Chateau d'Or, Norah, and Kitty Craig

by Mary Jane Holmes

CHATEAU D’OR.

We had left Paris behind us, and were going down to the southern part of France, as far as Marseilles and Nice. All day Hal and I had had the compartment to ourselves, and had talked, and smoked, and read, and looked out upon the country through which we were passing so rapidly. But this had become rather monotonous, and I was beginning to tire of the gray rocks, and bleak mountain sides, and gnarled olive trees, when suddenly, as we turned a curve and came out into a more open and fertile tract, Hal seized my arm, and pointing to the left of us, said:

“Quick, quick! Do you see that old chateau in the distance?”

Following the direction of his hand, I saw what at first seemed to be a mass of dark stone walls, turrets, towers, and balconies, tumbled promiscuously together, and forming an immense pile of ruins. A closer and nearer inspection, however, showed me a huge stone building, which must have been very old, judging from its style of architecture, and the thickness of its walls, and the gray moss, which had crept up to the very eaves, and found there before it the ivy, which grows so rankly and luxuriously in many parts of France.

“Yes, I see it,” I said. “What of it, and what place is it?”

“That,” said Hal, “is Chateau d’Or, which, translated into plain English for a stupid like you, means ‘Chateau of gold,’ though why that somber, dreary old pile should have that name is more than I can tell, unless it is that it cost so much to build it. It is nearly two hundred years old. Its first owner ruined himself on it, I believe, and it has passed through many hands since. You see that stream of water yonder, almost a river? Well, that passes entirely round the chateau, which really stands on an island, and is only accessible from one point, and that an iron bridge. That old building has been the scene of the strangest story you ever heard—almost a tragedy, in fact, and the heroine was an American woman, and native of my own town. I’ll tell you about it to-night, after we have had our dinner.”

I was interested now, and leaned far out of the window to look at the chateau, which seemed gloomy and dreary enough to warrant the wildest story one could tell of it. And that night I heard the story which I now write down, using sometimes Hal Morton’s words, and sometimes my own.

THE STORY.

CHAPTER I.
ANNIE STRONG.

“Millfield,” said Hal, “is one of those little New England towns which seem to have been finished up years and years ago, and gone quietly to sleep without a suspicion that anything more could be expected of it. It stands on a spur of the mountains which lie between Pittsfield and Albany, and can be distinctly seen from the car windows, with its spotless houses of white, with fresh green blinds, and the inevitable lilac bushes and sweet syringas in front. I was born there, and when I wish to rest and get away from the noise and turmoil of New York, I go there and grow a younger and a better man amid the Sunday stillness which reigns perpetually in its streets. And yet you would be surprised to find how much intelligence and genuine aristocracy that little village has. There are the Crosbys, who claim relationship with the Adamses, and a real scion of the Washingtons, and a lineal descendant of Lord Cornwallis, and Miss Talleyrand, who prides herself upon having, in her veins, the best blood in New England, though good old Deacon Larkin’s wife once shocked her horribly by saying ‘she didn’t see, for her part, why Polly Talleyrand need to brag so about good blood, when she was as full of erysipelas as she could hold.’”

Here I laughed heartily over Miss Talleyrand’s good blood, while Hal lighted a fresh cigar, and continued:

“Next to these aristocrats—upper crust, as the deacon’s wife called them—comes the well-to-do class, tradespeople and mechanics, the people whose sons and daughters work in the shoe-shops, for you know the shoe business is nowhere carried on so extensively as in New England, and it gives employment to many girls as well as boys, the former stitching the uppers, as they are called, and the latter putting on the soles. There is a very large shop in Millfield, which employs at least fifty girls, and at the time I am telling you about, there was not in the whole fifty—no, nor in the entire town—so pretty a girl as Annie Strong, the heroine of my story. She was not very intellectual, it is true, or very fond of books, but she was beautiful to look at, with a lithe, graceful figure, and winsome ways, while her voice was sweet and clear as a robin’s. Birdie Strong, we called her, on account of her voice, and when she sang in the gallery of the old brick church, I used to shut my eyes, and fancy I was in Heaven, listening to the music of the sweetest singer there.

“Bob I may as well be frank with you. I was in love with Annie Strong, and I am certain she liked me a little, though she never encouraged me in the least. She was not a bit of a coquette, and made no secret of the fact that money, and nothing else, would have any influence with her. Annie was ambitious, and when, from her shoe-bench in the hot work-room, she saw Judge Crosby’s daughter go by in her dainty white dress and sash of blue, she thought hard, bitter things of the humble life she led, and vowed to accept the first man who could give her silks, and lace, and diamonds, and a place in society.

“At last the man came—a brusque, haughty Englishman, with a slight limp in his left ankle, and a cold, hard expression in his steel-gray eyes, but tolerably good-looking, with a certain assurance and style, and lavish generosity, which won upon the people, and made him quite a lion. Eva Crosby invited him to tea; Miss Talleyrand’s niece drove with him once or twice; and so he became the fashion. He was not young—was thirty-five at least, and looked older. He was of Scottish descent, he said, though English born, and he owned an estate in the north of Scotland, a large chateau in the south of France, and a city house in London, and he called himself Ernest Walsingham Haverleigh. If he chose he could be very gracious and agreeable, though his manner was always haughty in the extreme, and had in it an undisguised contempt for everything American.

“I disliked him from the first, and hated him after the day of Miss Crosby’s lawn party, to which Annie Strong was invited, and where she shone the belle of the fête, notwithstanding that her dress was a simple blue muslin, and the ruffle round her throat imitation lace. I learned that fact from hearing Miss Talleyrand’s niece, from Springfield, say to Eva Crosby, in speaking of Anna, ‘She is rather pretty, but decidedly flashy. Her love of finery leads her to wear imitation lace. If there’s any one thing I detest, it is that. It always stamps a person.’

“And so Anna was stamped, but did not seem to mind it at all. How plainly I can see her now as she came through the gate with her hat in her hand, and her beautiful hair falling in curls about her neck and shoulders.

“Up to that moment Haverleigh had maintained an indolent, bored attitude, with a look of supreme indifference on his face, but when Anna joined us, his manner changed at once, and he devoted himself to her with a persistency which brought upon her the jealous rancor of every lady present. But Anna did not seem to know it, and received the Englishman’s attentions with an air of sweet unconsciousness, which only deepened his ardor, and made him perfectly oblivious to every one around him. The next day he made some inquiries with regard to Anna’s family, and before night had learned all there was to know of them, both good and bad. They were poor, but perfectly respectable people, and no taint had ever rested upon the name of Strong. Years and years before, Grandfather Strong had married a second wife, with a daughter about the age of his own son, afterwards Anna’s father, and this daughter, Milly Gardner, who was in no way connected with the Strongs, had run away with a Boston man, who promised her marriage and then deserted her. A few years later news was received in Millfield of her death, and so the scandal died and was buried in poor Milly’s grave, and the family seldom spoke her name. Indeed, Anna’s mother, who was many years younger than her husband, had never known Milly, while Mr. Strong himself, who had loved her as a dear sister, never blamed her. She was more sinned against than sinning, and so he let her rest in peace, and his children only knew of her as Aunt Milly, who was very pretty, and who was dead. Mr. Strong was dead now himself, and his widow lived in a little red house on the common, with her three children—Mary, who made dresses in the winter, and taught school in the summer; Anna, who worked in the shoe-shop; and Fred, the youngest and pet of the family, who was destined for college, and for whom the mother and sisters hoarded their small earnings and denied themselves everything.

“This is the history of the Strongs up to the time when Haverleigh came to Millfield and made up his mind to marry Anna, with the decided understanding, however, that in taking her he was not taking her family. And Anna listened to him, and throwing aside her love, and pride, and womanhood, cast into one scale her humble home, with its poverty and privations, her scanty dress, her hateful life of toil in the dingy shop, stitching shoes for the negroes to wear; while into the other she put a life of ease and luxury, the country seat in Scotland, the chateau in Southern France, the city house in London, with the gay seasons there, and what weighed more with her—the satins, and laces, and diamonds which, as Mrs. Haverleigh, she was sure to wear. Of course, the latter scale overbalanced the former, and without a particle of love, but rather with a feeling of dread and fear for the cold Englishman, Anna promised to be his wife, on one condition. Fred was to go to college, the mortgage of five hundred dollars on the red house was to be paid, her mother was to have a dress of handsome black silk, and Mary one of dark blue. This request she made timidly, not daring to look at the man who, with a sneer on his face, answered, laughingly:

“‘Oh, that is a mere trifle. Fred shall go to college, the mortgage shall be paid, the silk gowns shall be forthcoming, and here is the wherewithal.’

“It was a check for five thousand dollars which he gave her, and his unlooked-for generosity went far toward reconciling Mrs. Strong and Mary to the match. And so it was a settled thing, and Anna stitched her last shoe in the dingy shop; went down the staircase for the last time, sang her last song in church, and was married quietly at home one lovely morning in July, when Millfield was looking its best from the effects of a recent rain. There were drops of crystal on the freshly cut grass, and the air was sweet with the perfume of roses and pinks, and heliotrope, while the sky overhead was blue and clear as the eyes of the young bride, who, if she felt any regret for the home she was leaving, did not show it in the least. Perhaps she was thinking of the costly diamond on her finger, and the silken robe she wore, or possibly of the grandeur which awaited her over the sea. Poor Anna—she was very young—only eighteen—and to change at once from a poor girl, who was every morning awakened by the shoe-shop whistle, to a life she hated, to step into wealth and elegance must have benumbed and bewildered her so that she did not realize what she was doing, when at last she said good-by to the home of her childhood, and went away alone with a man she had scarcely known two months—a man whom she did not love, and who, even while caressing her, made her feel the immense condescension it had been on his part to make her his wife.

“Their destination was New York, where Anna had never been, and where they were to spend a week or two before sailing for Europe. At the hotel where they stopped, Anna met with an old school friend, who, like herself, was a bride taking her wedding trip. As was natural, the two young girls talked together freely of their future prospects and the husbands they had chosen, and Anna could not help showing her elation at being the wife of a man like Mr. Haverleigh.

“‘But tell me honestly, do you love him?’ Mrs. Fleming, said to her one day. ‘He is not at all the person I should have selected for you. Why, do you know I feel a kind of terror stealing over me every time he speaks to me, there is such a hard ring in his voice, and it seems to me a cruel look in his eyes. Then I always thought you would eventually marry Hal Morton.’

“This was a great deal to say to a bride concerning her husband, but Lucy Fleming was just the one to take liberties, and Anna did not resent it in the least, but answered laughingly: ‘Oh, Hal is quite too poor. He took it hard, and looked like a goosey at the wedding. I fancy he did not like Mr. Haverleigh, and I see you think him a kind of Blue Beard, too, and so I confess do I, but then I never intend to peek, and lose my life as did his silly wives. Honestly, though, Lucy, I do not love him, and I experience that same fear of him which you describe, and actually shrink from him when he kisses me; but he is very kind to me, and I believe loves me truly, and I shall make him think that I love him. I married him for money, for fine dresses, and jewelry, and handsome furniture, and servants, and horses and carriages, and that Chateau d’Or, which did more toward influencing me than anything else. Only think of living in a house almost as large as a castle, with a French maid, and troops of servants, and a housekeeper to take every care from me; one could endure almost any man for the sake of all that.’

“Here the conversation ceased, and a moment after Mr. Haverleigh himself entered the room. To an ordinary observer there was nothing in his manner to indicate that he had overheard a word, but there was a kind of ferocious look in his eyes, and his lips were shut more tightly together than usual as he bowed to Mrs. Fleming, and then, crossing to his wife, bent over her affectionately, and kissed her forehead as he asked if she would take a drive. It was a lovely afternoon. The Park was full of people, and Anna’s fresh young face attracted a great deal of notice, as did the haughty looking man at her side, who had never been as lover-like in his attentions as he was from that day on until the ocean was crossed, and they were at the Grosvenor House in London. His own house was closed, he said, when Anna asked why they did not go there, but he drove her past it, and she was sure she saw a lady’s face looking at them from one of the upper windows. Haverleigh must have seen it, too, for he muttered something which sounded like an execration under his breath, and drove on faster than before.

“‘Does any one live in your house? I thought I saw a lady at the window,’ Anna said, timidly, for she was beginning to understand his moods, as he called his frequent fits of abstraction, and knew he was in one now.

“There was nobody occupying his house, and she had not seen any one at the window, he answered rather curtly; but Anna knew she had, and dreamed that night of the large black eyes which had peered at her so curiously from the house on Belgrave Square. She could not be ignorant of the fact, either, that her husband, while paying her marked attention, especially in the parks and at table, was restless, and nervous, and very anxious to hurry away from London, and very impatient on account of the slight illness which kept them there a week longer than he wished to stay.

“Once, just before their marriage, he had asked her whether she would rather go to Scotland first or France, and she had answered Scotland, preferring Southern France later in the autumn, when she hoped to see Nice and Mentone, before settling down for the winter at Chateau d’Or. ‘Then to Scotland we will go,’ he had replied, and she had greatly anticipated her visit to Scotland, and her trip through the Trosachs, and across the beautiful Lakes Lomond and Katrine, but all this was to be given up; her master had changed his mind, and without a word of explanation told her they were going at once to Paris.

“‘You can attend to your dressmaking better there than elsewhere, and you know you are fond of satins, and laces, and jewelry,’ he said, and there was a gleam in his eye from which Anna would have shrunk had she noticed it; but she did not. She was thinking of Paris and its gayeties, and she packed her trunks without a word of dissent, and was soon established in a handsome suite of rooms, at the Grand Hotel, with permission to buy whatever she wanted, irrespective of expense.

“‘I’d like you to have morning dresses, and dinner dresses, and evening dresses, and riding dresses, and walking dresses, and everything necessary to a lady’s wardrobe,’ he said; and poor unsuspecting Anna thought, ‘How much society he must expect me to see, and how glad I shall be of it!’”

Anna was beginning to feel a good deal bored with no company but that of her husband, for though he sometimes bowed to ladies on the Boulevards, no one came to see her, and as their meals were served in their parlor, she had but little chance to cultivate the acquaintance of the people staying at the hotel, so that, with the exception of her milliner and dressmaker, both of whom spoke English, and a few clerks at the different stores, she could talk with no one in all the great, gay city, and there gradually settled down upon her a feeling of loneliness and homesickness, for which all her costly dresses and jewelry could not make amends. But this would be changed when they were at Nice or Mentone, or even at the chateau, which her husband told her was frequently full of guests during the autumn months. Oh, how many pictures she drew of that chateau, with its turrets and towers overlooking the surrounding country, its beautiful grounds, its elegantly furnished rooms, its troops of servants, and herself mistress of it all, with a new dress for every day in the month if she liked, for it almost amounted to that before her shopping was done, and when at last they left Paris, the porters counted fourteen trunks which they had brought down from No. —, all the property of the pretty little lady, whose traveling-dress of gray silk was a marvel of puffs, and ruffles, and plaitings, and sashes, as she took her seat in the carriage, and was driven away through the streets of Paris to the Lyons Station.

“They were going to the chateau first, her husband told her, adding that he hoped the arrangement suited her.

“‘Oh, certainly,’ she replied. ‘I shall be so glad to see one of my new homes. I know I shall like it and perhaps be so happy there that I shall not care to leave it for a long time. I am getting a little tired.’

“They were alone in the railway carriage, and as Anna said this she leaned her head against his arm as if she were really tired and wanted rest. It was the first voluntary demonstration of the kind she had ever made toward him, and there came a sudden flush into his face and a light into his eyes, but he did not pass his arm around the drooping little figure—he merely suffered the bright head to rest upon his shoulder, while he gazed gloomily out upon the country they were passing, not thinking of the dreary landscape, the barren hills, and gray mountain tops, but rather of the diabolical purpose from which he had never swerved an hour since the moment it was formed.

CHAPTER II.
CHATEAU D’OR.

“It was late one September afternoon when they came at last in sight of the chateau, and Haverleigh pointed it out to Anna, who involuntarily exclaimed:

“‘Why, it’s more like a prison than a house: is that Chateau d’Or?’

“‘Yes, that’s Chateau d’Or,’ was the short reply, and fifteen minutes later they stopped at the little town where they were to leave the train.

“Two men were waiting for them, one the coachman, who touched his hat with the utmost deference to his master, while the other seemed on more familiar terms with Mr. Haverleigh, and stared so curiously at Anna that she drew her veil over her face, and conceived for him on the instant an aversion which she never overcame. He was a tall, dark man, with a sinister expression on his face, and a look in his keen black eyes as if he was constantly on the alert for something which it was his duty to discover. Her husband introduced him as Monsieur Brunell, explaining to her that he was his confidential agent, his head man, who superintended Chateau d’Or in his absence, and whose house was close to the bridge which crossed the river so that no one could ever leave the grounds without his knowledge.

“Anna paid little heed to what he was saying then, though it afterward came back to her with fearful significance. Now, however, she was too tired and too anxious to see the inside of the chateau to think of anything except the man’s disagreeable face, and she was glad to find herself alone with her husband in the carriage.

“‘Why does that man stare so impudently at me? I do not like it,’ she said, and Haverleigh replied, jestingly:

‘Oh, that’s the way with Frenchmen; he thinks you pretty, no doubt.’

“They had crossed the bridge by this time, and Anna noticed that they passed through a heavy iron gate, which immediately swung together with a dull thud, which involuntarily sent a shiver through her as if it really were the gate of a prison. They were now in the park and grounds, which were beautifully kept, and Anna forgot everything else in her delight at what she saw about her.

“‘Oh, I shall be so happy here!’ she cried, as they rode along the broad carriage road, and she saw everywhere signs of luxury and wealth.

“And at that moment Anna was happy. She had sighed for money, for a home handsomer than the humble red house far away among the New England hills, and lo, here was something more beautiful than anything of which she had even dreamed. If there had been anything lovable about Ernest Haverleigh, Anna might have loved him then in her great delight with the home he was bringing her to; but there was nothing in his nature answering to hers, and he did not seem to see how pleased she was, but sat back in the carriage, with a dark look on his face and a darker purpose in his heart. And still he saw her every moment, and watched the light in her eyes and the clasping of her hands as she leaned from the window; but it awoke no answering chord of gladness, unless it were a gladness that he had it in his power to avenge the insult he had received. They were close to the chateau now, directly in the shadow of the gray old walls, which looked so dark and gloomy, so out of keeping with the beauty of the grounds, that Anna’s spirits sank again, and there was a tremor in her frame as she descended from the carriage in the wide court, around which balconies ran, tier upon tier, and into which so many long, narrow windows looked.

“At the head of a flight of steps an elderly woman was standing, her white hair arranged in puffs about her face, which, though old and wrinkled, was so sweet and sad in its expression that Anna felt drawn to her at once, and the court was not half so damp and dreary, or the walls so dark and high.

“The woman was dressed in black silk, with a tasteful lace cap upon her head, while the bunch of keys attached to her side with a silver chain showed her to be the housekeeper, even before Mr. Haverleigh said:

“‘This is Madame Verwest, the head of the house, just as Monsieur Brunell is head of the grounds. You will do well to conciliate her, and not show your dislike, if you feel it, as you did to monsieur.’

“‘Oh, I shall love her. I love her now for that sweet sorry face. Has she had some great trouble, Ernest?’

“It was the first time Anna had ever called her husband by the familiar name of Ernest. He had asked her to do so in the days of their courtship, and she had answered him, playfully: ‘Oh, Mr. Haverleigh, you are so much older than I am, and know so much more, and then—Well, to tell the truth, I am a little bit afraid of you yet, but by and by I mean to learn to say Ernest.’

“But the by and by had never come until now. Anna was the creature of impulse, and while driving through the handsome grounds she had felt elated and proud, that she, little Anna Strong, who once sewed shoes in New England, and planned how to get an extra pair of gloves, should be riding in her carriage, the mistress of so much wealth, and her heart had thrilled a little for the man through whom this good fortune had come to her. But the gloomy chateau, and the still more gloomy court, had driven this all away, and a wave of genuine homesickness was sweeping over her when the serene face of Madame Verwest looked so kindly down upon her and brought the better feeling back. She was happy. She was glad she was there, Mr. Haverleigh’s wife, and she called him Ernest purposely, and looked up in his face as she did so. Did he soften toward her at all? Possibly, for a red flush crept up to his hair; but he raised his hand as if to brush it away, and then he was himself again—the man who never forgave, and who could break a young girl’s heart even while seeming to caress her. If he heard Anna’s question with regard to Madam Verwest, he did not notice it or make her any answer. He merely took her arm in his, and, leading her up the broad stone steps, presented her to the lady as Madam Haverleigh, his wife.

“Instantly there came a change over the placid features, which kindled with a strange light, and the dim eyes, which looked so accustomed to tears, fastened themselves eagerly upon the fair face of the young girl, and then were raised questioningly to the dark face of the man whose lips curled with a sneering smile, as he said, in French:

“‘She does not understand a word. Ask me what you please.’

“‘Your wife truly!’ was the quick question of the woman, and Haverleigh replied:

“‘Yes, truly. What do you take me for?’

“To this there was no answer, but the woman’s arms were stretched toward Anna with a quick, sudden motion, as if they fain would hold her a moment in their embrace; but a look from Mr. Haverleigh checked the impulse, and only madame’s hand was offered to Anna, who, nevertheless, felt the warm welcome in the way the fingers tightened round her own, and was sure she had found a friend.

“‘Madame is very welcome, and I hope she will be happy here,’ the woman said; but she might as well have talked in Greek to Anna, who could only guess from her manner what she meant to say, and who smiled brightly back upon her, as she followed on up one narrow staircase after another, until they reached a lofty room, which she first thought a hall such as the New Englanders call a ball-room, but which she soon discovered to be the apartment intended for herself.

“The floor was inlaid and waxed, and so slippery that, she came near falling as she first crossed the threshold. A few Persian rugs were thrown down here and there, and at the further end, near to a deep alcove, was a massive rosewood bed with lace and silken hangings, and heavy tassels with knotted fringe. On the bed was a light blue satin spread, covered with real Valenciennes lace of a most exquisite pattern, and Anna stood a moment in wonder to look at and marvel at its richness. Then her eyes went on to the alcove, across which lace curtains were stretched, and which was daintily fitted up with the appliances of the toilet, with the bath-room just beyond. All this was at the far end of the room, the remainder of which might have served as a boudoir for the empress herself, it was so exquisitely furnished with everything which the ingenuity of Paris could devise in the way of fauteuil, ottoman, easy-chair, and lounge, with mosaic tables from Florence, inlaid cabinets from Rome, lovely porcelains from Munich and full-length mirrors from Marseilles.

“‘This is your room; how do you like it?’ Mr. Haverleigh asked: and Annie replied:

“‘I wish mother and Mary knew. I wish they could be here too. Only the windows are kind of prison-like, they are so long and narrow, and so deep in the wall.’

“As she said this she entered one of the arched recesses and tried to look from the window, but it was almost too high for her, and by standing on tip-toe she could just look over the ledge and get a view of the tree-tops in the grounds, of rocky hills beyond, and in the far distance a bit of the blue Mediterranean, which brought back to her mind a day at the seaside, where she had gone with a picnic party and bathed in the Atlantic. That day seemed so very, very far back in the past, and the ocean waves she had watched as they broke upon the beach was so far, far away that again that throb of homesickness swept over her, and there were tears in her eyes when she turned from the window and came back into the salon. It was empty, for both her husband and Madame Verwest had left it, and she was free to look about her as much as she liked, and to examine the many beautiful things with which the salon was filled. But they did not quite satisfy her now, for that pang of pain was still in her heart cutting like a knife, and her thoughts went back to the day when she and Mary had fitted the cheap ingrain carpet and white curtains to the little parlor at home, and thought it, when done, the finest room in Millfield. The carpet and curtains were there still, but oh, how many miles and miles of land and sea lay between her and the humble surroundings she had once so fretted against, longing for something better! She had the something better, but it did not satisfy, and it was so dreadful to be in a strange land where she could not understand a word the people said, and it would be still more dreadful without Mr. Haverleigh there as interpreter, she thought; and there began to grow in her a sense of nearness to her husband, a feeling of dependence upon and protection in him such as she had not experienced before.

‘I believe I could love him after all; anyway, I mean to try, and will begin to-night,’ she thought, just as there came a knock upon the door, and in answer to her ‘Entrez,’ the one French word besides oui which she knew, a smart-looking young woman entered, followed by a man, who was bringing in her trunks.

“With a low courtesy, the girl managed to make Anna understand that her name was Celine, and that she was to be her waiting-maid, and had come to dress her for dinner.

“‘Voyez les clefs,’ she said, holding up the keys which her master had given her, one of which she proceeded to fit to a certain trunk, as if she knew its contents, and that it contained what she wanted.

“Anna had not before had the luxury of a maid, but she accepted it naturally as she did everything else, and gave herself at once into the deft hands of Celine, who brushed and arranged her beautiful hair with many expressions of delight, not one of which Anna understood. But she knew she was being complimented, and when her toilet was completed, and she saw herself in one of the long mirrors arrayed in a soft, light gray silk, with trimmings of blue and lace, with flowers in her hair, and pearls on her arms and neck, she felt that Celine’s praises were just, and laughed back at the vision of her own loveliness.

“‘Oh, if the folks at home could see me now they would say it paid,’ she thought, as she walked up and down the apartment, trailing her silken robe after her, and catching frequent flashes of her beauty in the mirrors as she passed.

“And still there was a little of the old homesickness left, a yearning for companionship, for somebody to see her, somebody to talk to, and then she remembered her resolution to try to love her husband, and she said again: ‘I’ll do it, and I’ll begin to-night.’

“But where was he that he left her thus alone, walking up and down, until, too tired to walk longer, she seated herself upon a satin couch to await his coming, little dreaming as she sat there of the scene which had taken place between him and Madame Verwest, who had invited him to her own room, and then turning fiercely upon him, demanded: ‘Tell me, is she your wife, or another Agatha, brought here to beat her wings against her prison bars until death gives her release? She is too young for that, too beautiful, too innocent, with those childish eyes of blue. Tell me you mean well by her, or——’

“She did not finish her threat, save by a stamp of her foot and an angry flash of the eyes, which had looked so pityingly at Anna, for Haverleigh interrupted her with a coarse laugh, and said: ‘Spare yourself all uneasiness and puny threats which can avail nothing. You are as much in my power as she. Honestly, though, this girl is as lawfully my wife as a New England parson could make her.’

“‘New England,’ and the woman started as if stung. ‘Is she an American? Is she from New England? You wrote me she was English born.’

“‘Did I? I had forgotten it. Well, then, she is an American and a New Englander, and her name was Anna Strong, and she worked in a shoe-shop in Millfield, where I stopped for a few months on account of the scenery first, and her pretty face afterward. I married her for love, and because I fancied she loved me a little; but I have found she does not, and so she shall pay the penalty, but have her price all the same, diamonds and pearls, with satins and laces and a dress for every day of the month.’

“He spoke bitterly, and in his eyes there was a look which boded no good to Anna, but Madame Verwest scarcely heard him. At the mention of Anna’s name and Millfield she had laid her hand suddenly over her heart, which beat so loudly that she could hear it herself, while her eyes had in them a concentrated, far-off look, and she evidently was not thinking of the objects around her, the old chateau and the dreadful man who brought her back to the present by saying:

“‘I shall leave her here with you for a time, and it is my wish that she has everything she wants except, of course, her freedom; you understand?’

“She did understand; she had been through the same thing once before, and she shuddered as she remembered the dark-haired, white-faced girl, who had died in that gloomy house, with wild snatches of song upon her lips, songs of ‘Ma Normandie,’ and the home where she had once been pure and innocent. ‘Je vais re voir, ma Normandie’ poor Agatha had sung as the breath was leaving her quivering lips, and the sad, sweet refrain had seemed to Madame Verwest to haunt the old chateau ever since, and now was she destined to hear another death-song or moaning cry for New England instead of Normandy? ‘Never!’ was her mental reply, and to herself she vowed that the fate of Anna Strong should not be like that of Agatha Wynde. But she could do nothing then except to bow in acquiescence as she listened to Haverleigh’s instructions, and from them gathered what his intentions were. Not to desert Anna absolutely; he could not bring himself to do that, for the love he had felt for her was not yet extinct; but she had offended him deeply, and had hurt his pride, and for the present she was a prisoner in Chateau d’Or, till such time as he chose to set her free, or ‘till she recovers her reason, you know,’ he said to Madame Verwest, who made no sign that she heard him, but whose face was white as ashes as she went out from his presence, and gave orders that dinner was to be served at once in the grand salle-a-manger, which was all ablaze with wax candles and tapers when Haverleigh led his bride thither, and gave her a place at the head of his table.

“He had found her asleep on the couch, where she had thrown herself from sheer fatigue, and for a moment had stood looking down upon her childish, beautiful face, while something like pity did for an instant stir his stony heart. But only for an instant, for when he remembered her words, ‘I do not love him, and never expect to,’ he hardened against her at once, and the gleam in his eye was the gleam of a mad man as he touched her arm and bade her rouse herself.

“It is not necessary to describe in detail that elaborate dinner of ten courses, which was served from solid silver, with two or three servants in attendance. Haverleigh was very rich and very purse-proud, and it suited him to live like a prince wherever he was; besides, he wished to impress the simple New England girl with a sense of his greatness and wealth, and he enjoyed her evident embarrassment, or rather bewilderment, at so much glitter and display for just themselves and no one else. Anna had not forgotten her resolution to try to love him, and after their return to the salon, where a bright wood fire had been kindled, as the autumn night was chilly, she stole up behind him as he lounged in his easy-chair, and laying her white arms about his neck, drew his head back until her lips touched his forehead. Then she said, softly and timidly:

“‘Ernest, this is our first coming home, and I want to thank you for all the beautiful things with which you have surrounded me, and to tell you that I mean to be the best and most faithful of little wives to you.’

“It was quite a speech for Anna, who stood in great fear of the man she could not understand, and who seemed to her to be possessed of two spirits, one good and one bad, and should she rouse the latter she knew it would not be in her power to cope with it. But she had no fear of rousing it now, and she felt as if turning into stone when, for reply to her caress, he sprang to his feet and placing a hand on either of her shoulders, stood looking at her with an expression in his eyes she could not meet and before which she cowered at last, and with quivering lip said to him:

“‘Please take your hands from my shoulders; you hurt me, you press so hard. And why do you look so terribly at me? You make me afraid of you, and I wanted to love you to-night. What have I done?’

“Then he released her, and flinging her from him left the salon without a word, and she saw him no more that night. At eleven o’clock Celine came in to undress her, and when Anna managed to make her understand that she wished to know where Monsieur Haverleigh was, she only received for answer a meaning shrug and a peculiar lifting of the eyelids, which she could construe as she liked. It was not so pleasant a home-coming after all, and Anna’s first night at the chateau was passed with watching, and waiting, and tears, and that intense listening which tells so upon the brain. Once she thought to leave the room, but the door was bolted on the other side, and so at last, when wearied with walking up and down the long apartment, she threw herself upon the rosewood bed and fell into a disturbed and unrestful sleep.

“Meanwhile the master—Haverleigh—was fighting a fiercer battle with himself than he had ever fought before. He had said that his mind was made up, and he was one who boasted that when once this was so nothing could turn him from his purpose; his yea was yea, his nay, nay, but those white arms around his neck, and the touch of those fresh lips upon his forehead had not been without their effect, though the effect was like the pouring of molten lead into his veins, and had made him what, at times, he was, a mad man. When he rushed from Anna’s presence, with that wild look in his eye and the raging fire in his heart, he went straight to the dark, dreary room where Agatha had died with the sweet refrain ‘Je vais revoir, ma Normandie,’ upon her lips, and there amid the gloom and haunting memories of the place walked up and down the livelong night, now thinking, thinking, with head bent down, and now gesticulating in empty air with clinched fist, and again talking to himself, or rather to the spirits, good and bad, which seemed to have possession of him.

“‘Was she in earnest? Did she mean it? Is it possible that she might learn to love me through these baubles she prizes so much?’ he questioned of his better nature, which replied:

“‘Try her, and see. Don’t leave her here in this dreary place Don’t shut out all the gladness and sunshine from her young life. Give her a chance. Remember Agatha.’

“Just then, through the casement he had thrown open, there came a gust of the night-wind, which lifted the muslin drapery of the tall bed in the corner and swept it toward him, making him start, it was so like the white, tossing, billowy figure he had seen there once, begging him for the love of God to set her free, and let her go back to ‘la belle Normandie,’ where the father was watching for her, and would welcome her home again.

“Was Agatha, the wild rose of Normandy, pleading for Anna, the singing bird from New England? Possibly; and if so, she pleaded well, and might have gained her cause if the wicked spirit had not interposed, and sneeringly repeated: ‘Do not love him—shrink from his caresses—can’t endure to have him touch me—married him for money—can wind him round my little finger.’ And that last turned the scale. No man likes to be wound round any finger, however small it may be, and Ernest Haverleigh was not an exception.

“‘She shall pay for that,’ he said—‘shall suffer until the demon within me is satisfied, and I rather think I am possessed of the devil. Eugenie says I am, in her last interesting document,’ and he laughed bitterly, as he took from his pocket a dainty little epistle, bearing the London post-mark, and stepping to the window, through which the early morning light was streaming, glanced again at the letter which had been forwarded to him from Paris, and a part of which had reference to Anna.

“‘Who was the doll-faced little girl I saw with you in the carriage, and why didn’t you call upon me after that day? Were you afraid to meet me, and what new fancy is this so soon after that other affair? Ernest Haverleigh, I believe you are possessed with a demon, which makes you at times a maniac.’

‘Yes, I believe I am mad. I wonder if it is in the family far back, working itself out in me?’ Haverleigh said, as he stood with his eyes riveted upon the last two lines. ‘Curse this woman with that spell she holds over me. If it were not for her Agatha might have been living, and I might forgive Anna, for I do believe I am nearer loving her than any woman I ever saw, and that is why I feel so bitter, so unrelenting, so determined upon revenge.’

“There were signs of waking life in and around the chateau now. The servants were astir, and so Haverleigh left the room where he had passed the night, and which since Agatha’s death had borne the cognomen of ‘the haunted chamber.’ On the stairs he met with Madame Verwest, who stood with hands folded and eyes bent down, her usual attitude while receiving his orders.

“Anna was to have breakfast in her own room, he said, and be waited on by Celine, and then about ten o’clock he would see her alone, for he must be off that night for Paris.

“It was a very dainty breakfast of chocolate, and fruits, and French rolls, and limpid honey and eggs which Celine took to her mistress, whom she had dressed becomingly in a white cashmere wrapper, with broad blue sash, knotted at the side, and a blue silk, sleeveless jacket. In spite of the weary night, Anna was very beautiful that morning, though a little pale and worn, with a shadow about the eyes, which were lifted so timidly and questioningly to Haverleigh when at last he entered the salon and closed the door behind him.

“‘Oh, Ernest, husband!’ she began; but she never called him by either of those names again, and half an hour later she lay on her face among the silken cushions of the couch, a terrified, bewildered, half-crazed creature, to whom death would have been a welcome relief just then.

“He had succeeded in making her comprehend her position fully, and in some degree to comprehend him. He was a man who never forgot and who never forgave. He had loved her, he believed; at least, he had conferred upon her the great honor of becoming his wife—had raised her from nothing to a high and dazzling position, because he liked her face and fancied she liked him. She had certainly made him think so, and he, whom many a high-born damsel of both Scotland and England had tried to captivate, had made a little Yankee shoe-stitcher Mrs. Haverleigh, and then had heard from her own lips that she loathed him, that she shrank from his touch, that she married him for money, for fine dresses, and jewelry, and furniture, and horses, and carriages, and servants—and he added with an oath: ‘You shall have all this. You shall have everything you married me for, except your freedom, and that you never shall have until I change my purpose;’ then, without giving her a chance to speak in her own defense, he went on to unfold his plan formed on the instant when he stood by the door in New York and heard her foolish speech to Mrs. Fleming. She was to remain at Chateau d’Or, where every possible luxury was to be hers, and where the servants were to yield her perfect obedience, except in one particular. She was never to go unattended outside the grounds, or off the little island on which the chateau stood. Monsieur Brunell, who kept the gate, would see this law enforced, as he would see to everything else. All letters which she wished to send to him or her friends would be given to Brunell’s care. No other person would dare touch them, and it would be useless for her to try to persuade or bribe them, as they all feared him and would obey his orders. For society she would have Madame Verwest, and plenty of books in the library, and a splendid piano, which she would find in the same room, with a small cabinet organ for Sunday use, ‘as you New Englanders are all so pious,’ he added, with a sneer. Then pausing a moment, as if to rally his forces for a last blow, he said, slowly and distinctly:

“Brunell and Madame Verwest know you are my wife, but I have told them you are crazy, and that rather than send you to a lunatic asylum, I shall keep you in close confinement here for a while, unless you become furious, in which case there are plenty of places for you, not so good as this, or as much to your taste. To the other servants I make no explanations, except that you are crazy, and that it is a fancy of yours that you are not. This fancy they will humor to a certain extent, but you cannot bribe them. They will give you every possible attention. Celine will wait upon you as if you were a queen. You can dine in state every day, with twenty courses, if you like, and wear a new dress each time. You can drive in the grounds when it suits you, and drive alone there; but when you go outside the gates, Madame Verwest, or Celine, or some trusty person will accompany you, as it is not safe for a lunatic to go by herself into strange quarters. At intervals, as it suits my convenience or pleasure, I shall visit you as my wife, and shall be the most devoted of husbands in the presence of the servants, who will thus give me their sympathy and wholly discredit anything you may tell them. So beat your pretty wings as you may, and break your heart as often as you like, you cannot help yourself. I am supreme here. I am your master, and Madame Verwest says of me sometimes that I am a madman—ha, ha!”

“It was the laugh of a demon, and the look of the man was the look of a madman as he pushed from him the quivering form which had thrown itself upon the floor at his feet supplicating for pity, for pardon. He had neither, and with a coarse laugh which echoed through the salon like the knell of death to all poor Anna’s happiness, he left the room and she heard his heavy footsteps as he went swiftly down the stone stairway and out into the court.

“Was it a dream, a nightmare, or a horrible reality, she asked herself as she tried to recall the dreadful things he had said to her and to understand their import. ‘A prisoner, a maniac,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, mother, oh, Mary, that I should come to this. Oh, if I could die, if I could die;’ and in her anguish she looked about her for some means of ending her wretched life. Her New England training, however, was too strong for that. She dared not deliberately and suddenly die by her own hand, but if this thing were true, if she were a prisoner here with no means of escape, she would starve herself to death. They could not compel her to eat, and she would never taste food again until she knew that she was free.

“There was a murmur of voices in the court below, and a sound of wheels crushing over the gravel. Was he really going, and without her? She must know, and springing from her crouching attitude she started for the door, but found it locked from the other side it would seem, and she was a prisoner indeed, and for a time a maniac as well, if sobs and moans and piteous cries for some one to come to her aid could be called proofs of insanity. But no one came, and the hours dragged heavily on till she heard the house clock strike four, and then Celine came in to dress madame for dinner, but Anna waved her off loathing the very thought of food—loathing the glitter and display of the day before—loathing the elegant dresses which Celine spread out before her, hoping thus to tempt her.

“‘Go away, go away, or let me out,’ she cried, while Celine, who could not understand a word, kept at a safe distance, eying her young mistress and thinking it very strange that her master should have two crazy girls in succession—poor Agatha Wynde and this fair American, who Madame Verwest said was his wife.

“‘Perhaps,’ Celine had thought with a shrug of her shoulders; ‘but if the lady is his wife why leave her so quick?’

“But wife or not it was Celine’s business to attend her, and she had no intention of shrinking from her duty.

“‘Poor girl, and so young,’ she thought, and she tried to quiet and conciliate her, and brought out dress after dress and held up to view, until, maddened at the sight of the finery so detestable to her now, Anna shut her eyes, and stopping her ears shrieked aloud in the utter abandonment of despair.

“‘Mon Dieu,’ Celine exclaimed, as she fled from the room in quest of Madame Verwest, whose face was white as marble and whose eyes had in them a look which Celine had never seen before. But she did not offer to go near the lady whom Celine represented as being so bad, nor did she see her during that day or the next. She, too, was acting very queerly, the servants said to each other, as they talked in whispers of the American who refused to touch a morsel of food, and who had not tasted a mouthful since the master went away.

“She was in bed now, Celine said, lying with her face to the wall, and moaning so sadly and saying things she could not understand. ‘If Madame would only go to her and speak one word—Anglaise,’ she said to Madame Verwest on the morning of the third day, and with that same white, pinched look upon her face, madame started at last for the salon.

CHAPTER III.
MADAME VERWEST AND ANNA.

“It was now the third day since Haverleigh’s departure, and Anna had adhered to her resolution not to eat or drink, hoping thus to hasten the death she so longed for, and yet dared not achieve by rasher means. Four times a day Celine had carried her the most tempting dishes which a French cook could manufacture, and tried by signs, and gestures, and a voluble rattling of her mother tongue, to persuade her mistress to eat, or, at least, sip the delicious chocolate, or cafe au lait, whose perfume itself was almost meat and drink. But all in vain. Anna neither turned her head nor spoke, but lay with her face to the wall on the massive bedstead of rosewood and gilt, whose silken and lace hangings seemed to aggravate her misery. So much grandeur, so much elegance, and she so hopeless and wretched. Oh, with what wild yearnings she thought of her New England home, and the labor she had so despised.

“‘Oh, mother, mother, if you only knew, but I shall never see you again. I shall die, and nobody will know. I believe I am dying now,’ she moaned, as the gnawings of hunger and thirst began to make themselves felt, and there stole over her that deathly sickness and cold, clammy sweat which so often precedes a fainting fit, or a severe attack of vomiting. ‘Yes, I’m dying and I’m glad,’ she whispered, as everything around her began to grow dark, and she seemed to be floating away on a billow of the sea.

‘No, you are not dying. You are only faint with hunger and excitement. Take a sip of this wine,’ was spoken in her ear in a pure English accent, while a cool hand was laid kindly upon her hot, throbbing head.

“It was the English voice, the sound of home, which brought Anna back to consciousness, and turning herself quickly toward the speaker, she saw Madame Verwest bending over her, with a glass of spiced wine and some biscuits, at which she clutched eagerly, forgetful of her recent desire to die. The English voice had saved her, and a flood of tears rained over her young face as she glanced up at Madame Verwest, and met the same kind expression which had greeted her the first day of her arrival at Chateau d’Or.

“‘Oh, you can speak English. You will help me to get away, to go home to mother? You’ll save me from him, won’t you? Why didn’t you come to me before?’ she cried; and raising herself in bed, she laid her head upon the bosom of the woman and sobbed convulsively. ‘Are you crying, too? Crying for me?’ she asked, as she felt the hot tears falling upon her hair, and drawing herself a little from Madame Verwest, she gazed at her in astonishment, for every feature was convulsed with emotion, and the tears were running down her pallid cheeks.

“‘What is it? Are you a prisoner? Does he say you are crazy like me? Who are you, and why are you in this dreadful place?’ Anna asked, and then Madame was herself again, and answered, calmly:

“‘I am Madame Verwest, Mr. Haverleigh’s housekeeper, and I am here from choice. I am neither a prisoner nor crazy, but I am your friend and can help you in many ways.’

“‘Can you set me free; oh, can you set me free and send me home to mother?’ Anna cried, but the lady shook her head.

‘I dare not do that, and could not if I would. Monsieur Brunell keeps the gate, the only way of escape, and would not let you pass. I can, however, make your life more endurable while you are here; but the servants must not suspect me, that is, they must not know that I talk English so fluently. They are aware that I speak it a very little, so never expect much talking from me in their presence. But learn the French yourself at once; it will be better for you.’

“Anna was too wholly unsuspicious to think for a moment that Madame Verwest was not French, though she did wonder at the perfect ease with which she spoke English, and said to her:

“‘You talk almost as well as I do. Where did you learn?’

“‘I have lived three years in London, and two in Edinburgh,’ was the quiet reply, as the woman held the wine again to Anna’s lips, bidding her drink before talking any more.

“Anna obeyed eagerly, and then continued:

“‘You lived in London three years, and in Edinburgh two? Were you with Mr. Haverleigh all the time?’

“‘Part of the time I lived with him, and part of the time alone, though always in his employ.’

“‘You must have known him a long, long time,’ Anna rejoined. ‘Tell me then who he is and what he is? What kind of man, I mean?’

“‘That is a strange question for a wife to ask concerning her husband. Who did you think he was, and what? Surely your mother, if you have one, did not allow you to marry him, without knowing something of his antecedents,’ Madame Verwest said, and Anna colored painfully, for she remembered well how her mother and sister both had at first opposed her marrying an entire stranger of whom they knew nothing, except what he said of himself.

“‘Did you know nothing of his history? Did you not inquire? How long had you known him, and what was he doing in your town?’ Madame continued, and Anna replied:

“‘He was traveling for pleasure, I think, and stopped for a few days in Millfield because he liked the scenery; then he was sick, I believe, and so staid on as everybody was kind to him and made so much of him. He came from New York with a Mr. Stevens whom he knew and who said he was all right, and he had so much money and spent it so freely—’

“‘Yes, but what did he say of himself?’ madame persisted in asking, and Anna answered:

“‘He said he was of Scottish descent on his father’s side, but born in England, at Grasmere, I think—that he left there when he was three years old—that his father died when he was twenty-two, and left him a large property which by judicious management had doubled in value, so that he was very rich, and that weighed so much with me, for we were poor, mother, and Mary, and Fred, who wants to go to college. I’ll tell you just the truth, I worked in the shoe-shop, and my hands were cut with the waxed-ends, and my clothes smelled of leather, and I was nothing but a shop-girl, and I hated it and wanted handsome dresses, and jewelry, and money, and position, and Mr. Haverleigh could give me these, I thought, and he showed us letters from London and Liverpool, and so I married him, and he overheard what I said of him to Lucy Fleming in New York, and it made him so angry and jealous that he brought me here, and that is all. Oh, madame, tell me, please, what you know of him, and what people say of him who know him best, and will he ever set me free?’

“Anna asked her questions rapidly, but madame replied in the same quiet, measured manner, which marked all her movements.

“‘I think he told you truly with regard to his birth and his money, and people who know him best say he is honest, and upright, and generous to a fault. Did he tell you anything of his mother? He must have spoken of her.’

“Madame was the questioner now, and Anna replied:

“‘He never said much of her, nothing which I recall, but I have an impression that her family was not as good as his father’s. Do you know? Did you ever see her?’

“‘Yes, I have seen his mother.’

“‘Oh, tell me of her, please. Was she a lady?’

“‘Not as the English account ladies, perhaps,’ madame said, and Anna went on:

“‘Was she nice? Was she good?’

“‘I believe she tried to be good,’ was the low-spoken answer, and Anna cried:

“‘Then there must be some good in him and sometime he’ll relent and set me free. It would be so terrible to die here, and mother and Mary never know. He says I am crazy; he has told you so, but you don’t believe it; tell me, you do not believe me mad!’

“‘Not yet, but you will be if you suffer yourself to get so fearfully excited. Be quiet and make the best of the situation, which is not without its ameliorating circumstances. Everybody will be very kind to you here, and believe me when I say it is better to live here without him, than to travel the world over with him; so make the best of it, and at least seem to acquiesce. If you are fond of reading there are plenty of books in the library, many of them English. There is a fine piano, too. Are you fond of music?’

“‘Yes, but do not play. I always had to work, and could not afford the lessons,’ Anna replied, and Madame Verwest said:

“‘I think I can get you a teacher. I know Mr. Haverleigh will not object to that: and now you must rest—must sleep. I’ll draw the curtains of the bed, and leave you alone for a time.’

“There was something so soothing and reassuring in madame’s manner that Anna felt the influence, and worn out as she was and tired, she turned upon her pillow and fell into a quiet sleep, which lasted till the sun went down, and the evening shadows were gathering in the room. Madame was sitting by her when she woke, and on a table at her side was a dainty supper which Celine had just brought in, and which Anna did not refuse.

“‘Perhaps you would like to tell me of your home in Millfield. I am always pleased to hear of foreign countries, and how the people live there,’ Madame Verwest said, as she saw the color coming back to Anna’s face, and knew that she was stronger.

“So Anna told her of New England and her Millfield home, the hills around it and the little ponds sleeping in the valley, and the river winding its graceful way to the east, until it was lost in the noble Connecticut. And Madame Verwest listened eagerly, with a deep flush on her pallid cheek, and a bright gleam in her eye.

“‘And the pond lilies grow there by the old bridge, and the boat-house is near by,’ she said, in a half-whisper, as Anna told her of the beautiful lilies which open their petals in June, and fill the summer air with such delicious perfume.

“‘Why, were you ever there? Did you ever see the boat-house?’ Anna asked, in some surprise, and madame replied:

“‘You describe it all so vividly that I feel as if I had seen it. I love New England, and some day, perhaps—who knows—we may go there together—you and I.’

“She wrung her hands nervously, like one under strong excitement, and Anna looked at her wonderingly, while she continued:

“‘Yes, some day we’ll go away from this prison-house, but it may be long hence. He is vigilant and cunning, and mad, I believe; so be quiet, and seem to be content, nor beat your wings till you die like poor—’

“She checked herself ere the name of Agatha escaped her lips, but a new idea had crossed Anna’s mind, making her unmindful of what Madame Verwest was saying. She would write at once to Millfield, telling her mother where she was, and begging her to send some one to her relief. Strange she had not thought of that before as a way of escape, and she begged Madame Verwest for the lamp and writing material, that she might at once begin the letter which was to bring relief.

“‘Wait till to-morrow,’ madame said, ‘when you will be stronger and fresher.’

“And to this Anna was finally persuaded, but early the next morning the letter was written, detailing every particular of her unhappy position, and asking her mother to send some one at once to liberate her.

“This letter she intrusted to Celine, while Madame Verwest looked pityingly on, knowing in her heart that in all human probability the letter would never reach New England, but go instead to Paris, there to be read by Haverleigh and committed to the flames.

CHAPTER IV.
THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO MILLFIELD.

It was Thanksgiving day, and in the little red house which Anna had once called her home, the table was laid for dinner, laid for four—Mary, Fred, and the Anna over the sea, who had never been absent before from the festival which, in New England, means so much and is kept so sacredly. They knew she would not be there, and they had grown somewhat accustomed to living without her, but on this day it was Mary’s fancy to lay the table for her, to put her plate just where she used to sit, and place by it the little napkin ring of Stuart plaid which had been Fred’s present to her on her last birth-day.

“‘We’ll play she is here, mother,’ Mary said. ‘She will be in fancy. Surely she’ll remember us to-day of all days, and I know she’ll wish herself here once more. How long it is now since we heard from her. Only one letter since she reached Paris. You don’t suppose she is forgetting us with all the grandeur and the fine things she has?’

“‘Oh, no, Anna will never do that. She is probably too much occupied in Paris, and too happy with Mr. Haverleigh to write many letters,’ Mrs. Strong replied, but her face belied her hopeful words.

“She had felt many misgivings with regard to Anna’s marriage, and her chance for happiness with a man as cold, and proud, and reticent as Mr. Haverleigh. But it could not now be helped, and so she made the best of it, and prided herself on having a daughter abroad, and rather enjoyed the slight elevation in society which it really had given her. In the little town of Millfield it was something to be the mother of the rich Mrs. Haverleigh, and to talk of my ‘daughter’s country-house in Scotland, and Chateau d’Or in France;’ and on this Thanksgiving day the good woman wore her new black silk—Mr. Haverleigh’s gift—in honor of him, and committed the extravagance of celery and cranberries, too, and wondered as she basted the turkey browning in the oven, where Anna was and what her dinner would be.

“‘Perhaps Fred will bring us a letter. I told him to stop at the office. It is time he was here, she said, as, her arrangements for dinner completed, she stood a moment looking into the street, where the first snow-flakes were falling.

“Why was it that the day seemed so dreary to her, and why was there such an undefined dread of something in her heart? Was it a presentiment of the sad news coming to her so fast, borne by Fred, who appeared round a corner running rapidly, and waving his cap when he saw his mother’s face at the window.

“‘Here’s a letter from Anna,’ he cried, as he burst into the room, and held the precious document to sight. ‘Isn’t it jolly to get it on Thanksgiving day? ‘Most as good as having her here. Let’s keep it for the dessert!’

“But the mother could not wait, and taking the letter from her son, she glanced at the superscription, which was in Mr. Haverleigh’s handwriting. But that was not strange. The other letter had been directed by him, and so she had no suspicion of the blow awaiting her as she hastily broke the seal.

“‘Why, it is written by Mr. Haverleigh,’ she exclaimed, and then, with Mary and Fred both looking over her shoulder, she read the following:

“‘Paris, November 10th.

“‘Mrs. Strong:—Dear Madame:—I am sorry to be obliged to tell you the sad news about Anna, and I hope you will bear up bravely, for there is hope, and insanity is not as bad as death.’

“‘Insanity,’ the three whispered together, with white lips, and then read on rapidly:

“‘My bright-haired darling, whom I loved so much, and who every day was growing more and more into my heart, has been very sick here in Paris, and when the fever left her her reason seemed wholly gone. The ablest physicians in France were consulted, but her case seemed to baffle all their skill, and as she constantly grew worse, they advised me, as a last resort, to place her in a private asylum, where she would have absolute quiet, together with the best and kindest of care.

“‘I need not tell you how I shrank from such an alternative, feeling, for a time, that I would rather see my darling dead than behind a grated window, but it was my only hope of restoring her, and as she was at times very violent and uncontrollable, I yielded at last to the judgment of others, and yesterday I took her to a private asylum in——’

“Here was a great blot, which entirely obliterated the name of the place, but in their sorrow and surprise the three did not observe it then, but read on rapidly:

“‘It is a charming spot, with lovely views. She has her own apartments, and maid, and private table, and carriage, and is surrounded by every comfort which love can devise or money buy, but oh, my heart is wrung with anguish when I think of her there, my beautiful Anna, who enjoyed everything so much. She was happy for the brief space that she was with me, and I am glad to remember that in the dreariness and darkness which have so suddenly overshadowed my life. But oh, dear madame, what can I say to comfort you, her mother. Nothing, alas, nothing, except bid you hope, as I do, that time will restore her to us again, and that reminds me of a question the physician asked me. Is there insanity on either side of her family? If not, her recovery is certain. Meanwhile, do not be troubled about her treatment; it will be the tenderest and best, as I know her doctor and nurse personally, and money will secure everything but happiness. It is not thought advisable for me to see her often, but I shall keep myself thoroughly informed with regard to her condition, and report to you accordingly.

“The last time Anna was out with me before her sickness, she saw and greatly admired an oil painting from a scene among the mountains of the Tyrol. It reminded her, she said, of New England, and the view from the hill across the river in Millfield. Recently I have seen the picture again, and remembering that she said, ‘Oh, how I wish mother and Mary could see it,’ I purchased it, and yesterday it started for America, marked to your address. In the same box is a porcelain picture of Murillo’s Madonna (the one in the Louvre gallery), and I send it because it bears a strong resemblance to Anna, as I have seen her in her white dressing-gown, with her hair unbound, her hands folded upon her breast, and her sweet face upturned to the evening sky, which she loved to contemplate, because, she said, ‘the same moon and stars were shining down on you.’ I hope you will like them, and accept them as coming—the painting from Anna, and the Madonna from me. Should you ever be in need of money, I beg you will command me to any extent, for I desire to be to you a son for the sake of the daughter I have taken from you.

“‘As I may not be in Paris the entire winter, direct to Munroe & Co., and your letters will be forwarded.

Very truly, dear madame, yours,

“‘Ernest Haverleigh.’

“This was the letter received at the red house that Thanksgiving day, and for a time the mother and sister felt that Anna was as surely lost to them as if she had been lying dead in some far-off grave across the sea. There was no insanity in the family on either side that Mrs. Strong had ever heard of, and that gave them a little hope, but their hearts were aching with a bitter pain as they sat down to the dinner which was scarcely touched, so intent were they upon the sorrow which had come so suddenly. It was terrible to think of their beautiful Anna as a maniac, confined behind bars and bolts, and so far away from home.

“‘If we could only see her,’ Mary said, while Fred suggested going to France himself to find her if she did not recover soon.

“‘Where is she? Where did Mr. Haverleigh say the asylum was?’ he asked, and then reference was had to the letter, but the name of the place was wholly unintelligible, and after trying in vain to make it out, they gave it up and gathered what comfort they could from the apparent kindness and cordiality evinced in Mr. Haverleigh’s letter, so different from his cold, proud manner when there, Mrs. Strong remarked, and she felt her love go out toward him as to a son, and before she slept that night she wrote him a long letter, which contained many messages of love for poor Anna, and thanks to himself for his kindness and interest in her sorrowing family.

“That night there was a Thanksgiving party in the ball-room of the village hotel. It had been the custom to have one there for years, and heretofore Anna Strong had been the very prettiest girl present; and the one most sought for in the games we played, and the merry dance. But that night she was not with us, and the news that she was insane, and the inmate of a mad-house, came upon us with a heavy shock, saddening our spirits and casting a gloom over the gay scene. Poor Anna! How little we guessed the truth, or dreamed how many, many times that day her thoughts had been with us, or how, until the last ray of sunset faded, she had stood by the window of her room looking to the west, as if, with the departing daylight, she would send some message to her far-off home.

CHAPTER V.
THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO CHATEAU D’OR.

Monsieur Brunell had received a telegram saying that M. Haverleigh would visit the chateau the following day, and both Anna and Madame Verwest had received letters apprising them of his home-coming, and bidding the one see that a grand dinner was in readiness for him, and the other to array herself in her most becoming attire, as befitted a wife about to receive her husband after a separation of many months. To Anna this visit seemed more awful than anything she had yet experienced at the chateau, for as a whole her life there had not been without its pleasures. Acting upon Madame Verwest’s advice, she had tried to make the best of her position, and in acquiring the language and a knowledge of music, she had found a solace for many a weary hour which otherwise would have hung heavily upon her hands. She was fond of French and music, and had developed a remarkable talent for them both, while in the well-selected library she had found a delight she had never thought she could find in books. Madame Verwest was herself a good scholar and a clear reasoner and thinker, and in her constant companionship Anna was rapidly developing into a self-reliant woman, capable of thinking and acting for herself. She had long since given up all hope of hearing from home, unless she could find some other method of communication than through the medium of Monsieur Brunell, who took charge of every letter from the chateau, and who, when questioned upon the subject as to why no answer ever came to her, always replied that he did not know, unless her letters were lost on the voyage. He always deposited them in the post, and more than that he could not do. It was in vain that Anna had tried other methods of getting her letters to the post. It could not be done, even through Madame Verwest, who said always, ‘I would so gladly, but I dare not.’

“And so, though letter after letter had been written home, there had come to her no reply, and she guessed pretty accurately that her letters were sent directly to her husband, who, of course, destroyed them. A prisoner for life she began to fear she was, and sometimes beat her wings cruelly against her gilded cage. Haverleigh had kept his word, and every luxury in the way of service, elegant dress, and furniture was hers. All the servants were respectful and attentive, while Celine was her devoted slave. Anna could talk with her now tolerably well, and the first use she made of her knowledge was an effort to convince her maid of her sanity, and that she was kept a prisoner there to suit the whim of her husband, whom she represented as a dreadful man. But to this Celine gave no credence, though she at first smilingly assented to her young mistress’ assertion, as if it were a part of her business to humor every fancy of the poor lunatic. Once Anna was more earnest than usual, and begged her maid to say if she believed her crazy.

“‘Oui, oui,’ Celine answered, vehemently, ‘I must think it, else why are you here, shut up from the world and Paris, and monsieur is far too kind, too fond to imprison madame for naught, and yet——’

“Here Celine paused a moment, as if a new idea had just occurred to her, and then she continued:

“‘And yet it is a little strange that mademoiselle Agatha should be crazy, too, like you, and like you shut up here.’

“‘Who was Agatha?’ Anna asked; and then, little by little, she heard the story of the poor young girl from Normandy, who had died in what Celine called the ‘Ghost Room,’ with the words ‘Je vais revoir ma Normandie’ on her lips.

“‘She haunts the room still,’ Celine said; ‘and often on stormy nights, when the wind howls round the old chateau, we hear her voice singing of Normandy. You see, that was her home, and she thought she was going back to see it again. Oh, but she was pretty, much like madame; only she was mademoiselle—no wedding ring, for true—no priest—and she was not lady, like you Americaine. She was people—very people.’

“This was Celine’s version of the story, and that night Anna heard from Madame Verwest more of poor Agatha, who believed herself a wife, and who went really mad when she found that she was not. If anything had been wanting to complete Anna’s loathing and horror of her husband, this story would have accomplished it. That he was a demon in human form, as well as a madman, she had no doubt, and there gradually crept into her heart a fear lest she, too, like Agatha of Normandy, would die in that dreary house. Still youth is hopeful, and Anna was young and cheered by the courage of Madame Verwest, who was to her more like a mother than a servant, she found herself constantly forming plans for escape from the chateau. When she received her husband’s letter, telling her he was coming, her first and predominant feeling was one of horror and dread; but anon there arose in her mind a hope that he might be coming to release her, or at least to take her with him to Paris, and once there she would fall in with Americans or English, and through them obtain her freedom.

“With this end in view she determined to make herself as attractive and agreeable as possible to the man she detested, and on the day when he was expected she suffered Celine to dress her in one of the many Paris gowns which she had never worn, for it had hitherto seemed worse than folly to array herself in laces, and silks, and jewels for her solitary meals. But to-day there was a reason for dressing, and she bade Celine do her best, and when that best was done and she saw herself in the glass, a picture of rare loveliness in blue satin and lace, with pearls on her neck and arms, something of her old vanity awoke within her, and she found herself again wishing that her friends at home could see her.

“In the kitchen below all was bustle and expectation, for whatever Ernest Haverleigh might be to others, he was exceedingly popular with his servants, and not a man or woman of them but would have walked through fire and water to serve him. In the dining salon the table was set for dinner as it never had been laid since the first night of Anna’s arrival at Chateau d’Or, more than five months ago. And Anna glanced in there once as she was passing the door, and felt herself grow sick and faint as she saw the costly array, and remembered what it was for.

“At half-past five the train was due, and just as the little silver clock chimed the half hour, the whistle was heard, and from the window where she had so often watched the sun setting she saw the long train moving off toward Marseilles, and a few moments after the sound of carriage wheels in the court below told her that her husband had come. She did not go to meet him, but with clasped hands and rapidly beating heart stood waiting for him just where he left her months before, terrified, bewildered, crouching upon the couch, with her face hidden in her hands. Now she stood erect, with an unnatural brightness in her blue eyes, and a flush on her cheeks, which deepened to scarlet as her ear caught the sound of heavy footsteps, and she knew he was coming.

“The next moment he opened the door, and started involuntarily, as if he had not been prepared to see her thus. He had not expected to find her so beautiful and so matured. He had left her a timid, shrinking girl; he found her a woman, with that expression upon her face which only experience or suffering brings. His role had been all marked out and arranged. He should find her tearful, reproachful, desperate possibly, and that would suit him well, and make her insanity more probable to his servants, while he would be the patient, enduring, martyr-husband, humoring her like a child, and petting her as he would pet a kitten which scratched and spit at his caresses. How then was he disappointed, when, with a steady step, she crossed the room to meet him, and offered her hand as quietly and self-possessed, to all appearance, as if he had been a stranger seeking audience of her.

“‘Ma precieuse, ma belle reine, how charming I find you, and how delighted I am to see you looking so well,’ he exclaimed, as he encircled her in his arms as lovingly as if she had been the bride of yesterday.

“Oh, how she loathed his caresses, and felt her blood curdling in her veins as he pressed kiss after kiss upon her cheek and lips, and called her his darling and pet, and asked if she were glad to see him again. She could not tell a lie, and she dared not tell the truth, but her eyes told it for her, and he saw it at once, and said in a deprecating tone:

“‘What! not glad to see me when I have lived in the anticipation of this meeting ever since I parted with you last autumn. Why then didn’t I come before? you may ask. Business before pleasure, you know, and then I hoped that perfect quiet in this lovely retreat would go far toward restoring you. Eh, ma petite. How is it, are you any better here?’ And he touched his forehead significantly.

“That exasperated Anna, who, for a moment, lost her self-control, and releasing herself from him, stepped backward, and with a proud gesture of her head, exclaimed:

“‘Have done with that. You know I’m not crazy, and you shall not stay in my presence if you insult me thus!’

“She was very beautiful then, and for a moment Haverleigh felt a wave of his old love or passion sweeping over him as he stood looking at her; then the demon within whispered of that day in New York, and the words he had overheard, and he was himself again, her jailer and master rather than her lover and husband.

“‘Ha, my pretty pet,’ said he, ‘and so you are mistress here, and can refuse or permit my presence as you please! So be it then, and if it suits you better to be sane, why sane you are to me at least. But, Mrs. Haverleigh, joking aside, I am glad to see you, and I think you greatly improved, and I come in peace and not in war, and if you incline to the latter I would advise a change in your programme. Upon my soul, you are charming.’

‘He drew her to him again, and she suffered his kisses in silence, and did not even shrink from him when in the presence of Celine he drew her down upon his knee, and called her his angel and dove. But the color had all faded from her cheeks, and left her very pale, while her hands shook so that she could scarcely manage her soup, when at last dinner was announced, and he led her to the dining salon. He was all attention to her, and a stranger watching him would have thought him the most devoted of husbands, but to Anna there was something disgusting and terrible in his manner which she knew was assumed as a means of deceiving the servants, who pitied their master for being so unfortunately married.

“When dinner was over, and they had returned to the salon, Anna could restrain herself no longer, but going up to her husband startled him with the question:

“‘There is something I must ask you, and for the love of heaven answer me truthfully. I have written home seven times since you left me here last October, but have never received a word in reply. Tell me, do you think my letters ever crossed the sea? Did mother ever get them?’

“For an instant the hot blood flamed up in Mr. Haverleigh’s face, and his eyes fell beneath the steady gaze fixed so searchingly upon him. Anna knew that her suspicions were correct, and that her letters had never gone to America, and the lie he told her did not in the least shake her belief.

“‘Do I think your mother ever got them?’ He repeated, at last. ‘She must have gotten some of them, and some may have been lost. You gave them to Brunel?’

“Yes, always to Brunel. No one else would touch them, and I was never allowed to post one myself. Why not? Why am I treated so like a prisoner? Why do you keep me here? Surely I have been sufficiently punished for the foolish words you overheard. Forgive me for them. Try me again. Let me go with you to Paris, when you return. I shall die here or go mad. Don’t drive me to that. Oh, let me go away somewhere. Let me go home—back to mother.”

“She was kneeling now at his feet, and he was looking down upon her with a strange glitter in his eye. Then the look softened, and there was unutterable tenderness in the tone of his voice as he stooped to raise her, and leading her to the couch, said to her pityingly:

“‘Poor child, you don’t know what you ask. You have no home to go to. Your mother is dead—died suddenly—and in kindness to you I have withheld your sister’s letter, wishing to spare you pain, but I have it with me. Can you read it now?’

“He held a worn-looking envelope toward her but for a moment she did not see it. The blow had fallen so suddenly, and was so terrible in its magnitude, that for a brief space both sight and sense failed her, and she sat staring blankly into his face as if she neither saw nor heard. After a moment, however, her eyes relaxed from their stony expression; there was a quivering of the lips, a rapid heaving of the chest, and then in a voice her husband would never have recognized as hers, she said:

“‘Give me the letter, please. I can read it now.’

“He gave it to her, and holding it mechanically in her hand she studied the address, in her sister’s handwriting: ‘Ernest Haverleigh, Esq., Paris, France. Care of Munroe & Co.’ The date upon the back was Dec. 8th, and there was the dear old Millfield post-mark seeming to bring her so near her home, and making her heart throb wildly in her throat, where was a strange sense of suffocation. At last, when every part of the soiled envelope had been studied, she slowly opened it and drew forth the sheet folded inside. Then the look of anguish on her face gave way to one of perplexity, as she said:

“‘Look, this is not Mary’s letter. It is from your agent in Scotland.’

‘My agent in Scotland! Not Mary’s letter! What do you mean?’ Mr. Haverleigh asked, and taking the paper from her he saw that she was right, and that he held a communication from his Scottish steward regarding his estate in the Highlands. ‘What can this mean? I don’t understand,’ he said, and seemed to be intently thinking; then suddenly he added: ‘Oh, I believe I know how the mistake occurred. This from McKenzie I received the same day with the one from your sister, and instead of putting the latter in this envelope, as I meant to do, I tore it up, as I do all my letters of no importance, and put this in its place. I am sorry, but I can give you the particulars. Can you bear it now? There, lay your head against my arm, you look so white and strange.’

“He sat down beside her, and drawing her to him made her lean against him while he told her how her mother, after an unusually hard day’s work, had sickened suddenly and died within three days peacefully, happily, with a message of love on her lips for her absent daughter. After the funeral was over, yielding to the earnest solicitations of a lady who was visiting in Millfield, Mary had decided to rent the house and go West with the woman as governess for her children. Fred, too, had accompanied them, as there was in the place a good school, where he could finish his preparation for college. The name of the lady Mr. Haverleigh could not recollect, except that it was something like Creydock or Heydock, while the town he had quite forgotten, and could by no means recall. It was very unfortunate, that mistake about the letters, and he was so sorry, he kept reiterating; but Anna did not seem to hear, or if she did, she did not care. She only was conscious of the fact that her mother was dead, her home broken up, and all hope of help from that quarter cut off. The effect was terrible, and even her husband was alarmed when he saw how white and motionless she sat, with her hands dropped helplessly at her side. Bad as he was, he did not wish her to die then and there, and he tried to move her from her state of apathy; but she only answered, ‘Please go away. I want to be alone.’

“He made her lie down on the couch, and to this she did not object, but, like a tired child, laid her head among the soft silken cushions, and with a long, low gasping sob, closed her eyes wearily, as if to shut out all sight of everything. Madame Verwest and Celine were sent to her, and were told of the sad news which had so affected her, and one believed it, and the other did not; but both were unremitting in their attentions to the poor heartbroken girl, who gave no sign that she knew what they were doing or saying to her, except to moan, occasionally: ‘Oh, my mother is dead! my mother is dead.’

“Mr. Haverleigh, too, was exceedingly kind, and very lavish with his caresses, which Anna permitted in a dumb, passionless kind of way, like one who could not help herself. Once, when he stroked her long, bright hair, she lifted her mournful eyes to him, and asked: ‘Won’t you take me from here? Won’t you let me go back to where you found me? I can take care of myself; I can work in the shop again, and after awhile you will be free from me. Will you let me go?’

“Free from her! Did he wish to be that? For a moment, when he remembered the glittering black eyes, the only eyes in the world which had power to make him quail, he half believed he did. On his return to Paris he had met the woman with the glittering eyes, which seemed to read his very soul, and ferret out his inmost thoughts. There had been a stormy scene, for Eugenie Arschinard was not one to brook a rival. She had compassed the ruin of poor Agatha of Normandy, whom, but for her, Haverleigh might have dealt fairly with, and made the marriage tie more than a mere farce, a horrid mockery. From his town-house in London, Eugenie had seen the young, fair-haired girl driving by and looking so eagerly at the place, and with her thorough knowledge of the world, she knew her to be an American, and guessed her to be some new flame whom he had lured from home, as the plaything of an hour. She never for a moment believed him married; he was not a marrying man; he dared not marry, bound as he was to her by the tie of honor, which, in her infidel heart, she held above the marriage vow. So when she met him in Paris by appointment, she charged him with his new fancy, demanding who and where she was, and he was a very coward in her presence, and dared not tell her the truth of that simple wedding among the New England hills, but suffered her to believe that Anna, like Agatha, was only his dupe, whom he could cast off at pleasure. Eugenie had no wish, at present, to be bound herself. She was true to Haverleigh, and she enjoyed to the full the luxuries with which he surrounded her, and in Paris, where such connections were common, she had her circle of friends, and reigned among them a queen because of Haverleigh’s name and the style in which she lived. By and by, when she was older, and ceased to attract admiration, she meant to marry him and so pass into a respectable old age, but just now her freedom suited her best, and she gave no sign of her real intentions for the future. But Haverleigh knew well that to confess he had a wife was to raise a storm he had not courage to meet, and so he told her the girl she had seen was a little wild rose from America, whom he had lifted from poverty and taken to Chateau d’Or.

“‘You know I must have something to amuse me when I am at that dreary place, and Anna does as well as any one. A little washed-out, spiritless body of whom you need not be jealous.’

“This he had said to Eugenie, and then had bought her the diamond set at Tiffany’s which she admired so much, had driven with her in the Bois de Boulogne, and afterward dined with her in the little fairy palace just off the Champs d’Elysees, her home, of which she had the title-deed in her possession. And yet, in his heart, Ernest Haverleigh respected Anna far more than he did this woman, who so fascinated and enthralled him, for though Anna had come to him with a lie on her lips, and a lie in her heart, and had wounded his self-love cruelly, she was pure and womanly, while Eugenie was steeped to the dregs in sin and in intrigue.

“But she ruled him completely, and if he had desired he did not dare take Anna back with him to Paris and present her as his wife, and he was not bad enough to cast upon her publicly the odium of being his mistress. Neither would he send her back to America, for there was no pretext whatever by which he could be free from the bond which held him her husband. She had plenty of pretexts, he had none. He could not let her go, and besides, he was conscious of a real interest in her, a something which fascinated him, and made him wish to keep her at Chateau d’Or, where he, and he alone, could see her at his will. Some time, perhaps, when Eugenie was less troublesome, he might take her away, but not now, and when she said to him so pleadingly, ‘Will you let me go, home?’ he answered her very gently, ‘Poor child, you have no home to go to in America. Your home is here, with me. Not always Chateau d’Or, for some time I mean to take you with me. I cannot do so now for certain reasons, but by and by—so be patient, and wait for the happiness in store.’

“A shudder was Anna’s only answer, as she turned her face away from him and wished that she might die. For five weeks Mr. Haverleigh remained at the chateau, devoting himself entirely to Anna, who, while shrinking with intense disgust from his caresses, permitted them because she must. To Madame Verwest he was very distant and cold, treating her civilly, it is true, but always in a manner which showed how wide was the distance between them. He was master, she was servant, and he made her feel it keenly. Once, however, when she came suddenly upon him as he sat alone in his room, she laid her hand on his arm, and asked:

“‘How long is this to go on?’

“‘What to go on?’ he replied, savagely, and she continued:

“‘This horrid life of sin and deception. You know the girl’s mother is not dead.’

“‘It’s a lie!’ he cried, springing to his feet. ‘A lie—I swear it to you! And you shall not interfere, or if you do, by——’

“There was a frightful oath as he threatened the trembling woman, who did not speak again while he went on:

“‘I am beginning to love her once more; to feel a real interest in her. I find her greatly improved, thanks to you, I suppose. A few months more of seclusion, and I shall introduce her to the world; but I will not have her family hanging on me—a set of low Yankees, working in shoe-shops, teaching school, and making dresses for the rabble.

“‘Is not her family a good one, then?’ Madame Verwest asked, and he replied:

“‘Good enough for its kind, for aught I know. No stain, unless it be the half-sister or something of the father, who went to the bad they say—ran off with a Boston man, who never meant to marry her, and the natural consequence, of course.’

“‘Where is this woman?’ madame asked, and he replied:

“‘Dead, I believe, or ought to be. Why should such women live?’

“‘Yes, oh, why?’ was answered sadly in madame’s heart; but she made no response, and when her tyrant of a master motioned her to the door in token that the interview was ended, she went out without a word.

“Three days later he left the chateau, saying he should come again in September or October, and possibly bring people with him. Madame Arschinard, a lady of high position and great wealth, had long wished to visit Southern France, and he might perhaps invite her down with other friends, and fill the chateau.

“‘And you, my little white rose,’ he said to Anna, ‘I want you to get your color back, and be like your old self, for I shall wish my wife not to be behind any Parisian beauties. I shall send you the very latest styles. Worth has your number, I believe. And now good-by, my pet. Take care of yourself, and if——’

“He bent down to her, and whispered something in her ear which turned her face to scarlet, and made her involuntarily exclaim:

“‘Oh, anything but that—anything but that!’

CHAPTER VI.
IN THE AUTUMN.

“The summer had gone by—a long, bright beautiful summer so far as sunny skies, and fair flowers, and singing birds, and fresh, green grass could make it bright and beautiful; but to Anna, still watching drearily the daylight fading in the western sky, and whispering messages for the sun to carry to the dear ones across the water, it had dragged heavily, and not all Madame Verwest’s love and petting which were given without stint to the poor girl, had availed to win her back to the comparatively cheerful state of mind she had been in before receiving the sad news of her mother’s death.

“She had ceased writing to America; that was useless, she knew. Her letters would never reach there, and she had ceased to expect any news from home, for however often Mary or Fred might write, their letters would never come to her. Of this she was convinced, and she gradually settled into a state of hopeless apathy, taking little or no interest in anything, except poor Agatha’s grave.

“She had found it in a little inclosure on the island which held Chateau d’Or choked with tall grass and weeds, and smothered by the drooping branches of the pine and willow which overshadowed it and hid from view the plain white stone on which was simply inscribed, ‘Agatha, aged 20.’ Nothing to tell when she died, or where, or where her home had been, and what her life. But Anna knew now all the sad story of the sweet peasant-girl lured from her home by promises of a marriage, which did take place at last, but with a flaw in it which made it illegal, and poor Agatha no wife. Then, when reparation had been refused, she had held herself as pure and spotless as was Eve when she came first from the hands of her Creator, but had gone mad with shame and remorse, and died at Chateau d’Or, with a song of Normandy on her lips.

“With the help of Celine, the weeds and grass were cleared away from the neglected yard, which, as the summer advanced, grew bright with flowers and vines, and was Anna’s favorite resort. Here she would sit for hours with her head bent down, thinking sadly of the past, and wondering what the future, which many a young wife would have looked forward to eagerly, might have in store for her. When first there dawned upon her the possibility that another life than her own might be intrusted to her keeping she had recoiled with horror, feeling that she could not love the child of which Ernest Haverleigh was father; then there crept over her a better, softer feeling, which was succeeded by a presentiment which grew to a certainty that both would die, mother and little one, and be buried by Agatha; there was just room between her grave and the fence, room in length and breadth both, for she had lain herself down in the grass and measured the space with her own person. She would have a headstone, too, like Agatha, with ‘Anna, aged 19’ on it, and in the other world, far away from Chateau d’Or, she might perhaps meet Agatha some day, and with her recount the sorrows they had borne, and which had helped to fit them for the eternal home, where Anna hoped now and believed she would go. Sorrow had brought her to her Saviour’s feet, and she felt that whether she lived or died it would be well with her.

“Occasionally her husband had written to her, short but kind letters, and once or twice, when he had asked her some direct questions she had answered him, but nothing he might now do could ever awaken in her a single throb of affection for him, and when there came to her from Paris several boxes of dresses, Worth’s very latest styles, she felt no gratitude to the giver, and when a day or two after his letter arrived, telling her of his intention to fill the chateau with company, and expressing a wish that she should look her best, as some of the guests would be ladies of cultivation and taste, she experienced only feelings of aversion and dread in view of the coming festivities. The servants on the contrary, were delighted. There had been no company at the chateau for years, and now it was a pleasant excitement, opening the chambers long shut up, airing linen, uncovering furniture, sorting silver, hunting up receipts, making jellies, and cakes, and sweetmeats, and speculating as to who was coming and what they would wear. Madame Arschinard was certain, for Monsieur Haverleigh had written Madame Verwest to that effect, and the largest and best sleeping room was to be hers, and the finest saddle-horse, and her maid was to have the large closet adjoining her room, so as to be always within call, and madame was talked up and speculated upon almost as much as if it had been the empress herself expected at the chateau, instead of the woman who had originated this visit and insisted upon it, partly because she wanted change, and partly because she knew that at Chateau d’Or was the fair-haired American of whom she had caught a glimpse in London. She had often questioned Mr. Haverleigh sharply with regard to Anna, and at last, after a hot and angry quarrel, she had wrung from him the fact that in an inadvertent hour he had married the little New England girl, who recently had become hopelessly insane, and was immured within the walls of Chateau d’Or. At first Eugenie’s rage had been something fearful, and even Haverleigh had trembled at her violence. After a little, however, when the first shock was over, she grew more calm, and began more rationally to consider the situation, which was not so bad after all. True, she could not marry him now herself, should such a fancy take her, but she had not by any means lost her power over him or any part of it. He spent his money for her as freely, and was quite as devoted to her as he had been before he saw this American, who had conveniently gone crazy, and was kept so close at Chateau d’Or. In her heart Eugenie did not quite believe in the insanity, though it suited her to have it so, and she was very anxious to see one who in a way was a kind of rival to her, so she proposed and insisted upon the visit to the chateau, and chose her own companions, three of them ladies of her own rank in life, and six of them young men who were all in a way her satellites, and would do to play off against each other when there was nothing better for amusement.

“To these people Mr. Haverleigh had explained that there was a Mrs. Haverleigh, a sweet, unfortunate young creature, who was hopelessly insane. She was perfectly harmless, and quiet, and ladylike, he said, and might easily be taken for a rational woman, unless she got upon the subject of her sanity. Then she would probably declare that she was sane, and kept at Chateau d’Or against her will, and that her friends knew nothing of her fate, as none of her letters ever reached them, and none of theirs reached her. Of course, all this was false, he said, as she was free to write as often as she pleased, while he always showed her whatever he thought she ought to see from home. When the sad news of her mother’s death reached him, he had withheld it for a time, thinking it better so, but he had told her at last, and the result was as he had feared, an aggravation of her malady and a state of deep despondency from which she was seldom roused. He did not know what effect so much gayety and dissipation would have upon her, but he hoped the best, and trusted to their good sense not to talk with her of her trouble, or to credit anything she might say with regard to him. He repeated all this with a most grieved expression upon his face, as if his burden was almost heavier than he could bear, and the younger ladies were deeply sorry and pitiful for the man upon whose life so great a blight had fallen.

“Eugenie Arschinard, who knew him so well, kept her own counsel, but of the four ladies none were half as anxious to see Anna Haverleigh as herself. It was late one lovely September afternoon when the guests arrived at the chateau, where all was in readiness for them, and Madame Verwest, in her best black silk and laces, stood waiting for them, courtesying respectfully as they were presented to her, and then conducting them to their several rooms. Anna was not present to receive them. She preferred not to see them until dinner, and stood waiting for her husband in the salon. She had not been permitted to wear mourning for her mother, as she had wished to do, but on this occasion she was dressed in a black silk grenadine, with puffings of soft illusion lace at her neck and wrists, while her only ornaments were a necklace and earrings of jet. To relieve the somberness of this attire, Celine had fastened in her bright, wavy hair a beautiful blush rose, which was far more effective than any costly ornament could have been, and had Anna studied her toilet for a month, she could not have chosen a more becoming one, or one which better pleased her fastidious lord. She was beautiful as she stood before him with that pale, pensive style of beauty so attractive to most men, and as he held her in his arms he felt, for a few moments, how far superior she was to the brazen, painted women he had brought there as her associates, and for half an instant he resolved to keep her from them, lest so much as their breath should fall upon and contaminate her in some way. But it was too late now. She must meet them day after day, and he must see her with them, and go on acting his false part, and make himself a still greater villain, if possible, than ever. But he would be very kind to her, and deferential, too, especially before Eugenie, whom for the time being he felt that he hated with a most bitter hatred, not only for what she was, but for the power she had over him. How gorgeous she was at dinner in her dress of crimson satin, with lace overskirt, and diamonds flashing on her neck and arms, and how like a queen, or rather like the mistress of the house, she carried herself among her companions as they stood in the grand salon waiting for Mrs. Haverleigh, the younger portion speculating upon the probabilities of her acting rationally in their presence, while she, Eugenie, listened to their speculations with a scornful curl on her lip, and an increased glitter in her black eyes.

“There was the sound of soft, trailing garments on the stairs, and Eugenie drew her tall figure to its full height, and tossed her head proudly as Anna entered the room, a graceful little creature, with a tint of the sun on her wavy hair, a faint flush on her cheeks, and the purity of her complexion heightened by the color of her dress. And still she was not a child, for the woman was stamped in every lineament, and shone in the blue eyes she bent so curiously upon the guests, as, one by one, they gathered around her to be presented. And Anna received them graciously, and welcomed them to the chateau, which, she said, would be pleasanter for having them there.

“‘You must be often very lonely living here alone so much,’ Eugenie said to her, and instantly the great blue eyes, which had been scanning her so curiously, filled with tears, and the sweet voice was inexpressibly sad which replied:

“‘Oh, you don’t know how lonely.’

“It was long since Eugenie Arschinard had felt a throb of anything like kindly pity for any one; but there was something in Anna’s face and Anna’s eyes which struck a chord she had thought stilled forever, and brought back a wave of memory which shook her, for an instant, like a tempest, and made her grow faint and weak before this woman she had meant to hate. Years ago, before Eugenie Arschinard was the woman she was now, she had loved a young half-sister with all the intensity of her strong, passionate nature, and loved her the more for having had the care of her from the time her first wailing cry echoed through the chamber of the dying mother. For this child Eugenie had toiled and denied herself, and gone without sufficient food that the little one might be daintily clothed and fed on delicacies. Then, in an unlucky hour, Eugenie went to Paris to make her fortune as a milliner, and get a home for the young girl growing each day more and more beautiful. But before that home was made Eugenie’s brilliant beauty had been her ruin, and she would not bring her sister into the tainted atmosphere of her world.

“The glamour of Haverleigh’s love and money was in its freshness, and in her intoxication she forgot everything else until there came a terrible awakening, and she heard that ‘La Petite,’ as she called her sister, had left her home with a stranger, and gone no one knew whither, or whether for good or bad. Then for a time the fairy palace off the Champs d’Elysees was closed, while Eugenie, maddened and remorseful, sought far and near for traces of La Petite, but sought in vain, and after many weeks she returned to her home and life in Paris, gayer, more reckless than ever, but with a pain in her heart which never left her for a moment.

“Time passed on till more than a year was gone, and then she heard from the gray-haired father at home that in a roundabout way, which he nevertheless felt to be reliable, tidings had come to him of La Petite’s death, though how she died or where he did not know.

“These were very uncomfortable days for Ernest Haverleigh, who, never having heard Eugenie mention her sister, did not know she had one, and could not guess of the bitter grief which consumed her day and night, and made her sometimes like a raging animal in her hatred of all mankind.

“It was at that time that Mr. Haverleigh, finding no comfort with Eugenie, had decided to visit America, and leave the lady to herself until she was in a better frame of mind. He had found her better on his return, and furiously jealous of Anna, whom she wished so much to see, and whom, when she saw, she felt herself drawn strangely toward, because of a resemblance to the dear little sister dead, she knew not where.

“Mr. Haverleigh had dreaded this meeting between the eagle and the dove, as he mentally styled the two women who were bound to him, one by the tie of marriage, the other by the so-called tie of honor. Would the eagle tear the dove, he wondered, and he watched them curiously as they met, marveling much at Eugenie’s manner, and the pallor which showed itself even through her paint. Anna had either made a favorable impression, or else Eugenie thought her too insipid to be considered as a rival for a moment. In either case he was pleased to know that there was not to be war between the two ladies, and with this load off his mind he became the most urbane and agreeable of hosts.

“It was a very merry dinner party, for the guests were all young and in the best of spirits, and the light jest and gay repartee passed rapidly around the board. Only Anna was quiet. She did not understand French well enough to catch readily what they said, especially when they talked so rapidly, and so many at a time. But she was a good listener, and tried to seem interested and smile in the right place, and she looked so girlish and pretty, and did her duties as hostess so gracefully, that her husband felt proud of her, while every man at the table pronounced her perfect, and every woman charming.

“Those October days at Chateau d’Or were very pleasant, for Mr. Haverleigh was a good host, and his guests knew well how to entertain themselves, so that from early morning into the small hours of night there was no cessation of pleasure and revelry. But Anna did not join in the dissipation. She was not at all strong, and in the freedom of intercourse between these volatile, unprincipled French people she saw much to censure and shock her, and shrunk from any familiarity with them. This reticence on her part was attributed to her supposed malady, which made her melancholy, the ladies thought, and after a few ineffectual efforts to draw her into their circle, they gave it up, and suffered her to remain quietly in her room.

“Eugenie, however, often sought her society, attracted by the look in her face to the lost one, and by a desire to see how far the story of her insanity was true, and to know something of her early history. But it was not until the party had been at the chateau for three weeks, and were beginning to talk of going back to Paris, or still farther south to Nice or Mentone, that an opportunity for the desired interview presented itself.

CHAPTER VII.
EUGENIE AND ANNA.

“It had been Anna’s daily custom to steal away after lunch to her favorite resort, the little yard where Agatha was buried, and where one of the servants had built her a rustic seat beneath the trees, and here Eugenie found her one afternoon, and leaning over the iron fence asked first if she might come in, and next whose grave it was. From where she stood she could not see the name upon the headstone, but when Anna answered, ‘It is the grave of the young girl who is said to haunt the chateau; you have heard the absurd story, of course,’ she was interested at once, for she had heard from her maid something of a ghost whose plaintive cry for home was heard wailing through the long, dark corridors, and in the lonely rooms, especially on stormy nights when the wind was high, and shook the massive walls of the chateau. Eugenie was not at all superstitious, and knowing that nearly every old place like Chateau d’Or had its ghost and ghost room, she had paid no attention to the tale as told her by Elise, but when it assumed a tangible form in the shape of a real grave, her curiosity was roused, and without waiting for Anna’s permission she passed through the gate, and going round to the seat where Anna sat, said:

“‘Then there was a girl who died and was buried here? Who was she? Do you know?’

“‘It was before I came,’ Anna answered, ‘and I only know that she was sick—crazy, they said, from some great wrong done to her, and quite up to her death she kept singing of her home in Normandy.’

“‘Normandy! Did you say she came from Normandy? What was her name?’ Eugenie asked, but before Anna could answer she bent down and read ‘Agatha, aged 20.’

“‘Agatha!’ she repeated, as she grasped the headstone and stood with her back to Anna, who thus did not see the corpse-like pallor which spread all over her face as a horrible suspicion passed through her mind. ‘Agatha what? Had she no other name?’ she asked at last, when she had mastered her emotion sufficiently to speak in her natural voice.

“‘Yes. Agatha Wynde,’ Anna replied, and was instantly startled by a low, sharp cry from her companion, who laid her hand upon her side, exclaiming:

“‘It’s my heart. I’m subject to it; but don’t call any one; let me sit here until I’m better. Anything like a fuss around me disturbs me so much.’

“She was very white, and shivering like one with an ague chill, and though Anna did not call any one, she was glad to see her own maid, Celine, coming toward them. Eugenie did not object to her, but suffered her to rub her head and hands until she was better, and the violent beating of her heart had ceased.

“‘Now let me sit here in quiet, and do you tell me about this Agatha, whose ghost is said to haunt the chateau. Was she pretty, and when did she die?’

“This she said to Celine, who, always ready and glad to talk, began the story of Agatha so far as she knew it, telling of her arrival at the chateau one wild rainy night, of her deep melancholy and sweet, quiet ways, of her lapse into insanity, her pleadings to go home to Normandy, and of her subsequent death with the words upon her lips, ‘Je vais revoir ma Normandie.’

“‘She was not like you, madame,’ Celine said. ‘She was the people like me, and so she talked with me more than ladies might. There was no real marriage, only a sham, a fraud she said; but she was innocent, and I believe she told the truth; but Mon Dieu, what must such girls expect when gentlemen like monsieur entice them away from home:’ and Celine shrugged her shoulders meaningly, as if to say that the poor dead girl beneath the grass had received only her due in betrayal and ruin.

“‘Yes, don’t talk any more, please. The pain has come back, and I believe I’m dying,’ Eugenie gasped, while both Anna and Celine knelt by her, rubbing her again, and loosening her dress until the color came back to her face and she declared herself able to return to the chateau. ‘Don’t talk of my illness and bring everybody around me,’ she said to her attendants. ‘I cannot bear people when I’m so. Send me Elise, and leave me alone. She knows what to do.’

“They got her to her room, and called her maid, who said she had seen her thus a hundred times, and so Anna felt no particular alarm at the sudden illness, and did not think to connect it in any way with that lonely grave in the yard, or dream of the agony and remorse of the proud woman who lay upon her face writhing in pain and moaning bitterly:

“‘Ma Petite, oh, ma Petite. I have found thee at last, sent to thy early grave by me—by me. Alas, if I too could die and be buried there beside thee.’

“Eugenie did not appear at dinner that evening. She was suffering from a severe nervous attack, Elise said, and the attack kept her in her room for three days, during which time she saw no one but her maid, who reported her to the servants as in a dreadful way, walking her room day and night, eating nothing, but wringing her hands continually, and moaning:

“‘Oh, how can I bear it—how can I bear it, and live?’

“Once Mr. Haverleigh attempted to see her, but she repulsed him angrily.

“‘No, no, tell him to go away. I cannot, and will not see him,’ she said; and her eyes glared savagely at the door outside which he was standing.

“After a few days, however, she grew more quiet, and asked for Anna, who went to her immediately, feeling shocked at the great change a few days had wrought in the brilliant woman whom so many accounted handsome. True to her instincts as a French woman, she was becomingly dressed in an elegant morning wrapper, with a tasteful cap upon her glossy hair, but all her bright color was gone; her eyes were sunken and glassy, and she looked pale, and withered, and old as she reclined in her easy-chair.

“‘Oh, madame, I did not know you had been so sick. I am very sorry,’ Anna said, going up her, and offering her hand.

“But Eugenie would not take it, and motioning her away, said:

“‘It is not for you to touch such as I; but sit down. I want to talk much with you. There is something I must tell somebody, and you are the only true, pure woman here, unless it may be Madame Verwest, who hates me. I’d as soon talk to an icicle and expect sympathy, as to her. I liked you when I saw you, though I came prepared to hate, and do you harm.’

“‘Hate me, and wished to do me harm? Why?’ Anna asked, her great blue eyes full of wonder and surprise.

“‘Don’t you know? Can’t you guess some reason why I should hate you?’ Eugenie said: and Anna, into whose mind a suspicion of what this woman really was had never entered, answered:

‘I do not know why any one should hate me, when I am so desolate, and wretched, and homesick here, but not crazy. Oh, madame, surely you do not believe me crazy?’

‘Crazy! No, not half as much so as the man who keeps you here,’ and Eugenie spoke impetuously, while her black eyes flashed, and there came a deep red flush to her face. ‘What age have you, girl? You look too young to be madame,’ she continued.

“‘Not quite nineteen,’ was Anna’s reply.

“‘Neither was she when I saw her last, and you are like her in voice and manner, and so many things, and that’s why I cannot hate you. Oh, Mon Dieu, that she should die and I live on,’ said Eugenie. ‘Let me tell you about her, the sweetest child that ever drew breath; not high or noble, but lowly born, a country lass, as innocent and happy as the birds which sang by that cottage door, and I loved her, oh, how I loved her from the hour her dying mother, who was not my mother, but my father’s wife, put her in my arms. I am almost thirty-eight. She, if living, would be twenty-three; so you see my arms were young and strong, and they kept her so tenderly and lovingly. How I cared for her and watched over her as she grew into the sweetest rose that ever bloomed in fair Normandy. How I toiled and drudged for her, going without myself that Petite might be fed, that hers might be the dainty food, the pretty peasant’s dress in which she was so lovely. How I meant to educate and bring her up a lady, so that no soil should come to her soft white hands, no tire to her little feet. When she was fifteen I went to Paris, hoping to get money and a home for her. I was a milliner first, then I recited, I sang, I acted and attracted much attention, and kept myself good and pure for her, till there came a chance of earning money faster, and woe is me. I took it. You are Anglaise or Americaine, which amounts to the same thing. You do not understand how a woman may think herself respectable and do these things, but I am French, educated differently. Half of my countrywomen have their grande passion, their liaison, their, what do you call it in English?’

“‘I know, I understand,’ Anna said, feeling an involuntary shrinking from the woman, who went on:

“‘I sent her money and such lovely dresses, and meant to leave my own bad life and make a home where she could come and keep herself unspotted; but, alas! the wolf entered the fold, and the news came startlingly, one day, that she had fled from Normandy with an Englishman, who promised her marriage, and she believed him, and left these lines for me:

“‘Darling sister, I go for good, not for bad. He will marry me in Paris, and he is so noble and kind; but for a time it must be secret, his relatives are so grand, and will be angry at first.’

“‘Then I believe I went mad, and for weeks I scoured Paris in quest of her, but found her not, and I grew desperate, for I knew the world better than she did, and knew he would not marry her, and so the wretched months dragged on and grew into a year and a half, and then the white-haired father wrote me our darling was dead, where, or how, or when he did not know, only she was dead, with a blight on her name I was sure, and I think I was glad she was gone before she grew to be what I was. I folded away all the pretty dresses and trinkets I had saved for her; I put them in a chest and turned the key, and called it Petite’s grave, and made another grave in my heart, and buried there every womanly instinct and feeling, and stamped them down and said I did not care to what lengths I went now that Petite was gone. Then I painted my face, and braided my hair, and put on all my diamonds, and went to the opera that very night, and was stared at and commented upon, and called the best dressed woman there, and I had a petit souper after at my home, and was admired and complimented by the men who partook of my hospitality, and whom I hated so bitterly because they were men, and through such as they ma Petite was in her grave.’

“‘And did you never hear how she died, or where?’ Anna asked, without a shadow of suspicion as to the truth.

“‘Yes,’ Eugenie replied. ‘After years—three years, I believe, though they seemed a hundred to me—I heard that my darling was pure and white as the early snow which falls on the fields in the country. The wretch could not possess her without the marriage tie, and so entangled was he with another woman, who had great power over him, that he dared not make her his wife; and so there was a form, which would not stand and was no marriage at all, and when she found it out she went mad, and died with a song of home on her lips. Yes, went mad—mad, my darling. You know whom I mean.’

“She hissed out the two words, ‘mad, mad,’ and rocked to and fro in her anguish, while Anna, with a face as white as the dead girl’s in her grave, whispered back:

“‘You mean Agatha.’

“‘Yes, I mean Agatha—Agatha—my pet, my pride, my idol. Agatha, lured, deceived, betrayed, ruined, murdered by the man on whom I who would have given my heart’s blood to save her, was even then wasting my blandishments, and doing all I could to keep him from a new love. Oh, Agatha, if you could but know the grief I am enduring for my sin. No Magdalen ever repented more bitterly than do I, but for me there is no voice bidding me sin no more, and I shall go on and on, deeper and deeper, till the horror of the pit overtakes me, and Agatha and I will never meet again—never, never.’

“Oh, how Anna pitied the poor, repentant woman, writhing with pain and remorse, and how she loathed the man who stood revealed to her just as he never had been before—the monster who had wrought such misery. And she shrank from Eugenie, too; but pitied her as well, for there was much of the true woman left in her still, and Anna forced herself to lay her hands on the bowed head of the sorrowing woman, to whom the touch of those hands seemed to be life-giving and reassuring for there was a storm of sobs, and tears, and fierce gesticulations, and then the impetuous and excitable Frenchwoman grew calm, and something of her old self was on her face as she shrugged her shoulders significantly, and said:

“‘Oh, Mon Dieu! such a scene as I’ve made, and frightened you, child. How monsieur would have enjoyed that; he would call it my high art in acting. Curse him! I’ll act for him no more;’ and the hard, bitter look of hatred came back to her face for an instant, then left it again as she said: ‘I’ve told you my story, little one, who seems like Agatha. Now tell me yours; where you met him; why you married, and how you came here shut up, a prisoner. Maybe I can help you. Who knows? I owe him something for his wrong to Agatha.’

“But for this hint that possibly Eugenie could help her, Anna might have shrank from confiding her story to her, but this new revelation of her husband’s character had so increased her horror and dislike of him, that she readily seized upon anything which offered the shadow of a chance to escape from a life she hated; and conquering all feelings of distrust and aversion for one who had openly confessed herself a bad woman, she began the story, and told first of her New England home, her poverty, and her life in the dingy shoe-shop, with the sickening smell of leather and wax. At this point Eugenie started forward, exclaiming joyfully, and this time in her broken English:

“‘Then you are not no-bil-i-te. You be very people as me. J’en suis bien aise. I hate no-bil-i-te, who will trample such as we. I am pleased you are much the people. I will help you more.’

“‘You mistake,’ Anna cried, eagerly, ‘I am nobility, as you call it. We are all nobility in America, or can be. We are all sovereigns by right. No matter what we do, we can rise.’

“Anna grew very warm with this flash of national and personal pride, while Eugenie looked at her curiously, wondering, no doubt, how a born sovereign could work in wax and leather, but she was too good-natured and polite to dispute the point, and answered, laughingly:

“‘Pardonnez moi, madame. Je me trompe. En Amerique vous—vous—what you call it? You all expect to marry kings and emperors, and be mi-lady some time—oui—oui—je l’aime beaucoup, but go on, I wait to hear how monsieur came——’

“Then Anna told her of Haverleigh’s visit to Millfield; of his admiration for herself; of her desire for money and position; of the marriage in the church, which was a real marriage; of the foolish words spoken and overheard in New York; of Haverleigh’s jealousy and rage; of the punishment finally inflicted upon her, and of her husband’s different moods since, sometimes so loving as to fill her with disgust, and again revengeful and savage to a degree which made her dread him as a madman.

“Ah, ma Petite,” Eugenie cried, ‘and he is a madman, at times—much mad; but, tell me, was there no other one whom Petite cared for at home, in that quiet, small town? No grande passion to make monsieur jealous?’

“So much had happened since the days when Anna walked home from church with Hal Morton, and sang to him in the twilight, that she had almost forgotten him, but thoughts of him came back to her now, and by the sudden heaving of her chest, and the flush which rose to her forehead, Eugenie guessed that there was some grande passion, as she named it, and very adroitly drew from Anna that somebody was perhaps sadder for her marriage, ‘though I never should have married him,’ she said, ‘We were both too poor, and Mr. Morton’s family were the first in Boston.’

“‘Mon Dieu. Quel difference,’ Eugenie exclaimed, with a shrug. ‘Are you not all born—what you call it in English—governors! Non, pardonnez—sovereigns! I do so have things mixed.’

“Anna laughed at the mistake, the first real, hearty laugh in which she had indulged since she came to Chateau d’Or, and said:

“‘Yes, but sometimes there’s a difference in sovereigns, you know.’

“‘Oh, ciel, but it’s to me very strange. I think I should like votre republique, but go on. You never think to marry Monsieur Morton, but you like him much, and Monsieur Haverleigh find it out, and trust me, child, that broil—bake—fry; what you call it, rankle in his jealous brain, for however many passions he have, he want you to own but one. Me comprenez vous? Bien! Je commence a comprendre l’affaire; but I can help la petite madame, and I will. And la mere, does she never know where you stay all these time?’

“There was then a rain of tears as Anna told of her mother’s death, and her sister’s removal to some place in the far West, whose name she did not even know, and how, latterly, the sister had ceased to write at all, Mr. Haverleigh said.

“‘And they think I am in a mad-house, and that is the worst of all. Oh, I wish I were dead like mother, for I’ve given up all hope of leaving Chateau d’Or, and when baby is born I hope I’ll die,’ Anna said, amid her tears.

“‘Die! Jamais! You shall go home—back to the leetle house, and the wax, and the leather, and the smell-bad, and the mother who is not dead. I not believe that, it is one part of the great whole; la mere not dead, and you shall see her yet. Give me the—the—what you say—post restante—l’addresse of the little village, and I write toute de suite. Trust me, ma petite enfant. Trust Eugenie, for the sake of Agatha.’

“It seemed to Anna that when Eugenie attempted English she was softer and more womanly in her way of expressing herself; was very pretty and sweet, and Anna began to feel a degree of trust in and dependence upon her which astonished herself. Eugenie remained at the chateau a week longer, but never again took any part in the gayeties which without her suggestive and ruling spirit, were inexpressibly flat and stale. To Haverleigh she was cold and distant to a degree, which angered him sorely and made him cross, and irritable, and moody; but he was far from suspecting the cause of Eugenie’s changed demeanor, and never dreamed of connecting it in any way with Agatha, or suspected the intimacy springing up between his wife and Eugenie.

“It was no part of Eugenie’s plan that he should do so, and though she saw Anna often in the privacy of her apartment, where she spent much of her time, she scarcely ever spoke to her in the presence of Haverleigh, except to pass the compliments of the day, and when at last she left the chateau for good, there was a simple hand-shake and au revoir between herself and Anna, who, nevertheless, grew more cheerful and happy, but kept, even from Madame Verwest, the hope she had of a release, or at least of hearing once more from home. How this would be accomplished she did not know, but she trusted to Eugenie’s ready wit and ingenuity in deceiving Haverleigh, who lingered at the chateau until November and who grew so moody, and unreasonable, and tyrannical that, popular as he usually was with his servants, every one hailed his final departure with delight.

“When next Anna heard from him he told her of a dangerous and most unaccountable illness which had come upon Eugenie the very day she reached Paris.

“‘She did not go straight home,’ he wrote, ‘but took a roundabout way through Normandy, where in some obscure place she spent a week with her father, who, it seems, died while she was there. His death or something upset her terribly, and she has suffered, and is still suffering, with a nervous fever which makes her perfectly dreadful at times—out of her head in fact—and she will not see one of her old friends. Even I, who have known her so long, am forbidden the house, her nurse telling me that she actually knows when I step on the stair and instantly grows fearfully excited. So, lest I make her worse, I only send now twice a day to inquire how she is. They say she talks a great deal of La Petite, and Anna when delirious. That Anna is you, of course, but who is Petite? Do you know?’

“Anna thought she did, but did not deem it advisable to enlighten her husband, whose letter she only answered because of her anxiety to hear again from Eugenie. All her hopes for the future were centered upon that woman for whose recovery she prayed many times a day, wondering if any letter had yet gone across the water, and waiting so anxiously for the response it was sure to bring.

CHAPTER VIII.
MORE NEWS WHICH CAME TO MILLFIELD.

“It was generally known all over Millfield that poor Anna Strong was a lunatic. ‘Hopelessly insane,’ was the last message from the disconsolate husband, who wrote regularly and affectionately to the sorrowing family, which still occupied the small red house by the mill-pond; for Mrs. Strong was not dead, though her brown hair had all turned gray, and her face wore continually a look of sorrow and anxiety. Grief and concern for Anna weighed heavily upon her, and she could not rid herself of a presentiment that there was something behind—something which had never been told her. Haverleigh’s letters were exceedingly kind, and often contained money-orders for the family, who were far better off in worldly goods than when he first came to Millfield. Fred was ready for the Sophomore class in college; Mrs. Strong’s sign of ‘Dressmaking’ was taken down, and Mary only taught a select class of young ladies who came to her to recite.

“In a pecuniary and social point of view, the Strongs had been gainers by Anna’s marriage; but they missed her terribly, and mourned for her as for one worse even than dead. Very eagerly they watched for Mr. Haverleigh’s letters, which at first were frequent and regular. Latterly, however, they had grown less frequent, and it was now some time since Mrs. Strong had heard from him, and she was beginning to get impatient and anxious, when one day, the last of February, there came to her two letters bearing the foreign post-mark. Both were from Paris, and one in Mr. Haverleigh’s well-known handwriting. This was opened first, and said that Anna was better, and had recognized and talked with her husband the last time he saw her, and was beginning to manifest some little interest in what was passing around her.

“‘Thank Heaven for that,’ was Mrs. Strong’s fervent ejaculation, as she folded the short letter and turned to Fred, who was studying the superscription of the other envelope, which he had not noticed particularly before.

“It was in his mother’s box, and had been handed to him with Haverleigh’s, which, as the more important, had received the first attention.

“‘What does this mean, and whom can it be from?’ he said, reading aloud the novel direction, which was written in that small, peculiar hand common to the French.

“‘To the friends of Madame Ernest Haverleigh, nee Mademoiselle Anna Strong, Millfield, Wooster County, Massachusetts, United States of Amerique, in New England. P.S. If the friends may be gone forward where they may be.’

“So much writing covered nearly the entire side of the envelope, which looked soiled and worn, as if it had been long upon the road, which in fact was the case.

“After leaving Chateau d’Or, Eugenie had gone to her father, to whom she confessed the whole shameful story of her life, and told what she knew of poor Agatha’s fate. Such news was too much for the old man, who the day following was stricken with paralysis and died. Doubly and trebly steeped in remorse, and accusing herself as the murderer of both father and sister, Eugenie returned to Paris, and before she could collect her senses sufficiently to write to Anna’s friends, she sank into that nervous, half delirious state of mind in which she continued until January was nearly gone, when she began to rally. But her improvement was so slow, and she was so weak, that it was some time before she had the power to write, as she had promised, to the friends in Millfield. This was quite a task for her, as she could write English very indifferently, and mixed it up with a good deal of French. But she accomplished it at last, and managed, pretty accurately and fully, to tell what she had heard from Anna, to propose a plan for action, in which she was to be one of the principals.

“It would be impossible to describe the surprise and consternation, amounting almost to incredulity, with which Mrs. Strong listened to this letter which Mary contrived to read with the help of the dictionary and Fred, who knew a little French. At first it did not seem to her possible that any man could be so deliberately cruel and treacherous, but the facts were there, and when she recalled many things which had appeared strange in Mr. Haverleigh’s letters, she could not doubt the truth of what Eugenie had written. Fred did not doubt it for a moment. He had always distrusted Haverleigh; always thought it strange that notwithstanding the many times they had asked where Anna was, they had never received a reply. They knew now where she was, but for a few moments sat staring blankly at each other, too much benumbed and bewildered to speak. Fred was the first to rally, and with quivering lip and clinched fist exclaimed:

“‘If he was here I’d kill him.’

“That broke the spell at once; the tongues were loosened, and they talked long and earnestly together of the best course to be pursued, and deciding finally to follow Eugenie’s directions. But in order to do this it was necessary to write to her first, and this Fred did that very day, sending his letter by the next mail which left Millfield, and then, during the interval of waiting devoted himself assiduously to acquiring a speaking knowledge of the French language. Fortunately there was in Millfield a native teacher, and to him Fred went for instruction, studying night and day, and working so industriously that by the time Eugenie’s second letter was received, and he was ready to start on his journey, he felt certain of at least making himself understood in whatever part of France he might be.

“Both Mrs. Strong and her daughter thought it better to say nothing of Eugenie’s letters and the information they contained for the present, but rather to wait for the result of Fred’s adventure. Consequently all the people knew was that Fred was going to see his sister, and it was generally supposed that Mr. Haverleigh had forwarded the money for the voyage, and his kindness and generosity to his wife’s family was the subject of much comment and praise. Little did the people of Millfield dream of the truth, or suspect that when at last the Oceanic sailed down the harbor of New York with Fred Strong on board, he was there with the steerage passengers and under the name of Charles Patterson. He was not able to take a first-class passage, and he was afraid to bear his own name lest by some chance it should reach the eye of Mr. Haverleigh, who would thus be put on the alert. So he bore cheerfully all the annoyances and discomforts of a steerage passage, kept himself very quiet, and mostly aloof from all his companions but one, a Swiss lad who spoke French, and who willingly taught and talked with the young American so anxious to learn.

CHAPTER IX.
EUGENIE’S WAITING-MAID.

“‘Charles Patterson, London,’ was the name of the occupant of No. 512, Hotel du Louvre, Paris, and 512 was a small bedroom on the fifth floor, and looked down upon the busy Rue St. Honore. Charles was a very fair, girlish-looking boy, who, from the night he took possession of No. 512, kept his room entirely, and was served in his apartment daily with ‘cafe complet’ and two eggs in the morning, and with ‘bif-tek au pommes’ and haricots verts for dinner in the afternoon. At first the waiter had pointed significantly to the printed notice that having his meals thus served would cost an extra franc, but Charles had answered promptly, ‘Je le sais,’ and that had ended it, and he was free to eat where he liked. Nobody noticed or thought of him again until the close of the second day, when, as he stood looking down upon the street below, and reading the strange names on the signs, there came a knock at the door, and a servant handed in a card bearing the name of ‘Eugenie Arschinard.’ The lady herself was in the hall near the door, and in a moment was in the room alone with the young boy, whom she addressed as ‘Monsieur Sharles,’ and whom she regarded intently as he brought her a chair, and then proceeded to light the one candle which the room possessed.

“‘Mon Dieu!’ she began, in her pretty, half-French, half-English style; ‘vous etes un petit garcon! Mais n’importe. You make a very joli—what you call him?—waiting-maid pour moi. Ah! but you very like votre sœur. Poor leetle madame!’

“‘Oh, tell me of Anna, please! Tell me all you know, and what I am to do,’ Fred said, speaking in a whisper, as she had done, lest the occupants of the adjoining rooms should hear what it was necessary to be kept secret.

“‘Madame has a leetle babee,’ Eugenie said, and as Fred uttered an exclamation of surprise, she continued: ‘It is so, veritable, but I it not write, for fear to worry la mere. Both doing well, petite mother and babee, which makes a boy, and monsieur is—what you call it?—very much up; oui, very much; but I hasten. Monsieur comes to find me to-night a diner. I tell you all toute de suite.’

“Then very rapidly she communicated her plan for future action, interspersing her talk frequently with ‘Mon Dieu! you make so pretty girl Anglaise, with that fair hair and those blue eyes. Nobody can suspect.’

“And Fred followed her closely, and understood what he was to do, and, after she was gone, wrote to his mother a full account of his adventures thus far, and then waited with what patience he could command for what was to follow.

---

“As will have been inferred, Eugenie was better. The nervous depression and weakness had passed away, and, stimulated with this new excitement, she had never looked handsomer than when she consented at last to receive Haverleigh as a guest at her house. He had not seen her for weeks, or rather months; for since the time she left Chateau d’Or, until the day she visited Fred at the Louvre, he had not so much as heard the sound of her voice, and this long separation from her, and seeming indifference on her part, had revived his old passion for her ten-fold, and when at last she wrote, ‘Come and dine with me this evening,’ he felt as elated and delighted as the bashful lover who goes for his first visit to his fiancee.

“He found her waiting for him, dressed with elegant simplicity, and looking so fresh and young that he went forward eagerly to meet her, with his usual gush of tenderness, but she stepped backward from him, with something in her manner which kept him in check so that he only raised her hand to his lips, and then stood looking at her and marveling at her changed demeanor. And yet in most points she was not changed; she would not suffer him to touch her, and she compelled him to treat her with a respect he had not been accustomed to pay her in private; but otherwise she was the same brilliant, fascinating woman, bewildering him with her beauty and intoxicating him with her wit and sharp repartees.

“For the le petite madame and la petite garcon she made many inquiries, expressing a strong desire to see them, and telling him that as soon as the weather was more favorable she meant to go down to Chateau d’Or for a little visit. To this Haverleigh assented, for he was perfectly willing that Eugenie and Anna should be on terms of intimacy, especially as the former pretended to believe in the lunacy of the latter, and inquired now very anxiously how she was in her mind since the birth of her child.

“‘A little better,’ Haverleigh hoped, and Eugenie continued:

“‘I mean some time this summer, say in June, to have her here at my house for a little; the change will do her great good. You are willing, of course, when it will please me so much.’

“The eyes which looked at him were very soft and pleading, and Haverleigh could not resist them, and answered readily that Madame Anna should certainly come up to Paris; that he should be glad to have her come, especially as Madame Arschinard was so kind as to ask her. Then Eugenie grew more gracious and captivating, and told him of her strange sickness, which made her so nervous that she could not see her dearest friends, but she was so much better now, and glad to have monsieur to dine just as he used to do; then she told him as a great misfortune that Elise, her waiting-maid, had left her, and that she had made up her mind to advertise for an English girl to fill her place. She was so tired of the trickery of her own countrywomen that she wanted to try some other nation; did monsieur think an English girl would suit her? Haverleigh did not know, but advised her to try, and then the conversation drifted into other channels until the elegant little dinner was served.

“After dinner they drove to the opera, where Eugenie’s face was welcomed back again by a score or more of lorgnettes leveled at her as she sat smilingly unconscious of the attention she was attracting, and with her mind far more occupied with the boy sleeping quietly in No. 512 than with the gay scene around her.

“The next morning there appeared in the French journals an advertisement for a young English maid, who could speak a little French, and before night Eugenie had been interviewed by at least a dozen girls, of all ages and sizes, wanting the place, but none of them quite suited. She would wait a little longer, she said, hoping to get just what she desired. The next day, at a very unfashionable hour, she drove to the picture gallery at the Louvre, and bidding her coachman leave her there, stationed herself in one of the halls of statuary, which she knew to be less frequented than some others, especially at that hour of the morning. And there she waited anxiously, now glancing through the open door as a new comer entered, and again pretending to be very busy with some broken-nosed or armless block of marble.

“Meanwhile Charles Patterson had settled his bill at the Louvre, and with his traveling-bag, the only piece of luggage brought from home, he passed from the court into the Rue de Rivoli, and crossing the street walked rapidly to the gallery of the Louvre, where madame was waiting for him. There were a few words spoken between them, and then both walked across the grounds to the street which skirts the river, where Eugenie called a carriage, and bade the coachman drive to a second-rate furnishing house in an obscure part of the city, with which she had once been more familiar than she was now. It was a tolerably large establishment and supplied her with what she wanted, an entire outfit of a good substantial kind for a young English girl serving in the capacity of waiting-maid. There were several bundles, but Fred’s bag held them all, except the round straw hat which Eugenie carried herself, closely wrapped in paper.

“‘Drive us to the station St. Lazare,’ she said to the coachman, and in the course of half an hour Fred found himself alone with his companion in a first-class carriage, speeding along toward Versailles.

“Eugenie had spoken to the conductor, and thus secured the carriage to herself and Fred so that there was no one to see them when they opened the bag, and brought out one by one the different articles which were to transform the boy Frederic Strong into the girl Fanny Shader, who was to be Eugenie’s waiting-maid. For that was the plan, and with a little shrug of her shoulders and a significant laugh Eugenie said:

“‘Now I go to sleep—very much asleep—while you make the grand toilet;’ and closing her eyes she leaned back in her seat, and to all human appearance slept soundly, while Fred arrayed himself in his feminine habiliments, which fitted him admirably and became him remarkably well. Fair-haired, pale-faced, blue-eyed and small, he had frequently taken the part of a girl in the little plays his school companions were always getting up in Millfield, so he was neither strange nor awkward in his new dress and character, but assumed both easily and naturally as if they had belonged to him all his life, and when at last he said:

“‘I am ready; you can wake up now,’ and Eugenie opened her eyes; she started in astonishment and wonder, for instead of the delicate boy who had been her companion, there sat a good-sized girl, in a neatly-fitting brown stuff dress and sacque, with bands of white linen at the throat and wrists, and a dark straw hat perched jauntily upon the hair parted in the middle and curling naturally. The disguise was perfect, and Eugenie exclaimed delightedly:

“‘Oh, Mon Dieu, c’est une grande success. You make such joli girl. Nobody suspect ever. Now you must be bien attentif to me. You carry my shawl; you pick up my mouchoir, so;’ and she dropped her handkerchief to see how adroitly the new maid would stoop and hand it to her. It was well done, and Eugenie continued:

“‘You act perfectly—perfectly. Now you not forget, but walk behind me always with the parcels, and not talk much with the other domestiques. Ah, ciel, but you cannot, you cannot speak much French to them, and that be good; but to me you speak French toujours; you learn it, which must be better by and by when the great trial comes.’

“They were now near to Versailles, and, when the long train stopped, Eugenie and her maid stepped out unobserved by any one; and as there was an interval of two hours or more before they could return to Paris, Eugenie spent it in showing her companion the beauties of the old Palace and its charming grounds. And Fanny was very attentive and very respectful to her mistress, and acted the role of waiting-maid to perfection, though occasionally there was a gleam of mischief in the blue eyes, and a comical smile lurking about the corners of the mouth, as Fred answered to the new name, or held up his skirts as they walked over a wet piece of ground.

“‘Mon Dieu, but your feet are much large for the rest of you,’ Eugenie said, as she caught sight of his boots. ‘You must not show them so much.’

“So Fred kept his dress down, and wondered how girls managed to walk so well with a lot of petticoats dangling around their ankles, but behaved himself, on the whole, with perfect propriety, and by the time Eugenie’s residence in Paris was reached, had completely won his mistress’ heart. It was past the luncheon hour, but Eugenie had chocolate and rolls in her room, and Fanny served her with the utmost deference, and moved so quietly and gently among her fellow servants that she came into favor at once, and la jeune Anglaise was toasted at dinner by one of the footmen, who thought the new girl did not understand a word he said.

“It was two days before Haverleigh came to stop any length of time, and then he came to dine, and by appointment.

“‘I shall ring for you to do something for me after dinner, and you will be much careful,’ Eugenie said to Fred, who had never been so nervous and excited as he was in view of the approaching ordeal.

“The stuff dress had been exchanged for a pretty calico, and the white fluted apron which he wore had been bought at the Bon Marche. The light, abundant hair was covered with a bit of muslin called a cap, with smart blue ribbons streaming behind, and this, more than anything else, made Fred into a girl—a tidy-looking maid, who stood with beating heart in the upper hall, listening to the tones of Haverleigh’s voice, as they came from the salon below. How well Fred remembered that voice, and how his young blood boiled as he longed to rush upon the man and with all his feeble strength avenge his sister’s wrongs. But he must bide his time, and he waited till his mistress’ bell should summon him to her presence, and that of his detestable brother-in-law.

“Haverleigh was in excellent spirits that night. Indeed he had been in excellent spirits ever since the morning when he received the dispatch from Chateau d’Or announcing the birth of a son. Whether it would ever please him to have his wife fully restored to reason, and free to come and go with him in his journeying was doubtful. It was a rather pleasant excitement, having her at the chateau, where he could visit her when the mood was on him; but to have her with him in Paris and Nice, and London, where he wished to be free and untrammeled, was another thing.

“So Anna seemed likely to remain just where she was for an indefinite length of time, unless he allowed her as a great favor to visit Eugenie for a few weeks. But the son—his boy—was to be a great source of pride and happiness to him, and he had already formed many plans for the future of that son, and everything wore a brighter hue since that little life began at Chateau d’Or. Then, too, Eugenie was latterly more gracious in her demeanor toward him, and he had hopes that in time he might be reinstated in her good graces, and as he had a genuine liking for her, this of itself was a sufficient reason why he seemed so elated and even hilarious as he sat once more at her table and basked in the sunshine of her smile. To be sure she talked of Madame Haverleigh more than he cared to have her, but then she had conceived a great friendship for his wife, and it was for his interest to encourage it. So he, too, talked of madame and her health, and answered Eugenie’s questions regarding her family en Amerique. Was there insanity in the blood? Was it a large family? many sisters? any brothers? and were they nobilite?

At this question Haverleigh winced, for he was not certain how much nobility Eugenie would think there was in a shoe-shop, but he tried to answer her readily, and said the family was highly respectable, not nobility exactly, but good; that la mère was dead—and here he did not look straight at Eugenie lest the lie should show itself—that there was a sister Mary, a stronger girl every way than Madame Anna, though not so pretty, and a boy Fred, who was, or seemed to be, quite young, and of whom he did not remember much; he was more interested in girls, he said, and seldom took much notice of boys.

“Eugenie shrugged her shoulders significantly and as they had finished their dessert led the way to the drawing-room, telling him as she went that her advertising had been very successful, and brought her such a treasure of an English girl, Fanny Shader, who was so nice and respectable. Haverleigh cared nothing for Fanny Shader personally, but if she interested Eugenie he must be interested, too, and he said he was very glad madame was suited, and asked from what part of England Fanny came. London was a safe place to come from, and so Fanny’s home was there, and Eugenie said so, and fluttered about the salon until she remembered that she needed a shawl, and rang the bell for Fanny.

“Haverleigh was standing with his back to the fire, looking straight at the door, when Fanny came in, a flush on her cheek, but with a very modest expression in her blue eyes, which never glanced at Haverleigh but once. But in that glance they saw him perfectly from his head to his feet, and knew him for the same haughty Englishman who had so ignored Anna’s family in Millfield. Hating Haverleigh as he did, it was impossible for Fred not to show something of it, and there was a sudden gleam, a kindling, in his eyes, which attracted Haverleigh’s notice, and made him look more curiously after the supposed girl than he would otherwise have done. But there was not a shadow of suspicion in his mind as to the personality of the stranger, and when she was gone for the shawl he said, carelessly:

“‘And so that is the treasure? Nice, tidy-looking girl enough, but I should say she had a temper, judging from her eyes; looks a little like somebody I have seen.’

“Fanny had returned with the shawl by this time and so the conversation regarding her ceased, and Haverleigh thought and said no more of her, although she appeared several times during the evening in answer to her mistress, who wanted an unusual amount of waiting upon, it seemed to Haverleigh.

“‘She is certainly growing very nervous and fidgety, and I don’t much envy that new girl her post as my lady’s maid,’ he said to himself, and that was about all the thought he gave to Fanny Shader, whom for several days he saw every time he called upon Eugenie.

CHAPTER X.
EUGENIE GOES AGAIN TO CHATEAU D’OR.

It was some time during the latter part of January that the new life came to Chateau d’Or, and Madame Verwest telegraphed to Haverleigh, ‘You have a son.’ It was a big, healthy-looking boy, with great blue eyes, and soft curly hair like Anna’s, but otherwise it was like its father, ‘all Haverleigh,’ Madame Verwest said, as she hugged the little creature to her, and, amid a rain of tears, whispered something over it which Anna could not understand. Was it a blessing, or a prayer that this new-born child might be kept from the path of sin trodden by another child which once had lain on her bosom, as soft and helpless and innocent as this, with the Haverleigh look on its face. Nobody could tell what she thought or felt, but from the moment the first infant wail echoed through the dreary house, Madame Verwest took the little one into her love and heart, and seemed to care for it far more, even, than the mother herself, for at first Anna shrank from the child so like its father, and felt better when it was not in her sight. But with returning health and strength there came a change; the mother love had asserted itself, and Anna was much happier than she had been before the little life came to claim her care. But for her husband there was no tenderness, no love—only a growing disgust and antipathy to him, and an increased dread of his visits, which were more frequent than formerly. He was very proud of his boy—Arthur he called him—though there had been no formal christening, because there was in the neighborhood no Protestant priest. But Haverleigh meant to bring one down with him from Paris and have a grand christening party, and when Eugenie proposed visiting the chateau, he decided to have it while she was there, and to persuade her to stand as god-mother. So a box of elegant dresses, both for Anna and the child, was forwarded to the chateau, with the intelligence that Madame Arschinard would follow in a few days, together with a Protestant clergyman, who was traveling for his health, and whose acquaintance Haverleigh had accidentally made at a hotel. The prospect of seeing Eugenie again, and hearing from her whether she had ever written to America, and with what result, was a delightful one to Anna, who had never been so lovely even in her girlish days as she was that afternoon in early April, when, with her baby in her arms, she stood waiting the arrival of the train which was to bring the expected party from Paris. She had never heard of Fanny Shader, and naturally supposed that Elise would accompany Eugenie, as she did before.

The train was late, half an hour behind time, and when it came, and the carriage returned from the station, to Anna’s inexpressible relief her husband was not in it. A sprained ankle, which was so very painful that he could not put his foot to the floor, would detain him in Paris for a few days, Eugenie explained, as she warmly greeted Madame Haverleigh, and stooped to kiss the baby in her arms. Then, turning to her maid, she said, in English:

‘Here Fannee, take my shawl and hat up to my room. Somebody shall show you the way, while I sit here a little minute in this pretty court.’

It was the first time Anna had noticed the new maid who had stood partly hidden by Eugenie, gazing at her with flushed cheeks and bated breath, and trying so hard to keep from rushing upon her and crying out, ‘Oh, Anna, sister, I am Fred. Don’t you know me?’

“She did not know or dream that the tall, slight girl in the gingham dress, with white apron and straw hat, was other than a waiting-maid, English, probably, as Eugenie addressed her in that language; and she felt glad of the change, for Celine, her own maid, had not agreed very well with Elise on the occasion of her last visit at the chateau. It was Celine who conducted the new girl to Eugenie’s rooms, and tried to be gracious by using the little English she had learned from Anna.

“‘How you call yourself?’ she asked. ‘Fannee, votre nom? c’est bien joli. Are you Anglaise ou Americaine?’

“There was a moment’s hesitancy, and then Fred answered:

“‘Je suis Anglaise.’

“Whereupon Celine, delighted that she could speak a word of French, and taking it for granted she could speak more, rattled on so vehemently that her companion stood aghast, comprehending nothing except that Celine had thought him Americaine, because he was tall and thin, and not—not ‘comment appellez vous cela,’ she said: ‘very much grown, much stomach and chin, comme Anglais.’

“‘Anglais thin quelque fois,’ Fanny said: and then the mischievous Celine commented upon his hands and feet, which her quick eyes had noted as large and unfeminine, albeit the hands were very white and shapely.

“Coloring to the roots of his hair, Fred stood the ordeal as well as he could, feeling almost as if he were in the presence of a detective, and should have his real name, and sex, and business screamed to all the world. But Celine was far from suspecting the truth, and rather liked la femme Anglaise on the whole, and while the ladies talked together in the court below, took her over the house and showed her the view from the windows, and presented her to any of the servants whom they chanced to meet as Fannee, who was Anglaise, and came from Londres.

“Meanwhile Eugenie and Anna sat talking on indifferent subjects, while all the time the latter was longing to ask the all-important question as to whether there was any news from America. At last she could endure the suspense no longer, and grasping Eugenie’s hand, said, in a whisper:

“‘Tell me, have you written? Do they know? I have waited so long for some message.’

“‘Yes, I have wrote; and they do know, and la mère n’est pas morte, as I tell you, but lives in Millfield the same. More I tell you plus tard,’ was Eugenie’s reply.

“And the next moment Anna had fainted.

“The shock was too great for her, and with a little gasping cry, which sounded like ‘mother,’ she fell across Eugenie’s lap, where she lay unconscious, while the excitable Frenchwoman screamed lustily for help. Celine and Fred had just come out upon the open gallery which ran entirely round the court and connected with the sleeping rooms on the third floor.

“Both heard the cry, and both started for the rescue, but la femme Anglaise outstripped Celine, and taking Anna in her arms as if she had been a child, exclaimed:

“‘Where is her room? Let me take her to it.’

“‘Oui, oui, I show you,’ Celine replied, as she led the way to her mistress’s room, ejaculating ‘Mon Dieu! what strength slim people must have to carry madame so.’

“Oh, how tenderly Fred held his unconscious sister, never thinking of her weight, thinking only that he had her in his arms, and could press his boyish lips against hers, and hug her to his bosom. Very gently he laid her upon the bed, and then stood back while restoratives were applied, until she opened her eyes and showed signs of returning consciousness.

“‘She hold l’enfant too long in her weak state, and just fainted sudden,’ Eugenie explained to Madame Verwest, who cared for Anna until she seemed wholly herself and declared that she was as well as ever, but would like to be rather quiet, with no one to sit with her but Madame Arschinard.

“‘She never tires me,’ she said.

“And so the two had tea together in Anna’s room, and were waited upon by Celine, so there was no chance for further conversation until the next morning after the late breakfast, when Eugenie invited Anna to her room, where the soi-disant Fanny was busy arranging her mistress’s wardrobe in the closet and drawers.

“At her Anna did not even glance, but she knew she was in the room, and felt anxious for her to leave, as the presence of a third party would necessarily prevent her from questioning Eugenie with regard to Millfield. But Fanny was apparently in no hurry to leave, and it seemed to Anna that she was purposely dawdling and taking a long time to accomplish a little.

“Anna was occupying the seat which Eugenie offered her, near the window, and directly facing Fanny, whose movements could all be seen if one chose to watch her; and despairing of her quitting the apartment, Anna began at last to watch her as she moved from box to closet or shelf, sometimes with her face turned full toward the window where Anna sat, and sometimes with her back that way. At last, as Anna made no sign of recognition, Eugenie said:

“‘Fanny, have you found that box of bon-bons?’

“‘Yes, madame, I have found it,’ was the reply, spoken in Fred’s own natural voice, which sent a thrill through Anna’s veins, and made her heart beat rapidly as she thought of home and Fred, whose voice Fanny’s was so like; and Fanny was like him, too—the same walk, the same motion of the hands, the same turn of the head. Surely, surely, she had seen it all before, and involuntarily grasping Eugenie’s arm, she whispered in a tone of affright:

“‘Who is she—that girl you call Fanny?’

“‘That girl’ heard the question, and, turning square round toward Anna, tore off the cap from the head, and, running her fingers through her curly hair, gave to it the old, natural look, and then stood confronting the startled woman, whose face was white as marble, and whose lips tried in vain to articulate the one word: ‘Fred.’

“He had her in his arms the next moment, kissing her passionately, and saying to her:

“‘It’s I, Anna; truly Fred, and no ghost. I’ve come to get you away, to take you home to mother, who is not dead. Sweet sister, how much you must have suffered; but it is all over now. Madame and I will save you from that dreadful man.’

“Then Anna’s tears began to flow, and she sobbed passionately, while Fred tried to comfort and reassure her by talking of Millfield and home as of things just within her reach.

“‘Before all the summer flowers are gone we will be there,’ he said; ‘but you must be very discreet, and no no-one here must ever know that I am not Fanny Shader. Don’t I make a nice maid? Only Celine thinks my feet and hands too big,’ he said, as he adjusted his jaunty cap again, and walked across the floor with a swinging motion to his skirts which set Anna to laughing hysterically, and so saved her from another fainting fit.

“Eugenie put away her own dresses and finery after that, and left the brother and sister free to talk together of all which had transpired since the day Anna left home with the man who seemed to her more and more a demon, as she learned all he had written of her to her friends.

“‘He must be mad himself,’ she said, ‘as I can see no motive for his pursuing his petty revenge so long and to such extremes.’

“And then together they talked of her escape, which Fred had come to accomplish, or rather to assist in, for Eugenie was the one who was to plan and devise, and both agreed to trust her implicitly

“After a long consultation it was decided that Madame Verwest should be taken into confidence and be told at once who Fanny Shader was, and after that matters were to rest for awhile and Eugenie to remain at the Chateau d’Or until the last of May or the first of June, during which time Fred was to devote himself to the baby and become so necessary to its well-being that to leave him at the chateau as nurse would be comparatively easy of accomplishment, after which the denouement was to follow naturally.

---

“Mr. Haverleigh’s sprain proved more serious than he had at first anticipated, and it was nearly two weeks before he was able to come down to the chateau. Then he arrived unannounced one afternoon, and was accompanied by a young English clergyman, a rollicking, easy-going man, who was out on what he called a lark, and who enjoyed nothing better than the trip to Chateau d’Or with Haverleigh, for whom he had conceived a great liking. The christening was uppermost in Haverleigh’s mind. His boy, his son and heir, must have a name, and the second evening after his arrival the ceremony took place, and the baby was baptized Arthur Strong, Eugenie standing as god-mother, and Fanny Shader holding the child. Fanny had proved invaluable, and entirely superseded the fine lady from Avignon, who had come to the chateau when the child was born, and when Haverleigh arrived there was a plan on foot for keeping the girl entirely as baby’s nurse. This plan was made to appear wholly Eugenie’s, who felt it a duty to part with her treasure for the good of her little god-child. In this matter Haverleigh was not particular, and greatly to the satisfaction of all parties Fanny became little Arthur’s nurse, and was thus almost constantly in Anna’s society. Once or twice Haverleigh had looked curiously and closely at the new girl as if there was something familiar in the features, but Fred always seemed to know when he was an object of inspection, and managed adroitly to get out of sight without appearing to do so. He never spoke to his master except to answer a question, and then his manner was exceedingly deferential and quite gratifying to the man, who liked nothing better than a cringing manner in a servant, as if he were lord and master of all.

“Those spring days at Chateau d’Or were very pleasant ones, for Anna was buoyed up with the hope of escape from the man who grew each day more and more detestable and terrible to her. His evident admiration for Eugenie, which he did not try to conceal, would alone have made her hate him had there been no other cause. But Eugenie’s infatuation for him was ended, and though she had no fear or dread of him in her heart, like Anna, she had no liking for him, and only feigned to tolerate him until she had achieved her revenge, for with her it was nothing more than that. She was not a woman of good or firm principles of any kind, and with the right or wrong she did not trouble herself, but she had loved her young sister with an all-absorbing love, and if she could do aught to harm the man who had wrought her sister’s ruin she was resolved to do it; so she lingered at the chateau and professed herself so much in love with Anna and the child that she could not endure the thought of a separation from them, and only decided at the last to return to Paris on condition that Anna should be allowed to visit her sometime in June or July. And to this Haverleigh consented, and said he would himself come down from Paris for her when she was ready for the journey. But this was no part of Eugenie’s plan. When Anna left Chateau d’Or she must leave it without other escort than her brother, and of her ability to manage this she constantly reassured Anna, who grew so excited and anxious that she sank into a kind of nervous fever, which confined her to her room when Eugenie at last said good-by, and started for Paris with Haverleigh.

CHAPTER XI.
THE ESCAPE.

“A letter had been received at the chateau to the effect that Anna was to be ready to go to Paris the following week, with her baby and nurse, and that her husband would come down to accompany her. It would be impossible to describe Anna’s state of mind at the receipt of this letter, while Madame Verwest, who had been taken fully into her confidence, seemed for a time as bewildered and nervous as Anna herself. Then she rallied, and astonished Anna and Fred by declaring her intention to go with them.

“‘What, go to America?’ Anna asked; and madame replied:

“‘Yes, to America. I have long wished to see it, and cannot be separated from the baby. I will go with you;’ and from this decision she never wavered, but went calmly on with her few preparations, while Anna waited anxiously for the telegram which Eugenie had promised to send her, and which came the day after the receipt of Haverleigh’s letter, and was as follows:

“‘You are to come at once, instead of waiting till next week, and monsieur will meet you at Avignon.

Eugenie.’”

“As this was directed to the care of Brunel, who knew of the proposed visit, it was considered all right by that functionary, and by him passed to Anna, who trembled so violently that she could scarcely read the message, which was exactly what Eugenie had said it should be, and early to-morrow she was going away from what had really been a prison so long, notwithstanding that in some respects it had been a pleasant home. But she had no regrets at leaving it, for every spot was so closely connected with the man whose name she bore, and from whom she was fleeing, that she loathed it utterly, just as she loathed the elegant dresses with which her closets were filled, and not one of which she took with her. She packed her jewels, however; her diamonds, and pearls, and topazes, for she might need the money they would bring. To Celine, who had expected to go as maid, she had said that she did not need her, and had quieted her with a set of coral and a handsome evening dress.

“And now the morning had actually dawned, and nothing happened to prevent our travelers from passing out from Chateau d’Or to the carriage, which conveyed them to the station in time for the early train from Marseilles; but Anna was so weak and nervous that she was lifted bodily into the railway carriage, and continued in a half-unconscious state for nearly an hour, while she was whirled rapidly away from the scene of so much misery. Avignon was reached at last, and Eugenie’s face was the first to greet them as they passed from the station, and then Anna fainted quite away, for now it seemed sure that freedom and America were just within her grasp.

“‘Is it sure, and where is he?’ Anna asked, when she could speak at all, and Eugenie replied in her broken English, interspersed with French:

“‘Ou est-il? a Paris, mais, mon Dieu, such time I have had. I get him to write for you to come next week, late some day in the week, and then I telegraph myself for you to start to-day, and last night he dine with me, and I tell him I must go to Normandy for one, two, or three days. I don’t know sure, and so I cheat him and come here to meet you with Madame Verwest. Ciel, why is she here?’

“‘I go with Madame Haverleigh to America,’ was Madame Verwest’s reply; whereupon Eugenie exclaimed:

“‘Vous allez en Amerique! c’est impossible! Ou est l’argent? Nous n’en avons pas assez pour vous.’

“‘But I have more than enough to pay my passage, and I am going,’ madame said, so firmly and decidedly that Eugenie merely shrugged her shoulders, and replied:

“‘Eh bien, I fear bad.’

“‘You need not, you need not, for she is the truest friend; she would never betray us,’ Anna cried.

“‘And if she did!’ Eugenie replied, with a threatening gleam in her flashing eyes which meant much, but did not intimidate Madame Verwest, who knew her own business and interests better than any one else.

“It was dark when they took the train again, and this time their destination was Havre, and when at last that port was reached, their party consisted of Anna, her baby, Madame Verwest, Eugenie, and the boy Fred, who had on the road been metamorphosed into himself and his own clothes again, and stepped from the car a very assured youth, equal to any emergency which might present itself.

“Fortunately for the travelers, a ship was to sail for New York the following morning, and there was one vacant state-room, which was immediately secured for Anna and Madame Verwest, while Fred went as second-class. Eugenie saw them on board and bade them adieu with tears raining down her cheeks, and when Anna kissed her again and again, and said:

“‘I never can thank you enough, or understand why you have been so kind to me,’ she answered, sobbingly:

“‘Not for you, petite madame. Not for you, seule. Do not think me good as that. I learn to like you much; c’est vrai, but not care particularly to run much risk. It is for her, ma petite, ma sœur, for Agatha, for revenge. He lose me my sister, I lose him his boy, and he will feel it. Oh, he will suffer and I shall think of Agatha, and be glad, much glad at first, and then who knows, I may comfort him, for what matter now for me. I bad anyway.’

“‘Oh, madame,” Anna cried, “you will not go back to him again? You will live a better life! promise me that!’

“‘No, I not promise. I not know. We French not think so bad as you. We do not live without intrigue and little love affairs, but I hate monsieur now, and I so long to see him suffer. Mon Dieu, but it will be good! Write me, ma chere, d’Amerique, and tell me of la mère, and now—it is good-by vraiment.’

“She wrung Anna’s hand, while great tears rolled down her cheeks as she said her last good-by, and turning resolutely away walked from the ship to the landing, where she stood until the vessel was loosened from its moorings and moved slowly out to sea; then, wondering why she should care so much for les Americaines, she was driven to the station, where she took the train for Paris, eager for the denouement when Haverleigh would find how he had been deceived.

CHAPTER XII.
THE DENOUEMENT.

Anna’s party sailed from Havre on Friday, and it was not until the following Thursday that Mr. Haverleigh arrived at the chateau for the purpose of escorting her to Paris. During the last week he had spent much of his time with Eugenie, who on her return from Havre had been very gracious to him, and seemed in high spirits, breaking out suddenly into bursts of merriment on the most trifling provocation, and making him sometimes wonder if she was not going mad. She talked a great deal of ‘la petite madame et la petit garcon,’ and showed him the rooms they were to occupy, and made him buy a handsome crib for his son, and predicted that Anna would not return to the dreary old chateau when once she had tasted the pleasures of Paris.

“‘Why do you keep her shut up there?’ she asked him once, with a merry twinkle in her eyes. ‘I’d run away.’

“‘You could hardly do that with Brunell on guard,’ Haverleigh replied; adding, after a pause: ‘Madame Haverleigh, you know, has not been quite right in her mind, and quiet was better for her. Her own family recommend it. They know all about it.’

“‘Mon Dieu, how the man lies!’ was Eugenie’s mental comment, but she merely said: ‘Tell me more of madame’s family—of the sister and the brother,’ and she persevered until she had heard from Haverleigh again all there was to know of the mother, and sister and the boy Fred, of whom Eugenie seemed to like particularly to talk.

“‘I shall wait so impatiently for you to come with madame,’ she said to him when he left her to go to the chateau, and in her eyes there was a look which puzzled him, and which he could not fathom.

“If he had staid a little longer she might have betrayed the secret which so tormented her; but he was gone at last, and on his way to Chateau d’Or, wondering, as he went, if it were wise in him to take Anna to Paris, even for a week. At the chateau she was safe and out of the way, and gave him no trouble, while in Paris she might seriously interfere with his actions. On the whole, the chateau was the best place for her, he decided; but he would give her more freedom there, and she should be at liberty to ride around the country as much as she chose, and go and come like any other sane person.

“Thus magnanimously arranging for Anna’s future, Haverleigh arrived at the chateau in the afternoon train, and wondering a little that his carriage was not waiting for him, started to walk. It was the lovely month of June, when southern France is looking her loveliest, and the grounds about the chateau seemed to him especially beautiful as he entered them by a little gate, of which he always kept the key.

“‘Anna ought to be happy here,’ he said, and then, glancing up in the direction of her windows, it struck him as odd that every one was closed.

“Indeed, the whole house had a shut-up, deserted appearance, and impressed him unpleasantly as he quickened his footsteps with a vague presentiment of evil. The first person he saw, on entering the court, was Celine, who, at sight of him, screamed out:

“‘Oh, Monsieur, what brings you here now, and where is madame? Has anything happened to the little master?’

“‘Where is madame? What do you mean? Where should she be but here, when I have come to take her to Paris?’ Haverleigh said, and Celine, violently excited, continued:

“‘Come to take her to Paris? She’s gone to Paris, long ago; gone with Madame Verwest. Surely you knew that?’

“Surely he did not, and he shook so violently that he could not stand, but was obliged to sit down while Celine told him rapidly, and with a great many gesticulations, what she knew of madame’s going away.

“‘A letter had come that monsieur would be there to accompany madame to Paris, and then Mistress Anna had packed her boxes, but taken no grand dresses—nothing but her plainest—and had told Celine she was not to go, as Fanny Shader could do all that was necessary, and Madame Verwest, too.’

“‘Madame Verwest!’ Haverleigh gasped, ‘is she gone, too?’

“‘To be sure she has; but it was after the telegram that she decided to go,’ Celine said, ‘for the day after the letter there came down a telegram from Madame Eugenie, bidding Madame Anna start at once, and you would meet her at Avignon; and she started last Wednesday is a week for Paris, with Madame Verwest, the baby, and Fanny Shader, and now you come after them. I know not what it may mean.’

“Celine had talked very rapidly, and a little incoherently, but Haverleigh had managed to follow her and understand at least one fact, his wife and child were gone, and had been gone for more than a week; and as they were not in Paris, where could they be, and what did it all mean, and what was this about a telegram from Eugenie? He could not understand it, but bade Celine send Brunell to him at once. She obeyed, and Brunell came, but could throw no light upon the mystery. Anna had gone, as Celine said, and gone, too, in accordance with instructions received from Eugenie Arschinard, whose telegram he saw himself.

“‘And you knew nothing of it?’ he asked. ‘You have never seen them in Paris?’

“‘Never,’ and the veins upon Haverleigh’s forehead began to swell and stand out like ridges as he grew more and more amazed and excited.

“Even then he did not suspect the truth; but, weak, vain man as he was, wondered if it could be some deep-laid plot of Eugenie’s to spirit his wife away in order to have him quite to herself. He did not believe that she had ever been reconciled to his marriage, even though she had professed so much friendship for Anna, and a Frenchwoman like her was capable of anything, he knew. Still it seemed impossible that she should attempt a thing of that kind when detection was so easy. The tickets for the party were for Avignon, and thither he would go at once, taking Brunell with him as an ally whose services would be invaluable in a search. Accordingly when the next train northward-bound passed the little hamlet, he was a passenger in it, chafing with impatience to arrive at Avignon, where he hoped to hear tidings of the fugitives. What he heard by diligent inquiry at station and hotel, utterly confounded him and made him for a time a perfect madman. An elderly woman and a young one, with nurse and baby, had come up on the Marseilles train, and been met by a large, dark-eyed lady, who had gone on with them next morning to Havre, which was their destination.

“‘Havre! Havre!’ Haverleigh gasped, the shadow of a suspicion beginning to dawn upon him. ‘Went to Havre, Brunell? What could they go to Havre for?’

“‘Only one thing that I can think of, but you’d better follow on and see,’ was Brunell’s reply; and they did follow on, traveling day and night, as Anna had done before them, until Havre was reached and the records of passengers’ names examined.

“There was a frightful imprecation, a horrid oath, which made the bystanders stare in amazement as Haverleigh read that on the — day of June, Mrs. Haverleigh, nurse, and child, had sailed for America in the Europe, and that Frederic Strong had accompanied them.

“‘Frederic Strong! Who the —— is he, and where did he come from?’ he said, as, white with rage and trembling in every limb, he walked from the room with Brunell, who replied:

“‘Was not madame a Strong when you married her?’

“‘Yes, and she had a brother Fred. But how came he here, and where is Madame Verwest, and what did Eugenie have to do with it? I tell you, Brunell, there is a hellish plot somewhere, but I’ll unearth it. I’ll show those women with whom they have to deal.’

“He clenched his fists and shook them at some imaginary person or persons, while a string of oaths issued from his lips, so horrid and dreadful that Brunell tried to stop him, but tried in vain; the storm of passion raged on, until, with a sudden cry and distortion of the body, the crazy man fell down in a fit. It did not last long, but it left its traces upon his face, which was livid in hue, while his eyes looked blood-shot and haggard, and he could scarcely walk without assistance.

“Still, he insisted upon taking the first train for Paris, for until he saw Eugenie he was uncertain how to act. Anna might never have sailed for America at all, for where did she get the money? It might be a ruse to deceive him, and by the time he reached Paris he had made up his mind that it was. Calling the first carriage he saw, he was driven rapidly to Eugenie’s house, and ringing the bell violently, demanded to see Madame Arschinard. She was ready for him, and had counted upon his doing just what he had done. She knew he would take the first train to Avignon, and the next train to Havre, and then she knew he would come to her.

“‘Send him to my room,’ was her reply to the servant’s message, and in a moment he stood confronting her with a face more like that of an enraged animal than a human being.

“But she met his gaze unflinchingly, and when he said:

“‘Where are my wife and child?’

“She answered him fearlessly:

“‘I last saw them on the deck of the l’Europe as it put out to sea; if living, they are in that vessel still, and almost to America. It is several days since they sailed.’

“For a moment he could not speak, but stood glancing at her as a wild beast might glance at some creature it meant to annihilate. But she never flinched a hair, and her eyes grew larger and brighter, and her lips more firmly compressed, as she stood regarding him, with a thought of Agatha in her heart. This was her hour of revenge, and when he found voice to say:

“‘Why has she gone, and who helped her to go, and where is Madame Verwest? Tell me what you know,’ she burst forth impetuously, and answered him:

“‘Yes, I will tell you what I know, Ernest Haverleigh, and I am glad, so glad, of this hour of settlement between us. I told you your wife had gone to America, and you ask me why. Strange question to ask about a wife, a mere girl, whom you have kept shut up so long a prisoner in reality, with no freedom whatever. A wife whom you have branded with insanity, when she is far more sane than you, a wife to whom you have told lie after lie, withholding her letters, and making her believe her mother dead and her old home desolate. Ay, Ernest Haverleigh, you may well turn pale, and grasp the chair, and breathe so heavily, and ask me how I know all this. I do know that they across the sea, in the little red house, thought her a lunatic, and mourned for her as such, while she, this side the water, mourned her mother dead and sister gone she knew not where, for you never told her; and you did all this to her, for why, I know not, except the foolish words she spoke in New York when she did not love you. What matter for love then, and she so young? In time it would have come. She meant you fair, and you, you darkened her young life, and made her almost crazy, and she could not love you. Only one did that truly—loved you to her snare and death, but I come not to speak of her yet, or I cannot say to you what I must. Madame Anna would have loved you in time, but you killed the love, and she was so desolate when I went to the chateau to hate her—yes, to hate her, and make merry of her because she was your wife. I did not want to be your wife, remember that; not now, not yet. I like freedom too well, but by and by, when I am older, and the hair is gray, and the rouge and the powder will not cover the wrinkles, I meant to be Madame Haverleigh, and respectable, and go and live in England, and make the strict madames and mademoiselles think much of me; but this little pale American came between, and I meant to hate her, but could not, for the sweetness and helplessness in the blue eyes and the—oh, mon Dieu, the look of the dead darling in her face. So I liked her much, and pitied her more, and then—oh, woe is me!—then I found at last my darling’s grave—found it there at that dreary place. Agatha, my sister, whom you ruined and drove mad, really mad, and killed, you villain! Oh, you villain! how I hate you, and how I would tear your heart out and break it as you broke hers, only I want you to live and hear me out, you villain!’

“Here Eugenie stopped to breathe, for she had wrought herself up to such a pitch of frenzy that she seemed in danger of apoplexy, and clutched at the fastenings of her dress about her throat as if to loosen them. Haverleigh saw the strange look in her face, and how she gasped for breath, but was himself too much paralyzed to move. At the mention of Agatha, the sweet rose from Normandy, whom he had almost loved, and whose memory was still green in his heart, he had thrown up both his hands and then sank into the chair, unable to stand any longer. That Agatha Wynde should have been the sister of Eugenie stunned him completely, and made him for a time forget even Anna and his child. At last, as the color faded from Eugenie’s face and she breathed more freely, he found voice to say:

“‘Agatha your sister, yours! I never dreamed of that.’

“‘No, of course not, but you knew she was somebody’s darling, the white-haired old man’s who died with a curse of you on his lips. You lured the simple peasant-girl away, and told her you meant fair, and because she was pure, and innocent, and could not otherwise be won, you made believe marry her; but it was no marriage, no priest, and when she found it out she went raving mad and died.’

“Haverleigh might have taunted the woman with the fact that she had had something to do with the deception practiced upon Agatha, but she did not give him a chance, for she went on to accuse herself:

“‘For this deed of blackness, I, too, was to blame, but I never dreamed it was my darling, for whom I would have died; never guessed it was she of whom I was so madly jealous, those days and nights when you left me so much, and I knew a younger, fairer face than mine attracted you. I was not fair then, for I knew of Agatha’s flight, and was hunting for her everywhere, and all the time you had her in Paris, and I working against her. Oh, Agatha, Agatha, sister, I’d give my life to have you back, but you are gone, and on that little grave in southern France I swore you should be avenged; and so——’ turning now to Haverleigh who sat with his face buried in his hands—‘and so I learned the story of the little American, and wrote to her friends, for I knew the mother was not dead, as you told her, Heaven only knows why! I wrote, I say, and the boy Fred started himself for France. Do you remember my telling you I had advertised for an English maid, and do you remember the Fanny Shader of whom I thought so much? That was Frederick Strong, in girl’s attire.’

“Haverleigh lifted his head then and ejaculated, ‘the devil,’ then dropped it again, and Eugenie went on. ‘You begin, no doubt, to see the plot. I took Fanny to Chateau d’Or, and left her there, and planned the visit to Paris, and all that happened next. I telegraphed to madame just as I agreed. I met her at Avignon; I accompanied her to Havre; I engaged her passage, and I paid the bills for her and Fred, not for Madame Verwest. She paid her own. She was an unexpected character in the little drama. That she has gone to America, I know. Why she went I do not know. Now I have told you all, and Agatha is avenged.’

“He neither looked up, nor moved, nor spoke as she swept from the room. Indeed, although he heard the trail of her heavy silk as she went past him, he hardly knew she had gone, so completely confounded and stupefied was he with what she had said to him. That she, for whom he had done so much, and on whose fidelity he had so implicitly trusted, should turn against him, hurt him cruelly, that she should be the sister of Agatha confounded and bewildered him; and that Anna had fled with his boy to America, where his villainy, and treachery, and deceit would be fully exposed, and that Madame Verwest had gone with her and thus virtually turned against him, maddened and enraged him, and took from him for a time the power even to move, and he sat perfectly quiet for at least fifteen minutes after Eugenie had left him. Then, with an oath and a clenching of his fists at something invisible, he sprang up, exclaiming, ‘I’ll follow them to America and claim my own. The law will give me my wife, or at least my child, and that will stab them deeply.’

“Excited and buoyed up with this new idea, he felt himself growing strong again to act, and without seeking to see Eugenie, he left the house, and the next steamer which left Havre for America carried him as a passenger.

CHAPTER XIII.
IN AMERICA

“The ship l’Europe came slowly up New York harbor one pleasant summer morning, and among the eager crowd gathered on its deck, none were more eager and expectant, ay, and nervous too, than our friends Madame Verwest and Anna. The latter had been sick all the voyage, and kept her state-room, tormented with a thousand groundless fears as to what her infuriated husband might do. He was capable of anything, she knew, and felt that he would follow her to America, and try to get her again in his power. It was Fred who thoughtlessly suggested that he might telegraph to New York for officers to be ready to arrest his runaway wife as a lunatic, and after that idea once lodged in her brain, Anna never rested a moment, night or day; and when at last New York was in sight, and she was forced to dress herself and go on deck, she looked more like a ghost than the blooming girl who had sailed down that very harbor not quite two years before. Madame Verwest had been very silent during the entire voyage, and had never given the slightest reason why she had left the chateau. Nor did Anna care to question her. She was satisfied to have her with her and clung to her as to a mother.

“‘Do you think he has telegraphed, and what shall we do if he has? You will never let them have me,’ she said, as the ship was nearing the wharf, and she gazed in terror at the promiscuous crowd waiting there, and mistaking the custom-house officers for the police come to arrest.

“Madame Verwest herself had thought it possible that Haverleigh might telegraph, but she did not admit it. She only said:

“‘They will take both of us, if either. I shall not leave you and your friends will soon know of it.’

“Thus reassured, Anna grew more calm, and waited till the ship was fast at the landing and the passengers free to leave. There was no officer there, no telegram, and our party took the first train which left next morning on the Harlem Road for Millfield. A telegram, however, had preceded them, and the whole town was in a state of wild excitement when it was known that Anna was coming back, and why. Up to this time but little had been said of Fred’s departure for Europe, and though there were surmises of something wrong, nothing definite was known until the telegram was received, when the story came out and set the town on fire. Everybody told everybody else, so that long before the train was due the history of Anna’s life in France had been told a thousand times, and had Ernest Haverleigh then appeared in the streets he would assuredly have been torn in pieces by the crowd which surged toward the depot long before the train was due. Everybody was there; those who had known Anna in her girlhood and those who had not, the new-comers who only knew her story and waited for a glimpse of her. Oh, how white, and frightened, and wild she looked when at last she came and stepped upon the platform. Fred’s arm was around her, and behind her came Madame Verwest, carrying the child, which slept soundly all through the exciting scene.

“‘Mother—where’s mother?’ the pallid lips asked as Anna’s feet touched the ground, and then her mother’s arms were round her, and the tired head dropped on the maternal bosom with a low pitiful cry, and it was whispered in the crowd that she had fainted.

They took her home to the low red house, and laid her in the little room she used to occupy, and which she once had so despised. It seemed like heaven to her now, as she sank down among the snowy pillows, and felt the sweet breath of the summer air, laden with the perfume of the new-mown hay, and the lilies of which she had talked so much to Madame Verwest.

“‘Oh, mother, Mary, I am so glad,’ she said, as she saw them bending over her, and felt that she was safe. ‘No one can get me here. You’ll never let me go, for he will come after me; he is coming now,’ and with a shudder she drew the sheet over her face as if to hide herself from the dreaded husband coming to take her away.

“After that Anna knew no more of what was passing about her for days, and even weeks. Nature had borne all it could, and she lay almost motionless, and utterly unconscious of everything. But never sure was queen tended with more care than she for whom everybody cared, and whose room was filled with tokens of remembrance, flowers and fruit, and such masses of white lilies, for these had been her favorites, and every school-boy in town considered it an honor to wade into the pond, knee-deep, and even imperil his life to secure the fragrant blossoms.

“From the first Madame Verwest was a puzzle to all, and a very little in the way. It is true she was the nurse who took the entire charge of the baby, and who, more than any one else, seemed to understand and know what to do for Anna. But still she was in the way—a stranger, who had not been expected, but whose only fault seemed to be that she stared too much at Mrs. Strong and at the people in Millfield, especially the older inhabitants, and asked too many questions about them. It was a little strange, too, how fond she was of roaming about the town, and exploring it in all its parts. Sometimes, with the baby in her arms, she would leave the house in the morning, and not return again until dinner time, and Mrs. Strong had heard of her more than once in the graveyard, studying the old head-stones; and again down near the boat-house by the river, sitting apparently in deep thought upon the grass, with Anna’s baby sleeping on her lap. At first Mrs. Strong felt some natural anxiety for the safety of the child, but when she saw how it clung to Madame Verwest, and how devoted she seemed to be to its every movement, she came to trust her fully, and to forget all else in her great concern for her own child, who grew weaker and weaker every day, until to those who watched her so closely there seemed little hope that she could ever rally from the death-like stupor into which she had fallen. Nothing roused her to the least degree of consciousness or motion, except, indeed the mention of her husband’s name. As an experiment Madame Verwest bent over her and said:

“‘Ma petite, do you remember Monsieur Haverleigh of Chateau d’Or?’

“Then there was a quivering of the lids, and a shiver ran through Anna’s form, and she whispered faintly:

“‘Yes, yes, and he is coming; he is almost here, but don’t let him get me.’

“And four days after he came, on the six o’clock train, from which he stepped like a prince of the royal blood, and confronting the first man he met upon the platform, haughtily demanded if he knew ‘whether Mrs. Ernest Haverleigh, formerly Miss Anna Strong, were in town.’

“All the town was watching for Haverleigh, and threatening him with dire vengeance should he attempt the removal of his wife by force. As it chanced, the person addressed was a burly truckman, and who, with his whip in his hand, looked a rather formidable personage, as, in answer to Haverleigh’s question, he replied:

“‘Yes, sir, the lady you mean is in town, sick to death, they say, and if you are that contemptible dog who shut her up and called her crazy, and told them infernal lies, the quicker you leave these parts the healthier for you, if you don’t want to be ducked in the mill-pond.’

“Haverleigh was too much astonished to speak at first. That he, the proud Englishman, should be thus addressed by a low, ignorant, working Yankee was more than flesh and blood like his could bear, and his face was purple with rage, and his eyes gleamed savagely as he replied:

“‘Who are you that dares speak to me in this manner, and do you know who I am?’

“‘Yes, sir-ee, I know darned well who you are,’ the man replied, nothing intimidated by Haverleigh’s threatening manner, but strengthened by the crowd gathering so fast around him.

“It had circulated rapidly that Haverleigh had come, and was ‘sassing’ Ben Rogers, and the idlers gathered near at once, eager to hear and ready to defend, if necessary, their comrade, who continued:

“You are the confoundedest, meanest, contemptiblist animal that the Lord ever suffered to live, and I am Benjamin Franklin Rogers, at your service, and if you open your dirty mouth again I’ll give you a taste of this horse-whip; so, if you want to save your British hide, skedaddle quick for the Widder Strong’s, as I s’pose you must go there, but, mark my words, me and these chaps, my friends’—sweeping his arm toward the crowd—‘will go with you to see you do no harm, and if the widder says duck you, we’ll do it, or tar you and ride you on a rail, or any other honor such as we can give you grattis for nothin’.’

“Whether Haverleigh was intimidated, or too proud to speak, I do not know. He made no reply except to glare like a madman upon the speaker and the crowd, which made way for him to pass, and then followed at a little distance as he moved rapidly in the direction of Mrs. Strong’s. The news of his arrival had preceded him, and with a face white with terror Mrs. Strong was waiting for him, and so was Madame Verwest. She was neither pale nor frightened. She had carried the baby to Anna’s room, and bidding Mary watch it, had left the apartment, and locking the door after her joined Mrs. Strong in the parlor below, where they sat together until the sound of the coming rabble drew them both to the door.

“Very proudly and erect Haverleigh moved on, never once glancing back at the crowd behind him. But he knew that it was there, and heard the muttered menaces as he opened the gate and walked to the door. It was Madame Verwest who met him and asked: ‘Ernest Haverleigh, why are you here?’

“‘Why?’ he repeated, and his voice was like a savage growl. ‘Why am I here? I am here for my wife and my son, and I intend to have them, too. I’d like to see the law that can keep them from me, so lead the way quickly, for I shall be off in the next train.’

“‘Never with Anna and the baby. Never, while I have the power to prevent it, as I have,’ Madame Verwest replied, and then all the pent-up fury of the terrible man burst out, and there were flecks of white foam about his lips as he cursed the woman who boldly kept him at bay, with the most horrible of curses, calling her at last by the vilest name a woman can be called, and asking for her wedding ring and the certificate of her marriage.

‘Ernest Haverleigh, hush; nor dare speak to me, your mother, like that again.’

“The voice which said these words was very steady and low, but Haverleigh heard it distinctly, and grasping the back of the chair near which he was standing, repeated: ‘My mother; you, who were only my nurse. You call yourself my mother!’

“‘Yes, and before Heaven I am your mother; listen while I tell you what you should have known before, but for a promise to the dead.’

“He was still staring at her, with that same corpse-like pallor on his face, and the look of a wild beast in his eyes, but he did not speak, for some thing in the woman before him kept him silent while she went on:

“‘I am your mother, and I thought I was your father’s wife, until after you were born, when there came a day of horrid awakening, and I found I was betrayed by the man I loved, and for whom I had left my home, for I was young and innocent once, and pretty, too, they said; but I was poor and hated poverty, and when this rich man came with honeyed words and fair promises, I believed and trusted him to my ruin, and went with him over the sea—for I am American born, and not English, as you suppose. We staid in lodgings in London till you were born, and by that time a face fairer than mine had come between me and your father, a woman he meant to marry, and so he told me the truth of his villainy, and when I found I was not a wife, I think I went mad for a time, and when I came to myself I was in poorer lodgings in an obscure part of London, where I passed for Mr. Haverleigh’s housekeeper, who had served him so faithfully that he would not cast me off in my trouble. That was the lie he told, and they believed him and were kind to me for the sake of the money he paid them, You were at Grasmere then with your father, whom in spite of everything I loved, and to whom I went, begging him to let me have the care of my child if nothing more. To this he consented, the more readily because he was about to marry my rival, and you might be in the way. He loved you, I do believe, and he trusted me, but made me swear not to divulge my real relation to you. I was your nurse, your foster-mother, nothing more. There might be no children of the marriage, he said, and if so, he should make you his heir, and did not wish you to know the stain upon your birth. There were no children, and as if to punish him for his sin to me, his wife died within the year, and he was left alone and made you his heir, so that when he died all he had was left to you, except a thousand pounds given to me, whom he designated as the foster-mother of his child.

“‘You, as you grew up, believed the woman who died at Grasmere was your mother, and that I was only your nurse; but that was false; I was your mother, else I had never followed your fortunes as I have, and clung to you through all as only a mother can cling to the son whose wickedness she knows, and whom she cannot forsake. You thought me in your power, because you fancied I had been indiscreet in my youth, and that your threats to expose me kept me quiet to do your bidding. There you were mistaken. It was the mother loving you through everything which made me the same as a prisoner at Chateau d’Or, where I was really happier than when following you about. Because it suited you I consented to be Madame Verwest, a Frenchwoman, and for you I have lived a life of deceit, which, thank Heaven, is over now. I meant to release Anna myself sometime, on the plea of your insanity, if by no other, for there is madness in your father’s family, and you are mad at times. But others planned the escape, and I gladly followed to America, my native land, and to Millfield, my old home, for I am Milly Gardner, step-sister to Anna’s father, and the one you told me went to the bad, and was the only blot on the family.’

“Up to this time there had been a listener to Madame Verwest’s story—Mrs. Strong, who, terrified at the appearance of Haverleigh, had fled to the adjoining room, where she sank into a chair faint and helpless, and thus heard all that was said by Madame Verwest. At the mention of Milly Gardner, however, she sprang to her feet and ran to the woman’s side, exclaiming:

“Oh, Milly, Milly! I have heard so much of you from my husband, and from him learned to love you even while believing the story I know now to be false. It is all so strange that you should be here when we thought you dead years ago. And you are his mother,” she continued, pointing to Haverleigh. ‘Send him away, if you have any power over him; he must not see my child.’

“The sound of Mrs. Strong’s voice speaking of Anna roused Haverleigh from his stupor, or rather state of bewilderment, and with a savage oath he started forward, exclaiming:

“‘I shall see your child, and take her, too, for she is mine. Stand aside, woman—hag—beldame—who dares to call herself my mother,’ he continued, as Madame Verwest laid both her hands upon his arm. ‘It is a lie you have told me. My mother was she who lived and died at Grasmere, and you—you—are——’

“He did not finish the sentence, for his excitement and passion had been increasing every moment, while his face grew more and more swollen and purple, until the flecks of foam gathered more thickly about his lips, which gave forth a bubbling sound as he fell across the chair in a fit.

“Then the mother woke again in Madame Verwest, and kneeling by the side of her tossing, struggling son, she lifted up his head, and cared for him as tenderly as when he was a new-born baby and first lay upon her bosom. The terrible convulsions ceased at last, and the natural color came back to his face; but the eyes, which fastened themselves upon her with such a look of hate, were the eyes of a madman, who had in his heart intense hatred and even murderous designs toward the woman who still held his head upon her lap, and dropped her tears upon his face.

“‘Woman—fiend—liar—I’ll have your life!’ he screamed, as he sprang to his feet, and with clenched fists darted toward his mother, who stepped aside to avoid the blow, and thus made way for the men outside upon the walk, who, attracted by the loud, angry tones, had come nearer and nearer to the door, which they reached just as Haverleigh rose to his feet and sprang toward his mother.

“‘Hold, villain—stop that!’ the foremost of them cried; and Haverleigh was caught by both arms, and held as in a vise by two men, who yet had hard work to keep him from breaking loose from their grasp.

“A moment sufficed to convince them that it was no sane man they held, and then arose a call for ropes with which to bind him. I think the whole town knew by this time what was going on, and the street in front of Mrs. Strong’s was densely packed with an excited throng, but only a few entered the house, and these the more intimate acquaintance of the family. That Haverleigh was raving mad was a fact no one doubted, and to secure his person was a step which seemed imperative, but was hard of accomplishment, for he was naturally strong, and his excitement lent to him a double strength. But he was mastered at last, and carried bodily to the village hall, where he was to be kept securely until some decision was reached as to what should be done with him. That decision was reached before the close of the next day, for he grew more and more furious and uncontrollable, until the asylum seemed the only alternative, and thither they carried him at last, and placed him in the strong room, as it was called, where, struggle as he might, he could not get free or burst the bars and bolts which held him.

“Meanwhile, in Millfield, Madame Verwest, as we will still call her, had told her story more fully to Mrs. Strong, while Anna, too, when she was better and could bear it, heard that the woman who from the first had been so kind to her in Chateau d’Or, was in reality her mother-in-law, and the grandmother of the little boy Arthur. Like poor Agatha Wynde she had been lured from her place in Boston, where she was employed in a straw shop. The man, who gave his name to her as Stevens, was an Englishman, and rich, and she went with him trustingly and honorably, as she believed, until the dreadful day when she found how she had been deceived. Even then she loved him and clung to her child, whom she was allowed to care for on condition that she passed as his nurse or foster-mother, and to this promise she held for many years, during which time Haverleigh died and left by will all his fortune to his son, except a thousand pounds bequeathed to the wretched woman who stood by him when he died; and when, selfish to the last, he said: ‘Don’t let the boy know the story of his birth. Let him think that Mabel was his mother,’ she answered him, ‘I will,’ and bore her secret bravely, and cared for the boy, and was a very slave to do his wishes, because of the love she bore him.

“Whatever opinion he might have had of her, her influence over him was great, and he really seemed to have a genuine affection for her as the only mother he had ever known, and would never suffer her to leave his service, as he called it. He paid her well, told her most of his plans, counseled with her often, and at times evinced for her a liking and respect very dear to the woman who longed so much to fall upon his neck and claim him as her son. She had been with him in Scotland, and London, and Paris, and at last, six years before his marriage with Anna, had gone with him to Chateau d’Or, which he had just bought, and where for weeks he held a high carnival with his wild, dissipated friends. The quiet and seclusion of the place just suited his mother, who at his request had before leaving Paris, taken the name of Madame Verwest.

“Up to that time she had been Mrs. Stevens, for she clung to the name she once believed to be her own, but it pleased her son to have her Madame Verwest, and a Frenchwoman, so a Frenchwoman she was; and because she liked the chateau so much he permitted her to stay there in charge of his servants, who held her in great esteem. The isolated position of the chateau was just suited to some of Haverleigh’s nefarious schemes, and poor Agatha Wynde was not the first young girl who had been immured in its walls. A fair-haired German from Munich, and a dark-eyed Italian from Verona had been hidden there for months until the search for them by their grief-stricken friends was over. When poor Agatha came there she had been so fair, so sweet, and so confiding, that Madame Verwest had taken the erring, repentant girl into her heart, and loved her like a mother.

“‘We don’t think quite the same,’ Agatha had said to her during a lucid interval a day or two before she died. ‘We are not the same religion. You Protestant, I Catholique; but you love Jesus, you ask him to forgive, and so do I; Him and Mary, too; and He will, and you will come to Heaven after poor Agatha some day. I sure you will, for there be now and then some Protestant there.’

“This was quite a concession for one so devout as Agatha, and Madame Verwest had smiled faintly when it was made, but she kissed the pallid lips and brow where death had already set its seal, and when at last all was over she placed a golden crucifix in the white hands folded so meekly over the heart which would never know pain again. She telegraphed to Haverleigh, who was dining with Eugenie when he received the message, and who read the telegram without a word of comment, and then, lest the jealous eyes watching him so closely should see it, he lighted a match, and applying it to the paper saw it burn to ashes. But he could not seem quite natural, and as soon as dinner was over he excused himself, and started directly for the station, leaving Eugenie to speculate upon the nature of the telegram which had so plainly affected his spirits, and taken him from her earlier than his wont. Alas, she little guessed the truth, or dreamed of the beautiful girl lying so cold and still in her coffin, and on whose white face even Haverleigh’s tears fell when he looked upon her dead, and remembered what she was when he first saw her, a lovely peasant-girl in Normandy, singing by her father’s door. They buried her quietly, and then Haverleigh returned to Paris and Eugenie, while over the lonely grave Madame Verwest vowed that no other maiden should ever come there as Agatha had come; and so, when she first heard of Anna, she determined upon something desperate, until told that Anna was a wife in very deed, and that no stain was on her name. Then, when she learned who she was, and whence she came, her heart went out to the desolate creature with a great throb of love, which strengthened every day, and was such as a real mother feels for a suffering, ill-used child. Many times, when listening to Anna’s talk of her New England home, she had been tempted to tell her who she was, but had refrained from doing so, hoping always that the day was not far distant when she could disclose everything, and be her real self again. That day had come at last, and with no fear of the dreadful man who had ruled her for so many years, she told her story, and waited the verdict of her wondering listeners.

“Anna was the first to speak. Motioning Madame Verwest to her bedside, she wound her arms around her neck, and said:

“‘I loved you as a mother at Chateau d’Or, and am so glad to find you are my mother truly, and the grandmother of little Arthur.’

“Neither were Mrs. Strong and Mary backward in their demonstrations of friendship and esteem for the woman who had suffered so much since the day, years and years before, when she had left her home in Millfield and returned no more. Could the inmates of the red house have blotted from their minds the memory of the poor lunatic who, not many miles away, was chafing and raging like a newly-caged animal, they would have been very happy these last summer days; and, to a certain degree, they were happy, though, in her low, nervous state Anna could never quite put from her mind the fear lest her dreaded husband should by some means escape from his confinement and come to do her harm. But the bolts and bars were very strong which held him, else he might perhaps have escaped, for he seemed endowed with superhuman strength, and clutched savagely at the iron gratings of his cell, shaking them at times as if they were but dried twigs in his hands.

“He was terrible in his insanity, and only his keeper and physician ever ventured near him. At them he sprang and snapped viciously, like a dog chained to a post, while he filled the room with the most horrid oaths, cursing Madame Verwest, who had dared to call him her child.

“‘He who was highly born, the son of a gentleman, the child of a servant, a nurse, a Yankee, and illegitimate at that; curse her! curse her! she lies! she lies! she played me false, and I hate her!’ he would scream, when his mother was the subject of his thoughts.

“Again, when it was Eugenie, he grew, if possible, more desperate than before, and would utter such oaths that even his keeper, hardened as he was by similar scenes, fled from the hearing of the blasphemous words.

“Of Anna and Agatha he never spoke until toward the last, when, as if he had worn his fierce nature out, he grew more quiet, and would sit for hours perfectly still, with his head bowed upon his hands, intently brooding over something in the past. Was he thinking of Agatha, and the cottage far away in Normandy, where he first saw her singing in the sunshine, with the sweet, shy look of innocence in her soft eyes, or did she come up before him as he last looked upon her, cold, white, and dead in her coffin, ruined by him, who had used every act in his power to lure her into the snare. It would seem that she came to him in both phases, for at times he would smile faintly and whisper, very soft and low:

“‘Ma petite, ma cherie. Venez avec moi a Paris. Je vous aime bien.’

“To her he always spoke in French and with the utmost tenderness, saying to her, as he thought himself bending over her coffin:

“‘I am sorry, Aggie, I am so sorry, and I wish I had left you in your home as innocent as I found you, poor little Aggie, so white and cold; don’t look at me with those mournful eyes; don’t touch me with those death-like hands; don’t you know you are dead, dead, and dead folks lie still? Don’t touch me, I say;’ and cries of fear would echo through the hall as the terror-stricken man fancied himself embraced and held fast by the arms which for so long had been at rest beneath the sod in southern France.

“‘It’s the French girl after him now,’ the keeper would say, as he heard the cries and pleadings for some one ‘to lie still and take their cold hands off.’ ‘It’s the French girl after him now, death hug, you know. He’ll be quieter when it’s t’other one;’ the ‘t’other one’ referring to Anna, who was often present to the disordered mind of the man, but who never excited him like Agatha.

“He was not afraid of Anna, but would hold long conversations with her, trying sometimes to convince her of her insanity, and again telling her that he loved her and always had, notwithstanding what he had heard her say of him in New York. It was in the spring following the summer when Anna arrived at Millfield that this softer, quieter mood came upon him, and with it a debility, and loss of strength and appetite, and gradual wasting away, which told that his days were numbered. Years of dissipation had undermined his naturally strong constitution, and he had no surplus vitality on which to draw, so that the decay, once commenced, was very rapid, and just a year from the day Anna came back to Millfield, he was dead.

“Madame Verwest was with him when he died for though he never asked for her or for any one, the mother love was too strong to keep her from him, and she went to him unbidden when she heard how sick he was. Whether her presence was any gratification to him or not, she never knew, for he expressed nothing, either by word or look. Once, when she spoke to him of Anna and his boy, there came a faint flush upon his face, and he repeated the names:

“‘Anna—Arthur.’

“Again, when she said to him:

“‘Ernest, you have much money, and land in your possession. If you die, where do you wish it to go?’

“For a moment he regarded her intently, and then replied:

“‘Anna, Arthur—mother.’

“The last word was spoken softly, kindly, and brought a rain of tears from the poor woman, who had clung to him so many years, and never heard that name from him before. Two days after that he died, and went to the God who deals justly with all His creatures. They bought him an elegant coffin, and dressed him in the finest of broadcloth, and brought him up to Millfield and buried him in the quiet graveyard behind the church, where he sleeps till the resurrection morning. Anna did not see him. She could not, but she suffered Madame Verwest to take Arthur with her to the grave, and so the mother and the son stood together while the coffin was lowered to the earth, and the solemn words were uttered, ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’

“To the little boy the weeping woman said:

“‘That’s your father, Arthur; your father they are burying;’ but Arthur was thinking more of the sunshine, and birds, and flowers than of the ceremonial which had no meaning for him, and releasing himself from his grandmother, started in pursuit of a butterfly, and his loud baby laugh mingled with the sound of the dirt rattling down upon the coffin which contained what had been his father.”

Here Hal Morton paused, and pointed toward a half-closed shutter through which the early morning was breaking. We had sat up all night, he telling and I listening to this strange story, which I felt was not finished yet, for I must know more of Anna, and if anything had ever been heard from Eugenie, who, however bad she might seem, had shown herself in some respects a noble woman, with many noble instincts and kindly feelings; so I said to my companion:

“Never mind the daylight, Hal. We will order a tip-top breakfast by and by, and meantime you finish the story and tell me more of Anna and Eugenie. Did they ever hear from her, and did Anna and the child get Haverleigh’s money?”

“Yes, they got Haverleigh’s money,” Hal replied. “Anna and Arthur between them. It was theirs lawfully, you know, and there was a million in all. Think of Anna Strong a millionaire. But it did not hurt her one whit, or change her in the least from the sweet, modest, half-frightened woman who came back to Millfield in place of the gay Anna we had known. She did not wear mourning for her husband; she could not with that consciousness in her heart of relief because he was dead; but she always wore black or white, relieved perhaps with a knot of ribbon or a flower, and never was there a fairer sight than was she in this sober attire as she went about our village seeking the sick and suffering, and giving to the poor of the wealth that God had given her. She built her mother a handsome house on an elevation just out of the town, and a wing was added for Madame Verwest, who was so much one of the family that she could not leave them.

“And so the working in the shoe-shop was at an end, with the smell of wax and leather, and the horrors of Chateau d’Or were past, and there were people foolish enough to say that it paid after all to marry a madman when the end had brought such peace. To Eugenie, Anna had often written, and when all was over she wrote again telling of the death. Then the French inconsistency of character showed itself, and the woman to whom Haverleigh had always been kind and indulgent, wept and refused to be comforted, partly for her loss, and more, I think, because no provision had been made for her.

“‘Mon dieu!’ she wrote to Anna, ‘to think no little legacee pour moi, who have given everything for him. Not so much as one, what you say, one dollar, and I so poor, too. Not so much to buy one pair of gloves, and they so cheap at Au Bon Marche, trois francs et demi, and so good. Shall I send you a box of black—bah, non, ma cherie. You not wear that for he, but me, I must wear crepe, and bombasin, one leetle month, for my heart all French, all crepe, all ache, douleur, for the bad monsieur, who once love Eugenie. He have account at bank and I draw check at will, and have draw till only one thousand franc left, which you make two hundred dollars. Then what I must do? I grow old and want no more monsieur—bah! I hate him all. I look in my glass and see Eugenie most forty, with some gray hairs, some wrinkles, which paste will not cover. No monsieur want me for wife: I want no monsieur. So I must work; must hang out the sign, ‘Robes et Costumes. Madame Eugenie,’ and tie to it some bonnets and caps. Oh, but it will go hard after all the ease, to have so many girls round, and I must scold them all the time; perhaps I act again, but it I hate so much; it brings me les messieurs again, and I won’t have it. For you, you so happy with beaucoup de l’argent, no more nasty shop, no more wax, no more leather, no more smell-bad; but for me leather, and wax, and smell-bad, toujours, toujours. Mon Dieu, ’tis quite hard, and I give all to him, all, and if he not die, what you call him, crazy, he remember Eugenie in his—his little last testament, you call it, or some book like that. Oh, me, I starve, I die. I have the many girls around me with the bad to sew, and you have the silk, the satin, the opera, and the lunch at Trois Freres—bien—’tis right, but hard, and it takes so few money to set me up, quite. Me comprenez vous?’

“Anna did understand the hint, and sent to the Frenchwoman, who had done her great service, ten thousand dollars, which Eugenie acknowledged with rapture.

“‘Enough, with prudency and save, to keep me lady all my life. No need for the girls now to sew les robes; no leather, no wax, no smell-bad, forevermore, but highly respectable woman, who let rooms to les Americains and bring them cafe in the morning.’

“This was Eugenie’s reply, and after that Anna heard no more from her, but supposed her happy as a highly respectable woman and keeper of lodgers.”

The mention of Eugenie’s cafe was too much for Hal and myself in our exhausted condition, and, ringing the bell, we ordered cafe for two in our apartments, and while we were sipping the delicious beverage, I said to my companion:

“Hal, you have told a splendid story, but I must hear a little more. You were in love with Anna Strong before she married Haverleigh. Did the love come back after he was dead?”

Hal made no answer for a moment, then he said:

“I will not tell you another word to-day; nor have I time. We must see a little of Marseilles, and to-night be off for Nice.”

“And not stop at Cannes?” I asked, and he replied:

“No, not stop at Cannes—a stupid place, full of English. Nice is the spot in all the world for me.”

So we went straight to Nice, and were quartered at the Grand Hotel, and our rooms opened upon the spacious garden, where, looking from my window in the morning, I saw several groups of people, one of which attracted my attention at once. A beautiful boy of three years old was running up and down a graveled walk, followed by a smart-looking French maid, who always brought him back to two ladies sitting on a bench under the trees.

One lady was old and draped in black, but the other was young, and oh, so fair in her morning-dress of white, with a blue ribbon in her wavy hair. There were diamonds and costly gems sparkling on her hands, and everything about her betokened the lady of wealth and culture.

“Who is she, I wonder?” I was saying to myself, when I saw Hal enter the garden and walk straight up to her, while a shout from the little boy showed that he was no stranger.

Stranger! I should say not, by the kiss he gave that girl or woman, with me looking on, and saying aloud:

“That’s Anna, sure!”

Yes, it was Anna come abroad with Madame Verwest and her child, and her former maid, Celine, whom she had found at Chateau d’Or, where they had stopped for a few days. And an hour after I was introduced to Mrs. Haverleigh, and sat opposite her at the breakfast we had in her parlor, and studied her closely, and decided that Hal had not overrated her charms.

She was beautiful, with that soft, refined, unconscious beauty that one rarely sees in a really handsome face. There was nothing of the doll about her. She was a thorough woman, graceful, pure, and lovely, with a look in her blue eyes which told of Chateau d’Or and the dreamy day and night watches there. But those were over now. Chateau d’Or was rented for a series of years, at a price merely nominal, and so that was off her hands, and the greatest care she had was the care of her immense fortune. Of course Hal had offered to relieve her of this care, and she had accepted his offer, and given him herself as a retaining fee.

We kept with her after that, or Hal did, and I kept at a distance, and talked with Madame Verwest, and romped with Arthur until we reached Venice, and there, one moonlight night, Hal and Anna were married, and we made the tour of the Grand Canal for a wedding trip, and the canopy over the bride was of pure white satin, and in the soft, silvery moonlight we sang the “Star-Spangled Banner,” our two boatmen joining in the chorus with their sweet Italian voices.

That was long ago, and Hal Morton has a boy of his own now, and a blue-eyed baby daughter, too, and he lives in one of the finest places on the Connecticut river, and goes to Europe every year, and Madame Verwest lives with him; and Fred has been through college, and is on the Continent now; and Mary is married to a Methodist minister, and Mrs. Strong is dead; and Eugenie—well, when the Commune swept over Paris, Eugenie herself went into the street and cared for the wounded and dying, and hurled a stone at a Frenchman who was attacking an American, and kept him at bay, and got the young man into her own house, and bandaged up his head, and called him “Sharles,” and asked him if he remembered her.

Fred did remember her then, and staid with her till the fierce storm was over and he was free to leave beleaguered and desecrated Paris and go on his way to Scotland, where he found Hal Morton and Anna in their beautiful home among the Highlands, not very far from Loch Katrine, and so I finish this story of Chateau d’Or.

THE END.