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LILITH
A Novel
A Sequel to “The Unloved Wife”

By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

Author of “The Bride’s Fate,” “The Changed Brides,” “Cruel as the Grave,” “The Hidden Hand,” “Ishmael,” “Self-Raised,” Etc.

A. L. BURT COMPANY

PUBLISHERS ⁂ NEW YORK

Popular Books

By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

In Handsome Cloth Binding

Price — — 60 Cents per Volume

CAPITOLA’S PERIL

CRUEL AS THE GRAVE

“EM”

EM’S HUSBAND

FOR WHOSE SAKE

ISHMAEL

LILITH

THE BRIDE’S FATE

THE CHANGED BRIDES

THE HIDDEN HAND

THE UNLOVED WIFE

TRIED FOR HER LIFE

SELF-RAISED

WHY DID HE WED HER

For Sale by all Booksellers or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price

A. L. BURT COMPANY PUBLISHERS

52 Duane Street — — — — — New York

Copyright, 1881 and 1890

By ROBERT BONNER’S SONS

Lilith

Printed by special arrangement with

STREET & SMITH

LILITH

CHAPTER I
OLD ADAH’S SECRET

So at last shall come old age,

Decrepit, as beseems that stage.

How else should we retire apart

With the hoarded memories of the heart?

—Browning.

Oh, for the touch of a vanished hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

—Tennyson.

It was a lovely morning in May, when Tudor Hereward sat, wrapped in his gray silk dressing-gown, reclining in his resting-chair, on the front piazza at Cloud Cliffs.

He had had a hard fight with death, and had barely come out of it with his life.

Physicians and friends alike ascribed his illness to nervous shock upon a system already run down under the long-continued pressure of work and worry.

He was convalescent now, yet he seemed the mere shadow of his former vigorous manhood.

By his side, on a stand covered with white damask, stood a basket of luscious strawberries in a nest of their own leaves; also a vase of fragrant spring flowers—hyacinths, tulips, jonquils, daffodils, violets and heart’s-ease. Yet he neither touched nor tasted flowers or fruit.

Before him stretched the green lawn, shaded by acacia trees in full bloom, which filled the air with their rich aroma.

Farther on, the woods swept around the grounds, a semi-circular wall of living verdure.

Beyond them stood the cliffs, opal-tinted in the sunlight, misty where their heads were vailed by the soft white clouds which gave them their name.

Birds trilled their song of rapture through the perfumed air.

It was a lovely morning in a lovely scene. A morning and a scene that ministered to every sense, yet it was more than a mere material paradise, for its many delights combined to fill the soul with peace, joy and thankfulness, and so to raise it

“From Nature up to Nature’s God.”

Especially to a convalescent, coming for the first time out of his sick-room, must such a scene of summer glory have brought a delicious sense of new life in fresh and keen enjoyment, making him think that even of this material world it might be said, to some less favored people of some other planet: “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man the things that God hath prepared for them that love Him.”

But this was not the case with Tudor Hereward. To his sick soul, as to the diseased mind of another, the beauty of the earth and the glory of the heavens were but

“A foul and pestilent congregation of vapors,”

for all the pleasure he could take in them.

His wife Lilith was gone—dead—murdered.

This was to him the death-knell of nature. His mental suffering was not now sharp. He was much too weak to feel acutely. His sorrow had settled into a dull despair—a cold and lifeless misery.

Lilith was gone.

If she had passed away peacefully in her bed, attended by friends, sustained by religion, though he must have mourned for her, he could have borne his loss; or if, as had been at first supposed, she had accidentally fallen into the creek, and met a sudden, painless death, still, though he must have suffered much more, yet he could have endured the blow; but she had been butchered—cruelly butchered by some night-prowling ruffian, whose identity was neither known nor suspected, and whose motive for the monstrous crime could not even be imagined.

Lilith had been slain, and the blackness of darkness had settled upon the soul of him who felt that he had driven her forth that bitter winter night to meet her awful fate.

Yes, the blackness of darkness seemed to have fallen like the clods of the grave upon his dead and buried soul. In other deaths the body only dies; the soul lives on. In his case it seemed the soul that died, while the poor weak body lived on.

He had not been deserted in his misery and despair. As soon as the news of the discovered murder at Cliff Creek had flown over the country, spreading horror everywhere, friends and neighbors had flocked to the house, with profound sorrow for the murdered wife and sympathy for the awfully bereaved husband, and earnest proffers of assistance in any manner in which their services could be made available.

And when it became known that Mr. Hereward himself had been suddenly stricken down by dangerous illness, the ladies of the neighborhood, skilful nurses all, carefully trained to their duties as their mothers before them had been—and as all the mistresses of large plantations necessarily were—came in turn to stop at the Cliffs, and to take care of the desolate master.

The Rev. Mr. Cave, his old pastor, had come every day to visit him, and as soon as his condition warranted, to administer religious consolation.

Every one mourned for Lilith, every one sympathized with Hereward, and served him in every possible way. They “pulled him through,” as the doctor phrased it, though it was but the shadow of the man they raised.

And even now that he was convalescent he was not left to himself.

Mrs. Jab Jordon was now the volunteer housekeeper and nurse, as she had been for the week past, and as she meant to be for the week to come, and her fine health and good spirits and judicious management were as beneficial to the stricken man as anything could be under these adverse circumstances.

It was her hand that had arranged his reclining-chair on the piazza, and placed the stand of fruit and flowers by its side. It was her will that had kindly forced him out of the gloom of his sick-chamber into the sunshine and fresh, fragrant air of that lovely May morning. It was her precaution that still kept from him the loads of well-meaning letters of condolence that he could not have borne to read as yet.

And even now the good woman was upstairs superintending Cely and Mandy in the work of preparing a new room for the patient, who was not to be taken back to the old sick-chamber, which was dismantled and, with all its windows open, turned out, so to speak, to all the airs of spring.

It was a little surprising to all who knew old Nancy, the colored housekeeper who had so long ruled supreme at Cloud Cliffs, that she was not jealous of this invasion of the house by the ladies of the neighborhood. But in fact, Nancy was grateful for their presence and their help.

“’Sides w’ich,” as she confided to Cassy, the cook, “dis ain’t no time fer no po’ mortil to stan’ on deir dignity. De ’sponsibility ob de case is too mons’ous; let alone my heart bein’ broke long ob po’ dear Miss Lilif goin’ to glory de drefful way she did! an’ me fit for nuffin’. It would be flyin’—’deed it’s de trufe—flyin’.”

So Nancy put herself under the orders of Mrs. Jordon, as she had done under her predecessors.

The pale convalescent, sitting in his resting-chair, gazed with languid eyes over the lovely lawn, with its fragrant blossoming trees, and its parterres of flowers in sunny spots, on to the encircling woods filled with birds and bird songs, and beyond to the opal-tinted, mist-vailed cliffs, and to the deep blue sky above them all; yet seemed to take in nothing of the brightness and the beauty.

At length his listless, wandering eyes perceived a figure, at strange variance with the bright summer scene.

Creeping around from the rear grounds, emerging from a side grove of acacia trees, winding between parterres of hyacinths, tulips, daffodils, and other spring flowers, came a very aged woman, small, black, withered, poorly clad in an old brown linsey gown, with a red handkerchief tied over her head and under her chin, and leaning on a cane, she drew slowly near the piazza, climbed the two or three steps and stood bobbing, but trembling with infirmity, before the invalid master.

“Well, Aunt Adah, I am pleased to see you abroad once more,” said Hereward, kindly.

“Young marster, I t’ank yer, sah. An’ I is t’ankful! Oh, my Hebbenly Lord, how t’ankful I is in my heart to fine yer sittin’ out yere!” earnestly responded the woman, reverently raising her eyes and trembling through all her frame.

“Sit down, Aunt Adah. You are not able to stand,” said Hereward, kindly, stretching out his emaciated hand to reach and draw a chair up to the weary old woman.

“I t’anks yer, young marster, I t’anks yer werry much, an’ I will sit down in yer p’esence, since yer’s so ’siderate as to ’mit me so to do; fer I is weak, young marster—I is weak. I has been yere a many times to see yer, young marster, but dey wouldn’ leabe me do it, no dey wouldn’, an’ I ’spects dey was right. Yer wa’n’t well ’nuff to be ’sturbed,” said the old creature, as she lowered herself slowly and carefully into the chair, for all her joints were stiff with extreme age.

“You were very kind to come to inquire after me so often,” said Hereward, gently.

“An’ w’y wouldn’ I come? An’ how should ebber I hear ob yer ’dout comin’ myse’f to ’quire? It’d be long ’nuff fo’ any ob dese t’oughtless niggers yere come ’cross de crik to fetch me any news! Me, as has been a savint ob de Tudors for ’mos’ a hund’ed years an’ is by fur de ol’est savint on de plantation! ’Deed it’s de trufe, young marster. I was ninety-nine years old las’ Can’lemas Day,” continued the old woman, stooping to lay her cane on the floor.

Hereward smiled faintly. He knew from old farm records that Aunt Adah was even older than, with the strange pride of her race in extreme longevity, she claimed to be; and that for the last few years she had steadily called herself ninety-nine years old last Candlemas Day, sticking at that imposing number and seeming to forget that every year increased it; honestly to forget, for old Adah would have been perfectly delighted if any one had opened her eyes and explained to her that she might truly lay claim to a hundred and seven years.

“You have certainly been a most faithful follower of the family, Aunt Adah,” said the young man.

“Yes, honey, fai’ful!” assented the old creature. “Dat’s me, fai’ful!—fai’ful froo fick an’ fin, froo good ’port and ebil ’port, fai’ful fer ninety-nine years las’ Can’lemas Day! I didn’t ’mancipate de plantashun to go off to Cong’ess like so many ob dem riff-raff, lowlife brack niggers did! No, sah! Aunt Adah Mungummerry had too much ’spect fer herse’f, let alone ’spect fer de ole famberly ob de Tudors, to ’grace herse’f dat way! ’Sides w’ich, young marster, to tell de bressed trufe, I wouldn’ ’a’ lef’ my log-house in de piney woods ’cross de crik, wid my good pine-knot fire in de winter time, an’ my cool spring ob water outside de do’, no, not fer all de Cong’ess in de whole worl’! ’Deed, ’fo’ de law, it’s de trufe!”

And, inasmuch as Aunt Adah had been long past labor and was living as a pensioner on the family at the time of the emancipation, any stranger hearing her boast might have thought that policy and not principle was the secret of her fidelity to native soil and friends. But such was not the case. At no age would she have left the home and the family to whom she was so strongly attached.

Her bondage was that of love, from which no act of Congress could emancipate her.

“Would you like a glass of wine, Aunt Adah?” inquired the young man, reaching his thin hand to a silver call-bell that stood upon the stand near him.

“No, honey; no, chile, not yit; not jis yit! I’d like a tumbler ob good b’andy toddy, bimeby, but not yit, caze I’s got somefin on my min’,” replied the old creature, so very solemnly that Hereward withdrew his hand from the bell, lifted his head and looked at her.

“Something on your mind, Aunt Adah?” he inquired.

“Yes, young marster, somefin werry sarous on my min’,” repeated the aged woman.

“What is it, Adah? Speak out, my good soul. Don’t be afraid!” said Hereward, kindly.

“I ain’t afeard, young marster! ’Tain’t dat! But it is somefin berry heabby on to my min’, as been wantin’ to get offen my min’ by tellin’ ob you; an’ dat’s wot fetch me yere mos’ ebbery day since yer’s been sick; on’y dey wouldn’ leabe me see yer, no way, and I ’spects dey was yight. But I sees yer now, young marse, an’ I wants to tell yer.”

“Very well, Aunt Adah, tell me what it is now,” said Hereward, in an encouraging tone.

“Young marse, it is a solemn secret, beknown on’y to me an’ one udder gran’ wilyan! But I was boun’ not to tell anybody on dis worl’ ’fo’ I could tell yo’ fuss. Dough, indeed, it ought fo’ to be tole long ago, on’y it wasn’ in my power to tell it at de yight time, caze I was all alone in my house, laid up long ob de rheumatiz, an’ didn’ know wot was gwine on yere at dis place; an’ w’en I did come to fine out, it were too late fer dem, an’ I come to tell yer, but yer was too ill to be ’sturbed, an’ dey wouldn’ let me see yer, an’ I ’spects dey was yight; but I was ’termined to keep dat solemn secret in my own heart, an’ not to tell nobody wot I knowed to make a stracshun in de place, till yo’ got well so I could tell yo’ fuss, an’ let yer do wot yer t’ought bes’.”

“Yes, yes; but what—what is it that you have to tell me?” demanded Hereward, becoming more impressed by the words and manner of the woman.

His excitement alarmed the poor creature, who pulled herself up suddenly, saying:

“Hole on now, Adah Mungummerry! Hole on, ole lady! Yer’s a rushin’ ob it on too rapid on to a sick man. Hole up, now!” she said, talking to herself, as is the habit of the extremely aged.

“Tell me at once what you have to tell,” said Hereward, with a sudden terrible suspicion that her communication might concern the murder of his young wife.

“Well, dear young marster, but yer mus’ have patience and ’pose yerse’f, sah! ’Deed yer mus’, young marse, or yer’ll make yerse’f wuss, an’ wot would Mrs. Jab an’ de udders say to me ef I made yer wuss? I’s gwine to tell yer, young marse, w’ich I come yere fo’ dat puppose; but I mus’ tell yer werry graduately—so as not to make yer no wuss. Well, now, le’s see—le’ me see, now. Le’ me be cautious. Sort o’ break de news little by little. Young marse, yer know dat mornin’ wot yer come to my cabin to ’quire ’bout Miss Lilif?”

“Yes,” breathed the young man, beginning to tremble with anxiety in his extreme weakness.

“Well, young marse, as I telled you dat mornin’ I ’peats now. She hadn’ been dere, nor likewise nigh de place dat bressed night, as w’y should she come, w’en—listen now, young marse! w’y should she come w’en it warn’t ne’sary; caze she had sent Nancy long ob dat po’ misfortunit young gal, to fetch me money, an’ close, an’ wittels, an’ drink, an’ ebbery singerly fing as heart could wish.”

“So you told me before,” said Hereward, impatiently.

“So I did, my dear young marse, an’ I ax yer pardon fer tellin’ ob yo’ ag’in; but I does it to make yer ax yerse’f w’y should Miss Lilif do such a unne’sary fing as to come to my cabin dat cole night for nuffin? No, young marse! She didn’ come to no cabin dat night.”

“But she started to go!” exclaimed Hereward, with a cry of anguish.

“No, young marse! An’ dis is wot I war tryin’ to come at, soft an’ grad’al, not to s’prise yer too sudden. Now listen, dear marse, an’ year wot I tell yer, ’caze it’s de bressed trufe—Miss Lilif nebber come to de cabin dat night, nor likewise she nebber started to come, neider!” solemnly declared the old woman.

Hereward sprang up, stared at the earnest speaker and then fell back faint and trembling.

“’Pose yerse’f, dear young marse; dere ain’t nuffin to ’stress yer, but quite deffrint,” soothingly murmured old Adah.

“What—what do you mean? She certainly did go to the creek, because—because——” faltered the speaker, but his voice broke down in silence.

“Caze dere was a body foun’ dere? Dat wot yer were gwine to say, young marse?”

“Yes,” breathed Hereward.

“Yes, so dere was, Marse Tudor, so dere was. But dat body wa’n’t dear Miss Lilif’s!”

Hereward, trembling as if stricken with palsy, and with his hands clutching the arms of his chair, bent forward and stared at the speaker.

“It’s de trufe, as I s’pect to stan’ ’fo’ my Hebbenly Judge at de las’ day, Marse Tudor! Dat body war not Miss Lilif’s, as I could hab edified to de Cow’s Jury, ef I had a knowed wot was gwine on yere an’ could a come up ’fo’ it. ’Stead of w’ich I war laid up long ob de rheumatiz at home, an’ no one came nigh me to tell nuffin.”

“Not—not—Lilith’s——” muttered Hereward, falling back in his chair quite overcome.

Old Adah, in her well-meaning, blundering manner, had tried to “break the news,” but had not succeeded. She was alarmed at the looks of the young man.

“Le’ me yun in de house an’ fetch yer a glass of wine, Marse Tudor! Please, sah!” she pleaded.

“No, no, no, do not move!—I want nothing—I want nobody to come. What did you say?—It was not——”

“No, Marse Tudor, it war not hern, no mo’ an it war your’n or mine,” impressively replied old Adah.

“But—it was identified as such by—by——”

“By de long, curly brack ha’r, so I years, an’ by de gown, an’ de unnerclose wid her name on ’em, an’ de putty little F’ench boots wid her name on de inside. Wa’n’t dat wot yer war gwine to say, Marse Tudor?”

“Yes.”

“Well, dat were all jes’ so. De booful ha’r war like Miss Lilif’s, shuah nuff, an’ de warm casher gown, an’ de unnerclose, an’ de pooty F’ench boots war all Miss Lilif’s. But dat war jes’ all dere war ob Miss Lilif’s. It wa’n’t hern.”

“Adah! what is this you are telling me, and what reason have you for saying what you do?” demanded Hereward, with a great effort.

“’Caze I knows all about it, young marse, an’ I knows whose ’mains dey war as war foun’ in de crik.”

“Whose, in the name of Heaven, were they?”

“Dey war doze ob dat po’, des’late young creeter wot war murdered by her man, an’ t’rowed inter de crik dat same night, as I could a testimonied at de Cow’s Quest, ef I had been sent for or eben ef I had known wot war gwine on yere at de time. But no one t’ought ob sendin’ for me, a ole ’oman cripple up wid de rheumatiz an’ not able to creep no furder dan to fill my bucket at de spring outside de do’! ’Deed, I nebber heerd nuffin ’tall ’bout wot happen till it war too late to edify de Cow’s Jury. Soon as I did year it, I creeped up yere to tell yer wot I knowed; but yer war too ill to be ’sturbed—so dey said, an’ I ’spect as dey war yight. So I ’solved to keep de secret till yer war able for to year it; ’caze I didn’t want to make no mo’ stracshun in de neighborhood wid no mo’ news till I could ’vise long ob you ’bout it, sah. An’ so I come up yere two or three times ebbery week, but dey wouldn’ leabe me come to yer—no dey wouldn’! I’s moughty t’ankful as I has cotch yer to-day, Marse Tudor.”

CHAPTER II
NEW HOPE

Hereward was suffering from terrible excitement. We said a little while since that his soul seemed dead within him. And as resuscitation is always more distressing than asphyxia, so the infusion of a ray of hope that gave new life to his spirit caused much anguish.

It required all his recovered power of mind to control his emotion.

“Adah!” he said, “what you tell me is so strange, so startling, so incredible, that I have the greatest difficulty in receiving it! What good reason have you for believing—believing that?”

Again Hereward broke down.

“Dat de ’mains foun’ in de crik wor not doze ob my dear young mist’ess, but wor doze ob dat young gal wot wor made way wid by her man? Yer see I kin ’lude to dem ’mains d’out lozin’ ob my head ’caze I knows dey wor doze ob dat po’ murdered gal. Ef I eben s’picioned as dey wor doze ob my dear young mist’ess I couldn’ speak ob dem, no, no mo’ dan yer can yerse’f, Marse Tudor.”

“Yes; but what proof—what proof have you?” breathlessly inquired Hereward.

“I’s gwine to tell yer, Marse Tudor, ef yer will on’y ’pose yerse’f an’ hab patience. ’Deed, I ’spects as Mrs. Jab’ll take de head offen my shou’ders fo’ ’citin’ ob yer so.”

“Yes; but what proof? what proof?”

“I’s gwine to tell yer, Marse Tudor, ’deed I is. Yer ’member dat mornin’ w’en yer come ’quirin’ at my cabin ’bout Miss Lilif?”

“Yes, yes; you asked me that question some time back.”

“So I did, Marse Tudor; an’ I ax ob yer pardon fo’ axin’ it ag’in. It wor on’y to ’mind yer of de day, marse. Yer ’member as I tole yer how de young mist’ess had gib dat po’ gal lots ob wittles an’ drink, an’ close, an’ money, fo’ herse’f an’ me, too? Yer ’member dat, young marse?”

“I do.”

“An’ likewise as I tole yer how her man come in unexpected dat same night, an’ eat up all de good wittles, and drunk up all de good licker, an’ tuk all de money, an’ ’pelled her to go ’way ’long o’ him dat same night?”

“Yes, I remember. Go on.”

“Well, Marse Tudor, I tole yer all dat; but I didn’t fink ob tellin’ ob yer all de little trifles w’ich ’peared no ’count—sich as he makin’ ob her dress herse’f in her close to go ’long ob him—dose berry close wot Miss Lilif gib her—dat warm cashy gown, an’ de nice unnerclose, an’ de pooty French boots, an’ de little hat—all wot was tied up in de bundle—did he make her take out an’ put on to go ’long ob him genteel. No, I didn’t tell yer dat; nor likewise as how she ’beyed him in ’spect ob de close, but ’posed him when he tuk ebberyfin’ out’n de house an’ lef me nuffin’. An’ dey bofe went ’way quarrelin’—quarrelin’ werry bitter, an’ I yeard ’em at it till dey got out ob yearin’—an’ next minit I heerd an awful screech, an’ den anoder, an’ anoder. An’ I say: ‘Dere, now,’ I say, ‘he’s beatin’ ob her, de brute!’ An’ den dere was silence. An’ I nebber t’ought no wuss ob it, dan it wor bad ’nuff, but not so uncommon as to keep me ’wake.”

Old Adah paused for breath, while Hereward waited for her next words with intense anxiety. At length she resumed:

“I nebber tole yer ’bout dese las’ mentioned fings, ’caze I t’ought den dey was on’y trifles; but, Lor’, who kin tell wot is trifles, or wot trifles is gwine to mount up to ’fo’ dey’s done wid yer? It wor dem berry trifles, w’ich I t’ought ob no ’count, as would indentified dem ’mains wot was foun’ in de crik for doze ob dat po’ young gal, ef on’y I hed been sent fer to edify de Cow’s Quest. Dere! My Lor’! now what is I done?” cried the old woman, rising in alarm and peering into the face of the young master, who had fallen back into his seat in what seemed to be a dead swoon.

She took up the hand-bell, and was about to sound an alarm for help, when her wrist was feebly grasped, and her name faintly called.

“Adah—no—don’t ring! Wait—I shall recover presently. Give me—time,” whispered Hereward, making a great effort to rally.

After a little while he said:

“If what you tell me is true—and I have no reason to doubt your word—then it was really the body of that poor girl which was found in the creek, and your mistress is still living. But, Adah, I commend your discretion in keeping silent so long; and I advise you to the same course. Speak to no one of this matter. Let it remain for the present a secret between you and me.”

Old Adah, highly flattered by the thought of having a secret in common with her master, kept from all the rest of the world, warmly responded:

“I kep’ dat secret to myse’f all dis time, waitin’ fo’ yer to be well ’nuff to hear it, an’ I will keep on keepin’ it, marster, an’ red hot pinchers shouldn’ pull it out’n me till yer say so.”

“I do not want any more neighborhood gossip or excitement over this matter. I do not want the sacred name of my wife bandied about from mouth to mouth in speculating as to what has become of her. I must confer with my own tried and trusty friends and the local authorities, and we must take counsel together. You understand, Adah?”

“Surely, surely, young marster, I unnerstan’s so puffect dat dat wor de reason w’y I kep’ wot I kno’d to myse’f till I could tell it to yo’, Marse Tudor.”

“Very well. Now I think I must be alone for a little while. Do you go into the kitchen and tell Nancy or Cassy to give you—whatever you would like in the way of refreshments.”

“Tank yer, Marse Tudor; I will go. Yer was allers so ’siderate to de po’,” gratefully replied the woman, as she stooped and picked up her stick, slowly arose and hobbled away towards the rear of the house.

Hereward, left alone, pressed his hands to his head.

“Am I dreaming?” he asked himself. “Is this one of those delirious visions that tortured or delighted me during the progress of my fever? Lilith—not dead? Lilith living? Oh, Heaven! can such a happiness be really still possible to me, that I should see Lilith again in the flesh? Oh, Heaven! that this could come to pass! All evils of life would be nothing if only Lilith could, peradventure, be restored to me living. I would no longer care for all the fame and glory that this world could give me, if only my child-wife could be returned to me! But can this be possible? What balance of proof is there in favor of her continued life, in the face of the verdict of that coroner’s jury? I do not know; I cannot weigh evidence to-day! I am weak! I am weak! Kerr will be here soon. I will ask him what he thinks about the matter. I will tell him all and I will take his opinion.”

As Hereward communed with himself in this manner the door opened, and Mrs. Jab Jordon came out on the piazza, bringing in her hands a silver waiter upon which was arranged a china plate of chicken jelly, another plate of delicate biscuits, a small decanter of port wine, and a wine glass.

She set the waiter with its contents upon the little stand beside Hereward’s chair, and then, looking at the invalid critically, she inquired:

“What is the matter with you? You have been worrying and exciting yourself about something. And you know that is not good for you. Come, now, I want you to eat all this jelly and drink at least two glasses of wine, and then, as the sun is coming around this way and it is getting warm, I want you to come in and take your noon sleep.”

Hereward smiled faintly and tried obediently to do as the lady bade him; but it is doubtful whether he would have accomplished the task before him had not Mrs. Jab drawn up a chair and drilled him into compliance.

When he had finished his light meal she took his arm and led him into the house and upstairs to the new room that had been prepared for him, and made him lie down on his bed.

Meanwhile, old Adah had gone into the kitchen, where she found Nancy superintending the preparations for dinner, while Cassy and the two younger negro women were engaged in paring potatoes, shelling peas, and capping strawberries.

“Mornin’, chillun! How does all do dis fine mornin’?” said the old woman, as she slowly and stiffly lowered herself into the nearest chair and laid her stick on the floor.

“Mornin’, Aunt Adah!” returned a chorus of voices, as the three women stopped their work and came around her.

“Glad to see de young marster out ag’in!” said Adah.

“Yes, he is out ag’in—wot’s lef’ ob him! ’Deed it’s awful! Makes me fink ob my latter en’,” said Nancy, with a deep sigh.

“Yes, it’s a warnin’! It’s a warnin’!” put in Cassy, without exactly defining what “it” meant.

“’Deed I gwine look out an’ see ef I can’t j’in some more s’ieties. I ’longs to sebben or eight now, but I ain’t satisfied in my own mine w’ich is de yight one, or eben ef any ob dem I ’long to is de yight one. An’ dere can’t be but one yight one, no way.”

“Chile Nancy, I fink as yer ’longs to too many s’ieties. Now, one is ’nough for me, w’ich dat is de Rebbernt Marse Parson Cave’s s’iety, w’ich is good ’nough for me, ’caze arter all it is de Lord I trus’ in and not de s’iety,” humbly suggested old Adah.

“G’way f’om yere, ole ’oman! Yer dunno wot yer talkin’ ’bout! In dese yere drefful times I want to be on de safe side; so I j’ines all de s’ieties I kin fine so as to get de yight one! I done hear ob two more s’ieties way out yonder some’ars, w’ich I mean to j’in soon’s ebber I get de chance.”

“Two more s’ieties, A’n’ Nancy!” exclaimed Cely opening her eyes to their widest extent.

“Yes, honey; yes, chillun! W’ich one is—le’ me see now—wot’s deir names a’gn? One is called de Shakin’ Quakers. An’ dat s’iety would suit me good, leastways in some fings; ’caze I doan beliebe in marr’in an’ gibbin’ in marridge no mo’ dan dey do; an’ as fer de res’ ob it, w’y, ebbery time I gets de fever’n’ ager I ken shake an’ quake wid de bes’ ob ’em! An’ dere’s dat oder s’iety, ’way out yonder som’ers, as is called de More-men. But I misdoubts as dat one kin be de yight one, ’caze dey’s just opposide to de oder one, an’ beliebes in a doctrine called Pulliginy, an’ libs up to it, to be sure, w’ich is mo’ dan some s’ieties do deir doctrines.”

“Wot’s Pulliginy, Nancy, chile?” inquired old Adah.

“Pulliginy is de More-men perswashun. It means as a ’oman may marr’ as many husband’s as she kin take care ob! An’ marster knows dat wouldn’t suit me at all. I never could hab patience ’nuff wid de po’ he-creeturs to marr’ one husban’, much less a whole pulliginy ob ’em. No—I can’t say as I ’mire de More-men doctorine. Dough I is much exercise in my mine fear it might be de on’y yight one. Sure ’nuff, it must hab crosses ’nuff in it ef dat would sabe a soul.”

“Nancy, chile, w’y can’t yer trus’ in de Lord, an’ not trouble so much ’bout de s’ieties?” inquired old Adah.

“’Caze I wants to be zactly yight an’ sabe my soul an’ go to Glory. But as for you, Aunt Adah, wot do you expec’ as nebber goes inside ob any church?” demanded Nancy.

“Honey, I hum’ly hopes de dear Lord will sabe my soul, ’caze I can’t go to church in my ’streme ole age—ninety-nine years old las’ Can’lemas Day. Can’t walk nigh so far, honey, an’ can’t sit so long; but I trus’ in de Lord.”

“An’ you, ’lectin’ de s’ieties as you do s’pects to go to Glory?” demanded Nancy, full of righteous indignation.

“No, honey, no—not to Glory. I nebber ’sumed to fink ob sich a fing as dat. But I do hope as de dear Lord will let me in to some little place in His kingdom—some little house by some little crik running up out’n de Ribber ob Life, whey I can lib in lub ’long ob my dear ole man an’ our chillun wot all went home so many years ago. Dat’s wot I hum’ly trus’ in de Lord to gib me.”

“A’n’ Adah, wouldn’ yer like a bowlful of beef soup?” inquired Cassy, breaking in upon this discussion.

“Yes, chile, I would, w’ich de young marster said as I might hab a tumbler ob b’andy toddy, too.”

“All yight. So you shall. An’ yer’d better stay all day wid us an’ get bofe a good dinner an’ a good supper, an’ Cely an’ Mandy ’ill take you home.”

“T’anky, kindly, Cassy, chile, so I will,” concluded the aged woman, settling herself comfortably for a whole day’s enjoyment.

Early in the afternoon the Rev. Mr. Cave and Dr. Kerr drove over together to see Tudor Hereward.

They were shown at once to his chamber, where they found him reclining on a lounge near the open window.

“You have been sitting out on the piazza this morning, I hear,” said the doctor, after the first greetings were over.

“Yes, for two hours,” replied Hereward.

“Too long for a first effort. You have overtasked yourself.”

“No, it is not that, doctor. Please lock the door, to prevent interruption, and draw your chairs up to me, both of you. I have some strange news to communicate, which I received this morning,” said Hereward, in some nervous trepidation.

“Yes! and that is just what has excited and exhausted you,” said Dr. Kerr, as he complied with Hereward’s request, sat down beside him and felt his pulse.

“And yet it was good news, if I can judge by the expression of your face, Tudor,” put in the rector, wondering, meanwhile, what good news could possibly have come to this awfully bereaved man.

“Yes, it was good news, if true; and there lies the great anxiety,” replied Hereward.

And then to these two oldest of old friends and neighbors, the pastor of the parish and the physician of the family, Tudor Hereward told the story that had been told him by old Adah.

The two gentlemen were not so much amazed as the narrator had expected them to be, yet they were most profoundly interested.

“There must always be a doubt in these cases where the proof of identification seems to be in the clothing only, and not in the person,” said the doctor.

“That is certainly so. Clothing may have changed hands, as in this instance,” added the rector.

“I want your decided opinion, if you can give it to me, on this subject. It is no exaggeration to say that if it can be shown that the remains identified before the coroner’s jury as those of my wife, were in reality not hers, but of another person, I should be lifted from death and despair to life and hope. For look you, my friends, in all the long and dreary days and in all the long and sleepless nights, I say to myself, that whoever struck the fatal blow, I, and I only, am the original cause of Lilith’s death,” said Hereward.

“You are so morbid on that subject that I despair of ever bringing you to reason,” sighed the rector.

“At least until I have brought him to health! The body and mind are so nearly connected that when one is weakened or diseased, the other is apt to be so too,” added the doctor.

“You are both mistaken. My remorse and despair have nothing to do with health of body or mind. They are both normal and natural. Listen to me. If I, in the madness of the moment, had not insulted, outraged, and driven my young wife from my side, she would never have gone forth that bitter winter night to meet the cruel death at the hands of some midnight marauder—according to the verdict of the coroner’s jury.”

“But you did not send her to the creek,” said the doctor.

“No! but I might as well have done so! Oh! I knew how it was—or might have been—for I will still hope that it was not so. She knowing that she was about to leave the Cliffs for an indefinite time, thought of the poor old woman who might suffer in her absence, and determined that she would pay her a last visit and leave with her provision—in money, which could be easily carried—to last her for a long time. In her feeling of mortification at having been cast off by her husband, she chose to go alone, so as not to expose her distress to any one—not even to a faithful servant. So, before setting out on her long journey, she started to visit old Adah, at the creek cabin, and met her fate—through me.”

“If she did meet her fate! But, Hereward, I am inclined to believe the old woman’s story,” said the doctor.

“And so do I,” added the rector.

“There is only one doubt,” replied Hereward, “and it is this: The identification by the clothing only must still be unsatisfactory. Lilith was in mourning for my father. Her dress was always black, and of one pattern—that is, her ordinary dress, I mean, of course. It seems that she gave a suit of her clothing to that poor girl. What of that? She had other suits of the same sort of clothing, and wore one of those that same night, for she wore no other sort on common occasions. And the fear is that when she set out to visit old Adah at the creek cabin, she was met, robbed and murdered by this tramp and his girl, and that it was her screams that old Adah heard. For remember, that Lilith’s watch and purse have never been found, nor any trace of Lilith herself, unless that found——” Hereward’s voice broke down, and his head fell back upon his pillow.

Dr. Kerr went to a side table and poured out a glass of wine, which he brought and compelled his patient to drink.

“At any rate, Tudor, there is a very reasonable hope that Lilith still lives. Let this hope sustain and not exhaust you. Leave the matter in the hands of Divine Providence, first of all, and in the hands of your two friends as his servants and instruments. Say nothing of this to any one else. It would not be well to open up such a subject of discussion in this neighborhood. Wait until we have used every human means of discovering the whereabouts of your Lilith,” said the rector, earnestly.

“Yes, that’s it! Leave the affair to us, under Providence! We have no certainty; but the new hope is better than despair,” added the doctor.

And to support moral teaching by physical means, he made up a sedative draught and left it with his patient.

The doctor and the rector went away together, much wondering at the new aspect given to the Cliff Creek tragedy by the revelations of old Adah.

They kept this revelation to themselves, and went about secretly trying to get some clew, either to the whereabouts of Lilith, or of the young girl to whom she had given a suit of her own clothes.

They visited old Adah in her cabin, and using her young master’s, Tudor Hereward’s, name, questioned her closely on the subject of the events that had transpired in her cabin on the night of the murder. They cross-questioned her with a skill and perseverance that Hereward, in his weakened condition, could never have shown. And old Adah answered them by revealing freely all she knew and all she suspected.

They came away from that interview thoroughly convinced that the body found in the creek was that of the gypsy girl to whom Lilith had given a suit of her clothes.

They were again together to Cloud Cliffs, and told the suffering master of the house of their new and strong convictions on the subject.

“Lilith lives! Be sure of that! No stone shall be left unturned to discover her, and her restoration to your arms is only a question of time, and of a very little time also,” said the doctor.

“Bear up, Tudor! It rests with yourself, under the Lord, to recover your former health and strength of body and mind. Rouse yourself! Be the calm, strong, firm man that you have heretofore shown yourself,” added the rector.

And Hereward grasped their hands and thanked them warmly for their sympathy and services.

“But though we feel sure that Lilith lives, and that we shall find her before many days, yet still, to avoid giving rise to a sensational report, we have determined to continue our first policy of reticence until we shall really have found Lilith and restored her to her home. Do you not approve our plan, Hereward?” inquired the doctor.

“Yes, certainly, that is the best,” answered the young man.

The two friends took leave of the patient and departed.

“All the same,” said the doctor, as they walked out together and re-entered their gig, “if Lilith is not soon recovered, Tudor must die. The strain upon him is too great to be borne.”

“Let us trust in the Lord,” said the rector, “and hope for a happier issue.”

CHAPTER III
THE NIGHT-PASSENGER’S NEWS

Rise! If the past detain you,

Her sunshine and storms forget;

No chains so unworthy to hold you

As those of a vain regret.

Sad or bright, it is lifeless ever,

Cast its phantom arms away,

Nor look back but to learn the lesson

Of a nobler strife to-day.

The future has deeds of glory,

Of honor—God grant it may!

But your arm will never be stronger

Or the need so great as to-day.

A. A. P.

The Rev. Mr. Cave and the good Dr. Kerr, both devoted friends of Tudor Hereward, had promised him to leave nothing untried that might lead to a clew to trace the fate of the missing women. For—to reach the truth more promptly and effectually—it was deemed highly important to institute an exhaustive investigation into the movements of both the lost ones, from the day of their disappearance.

One of them lay in her grave, in the village church-yard; and the other had vanished.

But which was the dead and which was the living, no human being at Frosthill could prove.

The negroes and the neighbors had identified the body thrown up by the spring flood from the bed of the creek and found in the ravine as that of young Mrs. Tudor Hereward; but they had identified it only by the clothing and by the long, black, curling hair—only by these; for “decay’s effacing finger” had blotted out every feature beyond recognition.

And this held good for the truth until old Adah declared in the most solemn manner her conviction that the remains were those of the poor gypsy girl Lucille, giving strong reasons to support her statement.

Lucille was dressed in a suit of young Mrs. Hereward’s clothes, which had been bestowed on her by that lady.

Lucille had left Adah’s hut that fatal night, in company with her ruffian husband, with whom she had ventured to remonstrate on his robbing the poor old woman of the goods sent her by Mrs. Hereward; and they had gone away quarreling until they were out of hearing; soon after which, and at about the time they might have reached the point where the path through the woods passed over the bridge crossing the creek, a piercing shriek rang through the air followed by another and another, startling the bed-ridden old woman in the hut and filling her soul with terror.

Then all was still as death.

Old Adah had not at that time suspected the man of killing his wife, but only of beating her brutally, as he had been in the habit of doing.

Never until she heard of the body that had been found did she think of murder.

Then, at the first opportunity, she had told her story and given her opinion to the convalescent master of the Cliffs, who, in her judgment, was entitled to the first information.

Tudor Hereward’s “wish” was certainly “father to the thought” when he gave so ready a credence to old Adah’s story, and called his two oldest and most faithful friends into counsel as to the best means of ascertaining the truth.

And they, without committing themselves to any positive opinion—for, in such a case, they could have no just grounds for entertaining one—had pledged their words to leave “no stone unturned” for discovering the truth.

To do so, they knew that they must search for clews for both the missing women.

And they searched long, thoroughly, but fruitlessly, until near the end of May.

They ascertained from the accounts of the ticket agent at Frosthill that two passengers only had bought tickets for the midnight express on that fatal 21st of March. One was a ruffianly young man, he—the agent—was sure, but the other he could not describe at all.

Now who were those two passengers?

The uttermost efforts of our amateur detectives failed to discover. They could find no one in the village or in the surrounding country who had taken the train that night.

The “ruffianly young man” mentioned by the ticket agent was probably the husband of the poor gypsy girl; but who was the other passenger? Was she his wife, traveling with him, as they had set out from the hut to do, or was it Lilith, who was a mere accidental fellow-passenger?

No one could tell.

And so the time passed in fruitless search and heart-sickening suspense, until late in May, when one morning, as Dr. Kerr was seated in his office, the door opened and a stranger entered.

The doctor, believing the visitor to be a patient, arose and offered him a chair.

“Thank you, sir. I dare say you are surprised to see me, sir,” said the man, as he seated himself, took off his hat and wiped his face.

“Not at all. Strangers sometimes honor me with a call,” blandly replied the doctor.

“Yes, I know, for medical advice, with a fee in their hands, and then they have a right to come, and you are glad to see them. But I don’t want any medical advice whatever, and I haven’t brought any fee; and that’s the reason why I am afraid you will think I am intruding.”

“Not at all, if I can serve you in any way,” politely replied the doctor.

“Yes, but you can’t even do that! I don’t stand in need of services.”

“Then will you kindly enlighten me as to the circumstance to which I am indebted for this honor?” inquired the doctor, with a smile of amusement.

“Do you mean to ask what brought me here?”

“Yes, if you please.”

“Well, I don’t mind telling you. I should have to do it anyway, because that is what I came for. My name is Carter, and I came from Maryland.”

“Yes?” smiled the doctor.

“And have been traveling through the country here looking for land.”

“Quite so, and you have found a great deal.”

“I mean, and to buy. I hear that land is very good and cheap about here and the climate very healthy.”

“All quite true; but I fear I cannot help you in the least in that matter. You had better take counsel with Lawyer Jordon, who acts as land agent occasionally,” said the doctor.

“Did I ask you to help me? I told you first off that I didn’t want any service.”

“Then what in the name of——”

“Sense have I come for?”

“Yes, if you please.”

“Why, I am telling you, man! Being in search of a suitable farm, I have been traveling about these parts considerable. Last night I came here and put up at ‘The Stag.’ Good house that!”

“Pretty good. Yes.”

“Well, I did hear of a rum case. The body of that young woman being found, and there being a distressing doubt whether it be that of young Mrs. Tudor Hereward, who disappeared from the neighborhood on the 21st of last March, or that of a little gypsy tramp, who bore a great personal resemblance to that lady, and who was suspected of having been made way with by her ruffian of a husband!”

“Yes, yes,” eagerly exclaimed the doctor, all his listless indifference vanished. “Yes! You have heard of that affair. You have been traveling about in this region. Is it possible that you may be able to throw some light on that dark subject?”

“I think I may; that is what has brought me here this morning. Perhaps I ought to have gone out to the place they call the Cliffs to see Mr. Tudor Hereward himself; but they told me it was a matter of six miles from the village, and that perhaps I had better see you, as you were interested; and so here I am.”

“I am very glad you did. Now tell me quickly what you have to tell, for I am extremely anxious to hear,” said the doctor, eagerly.

“Wait a bit! Let us see how the land lies first. You say young Mrs. Hereward and the gypsy girl looked alike?”

“In size, figure, and the unusual length and beauty of their hair—yes!”

“And that both disappeared from the neighborhood the same night. At least so I heard from the talk at the Stag.”

“It was true.”

“And a young woman’s body was found near the creek a month afterwards?”

“Yes.”

“But so far gone that it could not be identified except by the clothing?”

“True.”

“And that clothing was recognized as having been young Mrs. Hereward’s?”

“Yes.”

“And that proved to the coroner’s jury the body to be also young Mrs. Hereward’s.”

“Yes.”