 
 
 “ 1 wish you were under my protection in earnest and 
 for life,^^ he cried, really half unconscious v/hat he said. 
 
 But the words and the kiss had startled her. This was 
 going so much further than she had counted on that it 
 threw her off her guard of prudence. She started and 
 caught her breath and blushed rosy red. 
 
 “ Oh!^^ she cried, and a whole volume of expression was 
 in that single word and the look that accompanied it. 
 And then, with a natural thrill of triumph, added impul- 
 sively: “ What would Miss Ada West say to that, 1 won- 
 der?’’ and could have bitten her own tongue off the min- 
 ute afterward; for Steve started and let go her hand and 
 turned suddenly quiet and grave — so quiet that they were 
 close to Seventeenth Street before another word passed be- 
 tween them, for he was saying to himself, “ What would 
 Ada say?” and recalling the obligations which he had 
 taken upon himself, and doubting, doubting more strongly 
 than ever, lest he had taken them too hastily. 
 
ms COUNTRY COUSIN. 71 
 
 “ ]f it Imcl been Mercy, now,^^ he thought, with n glance 
 at the beautiful face, clouded now and slightly droojiing, 
 at liis side. And he could not help knowing that with 
 Mercy for his promised bride he would have felt that mar- 
 riage could not come too soon, while with Ada, poor, lov- 
 ing Ada, would it not have been bettor to take time 
 for consideration? Meantime, if indeed she could have 
 heard these hasty words or read his thoughts, “ What 
 would Ada say?^^ 
 
 And Mercy was lamenting, ay, and cursing— it is not 
 too strong a word— cursing her own foolish tongue, which 
 had recalled to him the memory of a rival. 
 
 ‘^He is engaged to her, 1 do believe,^^ was her mental 
 comment on his changed manner, ‘‘ and I have actually 
 played the advocate for her, reminding him of her existence 
 and her claims. Can she love him as I could love — that 
 pale, pretty, milk-and-water girl— she who has home, 
 • wealpi, friends, while I have nothing? What if I take 
 him from her? She will marry some one else and be just 
 as huppy; but I never cared and never shall care for any 
 one’ as I could care for Steve; and I could make him love 
 me, I know that. Oh, why did 1 speak of her?^^ 
 
 By this time they had come to Seventeenth Street, and 
 Mercy, recognizing the locality, stopped short and spoke 
 in a saddened tone to her companion. 
 
 “ I would rather go in alone, she said; “ and besides, 
 I may have interrupted your walk, and have certainly 
 given you trouble enough. Thanks and good-night. 
 She held out her hand and let her eyes look into his slowly 
 and wistfull}^ “ Good-night — there was a minute’s hesi- 
 tation here, and then, low and sadly — “good -night. 
 Cousin Steve.” 
 
 That touched him strangely. How lonely and friendless 
 she was, and how beautiful! He took the offered hand 
 and held it gen tl}^ 
 
72 
 
 HIS COUKTEY COUSHiT. 
 
 “ I hope you are not angry for that kiss,^’ he said^ try- 
 ing to smile. 
 
 She looked at him steadily and reproachfully. 
 
 “ You know better/^ she said, with a candor that some- 
 how shamed him. Then, with a sudden air of indiffer. 
 ence: “ We are cousins, you know; even my lover could 
 scarcely be angry that my cousin should kiss my hand, so 
 long as I keep my lips for him — 1 mean for my lover. 
 
 It was a cunning speech. It implied a rival in his way 
 as well as one in hers, and fired his latent jealousy. He 
 fiushed and laughed uneasily. 
 
 “ You have a lover, then?^^ said he. 
 
 She looked full at him. A proud smile of conscious 
 power broke over her face; she drew herself up to her full 
 height and stood, in the white light of the wintery moon, 
 before him, tall and beautiful. 
 
 ‘‘Why, Cousin Steve, what do you think probable?^^ 
 said she, simply. But her whole figure seemed to add, ♦ 
 plainly: “ Am I a woman to be passed by and go unloved 
 or unwedded?’^ 
 
 At that sight of her, at her word and smile, above all, 
 at the thought of a rival, Steve lost his head once more, 
 and this time completely. ^ 
 
 “ I think that 1 am your lover!^^ he cried, passionately. 
 “At any rate, I know that I love you, Mercy, ay, as I 
 shall love no other!^^ He drew her closer by the hand 
 which he still held. It was night, and his arm stole round 
 her waist. “ Come aside a little, he said, and they 
 passed into the shadows of the houses. Then suddenly he 
 caught her in his arms. “ Oh, my beautiful darling, give 
 your lips to me!^^ he cried — “ to none but me, Mercy! I 
 had rather the horses had trampled you to death last night 
 than see you in another man^s arms! For I love you! I 
 love you! I love you!^^ and at every passionate pause he 
 kissed her lips. “ I love you, Mercy!^^ 
 
 But she s]3oke no single word. Only her proud head. 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 7;j 
 
 laid low upon his breast, answered him, and her soft arms 
 clinging closely round his neck. 
 
 Perhaps, however, a lover could scarcely have desired a 
 better answer, and Steve had declared himself her lover; 
 Steve, who only that some afternoon had betrothed himself 
 to Ada; Steve who was thus forsworn, and who, in the 
 first mad intoxication of a real passion, had even forgotten 
 that he was forsworn — for Mercy^s sake. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 mercy's happy hour. 
 
 Mercy went home like one who walks in a blissful 
 dream. The frosty air seemed changed to a haze of hap- 
 piness that intoxicated her like wine as she breathed it in, 
 and her swift footsteps — swift because, let one be ever so 
 happy and triumphant, half past ten o'clock is not quite 
 the hour for a young girl to be out in the street alone, and 
 it was more than probable that Mrs. Lester would require 
 some explanation, and Mercy had not the slightest intention 
 of revealing who her escort had really been; therefore she 
 hurried rapidly along Seventeenth Street, and her swift 
 footsteps were light and buoyant as if they trod the air. 
 
 Steve had kept her talking for nearly an hour after that 
 mad declaration of his, saying nothing to the point (/. ^., 
 nothing about matrimony) certainly, as Mercy could not 
 but acknowledge, but full of love and tenderness, and evi- 
 dently almost unable to make up his mind to let her leave 
 him at all, so that it was long after ten o'clock when she 
 reached the house, looking so brilliantly handsome, for her 
 lips and cheeks were aglow with her lover's kisses, and her 
 eyes were like shining stars, that Polly Lester, coming for- 
 ward to meet her, all prepared to scold, actually forgot 
 her purpose, and stood looking at her in silence for awhile, 
 positively startled at her beauty. 
 
 ‘‘ Why, Mercy, it's almost eleven o'clock!" Mrs. Lester 
 
74 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 said at last, exaggerating her sister womaii^s offenses, as is 
 the custom of the sex. “ Where on earth have you been? 
 And what makes your lace so red and your eyes so bright? 
 You look quite excited!^^ 
 
 Mercy might have answered truthfully enough that the 
 probable reason for her looking excited was that she really 
 was so. But she did nothing of the sort. On the con- 
 trary, she put her two hands to her crimson, tell-tale 
 cheeks and cast down her bright and happy eyes. 
 
 “ Ik’s the wind and the frosty air, I think, that makes 
 my face burn so. Cousin Polly,^^ she said, innocently, and 
 added, in her secret soul: ‘‘ You will be sister Polly one of 
 these days, though you little suspect it; ai d I really feel 
 to like you to-night for your brother's sake. Then she 
 went on with a guileless air that quite satisfied Polly. “ I 
 took the wrong turning and lost my way. That^s how 1 
 am so late. I got into a wide street — Broadway it was 
 called — and, not liking to accost any one so late, 1 wan- 
 dered along quite a distance. The sleighs were so pretty 
 and merry-looking, too, ITn afraid V spent some time in 
 watching them. At last I found that I must have a 
 guide, so 1 spoke to a young fellow who was passing, and 
 he very kindly brought me to the end of the street. I 
 think, she added, naively, “ that 1 have rather enjoyed 
 my adventure on the whole, now that I am safely housed 
 again. 
 
 Polly Lester, though rather scandalized, was mollified 
 by this very candid explanation. She shook her head a lit- 
 tle, but not severely. 
 
 “ Country ways woiiT do for New York, my dear,^^ said 
 she, assuming an air of matronly dignity and immensely 
 superior age. ‘‘You are not quite homely enough to go 
 running about the streets alone, you know. Your mother 
 will hold us responsible for your safety, of course. DoiiT 
 go out so late alone again, I beg of you.'’^ 
 
 ^ There was a certain air of patronage in this speech 
 
ms COUNTRY COUSTlSr. 
 
 75 
 
 which Mercy, proud of temper and quick of tongue, de- 
 tected instantly, and at another time would have resented 
 too. 
 
 But she was too happy and secretly triumphant now 
 to resent anything. She only laughed joyously and an- 
 swered: 
 
 You are quite right, of course, cousin. But for all 
 that,^^ she added, with secret satisfaction, “if I get into 
 no worse trouble or mischief than I have to-night, I shall 
 do well enough. 
 
 An opinion from which Polly would have differed widely 
 if she could have known all — an opinion which Mercy her- 
 self, in after days saw sorrowful cause to qualify. 
 
 But what have sorrowful after days to do with the glad 
 present, especially when one is young, and beautiful, and 
 triumphant with a sense of one’s power? 
 
 In her present hour of happiness and success Mercy 
 would have laughed scornfully at the wisest seer who 
 should have foretold to her sorrow and defeat in store. 
 
 She bade Mr. and Mrs. Lester good -night, and went 
 away to her own room still bright and buoyant with the 
 same glamour of love and joy that she had brought into 
 the house with her. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Lester were sensible that their handsome 
 parlor grew duller after she had closed its door behind 
 her, as if she had somehow taken away from it a portion 
 of warmth and light. 
 
 “ A happy, joyous disposition, and so pretty!” said 
 Richard Lester to his wife. “ There’s no such thing as 
 fretting or growling about her; she seems quite at home 
 here already.” 
 
 And in his heart he thought: 
 
 “ What a wife she’ll make for somebody!” 
 
 But this opinion he was far too discreet to express aloud, 
 knowing instinctively that Polly did not share his admira- 
 tion. 
 
76 
 
 HIS COUNTEY COUSlK^. 
 
 Mercy, whose beauty had impressed him from the first, 
 had completely won him by the admirable discretion with 
 which she had fulfilled her mother^s trust about the let- 
 ters. 
 
 Handing the little package to him the first time she 
 found him alone, and doing so with such an air of smiling 
 simplicity, as permitted him to flatter himself that she 
 knew nothing of its contents, and at least assured him that 
 even if she did know, she was not the girl to presume upon 
 her information. 
 
 I think she seems rather heartless,^^ was Polly^s dis- 
 couraging reply. ‘‘Not one regret for home or for her 
 mother^s company; I couldn^t part from my mother so 
 coolly,^^ she continued, quite ignoring the probable differ- 
 ence between cold, hard, stern Jane Craven and the “ lit- 
 tle mother,’^ whose whole life had been toward her twin 
 children one long “ act of love.'’’ “ Let her village home 
 have been ever so dull, one would think she would feel the 
 change, especially as she hasn’t come to the warmest of 
 welcomes here. But I suppose she is one of those cold- 
 hearted, ambitious women who care for nothing but them- 
 selves. I’m sure she looks it!” spitefully, for Mercy’s 
 looks were bound to give offense to her own sex. “ 1 for- 
 got to tell her there was a letter for her upstairs, but I 
 dare say it doesn’t matter. It came while she was out, 
 and 1 sent it up to her room supposing that she had re- 
 turned. I guess by the postmark it’s from her mother. 
 It lies on her toilet-table near the looking-glass, so she’ll 
 be sure to see it ” (still more spitefully). “ Or if she 
 doesn’t it won’t much matter, I fancy. She’s not pining 
 for news of mother or home, as you very truly say, my 
 dear; she’ll wait with great equanimity for news of them, 
 no doubt, until the morning!” 
 
HIS COUi^TUY COUSIN. 
 
 77 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 HOPES AND FEARS. 
 
 Mercy did not wait quite so loug^ however; but neither 
 did she discover the letter immediately, though it must be 
 confessed that she went straight to her looking-glass the 
 moment she entered the room, and not from a feeling of 
 vanity — though it would have been a hard matter to make 
 Polly Lester believe that. 
 
 The girl was too well used to her own beauty to spend 
 much time over its contemplation, and her hasty rush to 
 the mirror arose from a real anxiety to see for herself how 
 much her glowing eyes and tell-tale cheeks might have re- 
 vealed to Polly. The crimson deepened as she gazed, and 
 she covered her face with her hands again, shamed, before 
 her own bright eyes, at the rapture of love and joy that 
 shone in them. 
 
 “ If Polly had ever felt as I feel, she would know,^^ she 
 murmured, guiltily. “My eyes betray me; I never saw 
 that strange, soft light in them before, and I’ve seen them 
 and speculated on their beauty’s worth at their best and 
 brightest. It is the ‘ love-light,’ I suppose, that poets talk 
 about, and that I have so often mocked at — ah, but I 
 mock no longer; I have learned that I, too, can love. Oh, 
 but you are beautiful with that new light in you!” she 
 went on, softly, and gayly apostrophizing her own splendid 
 dark orbs, or, rather, their reflection in the glass; “and 
 oh, but it is a sweet light and a happy light— a light that 
 may well be the warmth and sunshine of a woman’s life; 
 and God is good to me at last — to me, whose life has been 
 so sad and lonely, when He lets my cold and hard heart 
 feel, and my eyes show it! — they mustn’t show it quite so 
 plainly, though, to any one but Steve, dear, dear Steve, or 
 we shall not long keep our secret, for if I should see that 
 
78 
 
 niS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 light after to-night in another wonian^s eyes^ 1 should 
 just say to myself, ‘Hum! you have been looking at the 
 man you love, my dear.^ The man I love!^ — oh, how 
 strange the sweet words sound !-;-the man 1 love!^^ 
 
 She sat down now on a chair that happened to stand 
 just before the mirror, and, never noticing the letter at all, 
 went on meditating softly, and smiling the sweetest, hap- 
 piest smile meanwhile that ever yet had brightened her 
 beautiful face. 
 
 “It is so strange to think that, two days ago, we did 
 not know each other, she mused, “ and now! — there is 
 such a thing as love at first sight, then, after all! He 
 cares more for me in these few hours than for that pretty 
 pink-and-white girl who has, no doubt, been trying to win 
 him all her life long. She never shall have him now! Are 
 they engaged, I wonder? Strange that he never men- 
 tioned marriage to me to-night — no, not once!^^ 
 
 The smile died away and a frown replaced it at that re- 
 flection; but not for long — not for long enough to banish 
 the love-light from her eyes. She was too happy and too 
 confident of her own power to look on the dark side yet 
 awhile. 
 
 “ The Cjuestion of marriage is understood, of course,^^ 
 she reassured herself. “ Of course he means to marry 
 me; he is too honest and too young to have any less honor- 
 able thought; and, if there has been any nonsense with 
 this Ada West — as 1 fear, 1 fear! — why, it will have to be 
 got over. Certainly his family will oppose it; but I think 
 he will defy his family for my sake, let Ada be once out of 
 the way. As for her, in a choice between her happiness 
 and my own, 1 naturally choose my own. AVho would 
 not? WTio, above all — whose life had known so little hap- 
 piness as mine has? Let her look to herself. W^e are 
 pitted against each other — we two women — and the one 
 who can win him must take him. He is mine so far. 
 Yes, in spite of your long acquaintance and Mrs. Ray- 
 
HIS COUJSTKY COUSIN. 
 
 70 
 
 moneys favor — in spite of flirtation, and some sort of tacit 
 engagement, perhaps — in spite of your pretty face and 
 good family, and your fortune — in spite of all these he 
 forgot you for me to-night, and he loves me best — and so 
 he is mine so far!^^ 
 
 The smile had died and the love-light had faded when 
 x\da came into these musings, and the old, hard, resolute 
 look, so familiar in Mercy Craven^s face, darkened its 
 beauty once more. But she cast the shadow off and bright- 
 ened again at that thought — “ He loves me best!^^ 
 
 ‘‘ After all,^^ she went on reasoning — “ after all, what 
 does the opposition of his family amount to, and upon 
 what will it be founded? They can have no objection to 
 me personally, unless my poverty; and what does that 
 matter, really and practically, when he is rich enough for 
 both? It might be a serious obstacle, indeed, if we both 
 were without fortune; mother would have something to 
 say about it then, and I could not ignore her wishes as 1 
 shall ignore the Eaymond family. She would make me 
 give him up! Would she?^^ The hard look came into her 
 face again. “ Could she? Is this new, strange, sweet love 
 that I feel so poor and weak a feeling that any one could 
 make me give up my dear lover? No, no, no! 1 might 
 choose to do so of my own hard, selfish will, preferring 
 riches to his love; but no mortal living, except myself, 
 shall be strong enough to part us! Except myself! If I 
 should do it it would be like self-murder, for all the years 
 of my life have not been worth the last hour of it in which 
 I have loved and been loved again. My miserable, lonely, 
 loveless, drudging life — so hard, so monotonous, so poor! 
 Ahy the curse of poverty! Could even Stevens love content 
 me if we were poor— if I must dress my beauty in cotton 
 gowns, and hide it in poky rooms where none would see 
 me and make my husband proud by telling him how fair 
 his wife was? How I hate that very word — Poverty!^^ 
 
 Her beautiful eyes had clouded with these thoughts, and 
 
80 
 
 HIS COUHTKY COUSIK. 
 
 her face wore its worst and hardest expression. Suddenly 
 a happier fancy banished them and brought the brightness 
 back, 
 
 “ How silly I am, torturing myself with such idle fan- 
 cies! Steve is rich, of course. Did not my mother say, 
 ‘ The younger brother is well off, and you will do well if 
 you can marry him?^ Ah! I would rather marry Steve, 
 with a moderate fortune, than any other, though he were 
 the richest of men.^^ 
 
 She laughed and covered her face a moment. 
 
 “ Who would have thought that I should ever feel like 
 that?’^ she sighed, softly. “ 1 blush for myself!’^ 
 
 Then she took up again the thread of her calculations. 
 
 “ So, my mother^s approval being certain, what else 
 need 1 care for? My birth is as good as the Eaymonds’, at 
 least — with a sudden pang of recollection — “at least, 
 for aught they know, or ever shall know, please God. I 
 am not going to have my life spoiled because my father 
 was a scoundrel and my mother a fool for loving him. 
 Poor mother!^^ With a sudden softening: “Did she feel 
 toward him as 1 feel, I wonder? W'ell might the bitter- 
 ness of her disappointment turn her hard and cold! If 1 
 were to prove Steve less dear and good and true than 1 be- 
 lieve him, I would never trust man, woman, or child 
 again !^^ 
 
 With that she arose and stood before the glass, and 
 began to take down the heavy masses of her beautiful dark 
 hair, thinking the while how unlike it was to her mother’s 
 pale, bright tresses, and reflecting, with something like 
 uneasiness, that her raven locks ,and handsome eyes were 
 inherited from her disreputable gypsy father. 
 
 “ I am glad that he is dead,” she murmured through 
 stern, set lips. “ It seems hard to say, and 1 used to fancy 
 that I could have loved him, but, knowing all that I know 
 now, 1 am glad he is dead. You” — with a nod to her 
 eyes and hair in the glass — “ you are the only good things 
 
HIS COUNTKY COUSIN^. 
 
 81 
 
 that he ever gave me, and, had he lived, God knows what 
 evil he might have wrought for me, especially now, with 
 Steve. So, thanking him dutifully for my black eyes and 
 hair,^^ she reached down her hand to the table for her 
 brush, I am very glad indeed that he is dead. 
 
 And with that she uttered a sharp little exclamation and 
 sat down, and quite forgot both eyes and hair, for her 
 hand, feeling vaguely for the comb and brush, had found 
 her mother^s letter. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE CLOUD THAT PRESAGED THE STORM. 
 
 How strange that Mrs. Lester did not tell me this was 
 here!^^ was Mercy’s first thought, quickly followed by an 
 angry one. She will treat me like a servant in the house 
 as far as she dares; but Steve will change all that by and 
 by, Madame Polly!” Then, as she broke open the en- 
 velope, which was sealed: ‘‘And what can mother have 
 had to say that needs such precaution and such haste? for 
 my letter to her is but just posted; she has not waited for 
 that at all! Strange! There’s -not much news stirring in 
 our village usually, either.” 
 
 And with that she began to read, and, as she read, her 
 eyes grew blacker, her brows contracted, her face grew 
 paler and more pale, until the paper on which the words 
 that so startled her were written was scarcely whiter than 
 her lips. 
 
 This was Jane Craven’s letter: 
 
 “ My dear Mercy, — I am ill — really too ill to write, 
 but I think it my duty to let not a moment go by without 
 warning you of a danger. This will reach you in time to 
 put you on your guard against an enem}^ 
 
 “ Returning from seeing you off this morning, I found 
 a person waiting for me in our cottage garden — a man. 
 
82 
 
 HIS COUHTEY COUSIN. 
 
 The last man in the world whom 1 could have wished to 
 see. A relative — a cousin of your dead father. 
 
 “ His sudden appearance gave me a turn that 1 have not 
 yet got over. Therefore 1 shall write as briefly as possi- 
 ble. He greatly resembles your dead father in appearance 
 — a tall, dark,' powerful-looking fellow, black-eyed and 
 haired, and with skin as brown as an Indian^s. Remem- 
 ber this. You may see him, and this description will put 
 you on your guard. 
 
 “ He is a scoundrel of the worst description, and you 
 must not parley with him for a moment. I have reason 
 to fear that he will try to communicate with you, perhaps 
 foist upon you some claim of relationship — which would 
 ruin your prospects — or extort money from you as a bribe 
 for silence. Nay, so impudently daring is he that he may 
 go further, and presuming upon a strong family likeness, 
 represent to you that he is your father himself. 
 
 ‘Hn such case you will remember that your father is 
 certainly dead. That I, his widow, saw, identified, and 
 buried his body. 
 
 “ But your wisest and only really safe course will be to 
 refuse to communicate with the man at all, If he persists 
 or annoys you, threaten to give him into custody, and call 
 an officer at once. He will not stay to be taken, never 
 fear. He dare not. 1 told you that the body which I 
 identified was that of a murdered man. I suspect this vil- 
 lain to be the murderer. 
 
 “ At the same time I beg of you to remember that jus- 
 tice and vengeance, and many other fine words, are not for 
 us to meddle with. My young daughter, standing on the 
 very threshold of a prosperous career, is of infinitely more 
 importance than a dead man in his grave, though he were 
 ten times her father! Let the dead rest. Any scandal 
 that drags that man’s history up before the world to con- 
 nect it with yours will ruin your matrimonial prospects* 
 
HIS COI^NTHY COrSIN. 
 
 83 
 
 / 
 
 And you have no other pros])ects, child. Therefore, let 
 the dead rest. 
 
 “ I will say nothing of my interview with the man 1 
 have mentioned, except that after it was over iind he had 
 gone 1 fainted, as 1 did a year ago when 1 read in the 
 ‘ Herald ^ of the drowned man. For some hours after- 
 ward 1 was too much shaken to write; it is evening now- 
 this can not be mailed until the morning; you will receive 
 it some time to-morrow evening in New York. 
 
 He will not have found you so soon. 1 refused your 
 address, but he knows my family connection, and will be 
 sure to search and inquire. Secretly, though, as he will 
 approach you. Therefore do not go out alone. Or if you 
 do so, and he accosts you, follow the course 1 have sug- 
 gested. 
 
 “ Above all, remember that your father is dead. Listen 
 to nothing, believe nothing, that for one moment says 
 differently to what I declare to you — Eoy Craven, your 
 father, is dead ! 
 
 “ Be careful, be prudent, be wise. Watch your chances 
 for a settlement in life, and let no girlish folly balk them. 
 Thank God, the training which I have given you makes 
 that almost impossible. No man, be he lover or father, 
 must interfere with your advantageous marriage. Mine 
 was a marriage of love! Think of that, and reflect what 
 that love came to, and be wise. 
 
 ‘‘ God bless you! Let me know all that interests you, 
 and especially if you see or hear anything of this man. 
 
 “ Your affectionate mother, 
 
 ‘‘ Jane Crayeis^.^^ 
 
 Mercy read this letter quietly to its last word. At the 
 first few lines, especially at the words “ he greatly resem- 
 bles your dead father,^^ she had half uttered a startled 
 cry, a]id glanced nervously around her; but she controlled 
 herself immediately, and, steadying her trembling hands. 
 
84 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSHST. 
 
 in which the letter was shaking, read it to the end; fin- 
 ished, she let it flutter to the floor, and clasped her hands 
 together passionately. 
 
 “ It is my father,'’^ she whispered, with white lips; 
 “ why else does she deny it so strongly, so resolutely, so 
 repeatedly?— it is my wicked, worthless father come back 
 from death and the grave, as it were, to disgrace me and 
 ruin me with Steve 
 
 “ With Steve — that was her first thought, her first 
 fear; not “ to ruin my prospects,^’ not “ to rob me of the 
 hope of marrying wealth, but simply ‘‘to ruin me with 
 Steve!^^ 
 
 “Oh, Jane Craven, Jane Craven! if you could know 
 how useless your training has been to crush mighty nature 
 out of your young daughter's heart! — if you could see that 
 that warm, womanly heart is like to prove a greater stum- 
 bling-block in the prosperous career you have marked out 
 for her than any that Eoy Craven can ever place there. 
 
 She picked the letter up and read it carefully once more, 
 her pale face wearing a hard, cold, resolute expression all 
 the time. 
 
 “ After all, why should I doubt my mother’s word?” 
 she muttered. “ I am a wise girl, truly, to make misery 
 for myself. ‘Your father is dead.’ She asserts it very 
 positively; why should I hesitate to believe her? 1 will 
 not — I do not. Eoy Craven, my father, is dead!” 
 
 She read the description of the man against whom her 
 mother warned her very carefully. / 
 
 “ 1 shall remember that description, and recognize him 
 by it if we meet,” she muttered, rising from her chair. 
 “ This letter had better be burned, in case of accidents.” 
 
 There was a small stove in the room with a bright coal 
 fire burning. Mercy laid her mother’s letter on the coals, 
 and, bending down, eagerly watched it first flash into 
 flame, then change to sparks and ashes, then, at a puff of 
 her breath, float away up the chimney. 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 85 
 
 “Puff!^^ she cried, making a scattering motion with 
 her hands as if she wafted the last vestige of it to the 
 winds. “ So do I destroy and blow away all claims — even 
 a father^s — that can come between me and Steve. 
 
 Her attitude, bending over the glowing fire, and her ex- 
 citement of mind and feeling, made her breath come pant- 
 ingly. She thought it was the warmth of the room that 
 so oppressed her. 
 
 “ Too hot to sleep in!^^ she murmured, with an impa- 
 tient glance around her, and then another at the little sil- 
 ver watch which she despised most cordially. “ Pll have 
 a very different one by and by,^^ was her passing thought. 
 “ Close upon twelve o’clock. I wonder should I disturb 
 any one if I opened the window for awhile. Let’s see; this 
 room is over the dining-room and looks out on the side 
 street, the house being a corner one. I don’t think any 
 one will hear.” 
 
 She opened the window softly and leaned out into the 
 frosty air. 
 
 It was a brilliant moonlight night, every object in the 
 almost deserted Madison Avenue (which to Mercy was the 
 ‘‘ side street ”) as clearly visible as in the glare of day. 
 
 There was a street lamp at the corner, but its pale light 
 faded so in the moon’s bright rays that it seemed, to 
 Mercy’s fancy, to cast a shadow rather than a light. 
 
 In that shadow a man was standing, leaning against the 
 base of the lamp. She did not see him at first — not until 
 he, having watched her for some seconds, started from the 
 shadow and made a peculiar sound like “ Hist!” appar- 
 ently to attract her attention. Then she looked at him. 
 
 “A tall, powerfully built man.” The description in 
 the letter — the description which had just blazed and flown 
 away up the chimney — might almost have been thought to 
 have taken bodily form when it got outside, and to be 
 standing now before her. Her heart gave a great bound. 
 
86 
 
 HTS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 and then was calm again, for her keen eyes had seen a po- 
 lice officer approaching on the other side of the street. 
 
 The man, occupied in watching her, did not see him. 
 
 ‘‘ Hist!^^ he whispered again. “ Hist! Mercy Craven 
 
 She turned on him with a sudden fury. 
 
 How dare you?’^ she said, careful to control her voice, 
 though, and then she made a movement to withdraw her 
 head. 
 
 ‘‘ Hark!^^ he said again, ‘‘ my name is Craven too. Let 
 me speak to you. 
 
 The officer was near at hand. She pointed to him. 
 
 ‘‘Your name maybe what it will,^^ she said, sternly; 
 “ if ever you dare to address me again, 1 shall give you 
 into custody. If you don^t go away instantly 1 will do so 
 now. Here, officer 
 
 Her call was scarcely loud enough to be heard, but it 
 served to frighten the man. He glanced at the sauntering 
 policeman and turned to go. 
 
 “ You are your mother^s daughter, curse you!^^ he said, 
 shaking a threatening fist toward the girl. “ My curse 
 upon you both!^^ 
 
 He moved away, and Mercy drew in her head and closed 
 the window, and sunk into a chair. She was trembling 
 now, but more from excitement than cold. 
 
 “ Who is he?^^ she asked herself. “ 1 should not know 
 him in the daylight; 1 did not see his face. Was it my 
 father’s face?” 
 
 A violenjb shudder shook her. “He cursed me!” she 
 cried, in terror. “Was it a father’s curse? Is that the 
 first fruit that my love for Steve brings to me? Can any 
 one thrive under the \^eight of a father’s curse? It is a 
 dreadful thought! But there ” — suddenly controlling her- 
 self — “ why should it trouble me, whose father is so 
 surely dead? Ah, what did I say before that letter came? 
 and have I not far more reason to say it now? I am very, 
 very glad my father is dead!” 
 
ins COUNTJiY COUSIN. 87 
 
 She turned to the gliiss^ and smiled sadly at the white 
 face that greeted her. 
 
 “ Pale as a ghost she sighed. And where has all 
 the pretty love-light gone, and the bright, happy smile? 
 A cloud has driven the brightness out of my sky. She 
 shivered with a sudden fear. “ 1 hope it may not prove to 
 be the cloud that presages a storm, she sighed. ‘‘ Oh, 
 God! 1 hope not!’'' 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 MRS. RAYMOND MEETS A LION IN THE PATH.^" 
 
 ‘‘ X'oTHiNG is perfect in this world. Even when you 
 get the thing you most desire, nine chances out of ten it 
 will disappoint you."’ 
 
 Such were Mrs. Raymond’s reflections when Steve came 
 home, at nearly midnight, after having escorted Ada home 
 five hours before, and showed himself to be in surely the 
 strangest and most unsatisfactory mood that ever possessed 
 a happy and accepted lover. 
 
 The young man v/as flushed and his eyes were bright as 
 if with some strong excitement, and yet the mother’s di- 
 stinct was quick to detect that the excitement was not alto- 
 gether pleasurable. His look and tone in answering her 
 flrst question confirmed this. 
 
 “ Why, where have you been? I have waited up for 
 you!” she cried, in surprise and disappointment, for she 
 had been longing to have him to herself, and talk his 
 prospects over. Surely you have not been with Ada aU 
 this time? Until midnight! No, that’s not joossible!” 
 
 “ Not desirable, either,” he answered, sharply, so sharp- 
 ly that she started. ‘‘My prospects are good for seeing 
 quite enough of x\da after awhile, without hunting her 
 now by night and day. No, certainly I haven’t been with 
 Ada.” 
 
 The little mother stared at him in hurt surprise. 
 
88 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 Never^ no, never since his birth, had he given her such a 
 look and tone before. She said not a word, however, but 
 sat quite silent studying him. 
 
 .It was rather a perplexing study. He flung himself into 
 a chair, took off his boots as if he owed them a separate 
 grudge, glanced at his mother with a conscious air, and 
 then averted his eyes again. 
 
 Finally he arose, and saying, sullenly, “ Fm sorry I 
 kept you waiting, mother; you had better get to bed,^^ 
 turned to the door as if to leave her. 
 
 Now, the little mother was shrewd enough, and by no 
 means ignorant of human nature. Noting the almost 
 scornful bitterness of the tone in which her son had just 
 pronounced Ada’s name, she in an instant thought of 
 “ the other woman,” and suspected her influence here. 
 Still, as he might not have been thinking of Mercy after 
 all, she was too discreet to suggest her to his thoughts by 
 any point-blank mention of her name. So she went after 
 information roundabout. 
 
 “ Don’t go just this minute, dear,” she said, coaxingly, 
 careful not to add to his evident irritation by tone or word. 
 “I’ve been waiting so long to talk to you. Where have 
 you been? To Polly’s?” 
 
 He had paused, at her request, on the threshold. He 
 was too fond of the little mother to slight any wish of hers. 
 But he started at her question as if it had stung him. 
 
 “ To Polly’s? No, indeed!” And then he laughed un- 
 pleasantly. “ Did you think I should be in a hurry to ad- 
 vertise my folly? For it folly! Mother, I believe this 
 engagement of marriage is a hasty, foolish step, and both 
 Ada and I shall repent of it.” 
 
 And then, noticing his mother’s pale, shocked face, and 
 sensible that his own heat and seeming fickleness needed 
 some explanation, he went on more quietly: 
 
 “ I am but young to tie myself down to a wife yet, and, 
 mother dear, I am too poor. Ada has money. What will 
 
HIS COUKTRY COUSIH. 
 
 89 
 
 the world think? I look like a fortune-hunter, llow 
 much better to have left me free to carve out a place in 
 life and a share of fortune, and then let me meet the wife 
 of my choice on equal grounds. I confess to you that 1 
 am ashamed and sorry for having made this engagement 
 at all.''^ 
 
 Mrs. Raymond breathed a deep 'sigh of relief. If this 
 was Stevens strongest objection to the proposed union, it 
 might be got over very easily indeed. Much more easily 
 than Mercy Craven could have been got rid of, had she 
 been the “ lion in the way.'^^ The little mother smiled a 
 well-satisfied smile. 
 
 ‘‘You foolish boy!^^ she said, tenderly. “To grieve 
 yourself about nothing at all. Did you suppose I should 
 not think of all this? Have I been such a bad mother to 
 my boy?’^ 
 
 What could he do but take her in his arms and call her 
 — what she truly was — the dearest and best of mothers. 
 Then he began to argue with her. 
 
 “ But you know, dear, that when Polly^s marriage and 
 the question of Polly^s dowry came along, you and I 
 agreed between us that whatever money you had saved, to 
 divide between us, should all be Polly^s, so that she might 
 go to Dick Lester as a fairly portioned bride. 1 was not 
 to marry for many a long year, and, as a man, could do 
 something to make my own fortune, with your loving care 
 to aid me. You remember our agreement, mother? It 
 put Polly on a proper footing with her husband and his 
 family, but it left me penniless. I donT regret it, mind. 
 I’m young, with all the world and my life before me. But 
 it ought to put my marriage, for the present, out of the 
 question. If the wife proposed for me were poor, our 
 union would be imprudent; if she be rich, it appears to 
 me contemptible. If I marry Ada I shall be wretched! I 
 implore you, mother, to go to her in the morning, and ask 
 her to keep our rash engagement a secret, at least until 
 
90 
 
 HTS COUNTRY COIJSIlSr. 
 
 such time as 1 can see my way to meeting her on some- 
 thing like equal terms. She will consent to this if you ask 
 her. Will you ask her_, dear?^^ 
 
 He was pleading earnestly, with his arms around her, 
 and many a coaxing kiss administered between the plead- 
 ing words. 
 
 His whole heart was set upon gaining this concession. 
 Secrecy! Secrecy, at any cost. That Mercy should not 
 hear, should not know. 
 
 Secrecy would give him time, and all the world knows 
 that ‘‘ time works wonders;^^ he might be able to obtain a 
 release from his engagement in time, perhaps. 
 
 Mrs. Eaymond never suspected that his present wishes 
 had such a goal in view, and, mother-like, yielded to his 
 earnestness. 
 
 You want the engagement kept secret until your own 
 circumstances are more equal and clear she questioned. 
 ‘‘ Well, 1 donT mind asking Ada that, as you make such a 
 point of it, and she will consent, I am sure. But, dear, it 
 is most unnecessary. I can place you in a position to 
 marry Ada, and 1 will. Only wait a few days until James 
 comes home, and you’ll see — ” 
 
 ‘‘James!” Steve withdrew himself a little from her 
 embrace as he heard his brother’s name, and stood looking 
 at her with a startled and thoughtful face. “James, did 
 you say, mother? Now, what on earth can James have to 
 do with it?” 
 
 Mrs. Eaymond laughed softly, in her own happy, satis- 
 fied little way, and seating herself comfortably in her 
 favorite chair, signed to Steve to follow her example. 
 
 “I certainly said James, my deaiv” said she, compla- 
 cently. “ James, your eldest brother, and the head of our 
 family, as you know he is. As to what he can have to do 
 with your being placed in a proper position to become the 
 husband of Ada, sit down comfortably and I’ll tell you all 
 about it. 
 
HIS COUNTllY COUSIN. 
 
 lil 
 
 Stephen^ after a momenta's silent and evidently startled 
 hesitation, obeyed her, though not literally, for instead of 
 sitting down comfortably, as she suggested, he Hung him- 
 self at full length upon the hearth-rug before the fire and 
 at his mother’s feet. 
 
 ‘‘ This will do, mammy, if it’s going to be a long talk,” 
 said he, leaniug his head against her lap in such a position 
 that she could not see his face. 
 
 “ Now for it! What about brother James?*” 
 
 But as I, also, shall have something to say “ about 
 brother James,” and as brother James is destined to play 
 a rather important part in this simple story, 1 think the 
 best plan will be to reserve both Mrs. Eaymond"s remarks 
 and my own for another chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 ABOUT BKOTHER JAMES. 
 
 James Raymond, who, at only twenty-eight (it has 
 been mentioned that he was rather more than seven years 
 Steve’s senior) held the name and position of “ Head of 
 the Raymond Family,” had not been invested with this 
 dignityjn right of primogeniture merely, neither had he 
 attained to it by any special excellence or virtue, or ex- 
 traordinary gifts of qualities of either mind or body. In 
 fact, he was rather a commonplace young man, with the 
 exception of a certain hardness, dryness, and coldness of 
 nature and temper which enabled him to keep his ‘‘ near- 
 est and dearest ” at a distance from his own personal 
 affairs, and live, even while mixing with the world, and 
 transacting business, almost as closely shut up in his own 
 designs and plans as an oyster is within its shell. 
 
 “ Close-fisted and close-mouthed,” had been the char- 
 acter that his intimates gave him, even when a boy at 
 school, and maturer years, spent in that advanced school, 
 the world, had not changed him. 
 
92 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 “ A born money-getter/^ Jane Craven had described 
 him, and perhaps the ‘‘ close fist and the silent tongue 
 were natural traits of such a character. A money-maker 
 he was most undoubtedly and emphatically. 
 
 Dull at all studies that aimed not at that end, indiffer- 
 ent to all other pursuits, but having the vulture^s keen- 
 ness, when a bargain was to be scented out, and the fox^s 
 shrewdness and cunning to aid him in carrying off the 
 prize. 
 
 He was not a bold speculator; his' methods of attaining 
 wealth were slow but sure, and, beginning as a poor man, 
 he would probably never have been more than a moderate- 
 ly rich one, but he had had the advantage of commencing 
 life with a very fair fortune, and those who knew him best 
 prophesied confidently that at forty he would be a mill- 
 ionaire. 
 
 Why not? people would say; he was on the road to it 
 already, and certain to marry wealth, of course. 
 
 Money being his only taste, his only ambition, his only 
 passion, who could for one moment doubt that he would 
 marry money, tooR 
 
 Certainly he himself did not question it. Marriage, to 
 his mind, was simply a matter of business — a life-partner- 
 ship of the closest kind, in which the interests of the con- 
 tracting parties ought to be as nearly as possible equal. 
 
 He fully intended to marry whenever he should meet 
 with a suitable bride, and “ by suitable'’^ he simply and 
 solely meant “ a lady possessed of a large fortune;^^ for 
 the rest she might be young and fair or old and ugly, a 
 model of feminine wisdom, or a semi-idiot; so long as she 
 brought him a large fortune and conducted herself so as to 
 do no discredit to his name, the rest was “ all one to 
 James Eaymond. 
 
 Asked his opinion on the question of Polly ^s dowry, he 
 had said coldly that Steve was a fool for giving up his share 
 
ms COL^NTJtY COUSIN. 
 
 o:] 
 
 of their mother’s savings^ but that since Stephen was such 
 a fool it was a good thing for Polly, of course. 
 
 Had further said that it was his own intention to present 
 his sister with one thousand dollars to buy her wedding 
 clothes, and that he should wish it understood that her ex- 
 2)ectations from him must end here, as he should never, at 
 any time, do anything further. 
 
 In his own soul, though glad enough of Polly’s good 
 fortune, in his secret soul he considered liichard Lester a 
 fool for marrying a girl comparatively poor when richer 
 ones were to be had for the asking. 
 
 “ For what difference can it make in the long run?” he 
 asked himself. “ If Dick had a fancy for youth and a 
 pretty fac^e, there are plenty as pretty as our Polly, and 
 with fair fortunes to their backs. And one woman seems 
 as good as another, I think. Allowing some difference of 
 temper, and all that— which you can’t find out until 
 you’ve married them — they’re all the same; you’ve got a 
 wife, and there’s an end of it. But the money is a tangi- 
 ble good. If she’s a good wife, the money makes your 
 bargain better; i^ she’s a Tartar the money makes amends. 
 Dick Lester marries Polly and takes her fortune whatever 
 it may be, by the way. I shall marry a large fortune and 
 take the woman it belongs to whatever she may be, by the 
 way. That’s worldly wisdom. Dick’s' a fool, and I’m 
 glad of it, for Polly’s sake. He’ll never be more than 
 comfortably off, while I shall be a millionaire. Well, I’m 
 satisfied!” 
 
 Something of these meditations he had imparted to his 
 mother; confidentially, of course, and very much to her 
 gentle indignation. 
 
 ‘‘ It is well that every one is not so worldly wise as your- 
 self, my dear,” she had said reproachfully, “or there 
 wouldn’t be much chance for true love and domestic hap- 
 piness. However, I don’t believe that you are half so 
 hard as you pretend to be, and if Steve should have a 
 
94: 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 chance by and by to marry no less prosperously than Polly 
 has done, you won^t allow his generosity to his sister to be 
 a stumbling-block in his way.^^ 
 
 James caught at the allusion to Stevens possible mar- 
 riage, but ignored the hint to himself. 
 
 » “ Youh*e thinking of Ada AVest,^^ said he. “ Now isn^t 
 that another instance of folly? There's a girl with a very 
 pretty fortune— a very pretty fortune indeed — resolute to 
 give it and herself to a penniless young fellow, who hasn't 
 — thanks to his quixotism about Polly — a dollar in the 
 world! AVhereas, 1 warrant you, if I were to ask her to 
 marry, she wouldn't so much as even look at me!" 
 
 Gentle Mrs. Eaymond stared at him in great surprise. 
 
 ‘‘ Did you think of asking her to marry you, my dear?" 
 she asked. “ Do you care for her?" 
 
 James laughed aloud. Not heartily — that was not his 
 way — but quietly, as if much amused. 
 
 “ No, no, no!" said he. “ Don't be afraid, mother; I 
 sha'n't interfere with your favorite. When I said Ada 
 had a pretty fortune, I meant for Steve. You understand? 
 — for Steve. I should want her sum toid ten times over. 
 It'll take that to make me saddle myself with a wife, 
 mother, take my word for it!" 
 
 lie was still laughing good - humoredly. The little 
 mother looked up wistfully into his face. 
 
 “I don't believe }^ou, James," said she. “You're a 
 man of business, a man of the world; but you’re not so 
 hard as that. I do believe you'll yet meet a woman that 
 you'd give all your money and all the world to win, and 
 then you'll marry for love." 
 
 He laughed even more merrily than before at that, but 
 into his laughter had crept a tone of scorn, as if he mocked 
 at the possibility of his loving; and the little mother, hear- 
 ing him, thought that lier own words had been wild and 
 foolish, and never dreamed that they should yet be proved 
 words of true prophecy. 
 
HTR COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 05 
 
 ITowcver, lie promised her tliis much, for Steve — tliaf, 
 if the boy should really win Ada’s hand, he would receive 
 him into his business as a junior jiartner. There were con- 
 ditions — which would be fulfilled partly by the little moth- 
 er’s exertions, and partly, if necessar}", by Ada’s means, 
 Steve not knowing — and these conditions were undoubtedly 
 profitable to James, or he would never have agreed to 
 them. 
 
 These plans — at least, such portions of them as she 
 thought fit — Mrs. Kaymond now confided to her son Steve, 
 together with his brother’s promise. 
 
 “ You are already in his employ on a salary,” she said, 
 “ and when he accepts 3 ^ou as partner what more can any 
 one ask? 1 will find the necessary money. Youi salary, 
 to begin with, will make you independent of your wife, 
 some |3ortion of whose fortune may be invested in the firm, 
 if you think proper. But James will explain it all to you; 
 he writes me that he will be home in about a week. Wait 
 until James comes back.” 
 
 * Steve offered no further opposition to his mother’s plan, 
 merely stipulating that she should, first thing on the fol- 
 lowing morning, go to Ada and bind her to secrecy — at 
 least until James returned. 
 
 “ She will consent. It will only be for a week,” said 
 the little mother, cheerfully; and Steve, sighing heavily, 
 echoed her words: 
 
 “ Only for a week!” 
 
 And a week is nothing,” he said to himself, when 
 alone in his room. ‘‘ 1 can’t keep it from her. The most 
 this delay will do for me will be to give me a chance of 
 telling her myself. If she’ll only wait for me. I’ll marry 
 her. I’ll break with Ada; but 1 can’t do it brutally and 
 all at once, for she is a sweet, good girl. Poor Ada! But 
 1 love Mercy. Oh, my beauty, my darling, I love }mu- 
 You, and you only, shall be my wife!” 
 
 So on, for hours, up and down his room, unable. to slee]!. 
 
96 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 to rest^ even to keep still; and at that same time Mercy, 
 chilled by the night air and shuddering at a ruffian'’s curse, 
 sat pale and sorrowful under the sudden cloud that had 
 scared the brightness from her sky, and prayed fearfully, 
 “ God grant it be not the cloud that presages a storm!^’ 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 HOW THE STORM BROKE. 
 
 James Raymond did not return for nearly two weeks, 
 during which time Steve and Mercy carried their love- 
 making on apace, in spite of many difficulties. 
 
 Their interviews were stolen and few, but not the less 
 sweet for that, and as yet Steve had not found courage (he 
 called it opportunity) to tell Mercy of his engagement to 
 Ada West. 
 
 As for her, so far from making any inquiries on the sub- 
 ject, she carefully avoided it. 
 
 ‘‘ I will never recall her to his thoughts again, she had 
 resolved on that first evening, and she kept her word well, 
 for she loved him. 
 
 So the poor girl went on in a fooPs paradise, in which 
 the skies were always bright, and in which she forgot that 
 there had ever been a sign of coming storm, until one 
 evening it broke upon her very suddenly. 
 
 It was about seven o^clock. The Lesters usually dined 
 at six, and dinner was just over, 
 
 Polly and Dick, with their two children, sat chatting softly 
 by the comfortable parlor fire, while Mercy, at a distant 
 window, was arranging the folds of curtains so that they 
 should not injure some choice flowering plants that were 
 Polly’s special pride. All at once there was a sound of 
 merry voices in the hall, the door flew open, and in came 
 a laughing group. James Raymond, with the little moth- 
 er on his arm, and Steve following, with Ada. 
 
 Polly sprung to her feet with a cry: 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 07 
 
 “ James! Is it really you?^’ and embraced her brother 
 warmly. 
 
 Dick Lester also gave him a cordial welcome (for this 
 was the head of the family^ the man of money, whom they 
 all, perhaps half unconsciously, propitiated); then a chair 
 was brought for him, the two children were displayed to 
 Uncle James. 
 
 Ada and Mrs. Eaymond got their bonnets off, and with 
 Steve, drew seats into the cosy family circle. No one ex- 
 cept Steve had noticed Mercy as they entered; no one else 
 either thought of her or missed her now. But Steve, who 
 was strangely pale and ill at ease amid the general glad- 
 ness, Steve gave a sigh of relief on finding tnat she had 
 disappeared. 
 
 Thank GodP^ he thought. “Anything, so that she 
 may not hear it here and now, before I have time to pre- 
 pare her, to assure her that it shall not be true. Thank 
 God she has gone!^^ 
 
 For Mrs. Eaymond could keep her happy secret no 
 longer, but burst forth joyously: 
 
 “ And what do you think brings us all here to-night, 
 when James only came home a few hours ago? It was be- 
 cause I had a present for you, Polly, that is too good to 
 keep from you longer. A new sister, my dear. Ada, 
 come here. DonT blush so, my darling. Here's your 
 new sister iVda, Polly, who is soon to be Steve’s wife.” 
 
 “ Steve’s wife!” 
 
 Steve started guiltily at the words; it almost seemed to 
 him that a sobbing cry, as well as Polly’s joyful exclama- 
 tion, had echoed them. 
 
 But that must be merely fancy, of course, since, thank 
 Heaven! Mercy had gone away. 
 
 A soft storm of questions, answers, kisses, and coii- 
 gratulations followed. 
 
 x\da told, blushingly, how the engagement of marriage 
 
98 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 had been made “ weeks ago/^ but Steve wanted it kept 
 secret until James should return. 
 
 “ That^s why you have seen so little of me lately/’ said 
 the proud and happy bride-elect. ‘‘ I felt that 1 couldn’t 
 see you without telling you^ Polly; or, even if I didn’t tell 
 you, that you or Mercy would be sure to find me out. By 
 the bye, where is Mercy?” 
 
 The question was a simple and natural one enough; and 
 yet if the bride-elect could have known how it turned the 
 heart of her betrothed lover against her, she would have 
 paused long ere she uttered it. But which of us really 
 knows anything of another’s secret heart? And poor Ada 
 was no wiser than the rest of us. 
 
 “ Ay, to be sure,” said Mrs. Eayrnond, taking up the 
 cue, ‘‘ where is Mercy? And how do you get along with 
 her, my dear? Where is she?” 
 
 “ I don’t know, really. She was here a few minutes 
 since,” Polly was beginning, when Mercy struck the cur- 
 tains aside and stepped quietly into their midst. 
 
 “Here 1 am. Cousin Polly,” said she, very calm and 
 very pale. “ Did you want me?” 
 
 Her appearance created the. usual sensation. There was 
 this peculiarity about Mercy’s beauty that, under whatever 
 aspect you saw it, it always seemed to be the very aspect 
 that suited her style the best. 
 
 On that happy evening when she had come in all spark- 
 ling and rose-flushed with hope and love, Polly had secret- 
 ly wondered at her brilliant loveliness; now as she stood 
 quiet and statuesque and pale as marble before them, Polly 
 again secretly decided that she had never realized what 
 true beauty was until now. And Polly’s private and un- 
 expressed opinion might have stood for that of the whole 
 party. 
 
 But Mercy’s pallor was too marked to pass unnoticed. 
 After a few words, introducing her to James, who seemed 
 
Ills COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 9 !) 
 
 quite bewildered und dazed by the new acquaintance, Polly 
 cried : 
 
 “But, goodness me, Mercy, how white you are! You 
 look like a corpse, child! What^s the matter 
 
 Mercy smiled, and put her hands to her white cheeks 
 and softly rubbed them. 
 
 “ Pm cold,^^ she said, “ thaPs all. I stood at the win- 
 dow fixing your plants until 1 am chilled through. I 
 always go pale when 1 am cold, cousin. Hadn’t 1 better 
 take the little ones up to their nurse?” she added, quietly; 
 “ they look sleepy.” 
 
 All this time she had not once glanced at Steve, nor he 
 at her. A smile and bow she had given to Mrs. Eaymond 
 and Ada — appearing not to see the latter’s proffered hand 
 — and a kind word and a frank hand-clasp to James, but 
 not one word to Steve, who sat silent and with downcast 
 eyes. As she turned to take the children from the room, 
 James suddenly spoke to her earnestly: 
 
 “ You will come back again? Miss — I mean Cousin 
 Mercy — you will return?” 
 
 Then she suddenly flushed and smiled, looking more 
 beautiful than ever. At the same moment, if any one had 
 looked at Steve, they would have seen him cast upon his 
 eldest brother a glance of vehement hatred. 
 
 “ Certainly I will return,” said Mercy, gayly. “ 1 
 should be sorry to leave your company. Cousin James, in 
 the first minute of making your acquaintance. I will re- 
 turn directly.” 
 
 ' She went upstairs quietly, without flurry, without haste, 
 chatting softly and pleasantly to the little ones. She sat 
 by them, too, until they fell asleep, just as quietly and 
 calmly as if no ax had been struck at the root of her hopes 
 —as if the beautiful air-built castle, in which she had 
 thought to dwell so happily with Steve, had not been shat- 
 tered. She would not allow herself to think. “Wait,” 
 she said to her heart — “ wait till bedtime comes, and soli- 
 
100 
 
 HIS COUNTKY COUSIN. 
 
 tilde; there will be time for grieving. Not now — not when 
 they might see and know. Wait!’^ 
 
 Into her own room she went when the little ones were 
 asleep, but she only stayed there a few moments, to re- 
 arrange her hair, and rub her pale cheeks with cologne 
 until they glowed again. Then down to the parlor again 
 — to James, and conquest. 
 
 She pleased the man of money wonderfully. She was 
 gay, winning, brilliant, bent on pleasing, and so successful 
 that even the women owned her charm. Steve was the 
 only one who did not yield to it, but grew actually gloomy 
 and sulky when she gayly rallied him and congratulated 
 him on his approaching happiness. But then, Mercy sug- 
 gested, that was because he wanted his pretty sweetheart 
 all to himself, and wished the rest of them out of the way: 
 and it was, doubtless, to accommodate him that she pres- 
 ently carried James away to the piano, and monopolized 
 his attention altogether. 
 
 “ A splendid girl!^^ said the man of money to his moth- 
 er, as they were walking home, Steve and Ada being con- 
 siderably in advance of them. “ The handsomest girl 1 
 ever saw! Why, she’s a cousin to be proud of I” 
 
 The little mother hung a little more closely on his arm. 
 
 ‘‘Yes, she is handsome,” she assented, rather unwill- 
 ingly, “ and she is the chief reason I had for hurrying on 
 this match of Steve’s. He evidently admired her, and 1 
 was afraid he might — ” 
 
 James interrupted her with an exclamation of im- 
 patience and disdain. 
 
 “ What! Steve?” he said, contemptuously. “ Steve, 
 without a dollar, aspire to a girl like that! If she’s as sen- 
 sible as I take her to be, she wouldn’t look at Steve. 
 Beauty like hers has its actual market value, and Mercy 
 Craven, without a penny, may yet be the wife of a million- 
 aire!” He spoke that word with the same tone and air in 
 which he might have said, “ the wife of a king.” Then 
 
HIS OOUNTKY COUSIN. 
 
 101 
 
 he adaea, more quietly: “ Not that I Iiold with such non- 
 sense myself, as you know, mother. Kiches should marry 
 riches, and 1 leave love to fools. But all men do not 
 think alike, you know, and 1 tell you that Mercy Craven 
 is beautiful enough and brilliant enough to marry — always 
 supposing that she plays her cards properly — to marry a 
 millionaire.^^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A WOMAN SCORNED, 
 
 From her dark corner, behind the curtains and among 
 the flowers, Mercy had heard the merry voices, seen the 
 door open wide, seen Ada^s radiant, blushing face, and 
 Mrs. Raymond's look of joyful triumph; had seen, too, a 
 certain pale distress and trouble in Stevens glance, as for a 
 moment it met her own, that half warned her of a coming 
 trial. 
 
 But nothing warned her of what that trial should be. 
 He was her lover. Her promised husband (for, in their 
 stolen interviews it had come to that). And although he 
 had confessed to ‘‘ a sort of flirtation with Ada,^^ which 
 placed him awkwardly with his family, and forced him to 
 beg her — Mercy — -to be patient, and keep their engagement 
 a secret for awhile; still he had said nothing that could 
 prepare her for the actual truth. He had not dared to be 
 candid with her. 
 
 The more he saw of her the greater his passion for her 
 grew, and — necessarily — the less became his confidence in 
 her affection, and of his hopes of winning her. Each time 
 they met he feared to tell her that which might estrange 
 her from him. 
 
 ‘‘ ril wait until I am a little more sure of her heart,^^ 
 he would resolve. 
 
 And all the time it was but too surely his; for Mercy, 
 having no doubt of his truth and faith, and feeling, there- 
 
102 
 
 ms COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 fore, only just so much jealousy of Ada as served for a 
 spur to her affection, Mercy truly loved him. 
 
 And this is said of a girl who, all her life long, had hun- 
 gered and thirsted for human affection. Whose natural 
 loves had been so checked and curbed, and dammed up (as 
 one might say) within unnatural limits, that they ran with 
 passionate and uncontrollable force into this new-found 
 channel of her love for Steve. 
 
 This passion had come like a new life to her, beautify- 
 ing all that else was cold and bare, rounding out and fill- 
 ing in all the hard squares and sharp angles and aching 
 voids of that peculiarly harsh and undesirable ‘‘ lot in life 
 unto which it had pleased God to call her.^^ 
 
 It had softened her heart and sweetened her nature, not 
 toward Steve alone, but toward her mother, Polly, the two 
 little children — all the world. 
 
 Even for Ada she could spare a pang of pity — poor Ada! 
 who had loved Steve in vain! A rival truly, but an un- 
 successful one, and therefore only to be pitied. 
 
 The girl had little or no religious training, but one of 
 the first effects of this strange, new happiness had been to 
 turn her thoughts toward God. 
 
 Not in the sense in which that phrase is generally used 
 as implying that she gave up the ‘‘ pomps and vanities, 
 etc. — which course she was very far indeed from contem- 
 plating, being, on the contrary, especially jubilant on the 
 score of her lover’s supposed wealth, and the worldly tri- 
 umphs which it was to secure her — but her thoughts 
 turned heavenward in an impulse of prayer and grateful 
 thanksgiving to which they had hitherto been strangers. 
 
 God grant it be not a cloud that presages storm!” 
 had been her heart’s first cry when a foreboding of evil came 
 to it, and when that foreboding was forgotten and her hold 
 upon Steve seemed assured, again and again she had 
 thanked God for so great and strange a happiness. 
 
 In short, happiness had had an altogether beneficial 
 
HTS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 103 
 
 effect upon Mercy’s niiture (as it has upon all human nat- 
 ure, 1 think), and all the soft, sweet, womanly traits of her 
 character had blossomed and expanded under the iiiliu- 
 ence of pleasure and joy, as flowers do for sunshine and 
 rain. 
 
 Never was sudden frost and storm more fatal to the 
 flowers than this discovery of what naturally appeared to 
 her, Steve’s perfidy, was to Mercy’s happiness. 
 
 Drawing back behind the curtains, more in a moment- 
 ary and startled hesitation than with any idea of playing 
 the secret listener, she had heard the words that had 
 wrecked her hopes and proclaimed her trust in her lover 
 “ a trust betrayed.” 
 
 For the first moment the shock literally stunned her, so 
 that it was from something like actual insensibility that 
 she was presently aroused by the utterance of her own' 
 name. 
 
 Then pride came to the rescue instantly. What had 
 Steve thought of her, meant by her, taken her for? she 
 asked herself when he, the actual betrothed of another 
 woman, could so cruelly and falsely deceive her? 
 
 She did not stop to consider that the love-making be- 
 tween them had been, in its beginning, quite as much of 
 her own initiating as of Steve’s; which of us does, when 
 freshly smarting under a bitter wound, pause to accurate- 
 ly adjust the blame upon the proper shoulders? 
 
 He had deceived her with false promises, misled her by 
 false hopes, perhaps intended her still worse wrong and in- 
 sult; to her excited feelings all seemed possible. 
 
 In that first pang of jealous anguish and love betrayed, 
 she almost hated Steve. 
 
 ‘‘ He has been playing with his pretty country cousin,” 
 she thought, bitterly; ‘‘ I’ll make him think I was only 
 fooling, too; I’ll die before he shall know that I care!” 
 
 And she came from her hiding-place, cold, and calm. 
 
104 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 and smiling, without a sign of the agony that smile con- 
 cealed, except the pallor of her lovely face. 
 
 How she laughed, jested, spread her net and wove her 
 spells, through the hours that followed, has been told. 
 Certain it is that she sent two lovers home that night, 
 where there had been but one, and that she knew it. 
 
 “ 1 can have James, the elder brother, the richest broth- 
 er, if I choose,^'’ she said to herself, as she looked in her 
 glass that night. ‘‘I know 1 can! Steve shall see that 
 his betters are glad and proud to marry me!^^ Then sud- 
 denly she struck her hands together with a bitter cry: 
 
 His betters! I thought there was not one in the world 
 to equal my love! My love!^^ And with these words 
 the tears gushed forth, but only to be dashed away, with 
 swift-recurring anger and wounded pride. “ He is not 
 Worth a tear! What has made me fancy that I loved him? 
 I have known men worth ten of him that could not have 
 won a smile from me!^^ And swift before the eyes of her 
 mind arose the various suitors whom she had despised. 
 
 Ah, there was not one of them like Steve! I love him! 
 I love him! I may confess it here, to my own heart, 
 
 I love him! x\nd 1 must see another woman his wife. 
 ‘ Stevens wife,’ they said — oh, how the words stab me! 
 What will the reality be, when it comes? And how glad, 
 and bright, and proud she looked, while my heart was 
 broken! And yet” — with a sudden consoling reflection— 
 “ her happiness found no echo in him, I noticed; and he 
 was silent, sullen, inwardly raging with jealousy while I 
 flirted with James. Does he love me, then, in spite of all? 
 Oh, I hope so!” She sprung up, her cheeks crimson, her 
 eyes flashing, her hands clasped and wrung passionately. 
 ‘‘ Oh, I hope so, that I may be revenged! That I may 
 make him feel as I feel now, may tempt him, torture him, 
 play with him, let him taste the anguish he has caused me. 
 If I can not have the love, the happiness, that comes to 
 other women’s lives, at least I can have revenge on him — 
 
HIS COUNTUY COUSIN. 
 
 105 
 
 ny, and on her, too! There vvonT be much happiness in 
 her married life when she sees her hiisband^s heart stray, 
 as Steve’s heart will stray from her to me! I’ll hold it, 
 too. She shall feel that, however securely the casket may 
 be hers, the jewel has been rifled by me. I’ll play with 
 him as a cat plays with a mouse, and when I’ve had re- 
 venge enough. I’ll marry James and roll in wealth, and 
 laugh at all of them! 1, the poor country cousin, the 
 woman they scorn, will laugh at all of them!” 
 
 She was far enough from laughter now, poor child, at 
 any rate. Up and down her room she paced, up and 
 down, for weary hours, spurred by the excitement of the 
 inward storm that would not let her rest. And when, at 
 last. Nature so far asserted her claims that bodily fatigue 
 overcame mental torture, and she threw herself, all dressed 
 as she was, upon the bed, even then wild thoughts of jeal- 
 ousy and vengeance kept the needed sleep away. She lay 
 and listened to the solemn tones that told of the departure 
 of the hours — lay and watched the gray, bleak, wintery 
 dawn chase the shadows of night away. When it was 
 barely daylight, and she could hear the quiet movements of 
 the servants going about their morning duties long before 
 the sun^was up, she arose softly and prepared to go out 
 into the streets. 
 
 I look like a ghost,” she sighed, as she glanced at her 
 mirror. ‘‘ But the air will give me color; and that pallor 
 is better, any way, than eyes all swollen with tears would 
 be. They shall never pity me as a maiden all forlorn, nor 
 mock me as ‘ a woman scorned,’ Cousin Steve! From 
 this time forth I will do all the ‘ scorning;’ and Steve is 
 the last man, as well as the first, to whom my heart shall 
 ever say, ‘ I love you. ’ What my lips may utter is a 
 different matter. I need not trouble myself about deceiv- 
 ing. Steve being false, no man is worth believing — which 
 is rhyme,” she added, with a sad smile, as: she went down- 
 stairs and out into the street, to begin a new chapter of 
 
106 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 her destiny. “ And lliey say that when you make an un- 
 conscious rhyrne^ you may make a wish along with it, and 
 get it. What shall 1 wish for, having been robbed of what 
 1 wished for most? Eevenge only! And Cousin James, 
 with his wealth, can help me to it. 1 wish that 1 may 
 win my cousin James 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A WISH PULPILLED. 
 
 The clocks were chiming half after seven as Mercy left 
 the house and turned up Madison Avenue. That quiet 
 thoroughfare was very quiet indeed at this early hour, and 
 the few passers-by, intent on their several businesses, took 
 as little notice of the pale, thoughtful girl as she did of 
 them; until, as she approached a crossing made by the in- 
 tersection of one of the side streets with the avenue, she 
 almost ran into the arms of a man who was coming hur- 
 riedly around the corner, and who started back with a 
 muttered oath when he saw her face, and turned his own 
 head aside as she raised her eyes, and, with a hoarsely mut- 
 tered, “Beg your pardon, miss,^^ passed her and went 
 down the avenue. 
 
 Mercy, though startled for the moment by his rough 
 oath, was too full of sad and bitter thoughts to give him 
 more than a passing glance, else she might have observed 
 that he was a tall, broad-shouldered, Italian-looking sort 
 of fellow, wearing coarse clothes, and having a rough fur 
 cap pulled well down over his eyes and ears, where the up- 
 standing collar of his coat met it, so as to, between the 
 collar and cap, effectually conceal his face. But there was 
 nothing extraordinary in that circumstance on a raw, 
 cold, early winter morning. People went muffled, sensi- 
 bly enough, to protect their noses and ears from the 
 weather. 
 
 What was peculiar in this man’s conduct was that he 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 107 
 
 evidently recognized Mercy and avoided her; and yet, first 
 making sure that he was not observed, furtively watched 
 lier, too. In fact, so much interested in her movements 
 did he appear, that, when a safe distance lay between 
 them, and he felt quite assured that she had not noticed 
 him, and would not look round, he turned and softly fol- 
 lowed her. 
 
 She walked briskly, still urged by the keen spur of those 
 cruel thoughts of Steve. The winter wind kissed her soft 
 young cheeks into a rosy glow, and the bracing air and 
 rapid motion — to say nothing of an inward passion and 
 fire, repressed indeed, but nevertheless leaping out every 
 now and then in most expressive flashes from her brilliant 
 eyes and around her mobile mouth — sent the warm blood 
 coursing swiftly through her veins with a vigor that made 
 amends for midnight vigils and want of sleep. 
 
 Her thoughts were all of anger and revenge, but this 
 very fact lent an expression of strength and j30wer to her 
 beautiful features, which, because they were beautiful, 
 gave them a strange, new charm to one who had hitherto 
 only seen them quiet and pale, or animated with merri- 
 ment and pleasure. 
 
 And such a one was watching her as she came out of 
 Madison Square, as well as the man with the muffled face, 
 whose secret espionage had led him at last to hide among 
 the trees in the park. He had two to take note of now as 
 he came from his hiding-place, still bent on following her; 
 for he had been quicker than she was to see James Eay- 
 mond standing at the gate, with eyes full of admiration 
 (and something more!) fixed on her, as, all unconscious of 
 his presence and his gaze, she approached him. 
 
 Was she thinking of the wish she had made as she left 
 the house that she started so when he addressed her! 
 And did she, with true womanly inconsistency, take it rather 
 amiss that Fate should give this sign of intending to take 
 lier at her word? Be that as it may, the startled look with 
 
108 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 which she met the greeting of the man of money was 
 scarcely such as, from a less beautiful face, would have 
 been calculated to please or flatter him. 
 
 “ You!^^ she said, with an intonation that chilled him, 
 until the ready smile and altered tone that followed it 
 almost instantly made amends. “Why, Cousin James, 
 how you frightened me!’^ 
 
 And she gave him a half-reproachful glance from those 
 irresistible eyes of hers that set his heart beating and the 
 blood tingling through his veins after a fashion in which 
 the cool heart and cool blood of James Kaymond had 
 never beaten or tingled before. 
 
 “ Did Polly send you for nie?^^ she asked, as she slipped 
 her little hands around the arm he offered, looking up into 
 his face the while with a most enchanting air of child-like 
 simplicity, “ and is she angry 
 
 It was most skillfully and naturally done. Mercy knew 
 perfectly well that Polly had not sent for her, but the 
 question served to place her own unprotected and friend- 
 less position strongly before Jameses eyes. As for him, 
 looking into this exquisite face, feeling this clinging touch 
 upon his arm, hearing this softly appealing tone, he felt 
 an unreasonable flash of sudden anger, that poor Polly 
 should assume any authority over the beautiful creature 
 at all. 
 
 “ What the devil should Polly be angry for?’^ he asked, 
 brusquely, for he was not always soft and smooth, this 
 politic and subtle money-maker, but could use hard words 
 as well as fair ones, and dirty tools as well as clean ones 
 upon occasion, too, if necessary to serve his ends. But he 
 corrected himself on seeing her startled face — purposely 
 startled and timid, if he had only guessed it — and went on 
 more gently thenceforth, patting the little hand upon his 
 arm reassuringly the while. “ I beg pardon for that ugly 
 word, but why should Polly be angry? She didn^t send 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 109 
 
 me to you. I haven^t seen her, indeed, but why should 
 she send after you at all, or be angry with you, Mercy?^" 
 Mercy shot him the effective glance again—more effect- 
 ive than ever this time, because there was a touch of 
 patient pathos in it, that — coming from such a queen 
 among women, was really quite bewildering to James. 
 
 “ I am only a dependent in your sister ^s house, you 
 know,^^ she said, with quiet sadness that somehow seemed 
 to make the fact a fault on Polly’s part. Only a poor 
 relation. I hope my services about the house are some 
 small return for the cost of keeping me until I shall find 
 some position wherein I may earn my bread, but, all the 
 same, I feel that 1 have no more right to leave the house 
 without Polly’s knowledge and permission than her serv- 
 ants have. She would say so, 1 am sure. But I had such 
 a headache after our laughing and singing last night, cous- 
 in. I am a country girl, you know, accustomed to go to 
 roost with the birds, and my country remedy for a head- 
 ache has always been an early morning walk. 1 came out 
 before the household was awake, but since 1 met you, cous- 
 in, I fear I have stayed too long. What time is it?’^ 
 
 It was nearly nine, he told her, and he turned in the 
 direction of Seventeenth Street as he made the answer. 
 
 ‘‘I’ll take you back,” he said, quietly, “and Polly 
 won’t have a word to say. I’ll warrant you.” 
 
 She thanked him, quite effusively for her, and away 
 they went, still followed by their unseen and unsuspected 
 escort. He contrived that they should pass him at the 
 gate, and thus he obtained a view of both their faces— 
 Mercy’s, upraised, brilliant, confiding, flushed, and beau- 
 tiful; James’s, admiring, brooding, smiling, frowning, 
 thoughtful, doubtful, all at once. The man, whose own 
 face was muffled out of sight, stared at these two as they 
 passed by, and gave a long, low whistle. 
 
 “By Jove, but she’s a beauty, and no mistake!” he 
 muttered, as he slouched after them; “ and she’s got that 
 
110 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 rich fish fairly on her hook, if shefil only have sufficient 
 sense to land him!'’^ 
 
 The fish was nibbling, beyond all doubt. James Eay- 
 mond walked beside his beautiful companion, sensible that 
 his feelings toward her were different to any that he had 
 ever experienced toward any living creature in the world. 
 It was not only passion that possessed him — a mere covet- 
 ing of so much beauty and grace to have and hold for his 
 own. He went further than that. His sentiments to- 
 ward her almost approached generosity, and he had never 
 been generous, even in thought, before. He resented her 
 position in PolIy^s household, was angry at the possibility 
 of fault being found with her, regretted her poverty — for 
 her sake, and also, perhaps, a little for his own. ‘‘ What 
 a wife, if she had only money as well as beauty!’^ he was 
 thinking as she talked and smiled beside him. ‘‘But 
 then, with money and beauty, too, she might pick and 
 choose among men; now, I suppose, a fellow with a few 
 hundred thousands might stand a chance — and there are 
 plenty foolish enough to ask her. Plenty! Ay, scores!’^ 
 as if arguing the subject and defending such a course to 
 himself. “And why not? Men have their own ways of 
 spending their wealth— why not buy beauty, if that^s their 
 fancy? But— but — half doubtingly — “ I donT think it 
 ever would be mine, unless money went hand in hand 
 with it.^’ 
 
 He had been so absorbed in his own thoughts that he 
 liad not heeded her prattle, and now broke in upon it 
 abruj^tly. 
 
 “ You spoke just now about getting a place to earn your 
 own living,’^ he said, brusquely. “ Governess, I suppose, 
 or something of the kind. But what nonsense, Mercy! 
 You will stay with Polly, and by and by, when you\e gone 
 into society a little, marry some rich man. A girl like 
 you ought to marry her fortune, you know. I)on/t you 
 think so?^^ 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 Ill 
 
 She looked up into his eyes and shook her head. 
 
 “ Wealth mates with vvoaltlu I think, cousin/^ she an- 
 swered, simply. “At least/^ with a laugh, “all the 
 lovers I have had so far have been poor enough, and there- 
 fore suitable matches — for J am poor, you know.^^ 
 
 “ Perhaps that^s why you have taken none of them,^^ 
 James answered, drawing her hand more closely within his 
 arm at this mention of “ all her lovers.'’^ “ Love mates 
 with its opposite, somebody says. You are the sort of 
 woman that ought to have a carriage, and diamonds, and 
 all the rest of it. Marry none but a rich man, Mercy. 
 
 Half unconsciously he was 2)utting in a plea for hiinseK 
 that might serve in the possibilities of the future. 8 he 
 laughed as she replied: 
 
 “ But where shall I find my rich man? Eich men donH 
 care for poor, pretty girls like me. JNow would }^ou, if you 
 were rich, cousin?^^ 
 
 There was no possibility of his answering this jioint- 
 blank question, for as she asked it they had reached the 
 house door, which was standing open. Otherwise Mercy 
 would not have asked it at all. James took it in silence 
 as a proof that she knew nothing of his wealth, and that 
 therefore whatever favor she had shown him was shown 
 from liking for himself alone. And this was exactly what 
 Mercy had intended to convey to him. 
 
 As they went into the house Steve was coming out. He 
 started at sight of these two together, and frowned darkly 
 at Mercy’s smiling face and merry laughter. 
 
 “ You seem to have been enjoying yourselves,” he 
 sneered. 
 
 “ Oh, yes,” Mercy answered, brightly. “ Cousin James 
 is so kind. We have had a charming walk. Come, 
 James, and make it right with Polly.” 
 
 And she went on gayly, not noticing or caring for the 
 frowning glance that James bent u2)on Steve, nor the look 
 
112 
 
 HIS COUNTKY COUSIN. 
 
 of hatred that marred Steve’s bright face, as he watched 
 his rich elder brother. 
 
 And yet there was that in the faces of these two men 
 that might have made one shudder — remembering Cain. 
 
 CHAPTEli XXIV. 
 
 “You didn’t know that Mercy and I had made an ap- 
 pointment for an early morning walk together,” said 
 James Kay mond to Mrs. Lester, not allowing her time to 
 put the reproaches which her looks were full of into words. 
 “ It’s a treat to me to find a lady who is an early riser, 
 and we have enjoyed the morning air hugely without in- 
 conveniencing you, I hope, Polly, since I’ve brought our 
 cousin back by half past nine. What the deuce brought 
 Steve round here so early?” he went on abruptly, without 
 giving her time to reply to his last remarks. “ What did 
 he want?” 
 
 Now, James Raymond was “ a power ” in his own fam- 
 ily, and Polly was very careful not to offend him. Apart 
 from her natural sisterly affection for him she constantly 
 held in consideration her two children, who, if Uncle 
 James did not marry, might eventually be his heirs, and 
 to whom in his favor and interest must in any case be ad- 
 vantageous through life. His attention to Mercy filled her 
 with a vague alarm, but she had no intention of offending 
 him by showing either that or her vexation — so she smoth- 
 ered both like a politic little woman, and answered him 
 very pleasantly: 
 
 “ Steve brought me a message from his lady-love, to be 
 ready to go out shopping with her at twelve. They are to 
 be married so soon, I suppose she wants to hurry her prep- 
 arations. But you’ll take some breakfast, James, you 
 must both be hungry,” with a smiling glance at Mercy, as 
 James, complying with her invitation, took a place at the 
 breakfast-table next to his handsome cousin. “For if 
 
ins COUNTRY (X)USIN. 
 
 113 
 
 such R thing could bo as that James should make a fool of 
 himsclE about her/’ reasoned Tolly, rapidly, “ 1 had bet- 
 ter be in the list of her friends than her enemies, any way.” 
 
 So she made herself unusually agreeable to Mercy, who, 
 stung by the mention of Steve’s lady-love,” exerted her- 
 self more than ever to please James, and with such success 
 that he actually remained with her — ‘‘ fooled the whole 
 morning away,” was what Polly told Dick Lester after" 
 ward — until x\da, arriving to carry Polly off shopping, in- 
 sisted on his playing escort to them both, and gaining her 
 point took him away triumphantly. 
 
 But even then he left more of his heart behind him than 
 the ladies guessed, or than he would have been quite will- 
 ing to acknowledge even to himself. 
 
 The regret that such a lovely, brilliant girl should have 
 no money sprung up more strongly than ever in his 
 thoughts, but only to be checked and counteracted (as at 
 first) by that other reflection: 
 
 “If she had wealth as well as such beauty, richer and 
 better men than I might whistle for her, with nothing but 
 trouble for our pains.” 
 
 And then he smiled half contemptuously at the idea of 
 James Eaymond desiring a penniless beauty for a wife, and 
 in the next instant frowned, at the quick-recurring con- 
 viction that plenty of other rich men would so desire her, 
 and that one of them might carry off the prize. 
 
 “ They shall not,” he thought, impulsively, although 
 next instant he laughed at his own thought. 
 
 In short, the man of money was so near being seriously 
 in love, for the first time in his life, that it already needed 
 only the additional spur of a real rival to goad him on to 
 the perpetration of what he had hitherto considered the 
 greatest of follies — namely, a marriage which had for its 
 motive and object love alone. 
 
 Meantime the girl who occupied his thoughts so en- 
 tirely had thrown herself upon her bed, quite ignoring 
 
114 
 
 HIS COU^sTRY COUSITSr. 
 
 Polly’s charge that she should play mistress during her ab- 
 sence^ and, worn out with excitement, emotion, and want 
 of rest, was very soon fast asleep. 
 
 She slept long and soundly, nature and youth taking 
 their revenge for her previous night of wakefulness and 
 care. 
 
 The clock had struck five when a servant awakened her 
 at last, standing by her bed, with the words: 
 
 “ Mrs. Lester has just come in. Miss Craven, and asked 
 for you.^^ 
 
 She got up instantly, and bathed her face, and arranged 
 her hair, preparatory to going down-stairs. 
 
 The memory of her grief cmne down upon her like a 
 j)all, as sorrow that has been banished by sleep always does 
 in the first moment of awakening. 
 
 Her heart felt cold and numb with it weight of care, 
 and as the thought of Polly brought the remembrance of 
 Ada to her mind, she actually shuddered and grew sick 
 and pale with the bitter agony of jealousy. 
 
 “ I hope she has not come home with Polly. I hope I 
 shall not have to see her, and talk to her, perhaps witness 
 her happiness, if he comes this evening also. Oh, I hope 
 not! If she is to be here I will tell Polly I have a head- 
 ache, and — No, I canT do that! It would be like con- 
 fessing to Steve how much I suffer. I must bear it and 
 smile and seem happy. Happy, oh, God help me!^' 
 
 She dashed her gathering tears away, and went dow]i- 
 stairs to the room in which the storm had burst upon her 
 the previous evening. Here she thought herself sure of 
 finding Polly. She paused a moment, with her hand upon 
 the handle of the door, to press one hand upon her rebell- 
 ious heart, and force a smile for that possible and dread- 
 ed meeting with her triumphant rival; then she went 
 quietly into the room — no one there! 
 
 It was a large and pleasant apartment, looking peculiar- 
 ly bright and comfortable now, with its orderly stillness 
 
ms COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 iir> 
 
 and silence undisturbed by human presence, and its soft 
 carpets and rich furniture full of suggestions of warmth 
 and rest and ease. It was brilliantly and yet softly lighted 
 by gas and fire, and heavy velvet curtains, falling in rich 
 folds before the three windows, shut out all sight and 
 sound of the cold, wintery street, where the snow lay thick 
 and the wind went moaning dismally. The three windows 
 were of a peculiar fashion, almost as deep as bays, each 
 one of them holding a stand of flowers, which the curtains^ 
 when closely drawn, concealed. 
 
 At one of them, the furthest, the curtains slightly shook 
 and trembled as Mercy entered the room and closed the 
 door behind her. 
 
 “ The draught from the door,^^ she said to herself, and 
 remembered that some camellias there — Polly^s special 
 pride, and which she (Mercy) had volunteered to take espe- 
 cial care of — had had no attention that day. 
 
 “ I forgot all about them, poor, pretty things!’^ thought 
 Mercy, remorsefully, for she was fond of flowers; and it 
 was while standing in that very window, attending to their 
 wants, that the wound from which her heart was bleeding 
 now had been dealt her. “ When I went to that window 
 last night — only last night — how happy 1 was!"'’ she 
 thought. ‘‘ But the poor flowers must have some water."" 
 
 She turned toward the door with the intention of pro- 
 curing some. It opened, softly and suddenly, and Steve, 
 entering hastily and encountering her face to face, stood 
 before her, with hands outstretched in a gesture of en- 
 treaty, and her name— uttered in a tone that made it 
 sound like an anguished and despairing prayer — upon his 
 lips. 
 
 “Mercy! Mercy! At last I have a chance to speak to 
 you — to explain! No, no; don"t turn away from me; you 
 must hear me! Oh, Mercy! my love, my love!"" 
 
116 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 together/" 
 
 She had not turned away, but she had shrunk back at 
 sight of him, as one might shrink from a lightning flash. 
 
 “You!"" she murmured, “you!"" and for some seconds 
 could say no more, but stood with one small white hand 
 resting upon the table, as if to steady and support the form 
 that was trembling violently. Oddly enough, those heavy 
 velvet curtains at the furthest window trembled strangely 
 too, though to be sure the draught caused by Steve"s en- 
 trance might have been to blame for that. Anyhow, 
 Mercy and Steve had something else to think of than such 
 a trifle, and so the strange sympathy with Mercy"s emotion 
 displayed by one pair of curtains out of three passed un- 
 noticed. 
 
 But when Steve, with his impassioned cry, came forward 
 as if to clasp her in his arms, Mercy shrunk back indeed, 
 and with a look of anger so intense that it was almost 
 a look of loathing. 
 
 “ Don"t come nearer! Don"t touch me!"" she cried, in 
 a strange, smothered, passionate voice. “You — you 
 traitor!"" 
 
 But he rebelled instantly at that name. And as Mercy 
 saw all the boyish eagerness of his love-making reflected in 
 the boyish eagerness of his defense, she was touched and 
 moved to listen to it. 
 
 “ You shall not call me traitor, you shall not! 1 am 
 true to you and will be true. Do you think I mean to 
 marry Ada and put an insuperable barrier between you 
 and me? You must think me mad then! Love, I would 
 rather blow my brains out than marry any woman but 
 you! Listen! Give me some chance to explain all to 
 you! Don"t condemn me and throw me over unheard! 1 
 
HTS OOUNTUY COUSTN'. 
 
 117 
 
 swear I mean well and truly by you, Mercy. She — that 
 other woman — may have cause to call me a traitor indeed, 
 but, love, not you! Not you!^^ 
 
 And again he came toward her, and would have caught 
 her to his breast, but again she shrunk from him ami re- 
 pulsed him. 
 
 “ We both have cause!^^ she answered him, speaking 
 still in that suppressed, passionate voice, while her splen- 
 did eyes poured lightnings of reproach and love upon him. 
 “ You are false to both of us! She believes that you love 
 her, that you will marry her; the very fact that you have 
 allowed any woman to even think such a thing is base 
 and cruel treachery to me! You were sworn to me as my 
 lover; you are betrothed to her as her husband; is not this 
 being false to both? But I don^t call you to account for 
 wronging her; my own wrong is enough for me to deal 
 with. You have betrayed my trust and broken my heart. 
 Oh, yes! Although I smile and flirt with your brother 
 James — or any other— and shall marry some wealthier 
 man than you, and live through a long life of pride and 
 prosperity, in spite of all this you have done me a wrong 
 that nothing can ever atone for! You have destroyed my 
 trust in human nature; you have crushed the dearest 
 hopes of my woman’s heart; you have blighted my happi- 
 ness, I was a trusting, loving girl. I shall be henceforth 
 a calculating, heartless, and revengeful woman! Let no 
 other man trust me, this one man whom I loved being so 
 false; henceforth I have no heart. You— you have killed 
 it!” 
 
 The passionate vehemence of her own feelings long pent 
 up and curbed, now suffered to find utterance thus freely, 
 quite overcame her. She lost the long-maintaned self-con- 
 trol that had sustained her, and flinging up her arms with 
 a despairing gesture and a curiously pathetic little cry, 
 sunk into a chair that stood beside her and burst into a 
 passion of tears. 
 
118 
 
 HIS COUKTRY COUSIIST. 
 
 The effect upon Steve was extraordinary. Never had 
 he seen his proud, beautiful love anything but mistress of 
 herself and her emotions; even in the moments when her 
 heart had seemed most tender toward him, a certain nat- 
 nrah pride of character had enabled her to maintain a re- 
 serve of manner which had kept him in ignorance of his 
 own power. And now to see her give way thus! 
 
 To see her tears, to hear her sighs, and know her love 
 for him the cause! It was too much to bear! Ada, his 
 promises, his interests, all were forgotten; in a frenzy of 
 love, remorse, delight, he flung himself down beside her, 
 and throwing his arms around her strained her passion- 
 ately to his heart. 
 
 “ My darling!^'’ he breathed between fast-falling kisses, 
 which she did not repulse. “ My life! Now I know that 
 you do really love me! Oh, my darling, if 1 had been sure 
 of that before, 1 should have been more candid with you, 
 but I feared to lose you, my sweet! my love, and so 1 
 dared not tell you all my difficulties, nor can I now, for 
 some one may interrupt us, and I must have an oppor- 
 tunity to decide upon out future course before the crash 
 comes. Our course, dearest, whatever it be, since you love 
 me, we will take together. Only let me say now that this 
 match with Ada was of my mother^s making, and I was 
 led into compromising myself with her before 1 saw* you— 
 the one, the only woman whom 1 can ever love! I tried to 
 keep the unlucky engagement a secret, hoping to find an 
 opportunity of appealing to Ada to release me, but she 
 loves me — 
 
 Mercy interrupted him with a jealous cry. Her arms 
 were round his neck, her tears had ceased, her eyes gazed 
 into his with passionate intensit}^ At this moment she 
 saw but him, thought but of him, as he saw and thought 
 only of her. 
 
 'Jdie sympathetic curtains in the distant windows trem- 
 bled as if the wintery blast outside had got in and went 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 119 
 
 wandering ihroiigh their folds, but the lovers never noticed 
 them. 
 
 Indeed, it would have needed a blast strong enough to 
 tear the heavy velvet from its fastenings, and hurl it at 
 their feet, to arouse them from their bliss of tender recon- 
 ciliation, coming after estrangement and jealous pain. 
 
 Mercy interrupted Steve with a little passionate cry that 
 was half a sob, and stopped his utterance with a soft, white 
 hand, half pleading, half imperious. 
 
 “You shall not say that she loves you!^^ she said, re- 
 proachfully. “ What right has she to love my Steve? 
 You are mine, you know, if you love me!^^ Then, sink- 
 ing her voice and laying her soft cheek against his hair, as 
 he knelt beside her: “Do you— do you really love me, 
 Steve?^^ 
 
 His answer may be imagined. His kiss, his close em- 
 brace, these spoke more eloquently than words, not that 
 words were wanting, either. 
 
 Warm and passionate they burst from his passionate 
 heart, assuring her of her empire there. 
 
 “But, all the same, my dearest, it is but too certain 
 that Ada is attached to me,^^ he went on, seriously and 
 anxiously, when this love episode was past. “ And 1 can 
 not but reproach myself with having thoughtlessly and 
 ignorantly trifled with feelings which, before I met you, 1 
 did not even comprehend. We owe it to her to make her 
 disappointment as light as possible. She is good and gen- 
 tle. So gentle that, I hope, she neither loves as you can 
 love, my darling, nor will suffer as you could suffer. 1 
 hope and believe that, when 1 tell her the whole truth, 
 how utterly my heart is yours, she will of her own accord 
 set me free from my engagement; but when I think of 
 her pain— 
 
 Again Mercy interrupted him with that low, thrilling 
 cry: 
 
 “ Her pain! Think of mine when they speak of her as 
 
120 
 
 ms COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 your intended wife — of you as her lover! Oh, you have 
 taught me what the agony of jealousy is — 
 
 Steve caught her hands in his. 
 
 ‘‘ As you have me! Love, why did you favor James so 
 pointedly? He is richer far than I can ever hope to be. 
 But, if his wealth can take you from me, I think I should 
 kill him, Mercy, though he is my brother! Oh, love! say 
 that you do not care for him!— that you care for none but 
 me!^'’ 
 
 “ For none but you!’^ she answered, frankly and fond- 
 ly, and giving kiss for kiss. “ For none in the world but 
 you. You are more to me than wealth, friends, life — my 
 own dear lover! But }^ou must deal fairly by me. I can 
 not endure that this girl should even look at you, or think 
 of you as hers. I can not bear that you should forget my 
 jealous suffering in considering hers. Let this very night, 
 or, at all events, to-morrow, end it. I will keep out of 
 the room to-night, that I may not see her eyes look on 
 you as if you were hers, and to-morrow tell her the truth. 
 Surely, when she knows that you do not love her, she will 
 not even wish to be your wife, she will be glad to set you 
 at liberty. 
 
 “ Glad or sorry, it must be done!^^ cried Steve, with a 
 sudden sternness of tone and firmness of resolution, the 
 cruelty of which, to Ada, he did not actually realize. “ I 
 can not fulfill my enagement! If she refuses to set me 
 free— 
 
 “ She will not refuse!’^ said a low, sad, tremulous voice 
 behind them— a voice at which Mercy uttered a shriek, 
 and, both the lovers springing to their feet and turning, 
 found Ada West confronting them. ‘‘ She will hold no 
 man bound who wishes to be free; she desires no man^s 
 hand unless his heart goes along with it. I believed that 
 yours did so — you taught me to believe so — 
 
 Her low voice, full of tears, broke suddenly under the 
 weight of her emotion. She caught at the curtains, beside 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 121 
 
 which she stood — just where Mercy had stood last night — 
 as if to sustain herself. Tears streamed undisguisedly 
 down her face — a face as sweet and pale as a white rose- 
 leaf. For a few moments no one spoke; then Ada, gath- 
 ering new self-control, went on, gently: 
 
 “ You must not think 1 meant to play the eavesdropper. 
 When Mercy came into the room I was looking at these 
 flowers, and, thinking it was my lover, and meaning to 
 startle him a little, 1 drew back and let the curtains fall 
 around me. When Steve came in, indeed — her voice 
 deepened here and her bosom heaved— “ I was at first too 
 much shocked and overcome to make my presence known, 
 and afterward I thought it best for all our sakes to hear 
 the truth. She paused a moment, pressing her hands 
 upon her heart. “ And I have heard it,^^ she resumed, in 
 a voice that all her pride could no longer render calm. 
 “ 1 know now that I have no claim on Steve, for he be- 
 longs not to the woman who loves him, but to the woman 
 whom he loves. 'No one — she looked at Mercy here, 
 but shrinkingly, as if the sight were hateful — “ no one 
 can dispute your right to a heart that loves you so" truly. 
 I yield my claims to yours. Make him as happy as I 
 would have tried — 
 
 She quite broke down, grief would have its way in spite 
 of pride. With the instinct of the hunted animal that 
 steals away to hide its wounds in secret, she also turned 
 to fly; but, as she reached the door and opened it, Steve’s 
 pleading voice arrested her. 
 
 “ Ada — my dear little friend and sister — Ada, say that 
 you forgive me! I do not deserve it^ — I have deserved 
 your bitterest reproaches — but, oh, forgive!” 
 
 She turned her sweet face on him, smiling through her 
 tears. 
 
 1 forgive you freely. After all, what is there to for- 
 give? We can not help our hearts. That Mercy has won 
 
122 
 
 HIS COUKTRY COUSIN*. 
 
 yours is not your faulty and why should I blame you? 
 No; I have no reproaches for you."^^ 
 
 She paused one minute^ her hand still on the half- 
 opened door^ her eyes fixed on his face. 
 
 “ I thank God that you learned to know your heart be- 
 fore you married me/’ she sighed; then^ turning away, 
 Good-bye, dear, and may God bless you! Marry Mercy, 
 and may you both be happy!” 
 
 At that instant the door, forced from her hand, was 
 opened wide, and there stood James Eaymond and Polly 
 Lester on the threshold, and from their faces, pale with 
 consternation, and yet black with anger, too, it was evi- 
 dent that they had heard all Ada’s words. 
 
 Steve, after one glance at the new-comers, stepped man- 
 fully up to Mercy’s side, and cast an arm around her. 
 
 This is my place,” said he, in a quiet voicer, but with 
 kindling eyes; then, lower still, to her: “ The crash has 
 come, my dearest. Be true to me— be brave, and we will 
 stand or fall together!” 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 WHAT JANE CRAVEN SAID. 
 
 The scene that followed was a stormy one. Polly, who 
 had prevented Ada’s retiring, inveighed loudly and bitter- 
 ly against people who hadn’t a dollar to their names, and 
 about whom nobody knew anything, presuming to inter- 
 fere with a young man’s prospects, and perhaps leading 
 him into folly that should ruin him for life. 
 
 “ If you love him, save him from himself by holding 
 him to his engagement,” she cried to Ada, passionately. 
 
 But Ada only shook her head, looking deeply pained. 
 
 “ He was never mine to hold,” she said, simply. “ 1 
 would not marry him, knowing what I know now, for 
 twenty worlds! Pray let me go, Polly, my presence is not 
 needed here; pray let me go!” 
 
HIS C0U2STUY COUSJX. 
 
 u:] 
 
 ])iit now Jiiines detained her. lie had not spoken one 
 word yet, contenting himself with looking on upon, and 
 listening to, the storm — perhaps remembering that the 
 lookers-on often gain a truer knowledge of the game than 
 is possessed by the persons who are playing it. 
 
 One deep and bitter curse had been imprisoned between 
 his set teeth — not permitted to pass his lips — when Steve 
 went and took his place at Mercy^s side; but he had not 
 spoken audibly until now, when he placed himself in Ada^s 
 path to prevent her leaving the room. 
 
 Let me beg of you to remain here for a few minutes,^^ 
 he said, gravely. This marriage engagement, whether 
 in its making or its breaking, is a serious matter, and in 
 the case of’a young man circumstanced as Steve is— He 
 glanced at Mercy here; the thought flashed across his 
 mind — ‘‘ does she know of his poverty?'^ Only the recol- 
 lection of her light words that morning: “ All my lovers 
 are poor,^^ kept him from enlightening her then and there. 
 “ After all,^^ he thought, “ she must know it, her own 
 mother will have told her, "and so he let the subject pass 
 unnoticed. In the case of a young man circumstanced 
 as Steve is, his family, my mother and myself, should have 
 some claim to be heard. My brother appears to have had 
 the rare good fortune,^^ pursued James, with a manner 
 and tone of courtesy most unusual in him, ‘‘to win the 
 favor of two charming girls, either of whom might make 
 him more than happy. One of these, our dear Ada, has 
 just declared that she will never marry him; the other, 
 my charming cousin, Mercy, has apparently arrived at 
 quite a different decision. Well, after all, this matter, so 
 far as it concerns the feelings of the parties, is for the 
 parties to settle and decide alone. But the affair has also 
 quite another aspect — a business aspect — as-ISteve knows, 
 and concerning that phase of it it is only right that I should 
 advise him. Will you two ladies consent to take a little 
 time to reconsider your recent decisions? And while you 
 
124 
 
 HIS COU>.TKY COUSIN. 
 
 do SO leave Steve to his sister and me. Believe me, it is 
 well to do nothing too hastily that may afterward be more 
 easily repented of than undone.^’ 
 
 “ 1 shall never repent of my decision/’ said Ada, quiet- 
 ly. “ To marry Steve now would be to me impossible, 
 lie loves Mercy. All the reconsidering in the world can 
 not alter that. I wish him all happiness — and good-even- 
 ing to you all. Polly, 1 will go home.'’^ 
 
 And without another word she left them. 
 
 Then Mercy turned to Steve. 
 
 “ I shall not alter my decision unless at your request,^^ 
 she said to him, tenderly; for answer to which he clasped 
 and kissed her. 
 
 She blushed crimson at this caress, given before un- 
 friendly eyes, for in the glance of Polly she saw hate, and 
 in that of James a keen and jealous envy. She gently dis- 
 engaged herself from Steve’s embrace. 
 
 “ 1 will leave you’ to listen to your brother’s advice,” 
 she said, softly, and remember you are not bound to me 
 one moment longer than you wish to be so. You shall 
 find that 1 can be generous as well as Ada!” Then she 
 turned to James, “ Advise Steve for his good, dear Cous- 
 in James,” she said, winningly, “ and understand that he 
 is still free, though ” — and her eyes lent an additional 
 meaning to these next words^ — “ though I shall hold myself 
 bound to him so long as he chooses to claim me. And 
 now,” she moved toward the door, “ I will leave you to- 
 gether, as you wish, and go to my own room.” 
 
 But at this Polly broke out passionately. 
 
 “ To your own home!” she cried, stamping her foot 
 violently. “ You shall go to your own home, Mercy 
 Craven, for 1 will no longer keep such a firebrand and 
 mischief-maker in mine! Pack up your things; by the 
 first train to-morrow morning you shall return to your 
 mother! I wish it was possible to send you off to-night!” 
 “It is!” answered Mercy, proudly. “Not for worlds 
 
HIS cou:ntry cousin. 
 
 vr> 
 
 would I pass another night under your roof. There is a 
 train at eleven. I shall go by that. My preparations will 
 be very quickly made. James, good-bye. She held out 
 her hand to him. ‘‘ You have been most kind to me. 
 Steve, 1 shall see you presently. 
 
 “ 1 shall go with you,^'’ cried Steve, impetuously. “It 
 go you will and must, my darling; I shall accompany you 
 myself, and take you safely home — 
 
 Jameses voice, insinuating and soothing, interrupted 
 him. 
 
 “ iVfter what has passed, perhaps Mercy will be hap- 
 pier, for the present, with her mother than here,^^ he said, 
 softly. “But do not say good-bye yet. Stes^e will take 
 you home, if you please, but I will bear you company to 
 the depot, at least, and see you off, my dear and charming 
 cousin. 
 
 And so he did. By his seeming kindness and modera- 
 tion he had managed to keep himself so neutral in the 
 whole affair that all the parties to it looked upon him as a 
 friend, for he seemed to sympathize with all, while taking 
 sides with neither. Even Stephen made and felt no objec- 
 tion to his accompany thing them to the depot. 
 
 “Take care of her while I get the tickets, Jim, he 
 said, darting away as he spoke, and thus James got the 
 opportunity for a private word with Merey, which was 
 what he had been striving for. He took it instantly, and 
 his face was pale and his voice shook with the intensity of 
 his earnestness. 
 
 “ Mercy,^^ he said, “ let me say a word in your interest 
 and for your ear alone. It is useless to deny that this is 
 an unfortunate affair. There will be opposition, which 
 Steve\s circumstances hardly enable him to defy. If you 
 persevere, it is to be feared that you may have to waste 
 years of your bright youth in a long and doubtful engage- 
 ment. But I want you to understand that, let who will 
 oppose your wishes, I am always your true friend, who 
 
126 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSDsT. 
 
 would sacrifice his own dearest hopes to secure yours — nis 
 very life, if by so doing yours could be made happy. None 
 the less/^; he took her hand — ‘‘ none the less so, Mercy, 
 because Steve’s happiness is my misery. For I also love 
 you with a passion that no boy can feel, and it would have 
 been my pride to lay my fortune at your feet. You are 
 too generous to betray my disappointment to my move 
 fortunate rival, he added, hastily, as Steve approached. 
 “ Keep my unhappy secret. 1 have revealed it only that 
 you may know how devoted will be the service, should you 
 ever accept it, of him who can never hope to be more to 
 you, now, than your loving cousin and true friend. 
 
 Steve’s return prevented Mercy giving any answer, ex- 
 cept a grateful little pressure of the hand, which told him 
 she understood and pitied him. 
 
 Another minute and good-bye was said; Steve and 
 Mercy took their places in the train and were whirled 
 away. 
 
 But pity is akin to love,^’ muttered James; “ and she 
 will think of me, at least. That^s a step gained. Her 
 thoughts will not be all her lover’s, now that she knows 
 she may make such a much better match. The next thing 
 is to get Steve quite out of her way. I must manage that. 
 Meantime, she will think of me.” 
 
 He was right there; she did think of him, wondering 
 how much richer he might really be than Steve, and feel- 
 ing quite sure that it was far better to marry Steve upon 
 thousands than James, or any one else, upon millions of 
 money. She was tempted to ask Steve what his means 
 really were, but refrained, remembering that her mother 
 would inevitably spare her the trouble. 
 
 But Jane Craven asked no questions as to Stephen’s 
 means; she already knew the eircumstances of the whole 
 Eaymond family. What she did ask, first, as soon as the 
 surprise of Mercy’s unlooked-for return was over, was, 
 simply : 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 127 
 
 “ What is wrong, then? What does this mean?^’ 
 
 Mercy answered promptly. She looked even more than 
 usually beautiful — her eyes aglow, her cheeks like roses, 
 her whole air triumjihant. She thought she was about to 
 give her mother a most agreeable surprise. 
 
 Steve stood watching her, a little less confident, perhaps, 
 but smiling happily and proudly too. Said Mercy: 
 
 “It means, mother, that I had worn my welcome out. 
 Polly was never very willing to have me, and when she 
 learned .that her brother had asked me to be his wife, and 
 that I had accepted him — 
 
 Jane Craven broke in abruptly, her keen eyes giving an 
 anxious glance at Steve: 
 
 “ Accepted him — without consulting me! Which of her 
 brothers, then? James— is it James?’ ^ 
 
 Mercy shrunk a little before her mother’s earnestness; 
 Steve grew pale. 
 
 “ James— no,” Mercy answered, but less quickly than 
 before. “ 1 never saw James until yesterday, mother. 
 No,” she turned to her young lover here, “ I am engaged 
 to Steve.” 
 
 Jane Craven sprung up with a cry of rage: 
 
 “ To Steve! Ridiculous! an absurdity! How dare }^ou 
 talk such nonsense to me? Steve is a boy! Steve doesn’t 
 possess a dollar in the world, any more than you do your- 
 self! You, my daughter, for whom I’ve saved and toiled 
 and planned, married to a man who hasn’t a penny!” 
 She paused for breath and glared upon them both, quite 
 white with fear and anger. “ Never! you shall never 
 marry him, unless with your mother’s curse upon your 
 head! I’d rather put you into your coffin! I would 
 rather, ay, a thousand times rather, see you dead!” 
 
128 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL 
 mercy's decision. 
 
 After this outburst there was silence for a little while. 
 
 Mercy dropped into a chair beside which she had been 
 standing, and looked first at Steve and then at her moth- 
 er, and then back again to Steve, like one stunned. At 
 last slie spoke — only a few words, and those in a tone of 
 utter bewilderment and disappointment. 
 
 “ Steve poor! Poor! It can't be possible!" 
 
 ‘‘It is not only possible, but true," answered Mrs. Cra- 
 ven, scornfully, “ unless I am out in my reckoning. If 
 so, there he stands, let him deny it! And I must say, 
 Stephen Raymond," she added, turning upon him a glance 
 of bitter contempt — “ I must say that your conduct would 
 have been more honorable had you told my daughter your 
 true circumstances, instead of deceiving her — " 
 
 Mercy broke in passionately before Steve had time to 
 answer one word. 
 
 “ He did not deceive me! No word about means or 
 money passed between us. I thought the Raymonds were 
 all well off, and I had no way of learning otherwise. If 
 there has been deception, I have deceived ni3^self. I knew 
 Steve was not so rich as James, of course, but I " — she 
 suddenly held out both hands to her lover, who stood be- 
 fore her silent and pale — “ but I loved him!" 
 
 The tender passion of her gesture and her words brought 
 him instantly to her side. 
 
 “ Oh, Steve!" she cried, pleading to him with such soft 
 and loving womanliness that her mother gazed on her with 
 amazement. “ Hear Steve, say that it is not true. Tliat 
 you are not poor, that we shall not be parted." 
 
 Those last six words were very significant. Jane Craven 
 heard them with a kind of triumph. 
 
ms COUKTKY COUSIK. 
 
 1:39 
 
 “ So!^^ she thought, “ the child is not very far gone in 
 her love-madness. She sees that his poverty must part 
 them! All's well. 1 can manage a love like that!" while 
 poor Steve, looking at the beautiful, pleading, tender 
 creature with eyes full of mingled passion and reproach, 
 asked himself: 
 
 “Is this real love that can allow my j)Overty to part 
 us?" 
 
 But to her he said, very sadly: 
 
 “ My dearest, you have said truly that 1 never deceived 
 you, nor will 1 ever. I thought — if ever I thought at all 
 about it — that every one knew how my poor father's will 
 left everything to his two elder sons, Polly and myself be- 
 ing, at the time the will was made, unborn. But, Mercy, 
 we are both so young, you will wait a little while for me, 
 my darling? My mother will help me. She has only me 
 to think of now, and I can work! James pays me a sal- 
 ary, which he premised the other day to increase — " 
 
 But the poor boy's voice died away in a groan of despair 
 as he recounted his hopes, so cruelly did the conviction of 
 their worthlessness force itself upon him. James admired 
 Mercy. Was it to be expected, then, that he would help 
 another to her hand? 
 
 Mrs. Raymond's heart had been set upon his marrying 
 Ada. Could he hope that she would not only forgive her 
 disappointment, but help him to wed another, whom she 
 both disapproved of and disliked? Oh, no! Even a lover 
 — a young and sanguine lover — could not lean long upon 
 these wofully broken reeds without feeling that they gave 
 way under him. 
 
 “You have come to laugh at me!" he cried, bitterly. 
 For Jane Craven had laughed softly and maliciously. “ 1 
 talk like a boy or a fool when I talk of aid from my moth- 
 er or James. But 1 am bewildered. Until this moment 
 I had not thought of ways and means to wed you, dear — -1 
 only thought of how to win you — " 
 
 5 
 
130 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 “ You must think now,'' Jane Craven broke in, abrujit- 
 ]y. ‘‘ And, if you do think, you will confess that a mar- 
 
 riage between you two is impossible. You talk like a boy, 
 because you are one. 1 will not say you are a fool into the 
 bargain, because older and wiser men than you will love 
 my beautiful girl, and one of them — who can show wealth 
 to back his wisdom — will marry her. You can not. Look 
 at her!""^ She drew back a little, and pointed at the weep- 
 ing girl — more beautiful in her tears and pallor than 
 other women at their brightest and best. “ Is that a 
 woman to be hidden in some cheap boarding-house? or to 
 do her own housework and nurse her own babies in a 
 couple of rooms? 1 am speaking of marriage, you see — 
 you two children have thought only of love! Marriage 
 brings cares, responsibilities, expenses. How do you pro- 
 pose to meet them? Come, come, 1 am sure you will both 
 acknowledge your folly. There is no harm done to any- 
 body if you part at once, to meet henceforth only as cous- 
 ins and as friends.'’’ 
 
 But Mercy spoke out here — her eyes glowing, her cheeks 
 afire, and Jane Craven saw, to her secret consternation, 
 that her allusion to the ‘‘responsibilities” that marriage 
 brings had done some serious injury to her cause. 
 
 “ 1 shall marry no man but Steve,” announced Mercy, 
 resolutely, no less to the astonishment than to the delight 
 of her young lover. “ As for the cheap boarding-house, 
 or the two rooms, or — or other disagreeables, we need not 
 encounter them at all. We shall simply wait and work 
 until we are better off before we think of marriage. You 
 can trust me, dear,” she said, tenderly, laying her soft, 
 red cheek against her lover’s breast, and looking at her 
 mother with half-suppliant, half-defiant eyes. “ 1 will 
 wait, and get my own living as a governess, until you can 
 offer me something better than ‘ two rooms.’ And James 
 will help us,” she added, with a triumphant tone and 
 glance. “ He will, when you tell him it is for my sake. 
 
HIS COUJS^TKY COUSIN. 
 
 1:31 
 
 lie told me, when we jiarted, to ask anything I choose 
 from him — to rely on finding him always my friend — 
 always ready to advance my wishes. Say to him, ‘ Mercy 
 relies on you to help us,^ and see if he does not prove our 
 friend. 
 
 So Stephen jumped at this extended straw interposed be- 
 tween him and the sea of despair which had threatened to 
 ingulf him; and Mrs. Craven, sitting silently and frown- 
 ingly thoughtful, forbore to oppose her daughter any 
 further just then. The young people sat down at last to 
 the breakfast which they sorely needed but had had no 
 time to think of, and it was agreed that Steve should, im- 
 mediately after it, return to town. 
 
 “ And let us say no more about the matter until we 
 learn what James and Mrs. Eayrnond will really do,"'’ 
 Jane Craven said, resignedly. “ If there is really any rea- 
 sonable prospect of your marriage, 1 shall not — however 
 great my own disappointment may be-r-I shall not oppose 
 your happiness. "" 
 
 A decision for which both Steve and Mercy rewarded 
 her with grateful thanks and fondest kisses — all uncon- 
 scious of the sinister smile with which she listened to their 
 raptures, quite unsuspicious of the secret resolution which 
 she had formed to separate them at every cost. 
 
 ‘‘ But Mercy is headstrong, and to oppose her openly 
 would only be to drive her to some folly,"" she thought. 
 “ Fortunately I am a patient woman; I can wait."" 
 
 She did wait until Steve had gone, having also shown 
 the lovers the motherly attention — with which they would 
 gladly have dispensed — of accompanying them down to the 
 depot. Then, as she and Mercy walked homeward again, 
 she quietly asked: 
 
 What else did James say when he bade you good-bye? 
 What else, and what more, Mercy?"" 
 
 And Mercy, understanding the meaning of her mother"s 
 tone, and anxious to convince lier'^of the rich man"s good- 
 
132 
 
 HIS COUJSfTJIY COUSIH. 
 
 will toward herself and Steve^ told her all that James had 
 said, as far as she could remember it. 
 
 Jane listened quietly to the very end. 
 
 You might marry him/^ she said, when her daughter 
 ceased, “and he is a millionaire. You might have your 
 diamonds and carriages, your houses in country and town 
 — be a leader of society, famed as the loveliest woman in 
 New York; and you prefer Steve! Some curse must be 
 upon you, surely! Steve! A boy — a penniless nobody! 
 What a miserable, senseless infatuation!^^ 
 
 Mercy turned hot and cold, red and pale, but she stood 
 firm. 
 
 “I love him, mother,^^ she said, pleadingly, “ and be- 
 fore I had seen James at all I was Stevens betrothed. ” 
 
 Jane answered, sharply and coldly: 
 
 “You are a consummate fool! Let me be alone 
 awhile,’^ she added, as they entered the cottage. “ 1 am 
 cruelly disappointed in you, Mercy; leave me to myself 
 awhile to get over it. 
 
 But when Mercy obeyed her — very willingly and meek- 
 ly, for she knew her mother^s temper and had expected 
 harsher reproaches than these — Jane lost no time in idle 
 regrets or repinings, but instantly sat down and wrote a 
 brief note to James Kaymond. 
 
 “I desire to see you, she wrote. “You have pro- 
 fessed yourself Mercy’s friend. If you are so, do not en- 
 courage her in a folly which she will regret forever. Give 
 me an opportunity of seeing you privately, and let no one 
 know I have written this. Come as if you were coming in 
 their interests; but write me first when to expect you, so 
 that I may have her out of the way for awhile. Write to 
 the post-office.” 
 
 The next day but one brought her an answer. The next 
 day after that James Eaymond arrived. It was noon when 
 he knocked at the cottage door^ where Jane Craven sat 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 133 
 
 alone expecting him. Mercy had gone an hour before, at 
 her mother’s request, to call upon an acquaintance miles 
 away, who, Jane said she had heard, was most dangerously 
 sick of consumption. The girl came back at nearly four 
 o’clock, tired and cold and angry, for her journey had been 
 a useless one, 
 
 “ I wonder you pay any attention to gossip, mother,” 
 she said, as she entered impatiently. ‘‘ Mrs. Gray was 
 just as well as you are this minute, and so I went on a 
 fool’s errand. Oh ’’—and her voice and look changed in- 
 stantly to one of pleasure and surprise as she saw their vis- 
 itor — ‘‘ oh, now, indeed, I am glad to see you, cousin!” 
 and she frankly put up her lovely lips for a kiss. ‘‘ No 
 one except” — with a shy glance — ^‘except Steve, of 
 course, could be more welcome to me than my cousin 
 James!” 
 
 CHAPTER XX VII I. 
 
 JAMES MAKES A PROPOSITION. 
 
 “James came almost immediately after you started, 
 Mercy,” said Mrs. Craven, sparing James the necessity of 
 replying, “ and has been waiting ever since. AVe have dis- 
 cussed your affairs and prospects pretty thoroughly, I tell 
 you; and I take it as very kind in a man like your cousin 
 here to spend his time and thoughts upon a foolish boy 
 and girl who are bent on rushing to their ruin. He has 
 infected me with some of his own charitable patience, 1 
 suppose,” she added, with a grim laugh, “ or I should be 
 tempted jto take Mrs. Raymond’s course, and threaten to 
 disown my child if she did not renounce her foolish in- 
 fatuation; but James seems to sympathize with lovers. 
 Perhaps — and if so. I’m sure I wish him success and hap- 
 piness — perhaps he is in love himself.” 
 
 This speech had been carefully prepared and considered. 
 
 Mercy, guessing who James’s love was, gave her mother 
 
134 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 a quick, reproachful glance. James gave them both a 
 sigh and a sad smile, which, with Mercy, were decidedly 
 effective. 
 
 “ 1 am not at all ashamed to confess that I am in love,^^ 
 he said, quietly, “ nor that my love is quite hopeless. The 
 only success I covet is for my efforts to secure the happi- 
 ness of the woman for whom I would die. Personally, 1 
 neither look nor hope for happiness. We can not all be 
 so fortunate as Steve is,'’^ he added, with a tender sadness 
 that touched Mercy’s heart, for, seeing him so ready to 
 acknowledge Steve’s claims, there seemed no treason in 
 her pitying him. “ The proverb says that it is better to 
 be born lucky than born rich, and surely Steve exemplifies 
 the truth of it. 1 would joyfully change my riches for his 
 luck any day, sweet cousin.” 
 
 “ You will have much better luck some day, 1 hope,” 
 she answered, earnestly, at which he sighed and shook his 
 head. But is it true that Steve’s mo'ther will disown 
 him? Oh, James!” — with a little plaintive sob that 
 touched him (though another man had called it forth), 
 strangely and strongly. 
 
 So he hastened to reassure her. 
 
 ‘‘For the moment she will do so, no doubt; but my 
 mother is the gentlest of women, and her anger will not 
 last. All that is necessary is that Steve shall remain firm, 
 and go elsewhere to seek his fortune. 1 am his stanch 
 friend, for your sake; but I can not openly oppose my be- 
 loved mother, Mercy, and therefore I can do little for him 
 in New York. She insists that 1 shall no longer employ 
 him, and if 1 should contradict her 1 should but make 
 matters worse; and really Steve’s earnings in my store 
 amount to the merest trifie — he will do far better when he 
 goes away. Don’t look so pale, dear cousin ” — for Mercy’s 
 face had changed and whitened — “ he only thinks of going 
 to California; it is but a trifling journey now, you know, 
 for he shall go overland, of course. Trust him to me. 
 
JUS COUNTRY COUSIK. 
 
 135 
 
 Mercy; I can procure him a j^osition there in a house with 
 which I have dealings, where he will be able to earn suffi- 
 cient to make a home for you in a few years — one or two 
 years, perhaps — while in New York he might toil and you 
 might wait till all your youth was past, and even then be 
 poor; besides, when my mother realizes that her youngest 
 boy — her pet — is so far away, she will relent and recall 
 him and consent to your marriage, rather than be parted 
 from her child; and I shall be near her to work in Stevens 
 interests, and urge her to forgive and consent. I offer to 
 find Steve a good position, to pay all his expenses to San 
 Francisco, and give him a couple of hundred dollars in 
 hand; and I make the offer to you first, cousin, and leave 
 it’for your decision. If you think it a good offer, counsel 
 him to accept it; if you do not think so, tell me what are 
 your plans. Eest assured that I will help them, if possi- 
 ble. My happiness lies in securing yours. 
 
 But Mercy hai^ no plans. Like her young lover, she had 
 not thought of ways and means to wed him, bent only 
 upon wjiining him and his love. He was won now, but he 
 could not be claimed, it seemed. People — even lovers— 
 must needs live, and to do that something more substantial 
 than air was necessary. 
 
 She looked wistfully at James while he recapitulated the 
 advantages of his own offer, and assured her of Steven's 
 readiness to accept it, if only she would consent. 
 
 It hurt her a little that Steve should be so willing to go, 
 but she would not say so, with her mother lauding the 
 good sense of such a course, and James suggesting it only 
 as the very best way to help them. 
 
 She had not the slightest doubt as to Jameses sincerity; 
 she believed that the course he suggested was really the 
 best way, only surely Steve need not have been so eager 
 for the parting that she so dreaded. It seemed to her like 
 indifference on his part, and stung both her affection and 
 her pride. 
 
13G 
 
 HJS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 ‘‘ 1 can bear it if he can/^ she said to herself, proudly; 
 and it was this imaginary coldness on poor Stevens part — 
 wholly imaginary, for, in fact, he had thus far refused to 
 entertain his brother’s offer at all — that made her fall into 
 James’s plans with apparent readiness, and even promise 
 to write Steve to that effect. 
 
 “ For you must keep him up to the mark, you know. 
 Steve is young, and something of a scatter-brain, perhaps,” 
 said James, with good-natured depreciation of his broth- 
 er, which, though vaguely disagreeable to Mercy, did not 
 go far enough to offend. “ He is fortunate in having won 
 a pearl among women, who will make a man of him. 
 Write to him strongly, Mercy — urge him to make no de- 
 lay, for the position which I can secure for him must be 
 filled at once; and, though he saw the advantages of my 
 offer, and wished to accept it, yet he very properly left the 
 matter for 5 "ou to decide. Let me take him your decision 
 back to-night.’^ 
 
 And Mercy, overpersuaded and overtalked — afraid, 
 moreover, of offending this one friend, and unablQ to see 
 any other road that seemed to lead to a hopeful ending — 
 Mercy wrote — wrote that James had quite convinced her 
 that this course was best; that Steve must be brave, as 
 she would be, and sacrifice their present happiness to a 
 future good; that she was willing to have him accept the 
 position in San Francisco, and urged him to see her at the 
 earliest moment possible, and then depart at once. 
 
 All this she wrote and intrusted to James to deliver, 
 and, for awhile — while he praised her good sense, and pro- 
 tested his own devotion, and afterward, when her mother 
 vaunted the virtues of this noble and disinterested lover — 
 for so long, Mercy, excited and overwrought, believed that 
 she had done well; but afterward, in the quiet, lonely 
 night, reaction came, bringing doubts and fears along 
 with it. 
 
 Steve’s willingness to leave her rankled in her soul. 
 
Ills COUNTJIY COVSIN. 
 
 137 
 
 tUid that careless word, “ scatter-brain/^ that Janies had 
 uttered so lightly, troubled her. Why did they thus de- 
 jireciate Steve? Her mother had called him, with bitter 
 contempt, a boy, a nobody!’"' But she did not care for 
 that. “ Scatter-brain ” annoyed her far more. Had she 
 placed her hopes on one whose character was so unstable? 
 A memory of Ada came to add to her distress. Ada had 
 not found Steve either stable, or stanch, or true; nay, he 
 had, in a manner, played false to both— there was no deny- 
 ing it. And was this the man who was to be driven away 
 to San Francisco — removed from her love and influence? 
 
 Bitterly now did she regret her haste in having written. 
 Why, Ada was rich; she could follow him to San Fran- 
 cisco if she chose. “I would,^^ Mercy acknowledged to 
 herself. He was her lover first. ” She had not the least 
 faith in Adah’s declaration, that nothing now should induce 
 her to marry Steve. 
 
 ‘‘ She will take him from me yet,^^ thought the passion- 
 ate, jealous, undisciplined heart. She shall not, though! 
 I will not let him go! I love him, and I will not live with- 
 out him!’^ 
 
 She fell asleep at last, upon a pillow that was wet with 
 tears, soothed by a new resolution. Let James deliver the 
 letter, and let Steve come. Clasped in her arms, looking 
 into her love-lit eyes, would he then be willing to leave 
 her? No! She would propose a better plan than this 
 cruel one of parting. They would be married at once, 
 without delay, and go to San Francisco together! 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A PROBLEM. 
 
 Meantime James Raymond made his way toward the 
 depot — Mercy’s letter to her lover lying safely in an inner 
 breast-pocket of his coat, over a heart that, burning with 
 
138 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 mad passion for the lovely writer, alternately swelled with 
 rapturous hope and triumph, or grew cold and sick with 
 involuntary misgiving and fear. lie took the little missive 
 from its hiding-place and kissed the letters her hand had 
 traced, even while he cursed the name they formed. 
 
 1 must read this before Steve gets it. I must know 
 all that she says to him,^^ he thought. ‘‘ He shall never 
 have her! I will separate them at all costs 1^^ 
 
 For this sudden appearance of a rival ^ — a favored rival — 
 on the scene, had supplied the needed spur of jealousy and 
 driven him almost mad. This was his first serious passion, 
 and it was so serious that the very thought of Mercy, as 
 another's wife, caused him to feel tortures of jealousy so 
 intolerable that they goaded him past all considerations of 
 brotherhood or honor, and made him resolute to trample 
 down everything that stood in the way of his own desires. 
 
 To this resolution Jane Craven had undoubtedly helped 
 him. Her cold and calculating sophistries, her merciless 
 ridicule of “ this boy-and-girl love,^^ her firm assumption 
 of maternal authority and right to shape her daughter's 
 destiny — these things had chimed in with his passion and 
 resentment and lashed into dangerous activity the 
 thoughts and wishes that, but for such a counselor, might 
 have died in their own conception, powerless to do worse 
 than desire evil. But now the evil spirit within his soul 
 had ‘‘ taken to it another spirit more evil than itself, and 
 their plotting boded ill for the happiness of the young 
 lovers. 
 
 “ I would almost rather kill my child than see her ruin 
 herself by a marriage with Steve!^’ Jane Craven had told 
 him, passionately, and he had answered, resolutely, reas- 
 suring both himself and her: 
 
 “ She shall never marry him!^^ 
 
 As yet, however, his plans went no further than the 
 Hseparation of the lovers. 
 
 ‘‘‘Part Jane Craven had urged* 
 
 “ ‘Out of 
 
ms COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 139 
 
 sight, out of mind,^ is a true saying. Once get him to 
 California, or Europe, and, with me to work upon her 
 ambition, the game will be in your own hands. Letters 
 may be intercepted. We will find the means. It has been 
 done before, and can be done again, 1 tell you. The first 
 thing is to get him out of the way, and, since he has re- 
 fused your offer, work upon her so that she will urge him 
 to accept it. Steve out of the way, all is easy, and I can 
 promise you Mercy for your wife. But get rid of Steve 
 
 Those words sang themselves over in his heart and ears 
 as he traveled the quiet country lanes, now somewhat lone- 
 ly and deserted, in the gloom of approaching night. 
 
 It was nearly eight o^clock, and at half past eight there 
 would be a train for New York — the only one until the ex- 
 press should pass through and pause for a few seconds, 
 just before midnight. He gained nothing by going by this 
 earlier train; but his anxiety to be alone — to read Mercy’s 
 letter to Steve, and think out his own plans for getting rid 
 of him — had induced him to leave the cottage earlier than 
 was really necessary. Besides, to talk to Mercy about 
 Steve, to see her undisguised affection for another, became 
 at last a torture past endurance; so that as soon as her let- 
 ter was obtained he was glad to escape from it. 
 
 “Howto gee rid of Steve!” Over and over again he 
 muttered the question without finding any reply. No 
 business problem, in which interest, reputation, large sums 
 of money, were involved, had ever interested or puzzled 
 him half so much. A consciousness of this fact stole into 
 his thoughts and startled him. What a strangely absorb- 
 ing thing was this love— this madness, at which he had 
 jeered so long? Prom somewhere in the dim past — in the 
 far-away days of his boyhood — came a memory of some 
 words that he had heard in a church one afternoon: “ If a 
 man should give all the riches of his house for love, they 
 should be utterly condemned.” 
 
 “ True!”' he muttered to himself, yet perfectly remem- 
 
140 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 bering what nonsense he had thought them at the time. 
 
 It was true!^^ 
 
 He had not much hope of influencing Steve even by 
 Mercy’s letter. Steve’s eyes, sharpened by love and jeal- 
 ousy, had penetrated his brother’s secret. James had 
 found it impossible to misunderstand the answer which his 
 California proposal had received: ‘‘ What! go away, and 
 leave Mercy to you, brother? No, I guess not!” He had 
 turned it off with a laugh at Steve’s silly jealousy, but it 
 had rankled deeply all the same. 
 
 ‘‘ He will not go of his own free will,” he muttered 
 now. He must be got rid of some way. Oh, how- 
 how to get rid of Steve!” 
 
 The road by this time was semi-dark and very lonely. 
 His footsteps echoed sharply on the frozen path, and the 
 wind, shaking the branches of the trees on either side, 
 filled the air with noises. Once or twice something like 
 a stealthy, following fobtstep sounded near him, but 
 gained from him, in the hurry and confused trouble of his 
 thoughts, no more than a passing^ wonder. Once, indeed, 
 when it sounded very plainly, he had glanced round, 
 scarcely conscious why he did so or what he was looking 
 for. 
 
 ‘‘No one there, of course!” he muttered, half aloud. 
 “ I half wish some spirit of evil would ride by me on the 
 wind to-night. The devil himself would be welcome to 
 me if he told me how to get rid of Steve!” 
 
 He spoke those last words aloud. In an instant, out of 
 the surrounding darkness, came an answering voice, deep, 
 low, and sinister: 
 
 “ I can show you how to get rid of Steve, James Eay- 
 mond!” 
 
 And, as he involuntarily started back, a man — a tall, 
 swarthy, gypsy-looking fellow, with jet-black hair, and 
 wearing a slouched hat drawn down over a pair of brill- 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 141 
 
 iantly piercing eyes— this man came out from the shadows 
 of the trees and stood before him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 A PLOT. 
 
 James Raymond did not return to New York by the 
 eight-o^clock train that evening. On the contrary, he ac- 
 companied his new acquaintance of the road to a lonely 
 and dilapidated cottage built at the foot of a rocky hill, 
 and situated in the very heart of the wild and lonely 
 woods. And if it should appear improbable that a man 
 who was ordinarily so practical and prudent should con- 
 tide his own personal safety so rashly into a stranger^s 
 keeping, be it remembered that his usual good sense was 
 warped by passion and jealousy, twin tormentors, whose 
 sharp goads had lashed him into such a condition of des- 
 perate recklessness that he had lately wished for the ap- 
 pearance of even the Arch Enemy himself, if only his 
 fiendship would rid him of his rival and help him to his 
 hearths desire. 
 
 This his new acquaintance promised to do, the con- 
 sideration being stated roughly thus: One thousand dol- 
 
 lars down when the game is bagged, and four thousand 
 more upon your wedding-day.^^ And to these terms, 
 James, after a brief consideration, agreed, making one 
 condition only, that his blood must not be shed; neither 
 in life nor limb must you really harm him; not even for 
 Mercy^s sake could 1 consent to that. Remember, no real 
 harm to Steve. 
 
 No real harm, while all the time he was plotting to take 
 from his brother all that, as even he himself now con- 
 fessed, made life desirable! As if there were not far worse 
 wounds and wrongs and harms than any injury to life or 
 limb can compass! 
 
142 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 “ He sha’n^t be hurt/^ said the man, abruptly. And 
 now understand that^ after to-morrow’s over, the sooner 
 it’s done the better. To-morrow 1 must have for prepara- 
 tions; after that, bring him whenever you like. Now, have 
 you thought how you’re to get him to this place? He isn’t 
 a dog or a baby, you know, to follow wherever you lead, 
 without asking a question.” 
 
 But James confessed himself unprovided with any plau- 
 sible lie that would be likely to tempt his brother into the 
 trap that was being set for him. 
 
 1 must think of something, plan something — he be- 
 gan, confusedly, when his companion interrupted him. 
 
 “Here’s j^our plan,” said he. “Can you imitate her 
 writing? You’ve got a note from her for him; I saw it in 
 your hand.” 
 
 James colored, remembering how he had kissed the 
 note. 
 
 “ Well, don’t give him that note; open it and practice a 
 bit, and write him another, no matter how short, telling 
 him to follow the bearer — that’ll be me — to this place to 
 meet her. Day after to-morrow, when the noon train 
 comes in. I’ll be in the woods by the road where I met you 
 to-night. When I see you. I’ll step out and meet you. 
 Soon as I get near, drop the note you’ve written on the 
 ground behind you, careful not to let liwi see. Don’t 
 even glance at it, and I’ll manage all the rest. You pro- 
 vide the letter, and we’ll get him hero; and once here, he 
 won’t get out again until I’ve earned the whole five thou- 
 sand dollars. But mind, when you meet me, don’t look 
 as if you’d ever seen me before; and for the world don’t 
 speak until I speak to you first. And it would be as well 
 to object to his following me; call me a rough fellow, and 
 all that; he’ll think,” with a malicious laugh, “he’ll 
 think that you’re holding him back from his beauty’s 
 arms, and he’ll walk into the trap all the easier. And, 
 see you — ” 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 14:3 
 
 \ He suddenly arose from his seat, and going to a corner 
 \ cupboard, brought three glasses out and laid them on the 
 table. 
 
 ‘‘ Just alike, aiiiH they?^^ said he, with a most peculiar 
 look, “ only one has got just a little bit snipped about the 
 edges. Now, mind you, when you come here with your 
 brother, don^t drink out of the snipped glass! It won^t 
 agree with you. Listen: when we get him into the cot- 
 tage, Mercy ain^t here, of course. ‘ She^s gone a little 
 piece into the woods to see a poor, sick child, ^ says 1, ex- 
 plaining to him, ‘ she didiiH like to wait here so long all 
 alone — it^s a dull place, you see — so she went to Molly 
 Greenes, and I^m to run and tell her you^re here, gentle" 
 men. I’ll go now,’ and o£E I’m starting when you call me 
 back, wanting to know if I can give you a drink of some- 
 thing before I go. ‘ To be sure I can,’ says I, and I pour 
 out three glasses of lager— will he drink lager?”— James 
 nodded — “ because, if not, it can be whatever you think 
 he’ll take to best. And can’t you keep him with you to- 
 morrow night, and give him something for breakfast 
 that’ll make him thirsty? To be sure you can! Good 
 enough! So I hand a glass to you, and thk one to him, 
 and one to myself, and I say, ‘ here’s luck to us!’ And 
 next minute the beer’s down and the job’s done, leastways 
 the first and worst of it, and you pay me the one thousand 
 dollars, and go your way, and see how quick you can per- 
 suade the girl to marry you.” 
 
 James had listened silently, his face gradually whiten- 
 ing until it assumed the ashen hue of death. He shrunk 
 visibly from contact with his unscrupulous ally, but he 
 made no objections to his villainous plans. 
 
 If he should struggle, or call for help?” he suggested, 
 nervously. 
 
 If he did, nobody’d bear him,” answered the other, 
 callously; “ but he won’t make a move or a sound. I 
 <shall have the bird secure in his cage before he knows 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 lU 
 
 enough to flutter. Afterward he may beat his wings till 
 they break if he likes, but he wonH get out till 1 open the 
 door again. Do you want to see the cage?’^ 
 
 He arose as he spoke, without waiting for any answer, 
 and dragged from its iflace against the back wall of the 
 cottage or hut (a wall formed by the rock against which 
 the rough habitation was built), a large and tall packing- 
 box, made of pine planks roughly nailed together. Being 
 removed, it left bare a large opening in the rock, evidently 
 leading to a natural hollow or cave, as large, or larger, 
 than the room in which they were sitting. 
 
 There^s where he^ll bide until your wedding-day,^^ 
 said the ruffian, carelessly, and he prophesied more truly 
 than he knew. There^s a sort of dim light comes from 
 a small opening above and air enough to breathe, so he^ll 
 do flnely.'’^ He pulled the chest back to its place again. 
 ‘‘ There said he, complacently. ‘‘The cage is a safe 
 and strong one, and to-morrow Fll make the dose that^s 
 to lime the bird. Go you now and bring him here to 
 drink it.’^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 MORE PLOTTING. 
 
 After taking part in such a conversation and such a 
 compact, it is not, perhaps, very wonderful that James 
 Raymond looked haggard and pale when he arrived in 
 New York next morning; so much so indeed, that once or 
 twice people turned and looked after him as he passed, 
 almost questioning if it had been a living man or a ghost 
 that had gone by them. 
 
 Arriving at his mother ^s door just as the letter-carrier 
 reached it on his first morning round, that individual was 
 so much startled by his ghastly pallor that he could not 
 refrain from noticing it. 
 
 “ Beg pardon, Mr. Raymond, said the postman, paus- 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 145 
 
 ^ing, letter in hand. “ But you do look awful bad, to be 
 sure. Is anything the matter, sir?’^ 
 
 Nothing more than a tedious all-night journey which 
 has tired me out,^^ James answered, coolly. Then with a 
 glance at the letter in the man^s hand, at the same time 
 holding out his own to take it: “ For me. Smith?'" 
 
 For there was always “ a room kept for James "" in his 
 mother’s house, and many of his letters were directed 
 there. 
 
 But this missive was not for him, though the man made 
 no demur about giving it into his keeping. 
 
 “For Mrs. Eaymond, sir," he answered, at the same 
 time putting the letter into James's hand. “ If you're 
 going in perhaps you'll take it. Nothing for any one else, 
 sir, this morning." 
 
 And away he went upon his rounds again. 
 
 James glanced at the letter, and at the same moment 
 laid his hand upon the bell; but he did not ring; on the 
 contrary he started at sight of the handwriting of his 
 mother's correspondent, and withdrawing his hand, stood 
 for a few moments hesitating. 
 
 The letter was in Ada's hand. The question which it 
 suggested to James's mind was this: 
 
 “ Would it help me at all to know what she has to say? 
 (km I make her useful to me?" 
 
 No scruple as to the dishonor of opening her letter de- - 
 terred him. He had gone too far now in wish and actual 
 intent to strain at such a gnat as this. There was very 
 little risk about it. 
 
 His mother would probably never know such a letter 
 had come, or indeed if he found it useless to himself and 
 harmless to his plans, he might deliver it to her later. 
 Was it worth while to take the trouble about it? After a 
 moment's consideration he decided that it was. 
 
 “ It may do some good, and it can't do harm," he 
 
14G 
 
 HIS COUNTKY COUSIIST. 
 
 thought, as he quietly turned away from the house. “ My 
 talk with mother can wait.^^ 
 
 For it was with the intention of talking his mother into 
 consenting to Steve’s departure for California that he had 
 paused as he passed her door on the way to his hotel. 
 
 She might be got to approve of such a journey, on the 
 score of its separating Mercy and Steve. At present James 
 had his secret fears that the loving little mother, rather 
 than part from her youngest and favorite child, might 
 withdraw her objections to their union. 
 
 But, after all, what’s the use of her consent?” he 
 mused, gloomily, as he strode along. ‘‘ If my present 
 plans succeed, Steve will be got out of the way more 
 effectually, and no one’s leave asked; only, how shall I ac- 
 count for his disappearance? — ay, that’s the awkward part 
 of it! There’ll be a hue and cry after him. If some 
 plausible excuse for his absence can not be devised, there’ll 
 be the very devil of a search for him!” 
 
 Beaching his hotel, and going at once to his room, he 
 carefully opened Ada’s letter. It proved to be very brief 
 — merely announcing the writer’s intended departure from 
 New York, and bidding Mrs. Eaymond farewell. 
 
 ‘‘Perhaps for years,” wrote Ada — “certainly until I 
 can forget my bitter disappointment and humiliation. 
 God bless you, dear Mrs. Eaymond. I do not tell you 
 where we go, and I shall not write, for I wish to detach 
 myself entirely from old associations for some time to 
 come. When I can meet your son without a pang 1 shall 
 return — not till then. Aunt goes with me. Before this 
 reaches you, I shall have left New York.” 
 
 This was all. James gasped for breath as he laid the 
 letter down before him; it offered him a possible solution 
 for the only serious difficulty that stood in the way of his 
 villainous design. 
 
 “ This letter must never reach my mother,” he thought, 
 rapidly* “ Ada will appear to have left without a word, 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 147 
 
 and Steve disappears at the same time— will not the infer- 
 ence be that they went together? At any rate — he drew 
 a long, deep breath, and the look of resolution deepened in 
 his face — “ it shall go hard, but I contrive to make it ap- 
 23ear so.""^ 
 
 The pallor of his face changed now to a hot flush of ex- 
 citement. Why, this would do more than account for 
 Stevens disappearance — it would account for it in such a 
 way as would arouse Mercy^s bitterest indignation against 
 her seemingly unfaithful lover — it would drive her to his 
 — James Eaymond^s — arms! 
 
 He seized the letter in a resolute grasp, and cast a tri- 
 umphant glance around him. 
 
 “1 shall win!^’ he muttered — “1 shall have her yet! 
 Fate itself favors me!^^ 
 
 And in that moment, with the thought of success — of 
 Mercy wedded to him, irrevocably his own, his wife — the 
 last vestige of hesitation, of doubt, of pity for his brother 
 passed from his heart. 
 
 Here was a way, not only of winning her, but of win- 
 ning her quickly. His desire, which had hitherto been 
 humble enough and content to wait, grew hotly impatient 
 and eager. 
 
 The sooner Steve was removed and his perfldy made 
 clear to her, the sooner would she revenge herself, and 
 hide her humiliation by a wealthier marriage. Why, with 
 this new aid which poor, unconscious Ada had given him, 
 the whole plot might be perfected and brought to success 
 almost at once. 
 
 “ A month or so to convince her that she is forsaken; a 
 letter or two from Steve to her, and from Ada to my 
 mother, telling of their reconciliation and marriage — she^s 
 not the girl 1 take her for if she doesnT pluck up a spirit 
 to resent that. Steve false to her — Steve married to an- 
 other woman, and then I come in with wealth enough to 
 lord it over her rival— with love enough to win her affeo- 
 
148 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 tion in the end. Shea’ll marry me^ and Til take her to 
 Europe, and keep her there until she loves me well enough 
 to pardon the ruse by which I won her to her own welfare 
 and happiness. It both can and shall be done, and 1^11 
 set about it at once. First of all, 1^11 write the note my 
 fellow-conspirator needs to decoy Steve. 
 
 Without wasting any more time about the matter, he set 
 to work at once upon his task of imitating Mercy’s writ- 
 ing. 
 
 It was not so difficult as he had anticipated; the girl’s 
 scholastic training, as well as her resolute and decided 
 character, giving her handwriting something of a mascu- 
 line style, which he found it easy to copy. 
 
 ‘‘If it were an effeminate, broken-backed scrawl like 
 that,” he muttered, giving Ada’s letter a contemptuous 
 push as it lay before him, “ I should never try to copy it 
 at all, for it would be simply impossible to do it success- 
 fully.” 
 
 This set him wondering how the desired letter from Ada, 
 telling of her marriage, was to be manufactured for 
 Mercy’s deception. But the problem did not puzzle him 
 very long. 
 
 Evil plots and plans suggested themselves to his mind as 
 rapidly as if the master of all evil had stood in person at 
 his elbow, whispering them into his willing ear. 
 
 “We’ll do without any letter from Ada. A telegram 
 will do,” he resolved. “ A telegram from Steve.” 
 
 Poor Mercy’s real letter hidden carefully away, and the 
 forged one completed to his satisfaction, he turned his at- 
 tention to his own personal needs, and took a bath and 
 breakfast, and made some change in his disordered dress. 
 
 All this he did methodically and deliberately, and with- 
 out any thought or sense of comfort or satisfaction in it. 
 
 He felt the steadier and better when it was done, how- 
 ever, though the deathly pallor had returned to his face 
 and remained there. 
 
HIS COUKTRY COUSIK. 
 
 140 
 
 By this time it was noon. He had had no sleep, and 
 felt no want of any, and there was yet much to be done. 
 
 He went to the bank, and having drawn out one thou- 
 sand dollars in notes, made them into a small packet and 
 put them into an inner pocket. Then he went quietly to 
 his own store, where he knew he should find Steve. 
 
 The two brothers were friendly enough, thanks to the 
 policy of the elder, in spite of Stevens incipient jealousy. 
 
 But James had, as yet, said nothing to any one about his 
 journey. 
 
 Therefore Stevens surprise was very great when, calling 
 him aside, James said: 
 
 “ 1 saw Mercy yesterday. Her mother wrote to me 
 concerning a business matter, and I thought it best to ad- 
 vise her in person. 1 have a message to you from her, 
 and have much to say to you. But we canT talk here. 
 After business come home with me to my hotel, where we 
 can be undisturbed. I promised Mercy to help you both, 
 and I will do so if possible. 
 
 And he passed on to his private office, leaving Steve sur- 
 prised and wondering. 
 
 Uncomfortably surprised, and uneasily wondering, for 
 to his mind, having no reason to believe Mrs. Craven his 
 friend, this secret correspondence and secret visit on his 
 brother’s part had in it something underhanded and 
 strange, and set him vaguely doubting. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 IN snared! 
 
 These doubts James soon contrived to set at rest, how- 
 ever, and even to convince Steve of his sincerity and good 
 intention. 
 
 “ Youfi’e inclined to doubt me, Steve, because you can 
 see that I admired the girl you love. My boy, that was 
 before I knew that you loved her, and when I supposed 
 
150 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 her free to be wooed by me as by any man. When she 
 tells me, as she has told me, that her heart is yours, I re- 
 tire from the field with what grace 1 may, and honestly 
 wish to do what I can toward securing her happiness. She 
 trusts me; why should not you? Come, come! Believe 
 me your best friend. And let us go like friends together 
 to-morrow and talk the situation over.^^ 
 
 So it was arranged that Steve should remain with James 
 at his hotel for the night, in order to start off early in the 
 morning. 
 
 She expects us to arrive by the train that gets in at 
 noon,^^ said James. “I woii^t be in the way, my dear 
 boy, ni talk to the mother. 1 told Mercy of the Cali- 
 fornia project, and you’ll talk the matter over with her. 
 1 have promised her that anything she suggests to be done 
 for you I will do, if it lies within the bounds of possi- 
 bility.” 
 
 It sounded plausible enough. Steve, being young and 
 honest, believed and thanked his brother, and while with 
 him and under his influence, trusted him entirely; but 
 strangely enough, no sooner did he, having retired to rest, 
 find himself alone, than the old vague, unreasoning, un- 
 comfortable doubt returned upon his mind in full force 
 again. 
 
 It made him angry with himself. A doubt that had ab- 
 solutely no foundation, and was so very shadowy and un- 
 real that it had actually nothing tangible to be afraid of 
 seemed childish, puerile, despicable. Steve shook himself 
 impatiently, as if he would have shaken the premonition 
 of coming evil, which seemed to him a cowardly and 
 whimsical fancy only, out of his brain. 
 
 ‘‘ What the deuce have I to be afraid of?” he asked 
 himself. “ James talks fairly enough; and he isn’t going 
 to Mercy alone, but asks me to come with him. If I could 
 suspect my own brother of any villainy, even the fact tha^ 
 he chooses broad daylight for our visit, when he could just 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 151 
 
 as well have gone to-night, makes the ridiculous idea 
 doubly ridiculous. Pshaw! Pm ashamed of myselt*. Pm 
 worse than a nervous woman. Pm a fool!’^ 
 
 The very mention of “ a nervous woman caused him 
 to remember that his mother would wonder at his absence. 
 True, James had assured him that he had seen her in the 
 morning, and had told her that Steve would be with him. 
 
 “ I might write her a few lines all the same, to tell her 
 l^m going out of town,^^ he mused; with that restless de- 
 sire upon him to be doing something that was natural to 
 his nervous mood. “ She would get it by breakfast-time 
 to-morrow.'’^ 
 
 So he sat down and wrote a note to Mrs. Eaymond, and 
 rang his bell for the night porter to mail it. 
 
 James, restless also, and afraid to lie down until certain 
 that his intended victim was asleep, was in the office when 
 the man brought the letter down. 
 
 ‘‘ Here,’^ he said, instantly. “ Give it to me, George, 
 l^m going out and will post it.^^ 
 
 • And he actually did go out and walk around the block, 
 returning presently with Stevens letter in his pocket. 
 
 In his own room he opened it. It contained only a few 
 loving words; but now not even consideration for the anx- 
 ious anguish he was preparing for the little mother's heart 
 could induce him to pause. 
 
 He put the letter into the fire. 
 
 “One danger escaped,^" he muttered to himself. “It 
 was well that 1 watched him. 
 
 Meantime Steve, more contented for having written his 
 useless letter, fell asleep. 
 
 It was James who awoke him, as early as five o^’cJock, 
 standing beside his bed. 
 
 “ The train starts at seven/'’ he said, with a smile on 
 his ghastly face — so ghastly that Steve stared at him with 
 positive dismay^ and cried out^ impulsively^ 
 
152 
 
 HIS COUJSfTEY COUSIN. 
 
 ‘‘Good God, James! what’s the matter? — what makes 
 you look so pale?” 
 
 “ I haven’t slept,” James answered, hurriedly. “ I’m 
 not well. But don’t mind me,” he added, quietly^ “ I 
 shall be better presently, when we get into the air. You 
 must make haste, though. I’ve ordered breakfast — such 
 as we can get at this early hour — for both of us.” 
 
 The breakfast was well enough, Steve thought. There 
 was fish, both smoke-cured and salted, and ham and eggs, 
 fried, but the ham was of the saltest, certainly. 
 
 “ It’s rather thirsty fare,” said Steve, who was in high 
 spirits by this time. “That’s the only fault I find with 
 it!” 
 
 James gave him a very peculiar look indeed. 
 
 “ Fortunately we can get all we want to drink upon the 
 road,” said he, with another of his ghastly smiles. 
 
 They did not do so, however. Only once did they stop 
 for a glass of beer, though Steve anticipated slaking his 
 thirst when they should reach the depot. In this he was 
 disappointed by James, who proposed that they should 
 leave the train when it stopped for a few moments at a 
 cutting about half a mile below the station. 
 
 “ It leads to a much shorter cut,” said he. Jumping 
 from the car as he spoke; and Steve, who knew nothing 
 of the place, followed him without any argument. 
 
 By these means James secured to himself the immense 
 advantage of avoiding the depot, where somebody or other 
 would have been sure to notice him and Steve together, 
 and might have come forward to state the fact, afterward, 
 to his confusion. 
 
 They struck out for the lonely lane, James taking the 
 lead, and Steve following contentedly. 
 
 “ You seem quite at home with the road,” said Steve; 
 but he said it without suspicion, for daylight had dispelled 
 his doubts. 
 
 James answered, quietly: 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 15:i 
 
 “ 1 can always find my way anywhere; it’s a sort of gift 
 with me. And Fve been this way twice^ you know. It^s 
 a short cut, you’ll find, that Tm taking you.” 
 
 Steve never questioned it. Happy in the thought that 
 he should soon see his beloved, his heart was too light and 
 gay to harbor the dark guest Suspicion, else he might have 
 wondered at James’s nervous manner and watchful, rov- 
 ing eyes, as well as at the start he made when a rough- 
 looking fellow came suddenly out of the woods into the 
 road just ahead of them, and stared inquisitively into their 
 faces as he passed them by. 
 
 But Steve noticed nothing of this. Still less did he see 
 that James’s hand had softly and secretly dropped a note 
 upon the ground behind them, and that the man came to 
 it and picked it up as soon as he had passed them by. 
 
 Next moment they heard him calling to them, and turn- 
 ing to ascertain the cause, saw him coming back, speaking 
 as he came. 
 
 “Beg pardon, gentlemen,” said the man, brusquely, 
 “ but is either of you named Eaymond?” 
 
 “Both,” answered James, as brusquely, and his very 
 lips were white. 
 
 “ Steve Eaymond is the man I want,” said the stranger, 
 who held a letter in his hand. “I’ve got this letter for 
 him. ” 
 
 ' And he held it out. 
 
 “It is for me,” said Steve, and took it from him. 
 “Why, James!” he cried, as he began to read. “It is 
 from Mercy!” 
 
 The letter was as follows: 
 
 “ My dear Steve,— The bearer will show you the way 
 to his cottage, where I am waiting for you. I have had 
 some words with my mother, and want to see you here. 
 Will explain when we meet. Your own 
 
 “ Mercy.” 
 
154 
 
 ms rorKTRY COUSIN. 
 
 Steve received it without a doubt or question. 
 
 ‘‘ We must do as she wishes, of course/^ he said, as he 
 handed the letter to James. 
 
 And at that moment his brother’s singular pallor again 
 forced itself upon his attention. 
 
 ‘‘ I never saw anybody as pale as you are, James^” said 
 he; you can’t be well, I’m certain.” 
 
 James had been silently reading the note — he now 
 looked up- with a stern, white face. 
 
 Never mind me,” he said, with a gravity of look and 
 tone that seemed to poor Steve quite too serious for the 
 occasion. ‘‘ Think of yourself. Are you going to obey 
 this summons? Believe me, the wisest way is to go to 
 Mrs. Craven’s cottage. If Mercy be not there you can 
 then go and seek her. I — 1 — I don’t like the looks of that 
 fellow,” he added, lowering his tone as he glanced at the 
 man, who stood quietly waiting. “ Steve, if you’re wise, 
 if you’ll take my advice, you won’t go with him.” 
 
 But Steve stared at him with indignant surprise. 
 
 Not go where my sweetheart calls me!” he cried. 
 “ Why, you must be crazy! Mercy has a spirit, I can as- 
 sure you — you are actually counseling me to give her 
 offense, and that’s no friendly counsel!” 
 
 And a new phase of last night’s doubt and suspicion 
 flashed suddenly from his eyes. 
 
 “ Go to Mrs. Craven’s cottage yourself if you like,” said 
 he, “ 1 go to Mercy. Here!” he called to the messenger. 
 “ Lead the way. I’m ready!” 
 
 James came sullenly to his side. lie spoke now without 
 lifting his eyes to his brother’s face. 
 
 The man who had been standing, silent and uncon- 
 cerned, moved toward the wood again. 
 
 “ I’ll go with you,” said James, in a strange, sup- 
 pressed voice. “ I have my doubts about this man, and I 
 think it right to tell you so, but I’ll go with you. If you 
 
HIS COOl^TJlY COUSIN. * 155 
 
 ever see cause to regret not taking my warning, don’t 
 blame me for it.” 
 
 “ Oh, 1 sha’n’t blame you!” answered Steve, scornfully. 
 “ Though how you can warn me about what you don’t un- 
 derstand, 1 can’t see! Come or go, as you please, how- 
 ever, I shall go to Mercy. Is that the way?” he added, 
 to the supposed messenger. 
 
 “This is the way. It ain’t far,” answered the man; 
 “ right ahead of us.” 
 
 And he pushed his way through the trees, into the thick 
 woods. 
 
 The two brothers, sullen and silent now, and walking a 
 little apart, followed him. 
 
 The victim had fallen into the snare, and was going to 
 his doom! 
 
 OHAPTEE XXXIII. 
 
 “something is wrong with STEVE.” 
 
 The hue and cry after Steve, which James had rightly 
 anticipated, began very shortly after his departure, when 
 Mrs. Eaymond, coming down to breakfast, was informed 
 by her servant that “ Mr. Stejihen hadn’t been home all 
 night; at least, any ways his bed hadn’t been slept 
 in.” The little mother took alarm at once, for Steve had 
 always been steady and regular, and she well knew that, 
 although there was a certain coolness between them on ac- 
 count of Mercy Craven, he was much too thoughtful and 
 affectionate to cause her any uneasiness, or deliberately 
 leave her in suspense as to his movements. 
 
 “ Something is wrong,” spoke up the maternal instinct 
 in her heart. “ Something is wrong with Stephen.” 
 
 So strong was this foreboding that it was with difficulty 
 she forced herself to wait patiently until ten o’clock before 
 going out to make inquiries concerning him. “ If all’s 
 well, he will send me some message on liis way to the 
 
156 
 
 HIS COUKTKY COUSIH. 
 
 store/^ she thought. But no message came, so to the 
 store she went in search of him. 
 
 What she heard here somewhat allayed her fears. Mr. 
 Eaymond and Mr. Stephen Eaymond had left the store 
 together on the previous evening, and one of the clerks 
 had seen them get into a street car. Neither had since 
 been seen, and the obvious inference was that they were 
 still together. The mother, who knew of no cause for ill- 
 feeling between her sons, felt satisfied. 
 
 “ Surely Steve must be all right, she thought, “ since 
 James is with him.^’ 
 
 As her anxiety abated and faded, a sense of annoyance 
 and indignation took its place. That Steve, her idolized 
 boy, to whom she had so devoted herself, should be thus 
 inconsiderate and unmindful of her feelings, hurt her very 
 much. There was even a little touch of jealousy in her 
 wound. Hitherto she had been first of all with Steve, 
 whose light liking for Ada had been neither strong enough 
 nor deep enough to supplant her infiuence. Now all was 
 changed. He had declared himself ready to sacrifice her 
 and all the world for this hateful girl, for this Mercy’s 
 sake. No doubt it was Mercy’s infiuence which she had 
 now to thank for his absence and the anxiety it had caused 
 her. Her resentment grew against him. By the time she 
 reached home she had resolved, being reassured by the in- 
 telligence that he was with James, to wait quietly until he 
 should think proper to return, and meantime to think no 
 more about him. 
 
 She kept in this mind, starting nervously at every ring, 
 and listening to every footfall, until four o’clock in the 
 afternoon, and then, the need of sympathy being strong 
 upon her, she suddenly remembered that she had seen 
 nothing of Ada since that unlucky afternoon which hjid 
 brought disappointment to both. Ada had come straight 
 to her then from Polly’s house; but since then, although 
 she had written to the girl, expressing her desire to call 
 
JUS couisTJtY cousijsr. 
 
 157 
 
 upon her, she had neither seen her nor received an answer- 
 ing line. “ Which is almost as strange as Steve’s absence 
 is/’ mused Mrs. Eaymond, uneasily. “ I’ll go now and 
 call upon her.” 
 
 It was easier said than done, however. Ada’s house (it 
 was her own) had a forlorn and deserted look that warned 
 the visitor what to expect, even before the door was 
 opened. 
 
 This office was performed by a woman, quite strange to 
 Mrs. Eaymond, who stated that the family had gone away, 
 and she didn’t know when they would be back again. 
 
 She didn’t know anything, apparently. The few nat- 
 ural questions which Mrs. Eaymond, in her first bewilder- 
 ment, was constrained to put, received only the vaguest 
 answers. 
 
 She didn’t know the ladies herself, she said. Miss 
 West’s solicitor and man of business had got her the job 
 to take care of the house, and he paid her by the month, 
 and that was all she knew about it. When did Miss West 
 go.^ She believed yesterday, but she was gone before she 
 came there. Did any one accompany Miss West — her 
 aunt, for instance? She couldn’t answer that; she knew 
 nothing at all about it. 
 
 The little mother turned away with a fresh wound in 
 her affectionate heart. She had loved Ada, and this de- 
 parture, without one good-bye word, hurt her deeply. 
 
 “ For what wrong had I done to her?” she reasoned. 
 
 She knew that to have her for a daughter was the wish 
 of my heart— that my disappointment was scarcely less 
 than her own; and to treat me so unkindly and disrespect- 
 fully — Mercy Craven herself could scarcely treat me worse! 
 1 sha’n’t forget it easily.” 
 
 And she turned homeward again disconsolate. 
 
 She might have gone to Ada’s solicitor for information, 
 but her pride revolted against that; nor would it indeed 
 have been of any use, since he bad received instructions 
 
158 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 from his client to give no clew whatever as to her where- 
 abouts. 
 
 Thus far the fates seemed to have worked in Jameses 
 favor. He needed some assistance of the kind^ for the 
 difficulties of the task he had undertaken only began to 
 show themselves in their true magnitude when he had 
 taken that desperate first step which admitted of no recall, 
 and committed himself to a courso from which there could 
 now be no turning back, and upon which one single false 
 step might mean ruin! 
 
 To get Steve out of the way had seemed to him the one 
 great difficulty; but, now that that most desirable end was 
 attained, other difficulties, compared to which this one ap- 
 peared trifling, sprung up on every side of him, and hem- 
 med him in and harassed him until they almost maddened 
 him. As he sat in the fast express train for New York on 
 that fatal afternoon that proved so calamitous to poor 
 Steve, he looked back, in imagination, to his young broth- 
 er, insnared and betrayed; and, even while he shuddered 
 at the picture memory drew, he almost felt that, of their 
 two predicaments, his own was far the worst, and that he 
 would have willingly changed places. 
 
 Oh, to have him sitting here beside me, as he did this 
 morning!’^ he sighed. This torture of doubt and fear 
 and possible discovery will hang about me every day, and 
 drive me mad at last! It is too much to suffer, even for 
 Mercy^s sake. I have acted too hastily — 1 should have 
 taken more time, matured my plans, prepared the way 
 for this disappearance. There are so many things that 
 might have been done had I taken time to think the mat- 
 ter out. Surely it had better not have been done at all 
 than done so carelessly — especially when failure and dis- 
 covery mean ruin — disgrace— ay he turned hot and 
 
 cold, white and red, as he thought what that disgrace 
 would be~“ ay, death! for I could never face the scandal, 
 nor bear to sec him return and win her, after all. If I 
 
niR COVNTUY rOUST'Nr. 
 
 m 
 
 succeed it will be nothing — a joke on Steve; rather a mean 
 one, perhaps the world will say; but then ‘ all stratagems 
 are fair in love and war/ 1"11 make amends to him — set 
 liim up in business, and enable him to marry some other 
 girl. Mercy — ah, I dread her the most!’^ — he actually 
 trembled at the thought of her~“ but she shall not know 
 the truth until she is my loving wife — perhaps a mother 
 also — and, besides, female vanity will plead for me — no 
 woman living but would be flattered by such a proof of 
 love-. Oh, it will be all right if I succeed; but failure — 
 there’s no use in shirking the truth now— failure means 
 ruin, disgrace, and death!” 
 
 Such musings occupied him until the train reached 
 Philadelphia, where it stopped for ten minutes. He 
 roused himself, and hurrying to the telegraph-office he 
 sent a message to Mrs. Raymond, which purported to come 
 from Ada West. He used her initials only, so as to avoid 
 attracting any attention, of which indeed at that busy 
 place, and amid the confusion and bustle attendant upon 
 the arrival of the express, there was but little danger. 
 
 If she hasn’t raised the hue and cry already,” he 
 thought, ‘‘ that’ll keep her quiet until I can see her. And 
 I must go to her armed with a letter from Steve. I must 
 have rest before 1 write it, though — rest and sleep. I feel 
 as though my brain was going wild.” 
 
 It was now nearly seven o’clock. The train went dash- 
 ing and rattling on again to its destination, bearing James 
 to rest, and sleep, and forgery. And faster than any train 
 that ever traveled went the false and lying message that 
 was to quiet and soothe the anxious little mother, and 
 prevent her raising a hue and cry after Steve. 
 
160 
 
 HIS COUKTKY COUSIK. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 ‘‘are they married?^^ 
 
 It did more than quiet her — it delighted her. It made 
 amends for Ada’s supposed neglect, as well as Steve’s, and 
 foreshadowed the fulfillment of the cherished wish which 
 of late she had almost despaired of. For this is what the 
 lying message said, coming from A. W., Philadelphia, to 
 Mrs. Raymond, New York: 
 
 “ By this you have received Steve’s letter. We will 
 write soon and send you our address. Tell no one. I 
 could not rest until you shared my happiness, but speak of 
 us to none except James. 
 
 “ Your loving children, 
 
 “A. and S.” 
 
 It reached Mrs. Raymond shortly after seven o’clock, 
 by which time her anxiety and suspense had grown almost 
 unendurable. The relief it brought her was so immense 
 that the implied joy escaped her just at the first glance, 
 and came upon her presently like a thunder-clap of deli- 
 cious surprise and gladness. 
 
 “ But I can’t make out whether they are actually mar- 
 ried or not,” she said to James, when he called next day. 
 (She had sat up till twelve in the hope that he would come 
 on the night of the message, but had gone to sleep at last, 
 quite happy in its false news.) “ You see, it sa}^s ‘from 
 A. W./ and if they were married she should sign ‘ A. R. ’ 
 But Steve’s letter to you seems positive enough.” 
 
 And she began to read it for the twentieth time aloud 
 and thoughtfully: 
 
 “Hear James, — I am not going on, as you suppose. 
 I can not face poor Mercy. Besides, I have to meet, at 
 Philadelphia, one who has, or very soon will have, a better 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 101 
 
 claim on me. So I leave the train^ and mail this here. 1 
 intend writing to my mother shortly, but meantime you 
 can explain the change in my views both to her and Mercy. 
 Mother will ai)prove, of course, but Mercy — I hope you 
 will say all that^s kind to the poor girl. Tell her there 
 was really no chance for us, and some day she will see that 
 this is for the best. I hope she will not take it much to 
 heart. After all, it is no worse for her than it was for 
 Ada, and I am sure she will yet do very much better than 
 in marrying me. Say and do the very best you can, old 
 fellow, for Tours, Steye.^^ 
 
 So willing is human nature to believe that which it 
 wishes to find true that this heartless, selfish, unmanly 
 letter — wholly unlike the character of frank, loving, gen- 
 erous Steve — appeared to his own mother so satisfactory 
 that she was completely deceived by it. As for the mere 
 matter of handwriting, James had been successful enough, 
 there being naturally a strong resemblance between the 
 handwriting of the brothers — a circumstance quite as com- 
 mon and noticeable in families as resemblances of feature 
 or ^ oice. It had been easy for James to imitate any little 
 peculiarities of Steve% with which long association had 
 made him familiar. The forgery was a skillful one, so far 
 as the mechanical portion of the work, but the sentiment 
 and tone would have been impossible to Stevens nature. 
 This, however, his own mother, blinded by her eagerness 
 to see her cherished hopes fulfilled, quite failed to notice. 
 
 You really think they were married, then, before the 
 message was sent?^^ she asked. “ In spite of these in- 
 itials 
 
 “ The initials may have been used as a blind in case of 
 being seen by any one but yourself,^^ James answered. 
 “ Steve told me they intended to be married immediately, 
 and go away, perhaps for a year or two. lie has the 
 grace to be somewhat ashamed of the manner in which he 
 6 
 
162 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 treated both these girls. And Ada is^ I fancy, a little 
 ashamed of having forgiven him so easily, and married 
 him after all. Stevens idea seemed to be to get out of all 
 the responsibility and bother, leave me to adjust matters 
 with Mercy Craven, and himself remain abroad until the 
 scandal of his conduct had blown over. This he confided 
 to me after business the day before yesterday, and urged me 
 to go to Mercy at once, and tell her of the change in his 
 feelings. 1 declined, of course, and moreover insisted that 
 he should act in a straightforward manner toward the girl 
 by going to her himself, although I was willing to accom- 
 pany him. 1 must confess that 1 had my doubts of him, 
 even when at last he promised that he would do this, and 
 for that reason, though on the pretext of being in time for 
 an early train, 1 kept him with me all night. His 
 arrangements to meet Ada at Philadelphia must have been 
 already made, even while he was promising me to see 
 Mercy, and his pretense of accompanying me was a de- 
 liberate deception. He gave me the slip at Philadelphia, 
 and while 1 was hunting about for him a boy placed this 
 letter in my hand. This is all 1 know, mother, and 1 
 must say that, so far as our cousin Mercy is concerned, it 
 is a most painful affair, and 1 could heartily wish that the 
 poor girl had never seen Steve, nor — nor any one of us.^^ 
 
 He uttered that regret with all his heart. Oh, that he 
 had never seen her, this one woman of all the world whom 
 it was his wretched fate to love! 
 
 Oh, that her beauty had never dazzled his eyes and mad- 
 dened his brain, and changed him from a fairly honest, 
 plodding, commonplace man into a base conspirator 
 against his own brother's peace; a vile thief who sought to 
 rob a woman of her love, her hopes, her very self; a crim- 
 inal whom the law could punish! Oh, to be honest, clean 
 of hand, and cold of heart once more! Oh, that he had 
 never seen her! 
 
 ilis mothei*'’s smiling complaOency, her joy in this ad- 
 
ms couNTKY corsT^r. 
 
 103 
 
 vantagcous marriage for lier favorU.e child, and her scarce- 
 ly concealed indifference to Mercy^s wrongs and Mercy ^s 
 sufferings — wrongs and sufferings caused by him — pro- 
 voked him beyond endurance. He took his leave in haste^ 
 fearful of betraying his own secret if he stayed longer. 
 
 ‘‘ You must not wonder if I do not quite share your de- 
 light/^ he said to her at parting. “ On me devolves the 
 task of telling this girl how her trust has been betrayed, 
 and I confess that I shrink from it. Be as happy as you 
 like, mother, but keep the matter strictly to yourself; do 
 not even tell Polly until we hear further from Ada or 
 Steve. That is Ada^s wish, you know. You will certain- 
 ly hear again from them in a few weeks at furthest. 
 
 And so he left her— having secured to himself these 
 “ few weeks of silent waiting, wherein to prosecute his 
 plans and lay siege to Mercy. He took v/ith him the false 
 telegram and forged letter. 
 
 “ These must convince her,^^ he muttered to himself, 
 as he went home late in the afternoon. “To-night for 
 rest, and then to-morrow to take these to Mercy. 1 have 
 gone too far now to turn back. AVhither will it lead me, 
 I wonder, this crooked, evil road, on which 1 have set my 
 feet, and on which I will walk steadily to the end for 
 Mercy’s sake?” 
 
 CHAPTEP XXXV. 
 
 ACCEPTED. 
 
 It was Friday, the fourth day since that on which Mercy 
 had intrusted to James that note to Steve, in which she 
 had counseled him to accept his brother’s Californian pro- 
 posals, but to come first to her and talk the matter over. 
 Four days and no answer from her lover; no, not so much 
 as a single line. 
 
 The girl had been by turns surprised, indignant, puz- 
 zled, anxious, and alarmed, by this strange silence, all the 
 
164 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 more hard to bear because she had no one in whom she 
 could confide^ but on the contrary was sensible of a certain 
 air of satisfaction and complacency in her mother’s man- 
 ner, which undoubtedly had its origin in Steve’s apparent 
 neglect. 
 
 She would not utter her anxieties, which might have 
 seemed complaints, to one who was so ready to think ill of 
 him, and who, by putting the worst interpretation upon 
 his silence, would only add to her fears and cares. Neither 
 would she humble herself to own that she had fears. But 
 each day as the postman passed by the cottage door her 
 eyes grew more anxious and her face more pale; and when 
 at last, on Friday afternoon, James arrived suddenly, she 
 flew with a scream of joy to meet him, so relieved, so 
 thankful, that her warm cry of Oh, welcome! welcome, 
 cousin!” had very nearly been instead a fervent “ Oh, 
 thank God!” 
 
 James was agitated and nervous, and very, very pale. 
 
 She noticed that the instant her eyes fell on him. 
 
 In the same instant he noticed that those beautiful dark 
 eyes had merely glanced at him, and then passed him by, 
 looking eagerly for some one else to follow behind him. 
 
 He sighed and shook his head. His whole air and man- 
 ner was so grave, so sad, so depressed that Mercy’s glad- 
 ness changed to sudden fear; and even Jane Craven, who 
 had placed a chair for him, had taken his hat and coat, 
 asked, anxiously: 
 
 “ What is the matter? What is wrong?” 
 
 He answered Mercy’s eyes, not her mother’s words. 
 
 “ I am quite alone,” he said, with a peculiar emphasis, 
 “ quite alone.” Then passing his hand over his brow 
 with an anxious, distressful gesture, “ You would not have 
 welcomed me so warmly if you had known that — you 
 would not have welcomed me at all, had you guessed, my 
 errand. This task has been forced upon me, and I know 
 what awaits the messenger who brings bad news.” 
 
HTS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 165 
 
 “ Hud news?^^ 
 
 It was Mercy who repeated the words, in a low, startled 
 tone. No one else spoke. Then she brought a chair and 
 sat beside him. 
 
 ‘"Tell me the truth,^^ she said, earnestly, “has any- 
 thing happened to Steve? Is he — is he — ill, cousin?^’ 
 
 James raised his eyes to her — only for a second — but she 
 saw such pity in his glance that her heart sickened with 
 foreboding pain. 
 
 “Oh, speak she cried, clasping her hands in agony, 
 “ oh, speak 
 
 James began hastily: 
 
 “ He is not ill! No, no! Don’t look so frightened,, he 
 is well enough.” 
 
 He paused, and then went on again, turning to Mrs. 
 Craven first, with a sort of appeal, as if asking her to be 
 his witness. 
 
 “I swear to you both,” he said, earnestly, “that 1 
 shall suffer all the pain I must inflict by what I am obliged 
 to say. I declare to you both — I may make such a dec- 
 laration now without dishonor— that I dearly and truly 
 love my cousin Mercy here, and would do anything to 
 secure her happiness or spare her pain. When I saw that 
 her heart was set on Steve, I gave up my own hopes in- 
 stantly. She knows it. When he came to me the other 
 night and confessed to me his own villainy, and asked me 
 to tell her that which she is now about to learn, I refused 
 to be the messenger of grief to her, and insisted on his 
 coming in person. But he evaded me, and left me this 
 letter.” 
 
 He held up the letter and telegram before the eyes of 
 the bewildered girl. 
 
 “ This telegram my mother received. It completes the 
 story of the letter, Mercy, and I must either give them to 
 you or leave you in cruel suspense.” 
 
166 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 lie placed them in the trembling hands which she held 
 out to him. 
 
 “ Oh, my dear!’^ he said, with a tenderness of tone that 
 James Eaymond’s voice had never known before, “ for- 
 give me for thus wounding you! He was never worthy of 
 such a heart as yours. 
 
 And as he turned away there were real tears in his eyes, 
 called there by the pity he felt for the wound his own hand 
 had dealt, and would not refrain from dealing. 
 
 Mercy read both letter and telegram in silence once, 
 twice, thrice. 
 
 What she felt, thought, endured, found no expression 
 in words, while to her very lips she was so white that all 
 the life in her seemed concentrated in her glowing eyes, as 
 she handed the lying papers to her mother, and said, very 
 quietly, and almost in her usual tone: 
 
 Steve has married Ada.^^ 
 
 But Jane Craven did not take it so quietly. The inso- 
 lent tone of pity of the letter aroused her to indignant 
 rage. 
 
 “ The presumptuous fool!^^ she cried, angrily. The 
 ‘ poor girl,^ he calls you. Ay, poor indeed, when you set 
 no higher value on yourself than give yourself to him! 
 He ‘ hopes you will not take it much to heart, ^ too, and 
 James here is to ^ comfort you!^ Congratulate you on 
 your escape, would be more in order! And he hopes you 
 will ‘do better than marry him!^ You couldn^t well do 
 worse, any way! Oh, Mercy, what a fool you have been! 
 For this you have thrown away so many better chances, to 
 be slighted, insulted, jilted like this! Who do you think 
 will want you now?^’ She flung the letter from her as if 
 she was throwing Mercy^s hopes and chances all away with 
 it. “ Why, no one! ~No man wants another man^s cast- 
 off shoes! No man!^^ 
 
 But here James put in an eager word, standing before 
 Mercy, who had risen, lashed out of her apathy by the 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 167 
 
 sting of her rnother^s tongue, and was about to leave the 
 room. 
 
 “ Don^t go, dear cousin, until you hear me!^^ he cried, 
 earnestly. Mrs. Craven, I want your daughter! Is she 
 less charming, less desirable and dear because my brother 
 is a fool? 1 adore her! Myself, my fortune, all I have 
 and am, I offer for her acceptance. If she will take me 
 she shall learn what true love is, and how much it can do 
 to make her happy. Her wish shall be my law, and to see 
 her happy my delight, if she will only have me! But I 
 don^t expect or dare to hope that she will,’^ he added, 
 humbly. “ Nevertheless, I make the offer just the same, 
 if only to remove from the woman I love the reproach you 
 have just uttered, that no man wants her. When any one 
 says that Steve Eaymond jilted her, answer them that 
 James Eaymond laid himself and his fortune at her feet, 
 and that she rejected him!’^ 
 
 Suddenly Mercy held out to him her hand. There was 
 a strange smile on her pale lips and a strange light in her 
 eyes. 
 
 % 
 
 ‘‘Why should we say that she rejected him?^^ she 
 asked, just as quietly as she had spoken to her mother. 
 “ Should you not like her to accept him, cousin?^^ 
 
 He fell back from her as if the words had been a blow. 
 He gasped as if the very thought had taken his breath 
 away. 
 
 “ Impossible !^^ he stammered. “You will not! You 
 are mocking me!^^ 
 
 “ No, indeed,^^ she answered, with the same strange, 
 pale calm upon her, “ I am very much in earnest. Cous- 
 in James. Steve is married, and I am not the girl to wear 
 the willow for a false love, believe me. You say you de- 
 sire me for your wife. If you are in earnest — if you are 
 not mocking me—” 
 
 “ Oh, Mercy!” He sprung forward, there was no mis- 
 
168 
 
 HIS COUNTEY COUSIN'. 
 
 taking his eyes; she shuddered and shrunk from him just 
 a little. “ Oh, my dear, I love you!^^ 
 
 She hesitated for an instant only. Jane Craven watched 
 and listened breathlessly, but forbore to speak. Mercy 
 held out her hand to James once more. 
 
 “ Then my hand is yours,^^ she said. “ I accept your 
 offer, cousin. I will he your wife.-^^ 
 
 He kissed her hand. 
 
 “ Soon, Mercy? Will you wed me soon?^^ he asked. 
 And she answered, listlessly: 
 
 “ As soon as you please.'’^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 ‘‘eevenge is sweet. 
 
 SuEELY never before did success smile so fairly upon 
 guilty plotting or rush so instantly to meet it. James 
 Raymond, however, could hardly have looked paler, or 
 been more stunned, had his good fortune been a grisly 
 ghost, that, rising up before him unawares, had frightened 
 all the life and color out of him. 
 
 Jane Craven gazed in wonder at his white, stern, hag- 
 gard face, and even Mercy, through all her mad, though 
 hidden, passion of rage, revenge, and grief, was sensible of 
 a faint and fleeting sensation of surprise at her accepted 
 lover’s strange emotion. 
 
 “ He looks like a man who has received his death-war- 
 rant, rather than one who has just been promised the hand 
 of the woman he loves!” was the thought that passed list- 
 lessly through her mind; and although the idea made no 
 strong or enduring impression upon her at the time, it 
 recurred to her with vivid force and clearer comprehension 
 afterward. 
 
 ITl marry you when you please,” she had said, with 
 cold and listless indifference that might have wounded 
 him, had he" not been too glad of the consent to quarrel 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 100 
 
 wiLli the niiimier of it; but when he would have kissed the 
 hiuid she gave, it was withdrawn, and, when seeing her 
 about to leave him, he would have detained her, and urged 
 her to name some definite and early day, she only answered 
 coldly : 
 
 “ Do not detain me now; settle it with my mother. 
 Cousin James. I will abide by her decision, and keep my 
 word to you; but let me go now, I beg of you. 
 
 And he, knowing himself a guilty criminal and her 
 wronger — forced, even in this moment of success, to look 
 forward with dread to the certain retribution of the future 
 — he did not dare to oppose her wishes by a look or word, 
 but bowed his head, and stood aside to let her pass, in 
 silence. 
 
 As a fact, the success which had followed upon his vile 
 schemes had been so sudden and so complete that it actu- 
 ally stunned him. 
 
 He had been prepared for waiting and delay; for tedious 
 scheming to keep up appearances; for endless plotting to 
 perfect and carry out the villainy which had seemed only 
 begun. 
 
 His mother, satisfied at present, must be kept so — per- 
 haps for months; Steve, safely disposed of for the mo- 
 ment, must be watched and guarded, lest, at any time, his 
 escape and reappearance on the scene should ruin all. 
 Mercy herself must be managed with the utmost care — 
 convinced of Stevens perfidy; weaned gradually from her 
 love for him; persuaded— perhaps only with tedious diffi- 
 culty — into this new and more advantageous marriage — it 
 would all be the task of anxious, weary, torturing months, 
 he had thought, and lo! an hour had perfected the hardest 
 part of the work! Mercy had believed him at once — torn 
 her false lover from her heart and life, and given him, 
 James, the desire of his heart and the reward of his wick- 
 edness in the promise, “ Til marry you when you please. 
 
 When he pleased — why, of course that would be im- 
 
170 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 meditiioly — not exactly to-day or to-morrow^ perha 2 >s— 
 something in the look, in the involuntary shudder of the 
 bride-elect, warned him that she would hardly tolerate 
 being taken quite so literally at her word; but in a few 
 days, perhaps, or a week or two at furthest. Why, they 
 could be on their way to Europe and Steve at liberty be- 
 fore Mrs. Eaym.ond^s -suspicions began to awake — before, 
 by any possibility, that other danger — the danger of Ada^s 
 hearing of her supposed marriage and contradicting the 
 report — could come to ruin him. As he realized how fa- 
 vorable all his prospects seemed, the ghastly pallor of his 
 face warmed into something more like living color, and its 
 haggard, stern expression changed to one of expectant 
 hope, as he turned toward Jane Craven. 
 
 She had been watching him in silence. No change of 
 his face had escaped her. She had seen the shock of his 
 surprise — the powerful secret terror that in the first mo- 
 ment killed his joy— the shrinking fear of Mercy, the hope 
 and confidence that gradually grew out of his silent train 
 of thought and chased his doubts away. The result of 
 this scrutiny was that she mastered so much of his secret 
 as the knowledge that he had a secret, and even made a 
 shrewd guess, though wide of the mark, as to its nature. 
 
 “He is hiding something^ — something of which he is 
 afraid, she thought. “But he loves Mercy. Is he de- 
 ceiving us for his own purposes? Has he brought about 
 Stevens sudden marriage? For most certainly he loves 
 Mercy. Ay, so much that I think 1 can make what terms 
 with him I please before I consent to let him marry her."^^ 
 
 So she concealed her real delight at the proposed ar- 
 rangement, and met his advances so coolly, though kind- 
 ly, too, that James took alarm, and began to fear that the 
 road to guilty happiness lay not quite so clear and smooth 
 before him as he had flattered himself, after all. 
 
 “ Mercy is an impulsive girl,^^ said Mrs. Craven, grave- 
 ly, aiul smarting — you must remember, James — under 
 
HIS COUNTRY COL'SIISr. 171 
 
 the sting of this base desertion. It would be wise, for both 
 your sakes, to give her time to consider. 
 
 “ And to change her rnind!’^ cried Janies, bitterly. In 
 his secret soul he added: And to find out what 1 have 
 
 done!"^ 
 
 A terror seized him. Under its influence he pleaded his 
 cause to Jane far more warmly than he could have done to 
 her daughter. 
 
 ‘‘ Let me marry her at once,^^ he cried, ‘‘ and take her 
 far away before the story gets known, I will surround her 
 with luxury and pleasure — take her abroad — make any 
 settlement you think proper — 
 
 Jane took him up at that. 
 
 “ You know we are poor,^^ she said, “ and yet you urge 
 immediate marriage. My daughter can not enter your 
 family quite unprepared. Even if we were rich, some time 
 — a month, perhaps — must be devoted to her wardrobe, 
 for instance. Being poor, I shall require about six months 
 to make her fit for — 
 
 She got no further. Want of money was an obstacle to 
 his happiness which James could easily remove. And he 
 lost no time in doing so. 
 
 “ 1 will place five thousand dollars to your credit in any 
 bank you please,^^ he said, eagerly, ‘‘as soon as 1 get 
 home. If that is not enough, say what you require. Only 
 say that 1 shall marry her within the month. Aunt Cra- 
 ven, for Heaven^s sake!^^ 
 
 His earnestness, as well as his generosity, touched her. 
 The amount he named would do, she said, and she would 
 have it banked in Philadelphia, and take Mercy there at 
 once to make her purchases. Perhaps, she suggested, the 
 wedding might as well take place there also, a proposal to 
 which James assented at once. 
 
 But when Mercy came to be consulted on this point, 
 they found they had been reckoning without their host. 
 
172 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 She refused to go to Philadelphia at all, or to taRe any 
 part in the preparations her mother deemed necessary. 
 
 “1 am very well as I am/^ she said, coldly, ‘^and 
 James has liked me as I am. If he wishes me different it 
 will be time enough for me to change when I am his wife, 
 I will stay here until I am married, and be married here. 
 x\s for wedding-dress, outfit, and all that, I don’t see the 
 necessity at all; but if you do, mother, all I can say is, 
 you must select them entirely yourself; I will not be 
 troubled about them. 
 
 James saw in this answer a disposition to repent of the 
 engagement she had so rashly made, perhaps even a desire 
 to find a pretext for quarreling with him and breaking it. 
 
 He was too clever to give her any such excuse, and only 
 answered, soothingly: 
 
 ‘‘ I wish no change in you, dearest Mercy. You are per- 
 fection in my eyes. 1 shall be only too glad if you will 
 dispense altogether with these preparations which, your 
 mother says, will occupy a whole long month, and marry 
 me without any delay whatever. Why could we not be 
 married very quietly indeed, next week?^^ 
 
 But on this Mercy instantly went over to her mother’s 
 side, and declared that such haste, without any reason, 
 would be scarcely decent. 
 
 “And my mother knows best, of course,” she said, 
 wearily, “ and some preparations are necessary. Surely a 
 month is a very short time to make them in! However — 
 so that I am not annoyed in the meantime, let it be just as 
 she says.” ' 
 
 For, even while she shrunk from the thought of this 
 marriage, she welcomed it as a method of revenge. 
 
 Steve would learn that she had soon replaced him. Ada 
 would not triumph over a broken-hearted and defeated 
 rival. 
 
 On the contrary, she resolved : 
 
 “ I will defeat her yet! James shall take me where they 
 
HIS COUKTKY COUSIN. 
 
 173 
 
 iire, and when my beauty has such a setting as wealth can 
 give, it shall go hard if 1 don^t outshine this pink-and- 
 white piece of prettiness, and make Steve repent his bar- 
 gain! She has taken my lover from me. Let her look 
 out that I don^t make her husband pay! They have 
 robbed me of happiness, but revenge remains, at least, 
 and I will have it!^^ 
 
 Such was the unworthy motive that had led the de- 
 ceived, unhappy girl to consent so rashly to a hateful mar- 
 riage; such was the sole hope that Mercy saw in the fut- 
 ure that lay beyond her wedding-day. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 AWAKING. 
 
 And in the meantime, while James exulted in the suc- 
 cess of his plans, and Mrs. Raymond rejoiced over her 
 song’s supposed marriage; while Mercy rashly credited a 
 lying story, and madly seeking revenge for slighted love, 
 prepared for herself a life of misery — what had become of 
 Steve? 
 
 The place in which he found himself lying, when at last 
 a kind of consciousness broke through the stupor that en- 
 chained his senses and lay upon his limbs like lead, was a 
 kind of cave. 
 
 Small in its general dimensions, and unevenly shaped, 
 but very lofty, and having a hole, or narrow slit at the 
 very top, through which he could see the shining stars. 
 
 He lay and looked at them a long time before he under- 
 stood that they were stars, or that the place wherein he 
 was lying was a cave, or that this helpless figure— bound 
 at the wrists and ankles, and prostrate on a couch of skins 
 and straw — was he, himself, Steve Raymond. 
 
 And when at last his slowly reviving consciousness had 
 tediously crept and toiled, as it were, from one of those 
 facts to the othei’, until it gradually mastered them all. 
 
174 
 
 HIS COUHTBY COUSm. 
 
 and he grew certain of his own identity, and could say to 
 himself — very brokenly and low, and with great diflBculty, 
 because of a carious dryness of his mouth and swelling of 
 his tongue— “ This is Steve Raymond, bound, and lying in 
 a cave/^ Even then his utmost efforts failed to pierce or 
 drive away the thick mist that enshrouded his memory, or 
 help him to any rational explanation of how and why he 
 came to be there. 
 
 While he lay — very quiet and still in body, but sorely 
 struggling and darkly groping through the mazes of this 
 mystery in mind — his eyes, leaving the shining stars and 
 roving round the stone walls of his prison, encountered the 
 dark face of a man. 
 
 It gave him a strong and sudden shock. Some secret 
 chord of memory was touched, and vibrated with a thrill 
 of horror. Who was this man? Where had he seen him? 
 As these questions formed themselves slowly in his dull 
 and clouded brain there came with them a strange, wholly 
 instinctive impulse to spring at the man and hurl him to 
 the ground, and denounce him as a murderer and a vil- 
 lain. The words “ You villain,^^ trembled on his lips, 
 and his bound and helpless form made one passionate 
 effort to rise, when the man^s hand — laid firmly on his 
 chest — forced him back, and the man^s voice, sounding in 
 his ears as if it came from a great distance off, said to 
 him, ‘‘ Are you thirsty ?^^ 
 
 He was thirsty. So thirsty that his mouth burned like 
 fire, and his tongue felt all swollen, and too large for it. 
 At sight of the drink which the man offered him this sore 
 physical need overpowered all other thoughts and feelings. 
 He felt a hand passed under his head to lift it from the 
 pillow — felt the cool, refreshing draught creep to his 
 parching lips — drank of it, gladly, deeply, eagerly, and 
 fell back almost instantly into the heavy stupor from 
 which he had just been beginning to emerge. 
 
 How long it held him he had no means of knowing, but 
 
HIS rOUNTRY COUSTN". 
 
 I7r> 
 
 ^ when he next awoke, or aroused — for his state had been 
 ,1’ather that of insensibility tlian of sleep — the stars were 
 lio longer visible in the patch of sky, and the sky itself was 
 blue and bright, as if with daylight and sunshine. Slowly 
 the comprehension came to him that this was day; but 
 whether morning or afternoon, whether the day following 
 the night of his first awaking, when he saw the stars, or 
 whether he had slept through a day and another night, 
 and so awoke to another day again, all this was a riddle 
 which he had scarcely sufficient energy to wonder over — 
 certainly not enough to attempt its solution. 
 
 Still he remembered, and his muddled brain retained 
 the discoveries which he had so slowly and painfully made 
 in his last period of consciousness: “This is Steve Ray- 
 mond — bound hand and foot and lying in a cave.'’^ He 
 could think that over, and understand that it was so, and 
 wonder feebly how it came to be so. And thus far his 
 condition was in advance of and improved from what it 
 had been at his first awaking. Holding fast to that much 
 information, and groping helplessly through the recesses 
 of his darkened memory and understanding for more, he 
 came suddenly upon a dim recollection of the man who 
 had given him drink. 
 
 Springing up with this memory, side by side with it like 
 a shadow, came the same thrill of nameless horror with 
 which he had first seen the dark face gazing on him, came 
 the same impulse to cry out — he thought he actually did 
 cry out, but no sound came from his faintly moving lips — 
 “You villain And this time the words, whether ut- 
 tered or only thought, struck the same chord of memory 
 which the face of the man had touched, and lifted, in a 
 very small degree, the clouds from about his brain. He 
 suddenly remembered tliat he had used those words before, 
 and where, and when, and how he had uttered them. As to 
 where— it was in the little cottage in the wood to which the 
 strange man — ah! the clouds were lifting more and more! 
 
176 
 
 HTS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 lie knew the dark face now; it was the face of the man 
 who liad betrayed him! When had he used those words? 
 Why, when he felt the strange and heavy stupor overpow- 
 ering him after he had drunk a glass of beer and sat down 
 to wait for Mercy. Mercy! One idea awoke another; his 
 brain was growing clearer and more clear so far as memory 
 went, at least. 
 
 He remembered the strange man, the letter, the words 
 with James; the disappointment of not finding Mercy 
 there; the man^s explanation of her absence and promise 
 to bring her instantly. 
 
 He remembered how James had detained the man by 
 asking him for a drink, and his own annoyance, though 
 he had been strangely thirsty too, at the delay which the 
 request occasioned. 
 
 For the man had brought out glasses and beer in hos- 
 pitable fashion, so that he, Steve, in spite of his real im- 
 patience, could do no less than drink. 
 
 Thus far he remembered all clearly — but what came 
 afterward? 
 
 The man went out at the cottage door — he was sure of 
 that, leaving him and James together. They sat silent, 
 for there seemed ill-will between them; and the suspicion 
 — vague but persistent — which had haunted him — Steve — 
 on the niglit before, grew stronger and stronger every mo- 
 ment. They sat silent, waiting, watching each other 
 furtively, and James was ghastly pale. 
 
 Through all the muddle and confusion of his recollec- 
 tions, Steve could remember his brother’s death-like face, 
 and his own wondering horror at such an unusual degree 
 of pallor. 
 
 ‘‘It is like sitting face to face with an animated 
 corpse,” he had said to himself; and he now remembered 
 having thought out that very idea in those very words. 
 
 But that was his last clear memory. After that all was 
 confused. Some recollections of having attempted to re- 
 
ms COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 177 
 
 iiuirk that the man was a long time gone, and of linding a 
 curious difiiculty in liis speech that alarmed him — of try- 
 ing to rise from his chair and discovering that the strange 
 11 umbhess extended to his limbs — of seeing James rise up 
 before him with a look on his white face that suddenly 
 flashed all the smoldering suspicion of his recent thoughts 
 into a furious fire — of springing toward him with that 
 cry: ‘‘ Oh, you villain on his lips. Of hearing the door 
 open and knowing that the man had returned — of being 
 seized from behind and dragged back into his chair — of 
 struggling fiercely but feebly, and feeling strength and 
 consciousness ebbing away; and feeling also that it was 
 not so much his antagonist's superior strength as his own 
 increasing weakness and faintness that overpowered him. 
 
 These recollections — vague, clouded, confused, and 
 mixed with a sense of keenest mental anguish, and heavy, 
 dull, bodily pain, crowded upon his brain; not clearly as 
 distinct thoughts or memories, but floating like dim vis- 
 ions among the fumes and vapors of the poisonous drug 
 that had been given him, and whose effect was so strong 
 upon him still that collected thought or logical reasoning 
 was impossible. He could remember up to a certain 
 point, but he could not argue or reason about the events 
 he remembered. 
 
 Here was Steve Raymond, who had gone, in company 
 with a stranger and his brother James, to a cottage in the 
 woods to meet Mercy Craven — now lying bound, and feel- 
 ing sick almost unto death, in a place that seemed like a 
 cave. That much he knew and no more. His instinctive 
 rage of suspicion against James, which had induced him to 
 spring at him in the cottage, and his impulse to denounce 
 the strange man as a villain even now, were instincts 
 merely. He knew no cause for them, and while he wearily 
 and feebly sought for one in the recesses of his darkened 
 mind, the object of his painful marveling entered. 
 
178 
 
 HIS COUHTRy COUSIH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIIL 
 
 IN THE TRAP. 
 
 A POWERFUL, swarthy, gypsy-looking fellow, who stood 
 for a few seconds at^the foot of the rough couch, and then, 
 coming close to the passive victim, felt his pulse, as a phy- 
 sician might, and laid a cool hand on his burning, aching 
 brow, and looked into his eyes. Seeing that Steve strove 
 to speak, but could only utter inarticulate sounds, he 
 raised a warning finger, bidding him desist. 
 
 “ Wait awhile,^^ said he, coolly. “ You’ve had a pretty 
 stiff dose, young fellow. You\e been lying two days and 
 nights without any proper nourishment, and you ain^t in 
 trim for talking. ITl fetch you something thatTl do you 
 good, though.” 
 
 And he turned and went away, and left Steve wonder- 
 ing. 
 
 Two nights and days! His head — light from the want 
 of food, as well as from the effects ctf the drug he had 
 taken — seemed to swim round and round. Two nights 
 and days! How could it be so? What had happened to 
 him? What was this place? 
 
 Glancing wildly around him, he now noticed an opening 
 in one of the sides of the cave, so low that, if it served the 
 purpose of a door, his captor, jailer, or whatever the 
 strange man might be, must surely be under the necessity 
 of stooping low in order to enter or depart by it. As he 
 gazed upon it the man came through it, stooping low in- 
 deed, and bearing in his hands a plate of food and a bowl 
 in which some savory broth smelled temptingly. 
 
 These viands, beginning with the broth, he administered 
 to Steve, feeding him as he might have fed a child. The 
 poor fellow took the food readily enough, for he was sore 
 in need of it. Being fed and refreshed, he made another 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 179 
 
 attempt to speak; and this time, though the words came 
 with difficulty, and his voice was a whisper merely, he 
 succeeded in making himself understood. 
 
 Two days!^^ he murmured, brokenly. ‘‘ How came I 
 here? What place is this? Who are you? Where is my 
 brother?"^ 
 
 The man interrupted him roughly. 
 
 “Young fellow,^^ he said, “you keep quiet, and what 
 you^d ought to know ITl tell you. And mind — what^s 
 happened to you canT be helped or altered by no efforts o^ 
 yours, and had best be quietly submitted to and made the 
 best of. What place is this? you ask me. Well, seeing 
 that you canT get out until I choose to let you, I donT 
 mind telling you. This here is a cave in Dickerson's 
 Woods, several miles from your sweetheart^s cottage. 
 When 1 say your sweetheart, I ought to say your broth- 
 er^’s sweetheart, for he’s the man that is to marry her. As 
 to how you got here, why you walked here like a lamb to 
 the slaughter, fooled by a false letter, as him and me 
 agreed upon, and after you was stupid from the dose I’d 
 given you in your beer, him and me just carried you in 
 here and put you to bed like a baby. Them straps upon 
 your legs and arms is to make sure of keeping you now 
 we’ve got you. No harm is going to happen to you, but 
 the contrary. You haven’t a dollar in the world, and you 
 wanted to marry a handsome gal that hasn’t a dollar 
 either, and your best friends can’t do kinder by you than 
 prevent you. And the best and safest way to do that is to 
 find her another husband, which will be your brother 
 James. And until they’re married you’re to board with 
 me, and I’ll take care not to lose sight of you!” 
 
 To describe the feelings of the helpless captive to whom 
 this speech was addressed would be impossible. Eage, 
 grief, fear, despair well-nigh maddened him. To lie here, 
 trapped and bound, and know that she — his love— was 
 waiting, wondering, grieving at his absence^ — an absence 
 
180 
 
 HIS COUisTRY COUSIlsr. 
 
 that would doubtless be made to appear like gross neglect; 
 to remember how proud and spirited she was, and how 
 quick she would be to resent the seeming insult; all the 
 more so because it was undeniable that he had given her 
 cause for jealousy and doubt before in the matter of Ada; 
 to think of her beauty, of Jameses passion for her, and the 
 wealth that would find favor in her mother’s eyes, and 
 make her his willing ally; these thoughts drove him almost 
 mad. 
 
 He raved, gathering brief and delusive strength from 
 the passion of his despair, and plucked at the bonds that 
 held him so furiously, that for a few seconds it almost 
 seemed as if he would break them and be free- 
 
 But that was for a moment only. In the next the sub- 
 tle poison still coursing through his veins had gained the 
 mastery again of nerve and brain, and he fell back weak 
 and panting. 
 
 “You have destroyed me!” he groaned, in agony. 
 “ What’s come to me? Where’s my brain, my strength? 
 What devil’s drink have you dosed me with? Have you — 
 have you poisoned me?” 
 
 The man laughed sneeringly. 
 
 “ Devil a bit!” said he. “ Your loving brother thinks 
 too much of you for that; he wouldn’t hear of killing you. 
 You’re worth a few thousand dollars to me if I give you 
 back to him — after his marriage — alive. The stuff you 
 drank is harmless enough, unless you take too much of it. 
 ^ No real harm was to come to you,’ he said. He wouldn’t 
 have you really harmed — he meant murdered — ‘ not even 
 for Mercy’s sake!’ ” 
 
 Steve groaned again in the anguish of his impotent de- 
 spair and rage. 
 
 “ No real harm!” he panted. “ And yet he will steal 
 her from me! Oh, villain! villain! But he shall not! I 
 am weak now. You’ve poisoned me and starved me, un- 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 181 
 
 til my strength is gone, but wait awhile and see if you can 
 hold me! 1 will be free!^^ 
 
 Again the man laughed — out loudly this time, and with 
 open mockery. 
 
 “ I that caught you can be trusted to keep you!^^ said 
 he. “Youwon^t get out of the trap so easily, my gay 
 bird! What? D^ye think I don^t know how to clip your 
 wings? No, no. Put all that nonsense out of your head. 
 You won^t get out until the bells have rung for Mercy 
 Craven^s wedding. The time of it may be far off or near, 
 but here you stay until James marries her. She wonT 
 hold out long, I guess, when she^s told that you^re false to 
 her, and off and away with another girl; she^s a proud 
 spirit, is Mercy. Get out!^^ he laughed again, in great 
 enjoyment of the presumptuous thought. ‘‘ Why, try it! 
 Why, if you could get out with me guarding you, and de- 
 termined as I am that you shall not escape me, I’d say you 
 deserved to marry her! You’d prove yourself a smarter 
 fellow than 1 take you for! Come!” he stood looking 
 down upon his victim with malicious merriment in his 
 black eyes and a provoking smile displaying his white 
 teeth — “ come, now. I’ll make you an offer. I’ve said 
 that Mercy shall marry James Eaymond, and ” — with a 
 savage oath — “ so she shall! But make good your boast; 
 get back your strength, and get free in spite of me, and 
 hang me if 1 won’t say you’ve fairly won the girl, and I’ll 
 agree to stand aside and let you marry her!” 
 
 Steve heard him with indignant rage, the fiercer for his 
 inability to give it adequate expression. 
 
 You’ll ‘agree;’ and ‘you’ve said who Mercy Craven 
 shall marry!’ ” he repeated, in low, faint tones that thrilled 
 with scornful anger. “ You make too free with the lady’s 
 name, you scoundrel! Who are you that you should inter- 
 fere in her affairs? What are you, villain?” 
 
 The man laughed loud and long. Steve’s hard words 
 did not seem to ruffle him at all; perhaps the contrast be- 
 
182 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN’. 
 
 tween their high spirit and their faint, low tone, amused 
 him. He sat down and had his laugh out before he an- 
 swered, mockingly: 
 
 Who am I that I make so free with pretty Mercy ^s 
 name and take the trouble to choose her a fitting husband? 
 And what am I? Those are your questions, are they? 1^11 
 answer the second one first. What am I? A gypsy, a 
 poacher, a scamp, a rogue, and your jailer. And who am 
 I?^^ He rose from his seat and stood tall and dark and 
 defiant beside the bed. ‘‘ My name, when 1 choose to go 
 by it^ — is Eoy Craven, my young friend, and I have the 
 honor to be your handsome sweetheart’s father!’’ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 OH THE TRACK. 
 
 Jahe Craveh went to Philadelphia to make the neces- 
 sary purchases for her daughter’s wedding outfit, and 
 Mercy remained at the cottage, quite alone. 
 
 She refused to allow James to call upon her during her 
 mother’s absence, averring that she both desired and 
 needed solitude, and that they two would be likely to see 
 quite enough of each other when they should be husband 
 and wife. 
 
 From the very first she had taken this tone of mere 
 civility and bare toleration with her accepted suitor, and 
 she maintained it without remonstrance from him, for he 
 felt that he dared not venture upon any. 
 
 This questionable good — the possession of a woman’s 
 hand without her heart — which he had dared so much to 
 win, was his as yet upon such slight and questionable 
 grounds of holding that the merest trifle— a word of com- 
 plaint on his own part, for instance, giving excuse for an 
 angry humor upon hers — might upset his claim, and dash 
 his hopes, and let the rich prize, on which his grasp had 
 not yet firmly closed, slip through his fingers altogether. 
 
HIvS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 183 
 
 So he consoled himself as best he eoiild by looking forward 
 to the near future. 
 
 “ In one month/^ he said to himself — “ in four short 
 weeks I shall take her away and have her all my own for- 
 ever. I can afford to be patient now — and, indeed, I need 
 some time in town to perfect my plans and make arrange- 
 ments for a lengthy absence. It won^t do to bring her 
 back under a year or two, until she has had time to quite 
 forget her silly fancy for Steve — 1 must make arrange- 
 ments for that.^’ 
 
 Besides all this, he was rather afraid of the cold, stern, 
 beautiful girl whom he had tricked and cheated, and was a 
 prey to all sorts of nervous terrors concerning Steve him- 
 self. Neither was he free from a certain remorse, which 
 he strove to stifle and silence by making a liberal provision 
 for his young brother by way of amends. 
 
 For a long time it puzzled him sorely to devise some 
 plan by which this might be done without attracting too 
 much attention, or arousing suspicion as to his own pro- 
 ceedings and intents. Being a man to whom money had, 
 until recently, appeared the chief good in life, his proposed 
 atonement and peace-offering naturally took a pecuniary 
 form. Steve should be given a fair start in life — a chance 
 that, properly used, might make him a rich man some 
 day. 
 
 “ When he gets out and learns the truth,^' he mused — 
 
 learns that Mercy is married, but Ada, his first love, is 
 still free, and that I have bestowed on him the beginning 
 of a fortune, he will soon be consoled, no doubt. Steve 
 was always a happy, easy-going fellow; hem’ll thank me for 
 what I am doing some day — of course he will!’’ 
 
 He greatly astonished Mrs. Kaymond, a few days later, 
 by announcing to her that he had, unasked and of his own 
 free will, made really a liberal and handsome gift to Steve 
 — ‘‘ enough to give him a fair start in life,” he told her. 
 
 ‘‘ I have placed ten thousand dollars in bank for him,” 
 
184 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 he said, at the same time handing her the necessary docu- 
 ments. “You take charge of these till Steve returns, as 
 I may have to go away. You see, the money is in his 
 name, free and clear, and subject to no control but his. 
 You will tell him that I did this to place him more on an 
 equality with Ada, his bride. You know, mother, I prom- 
 ised you I would do something for Steve when he married 
 Ada. But this I have done quite unconditionally,^^ he 
 hastened to add, “ and 1 sincerely hope that he will ac- 
 knowledge that Ada is a much more suitable match for 
 him than Mercy Craven could have been. Such beauty as 
 hers needs a costlier setting than Steve could have given 
 it, mother, and Mercy would not long have been content 
 without it.'^^ 
 
 Mrs. Eaymond was full of pleasure and gratitude. 
 
 “ You are a good brother, indeed!^^ she cried. “ Why, 
 with what I shall be able to leave him, Steve will be quite 
 a rich man now, without naming Ada^s fortune. 1 donH 
 know how we are to thank you enough, dear. As for 
 Mercy Craven — she broke off here and passed into a 
 state of wondering — “ what on earth you see in her so very 
 beautiful, except a fine figure and big black eyes, I can’t 
 find out. But then ” — with sudden comprehension dawn- 
 ing in her kind eyes — “ but then 1 may be no judge of a 
 young girl’s beauty, after all. And do you know, my 
 dear ” — this half timidly, for she stood in some awe of 
 this eldest son of hers, so cold and hard he was — “ do you 
 know, I have thought sometimes that you admired Mercy 
 almost as much as our silly Steve did, and that, since you 
 are rich enough to deck this beauty finely, you might even 
 choose to marry her yourself.” 
 
 “‘You might even choose to marry her yourself!’” 
 James repeated the words with a strange accent of bitter- 
 ness, and laughed at them, but not pleasantly. To think 
 that his mother should fancy that such a marriage was 
 me^rely a thing for him to choose to accomplish! Tie 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 185 
 
 thought of all that he had suffered aud done to compass 
 this end which Mrs. Ka\^mond deemed so simple, and he 
 almost groaned aloud as he thought of it. An effort 
 turned the groan into a laugh, but into one that had so 
 little mirth in it that the little mother looked at him quite 
 anxiously. 
 
 “ I’m all right, mother,” he said, answering the look, 
 “ and time will show whether you are a witch or not. 
 Anyhow,” he added, gravely, “ no matter whom I marry, 
 or if I never marry at all, I have made provision for 
 Steve’s keeping a wife, at all events. ” 
 
 And with these words upon his lips he left her. Strange 
 words they were, in the light of a new meaning that com- 
 ing events were to give them — a meaning that was to come 
 home to the heart and brain of the speaker by and by, 
 and leave him to curse alike his own prophetic words and 
 'the generous deed they chronicled. 
 
 Meantime events began to move. Mrs. Eaymond, who 
 had religiously abstained from visiting her daughter Polly, 
 lest she should let out to her the secret of the marriage, 
 found it impossible to keep to herself this news of wonder- 
 ful pecuniary good fortune for Steve — especially as James, 
 in his agitation, had neglected to caution her to keep 
 silence. She went to Polly without loss of time; and, lo! 
 in telling her one piece of good news, out slipped the 
 other, and Polly learned, to her delighted surprise, that 
 Steve had married Ada. 
 
 Less scrupulous than her mother, she mentioned the 
 matter next day, in a confidential letter to a friend in San 
 Francisco who had been Ada’s school-mate and her own. 
 
 ‘‘We have had a romantic love affair in my family,” 
 she wrote. “ Dear little Ada West has eloped with and 
 married my twin-brother Steve, and the two are away to- 
 gether now, enjoying their stolen honey- moon, no one 
 knows where. The joke of the matter is that there was 
 
186 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 no real necessity for an eloprnent at all, such a marriage 
 being the very thing that all their friends desired for 
 them.^’ 
 
 Now Ada happened to be in San Francisco, and visiting 
 at the very house to which this letter came. It was placed 
 in her hands at once with many an exclamation of bewil- 
 derment and surprise, and she found herself confronted by 
 a mystery. 
 
 A reported marriage between herself and Steve! Ee- 
 ported and believed by his own family! How could such 
 a thing be possible? Why did not Steve himself instantly 
 contradict — She came to a sudden stand-still in the 
 
 rapid and angry current of her thoughts, checked by a 
 strange fear. Polly’s letter said, “They are away to- 
 gether — no one knows where. Away? Steve was away, 
 and his absence thus strangely and monstrously accounted 
 for by those who really loved him! A strange chill went 
 creeping all over the girPs sensitive frame, for she had 
 loved him, too. She asked herself, as his other true lover, 
 the little mother, had done, “ Where is he? Something is 
 surely wrong with him! Where is Steve?^^ 
 
 And to Ada^^ — rich and independent, generous and for- 
 giving — to Ada that instinctive fear concerning her faith- 
 less lover^s safety was intolerable, until everything possible 
 was done to set it at rest. If Steve was well and safe, he 
 must be found, and proved so for her satisfaction. If he 
 was in danger, as her heart foreboded, he must be rescued, 
 protected, saved. That she would save him for another 
 woman made no difference to this true heart. His safety, 
 his welfare, came first of all. 
 
 And thus it came to pass that she took her friend — the 
 recipient of Polly^s letter — and her friend’s husband, into 
 the secret of her doubts and fears, and with her aunt was 
 (piickly on her way to New York with a first-class detect- 
 ive in her company. By his advice they gave no one any 
 
HIS COUKTRY COUSTK. 
 
 187 
 
 vvtimiiig of tlicir coming, but, urriving fjuictly, took up 
 their residence at a plain, private hotel under an assumed 
 name, and there settled down to await the results of the 
 detective^s preliminary inquiries. 
 
 They were rather calculated to increase anxiety than to 
 relieve it. Steve had been absent now three weeks, and a 
 rumor— faint and vague at first, but louder and more posi- 
 tive now — a rumor that he had gone to Europe to be mar- 
 ried appeared to be generally accepted as the true cause of 
 his absence, and considered entirely satisfactory. Mr. 
 Hunter, the detective, reported his mother and family 
 quite at ease concerning him; and, as for his once 
 affianced bride — Mercy Craven — she was on the eve of 
 marriage with his brother James. 
 
 “ And this marriage is the strangest part of it all,^^ said 
 Mr. Hunter, when he had given Ada this startling news. 
 “ The girl is marrying him out of pique, 1 think, having 
 been persuaded that her lover had forsaken her. The 
 mother has put about a different story, though. She has 
 told the clergyman who is to perform the ceremony, that 
 her daughter was advised and persuaded into discarding 
 Mr. Stephen Eaymond in order to marry Mr. James. 
 And that young Stephen took the matter very angrily and 
 bitterly, and went away in a fit of jealous pique, and fol- 
 lowing his old sweetheart — yourself. Miss West — to Eu- 
 rope, married her. The story is plausibility itself. A hot- 
 headed young man might dash away in just such fashion 
 on a wild-goose chase, and his statement that he was go- 
 ing to marry you, coupled with the fact that an engage- 
 ment had actually existed between you, would easily be 
 exaggerated into a report that the marriage had actually 
 taken place. Upon my soul, it staggered me for a mo- 
 ment! 1 began to ask myself, ‘ Can this be the true solu- 
 tion of the mystery after all? and shall we presently hear 
 from the missing man that he is in Europe seeking for 
 you, and, of course, failing in his quest?^^ 
 
188 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 Ada looked at him earnestly. 
 
 “ May it not indeed be so?^^ she asked him. “ Ah, 
 no!^^— with quick intelligence, as she met his eyes — “1 
 see you have reasons for disbelieving this plausible story; 
 have you not?^^ 
 
 Mr. Hunter nodded gravely. 
 
 “Two or three reasons, said he; “and I consider 
 them serious ones. You shall hear them and judge: In 
 the first place, Mr. Stephen passed his last night in New 
 York at his brother's hotel, and left it in his company 
 early next morning. Mr. Eaymond claims that they went 
 to Philadelphia, and there parted, and that he knows noth- 
 ing further of his brother’s movements; but I have ascer- 
 tained, and shall be able to prove, that this is untrue. 
 When the train left Philadelphia they were still aboard it, 
 and sitting side by side; and their tickets were taken for 
 Gray’s Mountain, Miss Mercy Craven’s dwelling-place. 
 Yet no one saw them arrive there — no one saw them there 
 — and Mr. Eaymond next day returns alone, and denies 
 all knowledge of his brother. This looks bad, doesn’t it? 
 But what will you think when I inform you that, on the 
 very evening of Stephen’s disappearance, his mother re- 
 ceived a telegram from Philadelphia, and apparently sent 
 by you. Miss West.” 
 
 “ By me?” cried Ada, pale and startled. “ Impossible! 
 1 was then in Chicago, en route for — ” 
 
 “I know that,” said Mr. Hunter, interrupting in his 
 turn. “ But the telegram purports to be sent by you, 
 and in it you are made to speak of yourself and Stephen as 
 her children, and announce to her the fact of your mar- 
 riage.” 
 
 Ada uttered an exclamation of dismay and horror. 
 
 “It is a plot,” she cried, earnestly. “My absence, 
 just at that time, has been taken cunning advantage of by 
 some one whose interest was concerned in having this tale 
 of Steve’s marriage believed; and who was so deeply inter- 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 180 
 
 ested as James himself, when he must have immediately 
 proposed to Mercy? Ah, Polly said he had been caught 
 by her fine eyes! James’^ — she started up excitedly — 
 “ James is the criminal, Mr. Hunter; 1 am sure of it!^^ 
 
 “ That^s my own opinion, answered the detective, 
 quietly; but weVe got to prove it. It didn^t take long 
 to put you on the right track. Miss West — looking at 
 her with evident admiration — “ youh’e a bit of a detective 
 yourself, I think. Yes; if any one on earth can tell us 
 what has become of this poor young fellow, James Kay- 
 mond is the man!'’^ 
 
 “ You speak as if you pitied him, and feared— oh, worse 
 than I can bear to think of! — for him,^^ cried Ada, with 
 gathering alarm. How could Mrs. Eaymond have been 
 so deceived? I wrote her a letter, before my departure, to 
 say good-bye, which should have been sufficient to prove 
 to her common sense that the telegram must have been a 
 forgery. ^ ^ 
 
 ‘‘ She got no such letter,^^ cried the detective, quickly. 
 
 I know that she went to your house to see you, in utter 
 ignorance of your departure. The letter has been inter- 
 cepted, Miss West, and the whole affair grows blacker and 
 more serious in consequence. James Eaymond has got rid 
 of his rival and brother, and we must discover how. It^s 
 of no use to remain in New York; the clew to the matter 
 is not here. Are you willing, Miss West, to go with me to 
 Gray^s Mountain immediately? — for, whether we find him 
 living or dead, it is there we must look for Steve/ ^ 
 
 CHAPTEE XL. 
 free! 
 
 “ Living or dead!^’ that terrible question concerning 
 Steve had long been tormenting others besides his would- 
 be liberators. His captors questioned each other with 
 
190 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 growing abirm. “ Will he live?^^ For, after the whole 
 villainy that had been practiced against him had been laid 
 bare to Steve, and he had realized what utter ruin threat- 
 ened his dearest hopes, and how powerless he was to avert 
 it, a great despondency seized upon him, and threatened 
 life and reason. Eoy Craven had assured him that no 
 further harm than the harm of his detention until Mercy^s 
 wedding-day was past was intended him, but that was in- 
 jury enough. To lie there (for he could not move about 
 by reason of his bonds, and, moreover, his strength had 
 failed strangely, and he seemed continually half stupefied 
 and heavy with sleep)— to lie there helpless, and count the 
 days as they went by, and know that each one brought 
 him nearer to the hour of his ruin and the triumph of his 
 enemy, was to lie upon the road to madness. Prayers, 
 promises, threats, he had tried without eSect. Eoy Cra- 
 ven met them all with sullen silence, and James never 
 came into his sight at all, although once or twice he had 
 heard his voice in the outer room, and had frantically 
 cursed and called him. There is little doubt that the un- 
 happy boy would have been driven mad indeed but for the 
 continual, and, to him, unaccountable drowsiness which 
 so frequently overpowered him and' robbed him — often for 
 hours together — of all knowledge of his wrongs and 
 misery. 
 
 So the days and weeks went on — their monotony only 
 broken occasionally by a storm of anguish and passionate 
 despair, in which the helpless victim of this base and cruel 
 plot rebelled and struggled wildly and vainly against the 
 fate that hemmed him in and was so remorselessly closing 
 around him. At such times his frantic cries might often 
 have penetrated to the outer air, had there been anybody 
 nigh to hear them, and his struggles would leave him — 
 cut by his tightened bonds, and bruised, and faint — to 
 pass from a state of utter exhaustion into that heavy, hide- 
 ous, unnatural sleej), which he had learned instinctively to 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 191 
 
 dread, even though it brought upon its leaden wings the 
 boon of kind oblivion. 
 
 Awaking out of it he would lie, sometimes for a long 
 time, perfectly motionless, lacking even sufficient energy 
 to do so much as open his eyes. Many a time Koy Craven 
 had stood by his side with a refreshing drink in his hand, 
 and on his lips the questions: “ Ain^t you awake yet, 
 youngster? and ain^t you thirsty?^’ And though he was 
 thirsty — parched and fevered by exhaustion and excite- 
 ment — he would make no answering sound or movement 
 (so much he loathed his jailer^s face and voice — so much 
 he hated to awake and look on life again) and Eoy Craven 
 would go away believing him to be still sleeping. It hap- 
 pened so one afternoon, when — after one of his fits of mad 
 despair and subsequent exhaustion and slumber— he re- 
 turned to semi-consciousness and became aware of voices 
 speaking softly just within his prison. The speakers were 
 Eoy Craven and James Eaymond, and they evidently sup- 
 posed their victim to be still asleep. Instinctively, rather 
 than by any distinct effort of the will, he abstained from 
 making any sign or sound, but lay perfectly quiet listen- 
 ing. 
 
 ‘‘I couldn^t manage him without it!’^ he heard Eoy 
 Craven exclaim, evidently in reply to something James 
 had said. ‘‘ If you were to see him in one of his deviFs 
 tantrums, you’d know. He’s got to be dosed, or I 
 couldn’t hold him. But it’s hurting him, of course. Not 
 that there’s any harm — that is, any murderous harm — in 
 the stuff itself as 1 give it to him, for it only amounts to a 
 strong sleeping draught, but he has to have it too often. 
 It keeps him stupid when he isn’t asleep, and, between 
 that and his fretting, he gets no nourishment. Why, he 
 hasn’t eaten enough to keep a baby alive ever since he 
 came, and he’s worn almost to skin and bone. I untied 
 his hands after his fit of rage to-day, he looked so white 
 and awful. If he’s better when he wakes I can tie ’em 
 
192 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 again; bui if not^ there’ll be no need. As for his legs, if 
 he got the bands off them, it’s my belief he couldn’t stand 
 upon them, he’s so weak. That’s why you found this 
 place all open, and the window out there open, too — it’s 
 because he must have air. I don’t want him to die upon 
 my hands, I can assure you — and he would have died if I 
 hadn’t given him the very best of care. Why, these four 
 nights past I’ve left it open so through the night, and he 
 never the wiser. But if he was, he couldn’t get out — not 
 while the effect of the dose is on him, and that’s pretty 
 much all the time.” 
 
 ‘‘ How do you give it to him?” James asked, in a low, 
 smothered tone. 
 
 Oh, how his victim’s heart throbbed — how his fingers 
 closed spasmodically with instinctive longing to seize him! 
 But that would be mere madness. No; he was learning 
 something now; let him lie still and hear all the villainy, 
 and perhaps learn how to frustrate it even yet. His heart, 
 that had lain like lead in his breast so long, thrilled sud- 
 denly with a desperate hope. These villains were betray- 
 ing their plots to him, and, being warned, he would be 
 armed to defend himself against them. He held his 
 breath, he controlled his nerves, and lay motionless. 
 
 “ 1 may escape, and save her yet!” he thought. “ God 
 help me to deceive them now, and outwit them after- 
 ward!” 
 
 So the conversation went on uninterruptedly. 
 
 “It’s easy enough to give it to him,” answered Koy. 
 “ It can’t be tasted in tea or coffee or soup, and in all 
 these he gets it. Beer he won’t touch, ’cause he knows it 
 was that way I dosed him first. One effect of the dose is 
 to make you awful thirsty. It causes a kind of inward 
 fever, so that you drink and drink. Well, I take care 
 that he always has drink beside him. When he’s got 
 enough, so as he’s quiet and manageable, I leave water or 
 milk beside him; when I see the signs of a fit coming, it’s 
 
HTS COUNTRY COUSIN. * 193 
 
 something else^ with the stuff in it. I donU give him the 
 milk or water till the doctored drink has gone; after that 
 he’s quiet enough. The sleep seems to hold him longer 
 than ever to-day,” he added, glancing at his unhappy 
 charge with an air of real anxiety. ‘‘ Look at him! Your 
 wedding need be soon, indeed, if he’s to come out of this 
 alive!” 
 
 ” It will be in three days,” James answered, hurriedly, 
 “ on Thursday afternoon, and this is Monday evening. 
 On Saturday we shall sail for Europe, and on the day after 
 you may set him free. Our mother will nurse him back 
 to health, and by and by Ada will console him. He will 
 find, too, that I have tried to make him amends. Surely 
 you can manage him for so short a time — only one week.” 
 
 Eoy Craven had moved up to the bedside now. He 
 shook his head gravely. 
 
 ‘‘ I’ll do my best,” he said. ‘‘ He’ll last out the week, 
 no doubt, and longer, but 1 doubt if he’ll ever get over it. 
 Look at him. You needn’t fear; there’s no sign of his 
 waking yet. Look at him. ” 
 
 Thus urged, James came, slowly and unwillingly, and 
 looked upon the brother he had so foully wronged. He 
 turned away with a groan. 
 
 “ I wish I had never seen your face!” he cried to Roy. 
 Craven, almost passionately. “ You tempted me to do 
 this! I wish 1 had never seen your face!” 
 
 The other looked at him contemptuously. 
 
 “ You better wish you’d never seen my daughter’s 
 ■face,” said he, dryly. ‘'You did this thing for Mercy’s 
 sake, you know. However, if you repent of it, the thing 
 maybe easily undone again; it is not yet too late. Set 
 him free now. Let Mercy nurse him back to health in- 
 stead of — ” 
 
 James stopped him with an oath. 
 
 “ Curse your mocking tongue!” he said, savagely. 
 
194 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 “No! 1 have gone too far to turn back now! Besides, 
 no man but myself shall have her!^ Come! Do the best 
 you can for him, and let me get out of this hole — it stifles 
 me!^^ 
 
 They turned and went away, and presently Steve heard 
 their voices as they passed through the outer room of the 
 cottage and away into the woods. Then only did he throw 
 off the seeming sleep and stupor, and sit up with sudden 
 and unwonted energy. 
 
 ‘‘I am saved!^^ he muttered from his swelling heart, 
 that almost burst with its emotions. “ I will not touch 
 his poison once again. When he leaves it by me I can 
 throw it away behind this bed, and he will think I drank 
 it. 1 can feign that horrible stupor now, it seems, well 
 enough to deceive him. My hands are free, indeed He 
 held them up to Heaven in thankfulness. ‘‘ He said he 
 would leave them so it he found me no better. I/ll make 
 him think me dying. The window out there open too! 
 Oh, if 1 could but gather strength enough to reach it and 
 get out! And who knows but 1 may? Hark! he^s com- 
 ing back again. Now for it!^ Now, Steve, set all your 
 wits to work for Mercy’s sake!” 
 
 Koy Craven did not think it necessary to tie the hands 
 of the poor, helpless creature whom he found on his re- 
 turn, lying with wide-open eyes that had no speculation in 
 their glare. He was rather alarmed at his victim’s ex- 
 treme passiveness and silence. No word or movement 
 could he elicit from Steve in answer to his own remarks 
 and questions; indeed, it did not appear that the sufferer 
 even heard them. Eoy stooped, and gently pushed back 
 the lids from the staring eyes and examined the pupils 
 anxiously. 
 
 I’m afraid his brain is going,” he muttered to him- 
 self, “ I’m afraid of it. By thunder, I believe I’ve over- 
 dosed him!” 
 
 lie went into his own room hurriedly, and returned 
 
HTS roUNTKY COUSTN'. 
 
 195 
 
 bringing sorno wine, which he mixed with wiiter and [)Iaeed 
 to his victirn^s lips. 
 
 “ Here, Steve — here, my boy, drink this,^^ he said, 
 almost gently, at the same time lifting the young man’s 
 head upon his arm. “ Come, it’ll put some life into 
 you.” 
 
 Steve had heard enough to be well assured that no 
 treacherous poison lurked in this draught, so he drank, but 
 without apparent eagerness or relish. Then, as Eoy Cra- 
 ven placed his head back upon the pillow: “Air!” he 
 gasped, feebly. “ Oh, give me air, air!” In short, he 
 played his part so well during the next twenty-four hours, 
 that Eoy Craven was effectually and seriously alarmed. 
 So seriously that on the morning of Wednesday — the day 
 before the one appointed for Mercy’s marriage — he began 
 to contemplate the advisability and necessity of taking him 
 out of the secret cave into the outer room where his own 
 rough bed was placed, and where at least he might have 
 more of the air he seemed to be dying for. * 
 
 “ There can’t be any danger,” he reassured himself, as 
 he decided upon this extreme step. “ He knows nothing 
 — not even me, now, and I must keep him alive somehow. 
 It would be devilish awkward to have him die here.- I 
 don’t know how the deuce 1 should dispose of the body. ” 
 
 With these kind and comforting reflections, he took the 
 seemingly helpless and almost unconscious prisoner in his 
 powerful arms, and carried him into the room where, a 
 month before, the wicked plot had been laid and the first 
 treacherous dose had been administered. 
 
 Steve’s heart beat so hard and fast that he almost 
 thought his jailer must feel or hear its strong pulsations. 
 
 But Craven had, apparently, no suspicion that he was 
 being fooled. 
 
 He laid his victim gently down on his own bed, and pro- 
 ceeded to administer wine to him. 
 
 During these last twenty -four hours, Steve had had a 
 
196 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 certain quantity of pure and nourishing food^, and not one 
 drop of the pernicious poison. 
 
 This — together with the strong hope that now cheered 
 him — had already worked a change in his condition which 
 it was difficult to conceal. 
 
 He felt that this removal from the cave had brought 
 him near to liberty, and that should any possible chance of 
 escaping Roy^s vigilance offer itself, he should have 
 strength enough to take advantage of it. Who could tell 
 but this very night such a chance might come? It must 
 come soon, he thought, to be of any use, since the mar- 
 riage would be to-morrow. 
 
 But it did not come that night, through which he lay, 
 feigning heavy sleep, but really wakeful and despairing. 
 
 All night Roy Craven sat in a chair by the small fire, 
 having given up his bed to Steve, and alternately smoked 
 and drank, or dozed uneasily; awaking with sudden starts 
 and muttered curses. 
 
 At ISiSt, when it must have been after six o^ clock, for 
 the first gray light of dawn was peeping in at the curtain- 
 less window, the dawn of what was to be Mercy^s wedding- 
 day, he arose, shook himself roughly, like a great dog, and 
 pouring some coffee into a cup, dropped a small portion 
 of the sleeping mixture into it, and put it on a stand by 
 Stevens bed, muttering as he did so, that a man must 
 stretch his legs a little, and that as the boy hadnT had 
 any for two days, that little drop couldnT hurt him much, 
 and if he awoke while he — Roy Craven — was away, would 
 keep him quiet till he came back again. 
 
 And with that he threw on his heavy coat, and left the 
 cottage, softly closing the door behind him, but leaving it 
 unlocked. 
 
 This meant two things. Firstly, a chance of escape for 
 Steve; secondly, that the chance must be taken without 
 delay, because Roy Craven^s absence would be but a brief 
 one. 
 
HTS COUNTRY COUF^TN. 107 
 
 Stove waited only long enough to let his enemy get clear 
 away from the cottage^ and then crept from his bed — for 
 he could do no more — as quickly as feeble strength and 
 galling bands would suffer him. 
 
 His first care was to seize a knife and cut the strips of 
 deer-hide from his ankles. 
 
 He was j>artly dressed, Eoy having removed only his 
 outer clothing, and that he would not stay to look for. 
 
 He was so dreadfully weak, and all his limbs so cramped 
 with long confinement to his bed, that even his strong ex- 
 citement scarcely enabled him to stand upright, and as he 
 moved he staggered like a drunken man, but his wits did 
 not forsake him. 
 
 He poured the coffee out of the cup on to the fire, and 
 drew the heavy covers of the bed around the pillow in such 
 fashion as to make it appear that his head still lay there. 
 
 This done, he opened the door with trembling hands, 
 and closing it after him went groping and stumbling blind- 
 ly through the semi-darkness, out into the woods. His 
 sight could scarcely penetrate a yard before him — his limbs 
 were bending under him with weakness — his heart’s wild 
 beating seemed to sound in his own ears, and deafen him 
 — cold and terror chilled him to the bone. 
 
 In which direction to seek a human dwelling he knew 
 not; and if such there were far off, to reach it, in his con- 
 dition, would be impossible. Yet he must find friends and 
 intelligent human aid at once, or how should he prevent 
 this marriage? 
 
 She would only need to see him, he felt sure of that. 
 James would be checkmated and frustrated, if he, her true 
 lover, could but reach the church in time, even though he 
 fell dying at her feet. 
 
 But should he ever have strength to find his way to her 
 without aid? 
 
 Would not Koy Craven, returning to the hut, miss him. 
 
198 
 
 HIS COUNTKY COUSIN. 
 
 and pursuing his slow and feeble steps^ drag liim back to 
 captivity once more? 
 
 These terrors drove him almost mad. Every sound 
 seemed, to his excited imagination, the footfall of his pur- 
 suing foe. 
 
 He knew not where he was going. For all he could tell 
 he might be traveling in a circle through the labyrinth of 
 the woods, that would presently bring him back to his 
 prison and into Eoy"s arms. 
 
 He stumbled blindly on, growing weaker and more de- 
 spairing with every step, when all at once a tall and pow- 
 erful figure stepped out of the gloom in front of him; a 
 hand was laid upon his breast — a voice sounded in his 
 ears: 
 
 “ See here! Who^s this? What ails you? Where are 
 you going?^^ 
 
 But Steve never heard the words — grief, rage, and hor- 
 ror overpowered him. 
 
 His dread had taken tangible form — here was his enemy, 
 come to drag him back to what, this time, would be his 
 grave! 
 
 With a howl of agony and fury, he struck out blindly, 
 feebly enough, at his supposed adversary, and just as he 
 felt two strong, warm hands closed firmly on his own — fell 
 swooning on the turf at his feet. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 Bright and clear shone the morn of Mercy^s wedding- 
 day, but the girl looked out upon the brightness with eyes 
 that loathed the sunlight, and her heart was full and 
 heavy with curses on the overhaste and passionate resent- 
 ment that had brought her to this pass. If she had only 
 waited so as to marry any one but James, to whom she had 
 conceived so positive and strong an aversion, that even his 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 109 
 
 infatuation might have shrunk from making her the part- 
 ner of his life could he have known of it. But he did not. 
 
 Cold and barely civil as she had been to him at the be- 
 ginning of their engagement, toward its close she withdrew 
 herself from his company altogether whenever he vent- 
 ured to call on her. 
 
 Jane Craven wai always ready with reasons and excuses 
 for this; but far more potent with James were the terrors 
 of his own guilty conscience as reasons for bearing with 
 her patiently. 
 
 “It will all be quite different when once she is your 
 wife/^ Jane assured him glibly; and he — sighing over the 
 tortures of his own unsatisfied love for her, and trembling 
 in fear of losing even the hope of legally claiming her as 
 his own — was fain to suffer silently, and get what scraps 
 of cold comfort he could out of her mother^s assurances. 
 
 If his had been merely a base and sensual jiassion that 
 coveted only the actual possession of her, caring nothing 
 whatever for her heart — his satisfaction in the triumph of 
 his approaching marriage would have been much greater, 
 and the punishment and torture which her icy coldness in- 
 flicted would have been much less. 
 
 But it was his curse to love her with areal affection, 
 that could never be satisfied with anything less than real 
 affection in return. And this there seemed no hope of 
 his ever winning. 
 
 True, he comforted himself — and allowed Jane Craven 
 to comfort him — with the belief that Mercy would love 
 him as her husband, but in his soul he knew that this was 
 trusting to and leaning on a very frail and broken reed; 
 and he knew also that should it fail him the marriage 
 which he had sinned to compass would bring no happiness 
 to his life, but rather bitterness and curses. 
 
 And yet he persisted and went on. The assurance of 
 his bride-elect’s cold indifference and incipient dislike 
 could not deter him — the sight of his young brother’s 
 
200 
 
 HIS COUKTRY COUSIN. 
 
 broken hearty ruined health and wreck of manhood could 
 not win from him a moment^s pause. 
 
 Over the ruins of their happiness he went on, with piti- 
 less tread, grinding their hearts under his iron heel, as he 
 marched on in his selfish pursuit of his own desires, in- 
 different to all beside them. 
 
 Not until the day before that appointed for the mar- 
 riage did he inform his mother of his intentions, and re- 
 quest her to be prepared to welcome his bride when he 
 should bring her to New York. 
 
 “ It will be but for an hour before we sail,^^ he said, “ 1 
 shall take her to Philadelphia immediately after our mar- 
 riage, and come to New York on Friday evening late. If 
 you will be on the steamer on Saturday morning to say 
 good-bye, mother, it is all I ask.^^ 
 
 And Mrs. Eaymond — greatly surprised and strangely 
 uneasy, too — had consented. The little mother was grow- 
 ing uneasy about Steve. 
 
 A whole month gone and no word from him — surely 
 even a newly wedded bridegroom might have found time 
 to write to her before this! She confided her uneasiness to 
 James. 
 
 “ I donT know what I fear, my dear; but there was 
 something queer about the whole affair, you know,^^ she 
 said. “ Why shouldnT my own son write to me?^’ 
 
 James concealed the torture which the subject caused 
 him, and answered her anxiety with a jest. 
 
 “ Surely no harm could come to Steve while Ada had 
 him in charge,^^ he said, and never dreamed how near his 
 chance words hit the truth. “You will be sure to have 
 news of him in a day or two.^^ 
 
 His preparations and arrangements were all made, so 
 that he could, if desirable, remain abroad for two years or 
 more without injury to his business. 
 
 “ By that time I shall have won my wife^s heart, if 
 «ver,^^ he thought, “ and shall not fear to bring her where 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 201 
 
 she will meet Steve;-^ and then ho repeated^ witli a sigh 
 that was half a groan^ those two ominous words — “if 
 ever.^^ 
 
 His bride-elect, meantime, thought of him with bitter 
 dislike, and loathed the thought of marrying him. Not 
 that she suspected his perfidy — never for one moment. 
 She had accepted, with jealous credulity, the story of 
 Stevens falsehood, and only pictured him to herself as hap- 
 py without her, and by Ada^s side. But she loved him 
 still; the fierceness of her jealousy and anger, the im- 
 patience of her longing to be revenged, were proofs of 
 this. 
 
 James was the first and surest instrument of her re- 
 venge, and as such she took him; but she despised the in- 
 strument she stooped to use, and hated it because she knew 
 the terms she took it on would not admit of its being 
 thrown aside as soon as she should cease to need its serv- 
 ices. 
 
 “ 1 hate the whole family, she told her mother. “ I 
 might have waited a little longer and have had revenge, 
 just the same, by marrying some stranger; but, with these 
 Eaymonds for relatives, and living in their midst, I shall 
 loathe my life!^^ 
 
 Then Jane Craven set herself to the task of soothing 
 her, just as she often soothed James. 
 
 “ The more intimately you are related, the better your 
 chances of punishing him will be, by forcing him to con- 
 trast you with his wife. And James will be your slave — a 
 wife needs to have her husband pretty well under her 
 thumb when she uses him to rouse another man^s jeal- 
 ousy. If nothing will content you but punishing Steve, 1 
 donT see how you could possibly have married better. 
 
 To do Mrs. Craven justice, however, she only said these 
 things to Mercy because she thought they jumped best 
 with the girFs bitter and revengeful mood, to cross which, 
 by opposition, would have been but to inflame it. In her 
 
202 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 secret heart she did tridy believe that this girl;, whose life 
 had been so hard and bare, would, after marriage, turn 
 with real kindness to the rich man who adored her, and 
 who would lavish his wealth to secure her pleasure, and 
 buy a portion of her love. The worldly minded mother 
 said to herself, as she often said to James: 
 
 “ It will all come right, and she will be fond enough of 
 him when once they are married. 
 
 And so, with Jane Craven in the character of peace- 
 maker, soothing the ill-matched pair, and watchful to lull 
 to rest the elements of discord that were ever threatening 
 storms between them, the month of probation and prepa- 
 ration rolled swiftly by, and brought round the appointed 
 wedding-day. 
 
 Bright and cold and clear it opened. Jane Craven was 
 up betimes, for excitement had kept her waking; but 
 Mercy, who had passed a wretched night, and only fell 
 asleep as morning dawned — Mercy slept late. 
 
 Her mother had looked in at her door two or three 
 times without disturbing her. 
 
 ‘‘ There^s time enough, as the marriage is fixed for the 
 afternoon,''^ she thought; let her rest.-^^ 
 
 There was policy as well as kindness in this course, since 
 it was not well that Mercy should have too much time for 
 regretful thought, even now, and the preparations for her 
 journey being all completed, and the cares of her wedding- 
 toilet being very simple, there was little enough to occupy 
 her between her waking and the hour of her marriage. 
 “ If she would sleep until twelve o’clock,^^ mused Jane, 
 “ so much the better. 
 
 She slept until ten, however, and awoke pale and trem- 
 bling from the terror and excitement of a strange dream. 
 She had dreamed of Steve — had seen him in grief and 
 trouble, lying helpless in a wild, desolate place, drenched, 
 as it seemed to her, with his own tears, and almost dying. 
 He had called to her, in accents of anguish that pained 
 
HTS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 203 
 
 her heart; to stop, to wait, to come to him. But when 
 she would have obeyed the summons, Ada had suddenly 
 stood between them and waved her back; so that she 
 awoke jealous, heartsick, unnerved, and trembling. The 
 dream did not make her pause, however, rather it encour- 
 aged her to carry out her resolution. 
 
 “ So he shall cry out for me, when it is too late,^^ she 
 thought, “ and feel that his own falsehood placed a barrier 
 between us; and then, when he realizes that Ada is that 
 barrier, he will curse her for it. 
 
 Jane, coming to her room, was agreeably surprised to 
 find her dressing as calmly and leisurely, to all outward 
 seeming, as if for the most ordinary visit to church. 
 Nothing in her costume gave any hint of the real nature 
 of the occasion for which it was worn, as she had chosen 
 to be married in the dress she would afterward travel in- 
 The wedding was to be of the quietest and most private 
 description — no cake, no cards, no breakfast, no returning 
 home. The happy couple would drive from the church to 
 the depot, and depart for Philadelphia without delay, the 
 hour for the ceremony having been so timed as to make 
 this proceeding practicable. 
 
 As for James, he had remained in town to the last mo- 
 ment possible, arriving at Gray's Mountain on the early 
 morning train. Had he missed that, he would still have 
 been able to arrive at noon, by the same train that brought 
 Steve to his doom a month before. The wedding had been 
 arranged to take place at two, so as to meet this con- 
 tingency, if necessary. But James had a superstitious 
 horror of that noon arrival. An all-night journey seemed 
 infinitely preferable to him, even though it left him nerv- 
 ous and fatigued and pale upon his marriage morning. 
 
 Mercy and her mother, quietly and darkly attired, 
 walked to the church, which was at a short distance only. 
 So did the pale bridegroom, by a diSerent and somewhat 
 longer road. A carriage was ordered from the one hotel 
 
204 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 of Grray^s Mountain to take them from the church to the 
 depot, after the ceremony; but James was too nervous 
 and excited to sit shut up in it and be driven to church, 
 preferring to get rid, if possible, of some of his intense ex- 
 citability by the healthy motion of a sharp, brisk walk. 
 He was the first of the bridal-party to arrive, and present- 
 ly received and welcomed the beautiful bride, who looked 
 as coldly handsome and unmoved, and met him as chill- 
 ingly, as if she had been a statue of marble, rather than a 
 woman of flesh and blood. 
 
 Quietly ignoring his offered arm, and signing to her 
 mother to walk between them, Mercy entered the church 
 and went resolutely toward the altar, where the clergy- 
 man was already waiting to receive them. 
 
 There were very few people in the church, the affair 
 having been kept as quiet as possible, and the actual date 
 of the marriage confided to none. One or two casual 
 passers-by, seeing the sacred edifice open at an unusual 
 time, had looked in to see what was going on, and now 
 loitered idly for the ceremony. Among these Mercy 
 classed a lady heavily veiled, who watched the bridal-party 
 from the shelter of a pillar, behind which she seemed to 
 shrink as the bride’s dark eyes turned that way. But the 
 dark eyes little heeded what they saw, being heavy and 
 dull with anguish, and Mercy’s thought — “ Some stranger 
 visiting here” — passed in and out of her troubled mind 
 almost unconsciously. 
 
 Next minute she was placed before the altar-rails — 
 James had taken her cold hand within his own. Her sight 
 grew dim, for all her self-control, and she seemed to hear 
 a voice, coming from a long distance, low and faint, ask- 
 ing her whether she would take the man beside her for her 
 husband, and be to him a true and loving wife. 
 
 “ A true and loving wife!” Those words struck louder 
 on her heart than on her ears, and filled her with a sudden 
 consternation. For the first time since her solemn engage- 
 
Tirs COUNTRY (JOi:SIN. 
 
 205 
 
 \nieut liiid been so hastily made, she seemed to realize how 
 Solemn a thing marriage was, and how opposite to its true 
 purpose were the motives and the spirit in which she was 
 undertaking it — to be t ) him, to the man beside her, while 
 her heart was full of love for another, ‘‘ a true and loving 
 wife till death doth them part/^ How could she? How 
 was it possible? Did she not already despise, and should 
 she not presently hate him? 
 
 These thoughts and questions passed swifter than light- 
 ning through her brain, and instead, of answering, she 
 suddenly turned and looked into James Eaymond^s face, 
 her own turning ghastly, deathly pale, while she shud- 
 dered violently and visibly. Then, glancing wildly around 
 her, and quite losing self-control: 
 
 “ Wait, wait! give me time! let me think!^^ she gasped. 
 “ Oh, wait!^^ 
 
 Jane Craven sprung forward instantly, and laying a 
 firm hand on her shoulder, tried to recall her to herself. 
 
 “What ails you? are you mad?’^ she cried, in sup- 
 pressed tones of anger, while the clergyman paused, in 
 shocked surprise, and James Raymond, white and trem- 
 bling like herself, stared helplessly. 
 
 “Go on, I tell you!^^ continued the mother, fiercely. 
 “Make the responses! Don^t stand staring like a fool! 
 Answer ‘ 1 will. ’ Do you hear me, Mercy?^^ and she 
 shook the pale, bewildered girl with uncontrollable anger. 
 “ Answer him!^^ 
 
 But at that instant another voice — a woman^s, soft and 
 clear— rang through the church: 
 
 “No; let her answer me, first !^^ 
 
 Mercy turned, with a shriek, to the sound. The lady 
 whom she had noticed near the pillar had left her place, 
 and came hurrying toward her. She threw back her veil 
 as she confronted the startled bride, and lo! it was Ada 
 West! 
 
 “ Let her answer me before another word is said!^’ she 
 
206 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 cried, excitedly. ‘‘Mercy Craven, what have you done 
 with the man whom 1 once loved — with the lover you 
 stole away from me? Before you speak the words that 
 make you James .Raymond ^s wife, answer me, and truly, 
 before Heaven, what has become of Steve?’^ 
 
 CHAPTER XLIL 
 
 At sight of her rival, the trembling bride ceased trem- 
 bling, and suddenly appeared to turn hard and stern and 
 cold. She pushed her mother away and confronted Ada 
 proudly. Jealous hatred shone in her dark eyes. 
 
 “ Do you ask that of me?’^ she cried, in tones that had 
 something of triumph in their scorn. “ You, for whom 
 he abandoned me! Am I your husband^s keeper, ma- 
 dame?’^ Then she laughed with bitter insolence. “ And 
 could you not hold him longer than this, with all your 
 wealth that bought him?^^ she asked, mockingly. “ Has 
 he tired of his bargain so soon? Only the bride of a 
 month, and forsaken! Why, my poor love could have 
 held him longer than that, I think. Poor Ada!^^ 
 
 Her tone, her look, and manner might have provoked a 
 saint, but Ada showed no anger. 
 
 Fixing her soft blue eyes on Mercy^s face, she had 
 watched her closely, and she saw at once that all this bit- 
 ter insolence was real, and arose from real pain — the in- 
 tolerable pain of jealousy. 
 
 “ Poor Mercy, rather, she said, sadly, when the bride 
 had paused. “ .Poor dupe of a wicked plot and a lying 
 story. Steve is no husband of mine. I am not married. 
 Steve and I parted in your presence, weeks ago, and from 
 that day till this I have never seen him! What has be- 
 come of him answer you— to whom he trusted his heart 
 and hopes, and for whom he would have given his life! 
 His love for me was but as a brother’s, but to you was 
 given his whole heart; yet surely 1 have loved him best. 
 
TTIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 207 
 
 ioi- when 1 lieiml Unit he was false to yon and had gone to 
 Hurope for my sake, 1 knew at once that the tale was 
 false, and felt that some danger threatened him. Where 
 was your love that it could not see as clearly? This man 
 — she turned with sudden fierceness upon James, who, 
 white as death and seemingly stunned, had heard her with- 
 out interruption — “ this criminal loved you, too, and 
 was his brother's secret rival, while — simple, credulous 
 dupes, as you were, both of you trusted him. And he has 
 betrayed you! In his company Steve left New York and 
 came to this place a month ago, since when he has not 
 been seen. And now— as 1 see that you have been foolish 
 rather than false, and can give me no account of your lost 
 lover — let James Eaymond answer me the question, which 
 otherwise he shall answer to the law — where is Steve?^^ 
 
 But James Eaymond could not answer her. The shock 
 of this disclosure — the frustation of all his hopes and plans 
 — the certain loss of the woman he had so madly loved, 
 and the thought of the exposure and disgrace that must 
 follow this failure of his wicked schemes — all these agita- 
 tions were too much for him. He strove to speak — to 
 move— to go away — but tongue and limbs were alike pow- 
 erless. Shame, rage, despair, overpowered him. 
 
 He trembled like one in an ague fit, and his eyes roved 
 wildly around him as if seeking some escape — then, with a 
 groan so deep that it seemed to rend his very being and let 
 his life out, he fell senseless in their midst. 
 
 At the same instant, and while ready hands were raising 
 him and carrying him away, all eyes turned suddenly on 
 her who should have been his bride — now — after standing 
 silent and motionless, as if Ada^s communication had 
 stricken her into stone — she seemed suddenly to arouse 
 herself to a consciousness of her own and her young lover^s 
 wrongs and misery; and, giving away to a paroxysm of de- 
 spairing grief, began to lament aloud for him. 
 
 “ Steve! Steve!’^ she cried. “ Oh, Steve, my love. 
 
208 
 
 HIS COUNTKY COUSIN. 
 
 where are you? Oh, what a credulous, jealous fool 1 have 
 been! I loved him! 1 loved him! and my love has been 
 his ruin; it is I who have murdered him — 1 — not James — 
 my jealous credulity has killed him! But I will not sur- 
 vive him!^^ her eyes grew wild as she glanced around her. 
 “ There are ways and means to die! Let me go!’^ she 
 struck her mother’s arms aside, and tried to spring away. 
 “ Let me go!” 
 
 But Ada held her; Ada spoke to her, and she yielded to 
 her rival’s voice and touch. 
 
 It was strange to see these two women, lately such bit- 
 ter foes, now clasped and weeping in each other’s arms. 
 
 “ He is not dead — Steve is not dead, thank God!” these 
 were the welcome words with which Ada soothed and 
 calmed her. “ He is safe, though very, very ill; and with 
 you to nurse him he will, please Heaven, recover. Calm 
 yourself, Mercy, that you may be fit to go to him. Think, 
 dear — for you and 1 are enemies and rivals no longer, but 
 sisters from^ this hour — think of what I say. Steve is safe, 
 but he has suffered much, and is very sick, and you alone 
 can cure and comfort him. There! That’s right! You 
 are calmer now. We will go to him together!” 
 
 And so they did; and together— assisted by his mother, 
 who had been telegraphed for — nursed him through the 
 long and dangerous illness that ensued. So ill he was for 
 many weeks, that jealousy and rivalry, if they had not 
 been dead already, would have died in the presence of his 
 peril and pain. For a long time it was not a question of 
 who he should live for, but whether he wajild live at all. 
 
 And not until that dreadful doubt was set at rest did 
 they learn the whole story of his captivity and escape. 
 All they knew was that the detective, Mr. Hunter, who 
 had traced him to Gray’s Mountain, and, grown hopeless 
 of finding him alive, was night and day employed in 
 searching for traces of a murder in the woods, had sud- 
 denly come upon him in the early dawn, wandering blind- 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 209 
 
 ly among tlic trees, and had literally carried him, a helj)- 
 l(^s and insensible burden, to this quiet cottage where Ada 
 hald lodged for days. On recovering consciousness, he 
 could do nothing but implore them to stop Mercy^s mar- 
 riage by denouncing James, which Ada, leaving Hunter to 
 procure medical aid, had proceeded to do accordingly. 
 
 No sooner was this great anxiety removed from his mind 
 by the sight of Mercy, actually restored to him, and there 
 at his bedside, than his nervous system succumbed before 
 the horrible strain that it had endured so long, and fever 
 and delirium followed. In this condition, no clew to his 
 late captors, no hint as to the place of his detention could 
 be obtained from him, and Roy Craven took quick ad- 
 vantage of the chance thus given him to escape; which he 
 did so effectually that no trace of him was ever found, nor 
 did Steve or Mercy ever again hear of him. 
 
 As for James, he had been taken, in the carriage in 
 which he had hoped to bear a bride awa}q to the hotel, and 
 a doctor sent for. It was a long time before he recovered 
 consciousness, and when he did so he was extremely ill, 
 and appeared likely to continue so. Great was the aston- 
 ishment of the doctor, when he called next day, to find 
 that his patient had disappeared. He left a note for his 
 mother — a few brief, cold lines that gave no clew to his 
 real intentions. 
 
 I am -going home,^^ he wrote. “ I have played a bold 
 game— tell Stephen, when he recovers — and have lost it. 
 He and I will settle by and by. You will find me in New 
 York when you rbturn.^^ 
 
 But they did not find him. Six weeks later, when they 
 did return, they found, on the contrary, that he had 
 quietly and piivately settled his affairs, and apparently 
 left the country. His business had been disposed of by 
 private contract, and had passed into other hands, and 
 
 the place thereof knew him no more."^^ 
 
210 
 
 HIS COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 JMo one was grieved, unless it was the little mother, 
 lie was her son, though little enough like one. But even 
 she could not but acknowledge that his departure was the 
 best possible course, under all the circumstances; and the 
 recovery of her youngest and favorite son, and the sight of 
 his happiness, soon consoled her. 
 
 For Steve at last was truly happy. Out of evil oft 
 cometh good;’^ and a brother's wickedness, which for a 
 time had strewed his path with thorns, had also, indirect- 
 ly, cleared it of some substantial difficulties. The money 
 which James had lavished upon Mercy, as well as that 
 which he had bestowed on Steve, served the young couple 
 for a marriage portion on which it was possible to make a 
 fair start in life, without the fear of Mrs. Craven^s pelf 
 horror — poverty. 
 
 And married they were as soon as Stevens recovery made 
 it possible, Jane Craven, shocked at the discovery of 
 Jameses real character, offering no further opposition to 
 her daughter's wishes; and the little mother, quite won by 
 the girFs devotion during Stevens illness, withdrawing all 
 her previous objections and taking her new daughter 
 cordially to her heart. 
 
 So these two lovers, who “between two loves had 
 suffered so much, found happiness at last in the one and 
 only true love. No cloud marred the brightness of their 
 wedding-day, not even the thought that what was all joy 
 to them might cause a pang to Ada. For Ada’s interest 
 had been so deeply aroused by the detective business in 
 which she had recently been engaged, that her former 
 lover evidently occupied less of her thoughts than did the 
 clever, handsome detective whose skill and acuteness had 
 saved him. 
 
 Ada was Mercy’s bride-maid on the happy day, and it 
 was Mr. Hunter who gave away the bride; and it did not 
 require superhuman intelligence to hazard a guess that a 
 day might come when the handsome pair might go to 
 
HIS COUNTRY COUSIN, 
 
 211 
 
 \ 
 
 cliui’ch together again for a more serious jmrpose, on 
 which occasion the detective would receive a bride, instead 
 of giving away one. All happiness to Ada, if it should 
 prove so; so prayed the blushing bride as she kissed her 
 good-bye. 
 
 “ It is to you we owe our joy,^^ she whispered. “ Dear, 
 gentle, generous Ada! May God reward you with a truer 
 love than that you lost! And in that new and true love 
 may you forget all you have ever suffered for Mercy^s 
 sake!'^ 
 
 THE END, 
 
- - /• 
 
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 Raths von Marlitt 20 
 
 98 Helene von H. Wachenhusen 
 
 und Die Prinzessin von Por- 
 tugal V. A. Meissner 10 
 
 99 Aspasia von Robert Hammer- 
 
 on 
 
 100 Ekkehard v. Victor v. Scheffel 20 
 
 101 Ein Kampf um Rom v. F.Dahn. 
 
 Erste Halfte 20 
 
 101 Ein Kampf urn Rom v.F.Dahn. 
 
 Zweite Halfte 20 
 
 102 Spinoza von Berth. Auerbach . 20 
 
 103 Von der Erde zum Mond von 
 
 J. Verne 10 
 
 104 Der Todesgruss der Legionen 
 
 von G. Samarow 20 
 
 105 Reise um den Mond von Julius 
 
 Verne • • • • 10 
 
 Fiirst und Musiker von Max 
 
 Ring 20 
 
 Nena Sahib v. J. Retcliffe. Er- 
 
 ster Band 20 
 
 Nena Sahib von J. Retcliffe. 
 
 Zweiter Band 20 
 
 Nena Sahib von J. Retcliffe. 
 
 DritterBand 20 
 
 Reise nach dem Mittelpunkte 
 der Erde von Julius Verne 10 
 Die silberne Hochzeit von S. 
 
 Kohn 10 
 
 Das Spukehaus von A. v. Win- 
 terfeld 20 
 
 Die Erben des Wahnsinns von 
 
 T. Marx 10 
 
 Der Ulan von Joh. van Dewall 10 
 Um liohen Preis v. E. Werner 20 
 Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 
 ten von B. Auerbach. Erste 
 
 Halfte 20 
 
 Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 
 ten V. B. Auerbach. Zweite 
 
 Halfte 20 
 
 Reise um die Erde von Julius 
 
 Verne 10 
 
 Casars Ende von S. J. R. 
 
 (Schluss von 104) 20 
 
 Auf Capri von Carl Detlef 10 
 
 Severa von E. Hartner 20 
 
 Ein Arzt der Seel® von Wilh. 
 
 V. Hillern 20 
 
 Die Livergnas von Hermann 
 
 Willfried 10 
 
 Zwanzigtausend Meilen un- 
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 Mutter und Sohn von August 
 
 Godin 10 
 
 Das Haus des Fabrikanten v. 
 
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 Bruderpflicht und Liebe von 
 
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 Die Romerfahrt der Epigonen 
 V. G. Samarow. Erste Halfte 20 
 Die Romerfahrt der Epigonen 
 V. G. Samarow. ZweiteHalfte 20 
 Porkeles und Porkelessa von 
 
 J Scherr 10 
 
 Ein Friedensstdrer von Victor 
 Bliithgen und Der heimliche 
 
 Gast von R. Byr 20 
 
 Schdne Frauen v. R. Edmund 
 
 Hahn 10 
 
 Bakchen und Thyrsostrager 
 
 von A. Niemann 20 
 
 Getrennt. Roman von E.Polko 10 
 Alte Ketten. Roman von L. 
 
 Schiicking 20 
 
 Ueber die Wolken v. Wilhelm 
 
 Jensen 10 
 
 Das Gold des Orion von H. 
 
 Rosenthal-Bonin 10 
 
 Um den Halbmond von Sama- 
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 Um den Halbmond von Sama- 
 row. Zweite Halfte 20 
 
 Troubadour - No vellen von P. 
 Heyse 10 
 
 106 
 
 107 
 
 lOI 
 
 107 
 
 108 
 
 109 
 
 110 
 
 111 
 
 112 
 
 113. 
 
 114 
 
 114 
 
 115 
 
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 120 
 
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 122 
 
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 124 
 
 125 
 
 125 
 
 126 
 
 127 
 
 128 
 
 129 
 
 130 
 
 131 
 
 132 
 
 133 
 
 134 
 
 134 
 
 135 
 
DIE DEUTSCHE LIBHARY. 
 
 8 
 
 KJO Der Schweden-Scliatz von H. 
 
 Wachenhusen 
 
 \37 Die Bettlerin voni Pont des 
 Arts nnd Das Bild des Kaisers 
 von Willi. Hauff 
 
 138 Modelle. Hist. Roman von A. v. 
 
 Winterfeld 
 
 139 Der Krieg um die Haube von 
 
 Stefa nie Keyser 
 
 140 Niima Roumestan v. Alphonse 
 
 Daudet 
 
 141 Spatsommer. Novelle von O. 
 
 von Sydow und Engelid, No- 
 velle V. Balduin Mollhausen 
 
 142 Bartolomaus von Brusehaver 
 
 u. Musma Cussalin. Novellen 
 von L. Ziemssien 
 
 143 Ein gemeuchelter Dichter. Ko- 
 
 mischer Roman von A. von 
 Winterfeld. Erste Halfte 
 
 143 Ein gemeuchelter Dichter. Ko- 
 
 mischer Roman von A. von 
 Winterfeld. Zweite Halfte. . 
 
 144 Ein Wort. Neuer Roman von 
 
 G. Ebers 
 
 145 Novellen von Paul Heyse 
 
 146 Adam Homo in Versen v. Pa- 
 
 ludan-Muller 
 
 147 Ihr einziger Bruder von W. 
 
 Heimburg, 
 
 148 Ophelia. Roman von H. von 
 
 Lankenau 
 
 149 Nemesis v. Helene v. Hiilsen 
 1.50 Felicitas. Histor. Roman von 
 
 F. Dahn 
 
 151 Die Claudier. Roman v. Ernst 
 
 Eckstein 
 
 152 Eine Verlorene von Leopold 
 
 Kompert 
 
 153 Luginsland. Roman von Otto 
 
 Roquette 
 
 154 Im Banne der Musen von W. 
 
 Heimburg 
 
 155 Die Schwester v. L. Schiicking 
 
 156 Die Colonie von Friedrich Ger- 
 
 stacker 
 
 157 Deutsche Liebe. Roman v. M, 
 
 MiiUer 
 
 158 Die Rose von Delhi von Fels. 
 
 Erste Halfte 
 
 158 Die Rose von Delhi von Fels. 
 
 Zweite Halfte 
 
 1.59 Debora. Roman von W. Muller 
 
 160 Eine Mutter v. Friedrich Ger- 
 
 stacker 
 
 161 Fried liofsblume von W. von 
 
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 162 Nach der ersten Liebe von K. 
 
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 163 Gebannt u. erldst v. E. Werner 
 
 164 Uhlenhans. Roman von 1 ried. 
 
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 165 Klytia. Roman von G. Taylor. 
 
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 168 Die Saxoborussen von Sama- 
 
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 169 Serapis. Roman v. G. Ebers . 20 
 
 170 Ein Gottesurtlieil. Roman von 
 
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 171 Die Kreuzfahrer. Roman von 
 
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 172 Der Erbe von Weidenhof von 
 
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 173 Die Reise nach dem Schicksal 
 
 V. Franzos 10 
 
 174 Villa Schonow. Roman v. W. 
 
 Raabe 10 
 
 175 DasVermachtniss v. Eckstein. 
 
 Erste Halfte 20 
 
 175 Das Vermachtniss v. Eckstein. 
 
 Zweite Halfte 20 
 
 176 Herr und Frau Bewer von P. 
 
 Lindau 10 
 
 177 Die Nihilisten von Joh. Scherr 10 
 
 178 Die Frau mit den Karfunkel- 
 
 steinen von E. Marlitt 
 
 179 Jetta. Von George Taylor 
 
 180 Die Stieftochter. Von J. Smith 
 
 181 An der Heilquelle. Von Fried. 
 
 Spielhagen 
 
 182 Was der Todtenkopf erzahit, 
 
 von Jokai 
 
 183 Der Zigeunerbaron, von Jokai 
 
 184 Himmlische u. irdische Liebe, 
 
 von Paul Heyse 
 
 185 Ehre, Roman v O. Schubin . . . 
 
 186 Violanta, Roman v. E. Eckstein 
 
 187 Nemi, Erzahlung von H. Wa- 
 
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 189 Homo sum, Roman von Georg 
 
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 190 Eine Aegyptische Konigstoch- 
 
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 190 Eine Aegyptische Kdnigstoch- 
 
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 Erste Halfte 20 
 
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 Zweite Halfte 20 
 
 192 Die Nilbraut, von Georg Ebers. 
 
 Erste Halfte 20 
 
 192 Die Nilbraut, von Georg Ebers. 
 
 Zw^eite Halfte 20 
 
 193 DieAndere, von W. Heimburg 20 
 
 194 Ein armes Madchen, von W. 
 
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 195 Der Roman der Stiftsdame, von 
 
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 196 Kloster Wendhusen, von W. 
 
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 197 Das Vermachtniss Kains, von 
 
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 197 Das Vermachtniss Kains, von 
 
 Sacher-Masoch. ZweiteHalfte 20 
 
 198 Frau Venus, von Karl Frenzel 20 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 10 
 
 20 
 
 20 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 10 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 10 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 20 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 20 
 
 20 
 
 20 
 
 20 
 
 10 
 
 20 
 
 20 
 
 SB 8 BBB 
 
4 
 
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 201 Herzenskrisen, von W. Heim- 
 
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 202 Die Sch western, von G. Ebers.. 20 
 
 203 Der Egoist, von E. Werner 10 
 
 204 Salvatore, von E. Eckstein.... 20 
 
 205 Liunpenmullers Lieschen, von 
 
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 206 Das einsame Haus, von Adolf 
 
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 207 Die verlorene Handschrift, von 
 
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 207 Die verlorene Handschrift, von 
 
 G. Frey tag. Zweite Halfte. . 20 
 
 208 Das Eulenhaus, von E. Marlitt 20 
 
 209 Des Herzens Golgatha, von H. 
 
 Wachenhusen. 20 
 
 210 Aus dem Leben meiner alten 
 
 Freundin, von W. Heimbnrg 20 
 
 211 Die Gred, von G. Ebers. Erste 
 
 Halfte 20 
 
 211 Die Gred, Yon G. Ebers. Zweite 
 
 Halfte 20 
 
 212 Trudchens Heirath, von Wilh. 
 
 Heimburg 20 
 
 213 Asbein, von Ossip Schubin 20 
 
 214 Die Alpenfee, von E. Werner.. 20 
 
 215 Nero, von E. Eckstein. Erste 
 
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 215 Nero, von E. Eckstein. Zweite 
 
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 Ein schoner ausgearheiteter Cafe 
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 216 Zwei Seelt n, von R. Liudau '20 
 
 217 Mandver- ii. Kriegsbilder, von 
 
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 218 Lore von Tollen, von W. Heim- 
 
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 219 Spitzen, von P. Lindau 20 
 
 220 Der Referenda!-, von E. Eck- 
 
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 221 Das Geiger-Evchen.von A.Dom 20 
 
 222 Die Gdtterbui-g, von M. Jokai 20 
 
 223 Der Kronprinz und die deutsche 
 
 Kaiserkrone, von G. Freytag 10 
 
 224 Nicht im Geleise, von Ida Boy- 
 
 Ed 20 
 
 225 Camilla, von E. Eckstein 20 
 
 226 Josua, eine Erzahliing aus bib- 
 
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 227 Am Belt, von Gregor Samarow 20 
 
 228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesarnmelte 
 
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 The above works are for sale by air newsdeafers, or wiir be sent by maW on 
 receipt of the price. Address 
 
 GEORGE MUNRO, Muikro’s Publishing House, 
 
 (P. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 
 
MUNRO'S PUBLICATION'S. 
 
 The New York Fashion Bazar Book of the Toilet. 
 
 PRICE ‘25 CENTS. 
 
 Til is is a little book which we can recommend to every lady for the Preserva- 
 tion and Increase of Health and Beauty. It contains full directions for all the 
 arts and mysteries of personal decoration, and for increasing the natural 
 graces of form and expression. All the little affections of the skin, hair, eyes 
 and body, that detract from appearance and happiness, are made the sub- 
 jects of precise and excellent recipes. Ladies are instructed how to reduce 
 their weight without injury to healtli and without producing pallor and weak- 
 ness. Nothing necessary to a complete toilet book of recipes and valuable 
 advice and information has been overlooked in the compilation of this volume. 
 
 For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address, postage pre- 
 paid, on receipt of price, 25 cents, by the publisher. Address 
 
 GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 
 
 (P. O. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 
 
 The New Yerk Fashion Bazar Book of Etiquette. 
 
 PRICE ‘25 CENTS. ‘ 
 
 This book is a guide to good manners and the wavs of fashionable society; 
 a complete hand-book of behavior: containing all the polite observances of 
 modern life; the Etiquette of engagements and marriages; the manners and 
 training of children; the arts of conversation and polite letter-writing; invi- 
 tations to dinners, evening parties and entertainments of all descriptions; 
 table manners, etiquette of visits and public places; how to serve breakfasts, 
 luncheons, dinners and teas; how to dress, travel, shop, and behave at hotels 
 and watering-places. This book contains all that a lady and gentleman re 
 quires for correct behavior on all social occasions. 
 
 For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address on receipt of 
 price, 25 cents, postage prepaid, by the publisher. Address 
 
 GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 
 
 CP. O. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street. New York. 
 
 THE NEW YORK FASHION BAZAR 
 
 Model Letter-Writer and Lovers’ Oracle 
 
 PRICE ‘25 CENTS. 
 
 This book is a complete guide for both ladies and gentlemen in elegant 
 and fashionable letter- writing; containing perfect examples of every form of 
 correspondence, business letters, love letters, letters to relatives and friends, 
 wedding and reception cards, invitations to entertainments, letters accepting 
 and declining invitations, letters of introduction and recommendation, letters 
 of condolence and duty, widows’ and widowers’ letters, love letters for all 
 occasions, proposals of marriage, letters between betrothed lovers, letters of 
 .-. a yo ung girl to her sweetheart, correspondence relating to household man- 
 'V.. tt, letters accompanying gifts, etc. Every form of letter used in affairs 
 ot^^.: L >*t-,will be found in this little book. It contains simple and full di- 
 rection^ch >;^rTting a good letter on all occasions. The latest forms used in 
 the best society have been carefully followed. It is an excellent manual of 
 reference for all forms of engraved cards and invitations 
 
 For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address, postage paid, 
 on receipt of price, 25 cents, by the publisher. Address 
 
 GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 
 
 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New V oi% 
 
 (P.O. Box 3751.)