George Washington Flowers Memorial Collection DUKE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY ESTABLISHED BY THE FAMILY OF COLONEL FLOWERS Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2015 https://archive.org/details/mysteryofravenro01sout THE Mystery of Raven Rock A NOVEL BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH Author of "Ishmael," "Retribution," "The Bridal Eve," "A Nobe Lord," "Th* Deserted Wife," "The Haunted Homestead,' 1 "Unknows," "The Bride's Fate," "The Lost Heiress," "The Wife's Victory," etc. CHICAGO M. A. DONOHUE & CO. 407-429 Dearborn St. THE MYSTERY OF RAVEN ROCKS. CHAPTER I. THE Eve: OF" PARTING. It was early on a clear, cold, still, starlight night, in the first week of November. It was the evening before the departure of Musa and her guests from Bay Beauty, and nearly all the preparations had been completed for the flitting. Mrs. Shrewsbury and Captain Philip, her son, had taken leave of Clarice and her friends at The Shoals that morning. And they were now shut up alone to- gether in the old lady's private sitting-room, talking over the arrangements for the approaching marriage of that fallant cavalry officer and the sprightly little heiress of Urate's Peak, Espirita Carew. Kate Carew was in her bedchamber, engaged in some final little preparation for her journey. Armida Sutton, in her own apartment, was similarly occupied. There was a 'bright, .cheerful wood fire burning in the open fireplace, in the old-fashioned, oak-paneled parlor. But there were only two occupants of the room— Au- gust Carew and Musa Percie. They were seated far apart, at opposite sides of a large round table that stood in the middle of the room before the fire. Both were reading, or trying to read, and both were si- lent and fearfully self-conscious of being under a spell. August was the first to lay down his book and speak. He looked at Musa in silence for a few minutes. And she felt that he was looking at her, though she never raised 'her eyes. The Eve of Parting. "Miss Percie," he began, in a low voice, "this is our last evening on this beautiful coast. The night is very- fine, for November, and the sea is grand under the star- light. Will you put on your shawl, and give me your company for a walk on the beach ?" "I shall be very much pleased to do so," answered Musa, as she arose to leave the room to get her wraps. While she was gone, August Carew left his seat by the fire and began to walk up and down the floor. In about five minutes, however, she rejoined him. They went out together, and took the Almond Tree • avenue down to Cape Welcome. The tender exotic trees that bordered this avenue, and gave it their name, were now quite stripped of their leaves ; and the clear blue-black night sky, with its mill- ions of brilliant stars could be seen through their naked twigs and branches. The pair walked down the avenue in almost perfect silence. And not until they came out upon the open 'beach and saw the clear dark bay, with its glittering ripples, almost rivaling the clear, dark sky, with its sparkling stars, stretched out before them, was a single sentence spoken. Then August Carew broke the silence, as he had broken it a few minutes before, in the drawing-room. "This is our last evening at Bay Beauty, Miss Percie," he said, in a very sad tone. "And I am very sorry," murmured Musa. "To-morrow morning we part and go on our several ways and in opposite directions. You and the ladies of your party to Washington, and my mother and myself to Richmond," he added, gravely. "I am very sorry," repeated Musa, in a low voice. The answer was a monotonous and a conventional one, but not the less sincere on that account. "And now before we part, Miss Percie, I must thank you for the happiest season I have ever pasteed in all my life," he added, in an earnest manner. "You are very good to say so. And certainly I may return your words. We have to thank you, Mr. Carew, for much enjoyment this summer and autumn. Your presence here has added very much to our pleasures," The Eve of Parting. 7 answered Musa, compelling herself to speak with con- ventional formality and politeness, although her heart wis beating fast and her voice was trembling. Perceiving her emotion, and drawing a favorable augury from it, he spoke again and more earnestly : "Musa, will you make me happy for all our future lives? I love you. I dare to hope and believe you love me. Will you be my wife?" The words were spoken. But oh! so calmly, though so earnestly. And he was looking in her face, pouring the light and love of his soul into her eyes while he waited her answer. But her heart was throbbing so violently, that she could not speak for some moments. He waited patiently, walking slowly by her side, and holding with his right hand her hand that lay upon his left arm, for a few moments, and then he asked: "How shall I interpret your silence, dearest Musa?" "Yes," she murmured very slowly and softly; "yes, I will be your wife, for I love you, August." Forgotten for the moment was her solemn oath to Ber- tie! Forgotten even the terrible secrets of her life! Forgotten was her very -child, as she gave this promise! He drew her to his bosom, and sealed their betrothal on her lips, murmuring: "And I promise to devote my whole life to the welfare and happiness of my beloved wife. It was to ask you this question, dearest Musa, that I brought you out here, under the stars," he added, as they walked on. They walked and talked for more than an hour longer, but their further conversation would be interesting to no one except themselves. At length they turned to go home. As soon as they re-entered the house, Musa hurried up to her own room, where she locked the door and threw herself upon her bed, suffering all the horrors of the reaction and the realization of her position. "What have I done? Oh, great Heaven! what have I done?" she muttered, with a shudder, as s J he buried her face on the pillow, and thought of her sacred promise to Bertie, who had given her the honest love of his young heart, and thought of her little, meek-eyed child, left 8 The Eve of Parting. aimong strangers, unacknowledged, and now never to be acknowledged. For she could not force herself to tell the unhappy se- cret of her private marriage and maternity to the devoted lover who was about to become her second husband. Yes, he was certainly to be her second husband. For her mad love for him was the strongest passion of her life, and she was fully resolved to be his wife, in defiance of any ruin or misery that might afterward ensue from the marriage. She had come to this — to marry August Carew, what- ever might be the consequence to herself or to others. There was no indecision in her mind now. Her reso- * lution was unchangeable as fate. She iwould miarry 'him because all other evils in life, and death itself, seemed light in comparison to* the anguish and despair she would suffer in leaving or losing him. There was 'some satisfaction in having come to this fixed determination. But in the meantime sihe was stung and tortured by pity and remorse, and haunted by the image of the faith- ful friend she was about to betray, and of the meek-eyed, lovely child she was about to discard. But in all this she did not suffer as much as she felt she should suffer in the loss of him she loved unto death. She tried to compromise with her conscience in this manner. She resolved first to write to Bertie, and re- quest him to release her from her rash vow. It would be a mere form, she knew, for however it might pain the young duke to comply with her request, 'honor, gener- osity and manliness would compel him to do it. But her child — her little, meek, loving baby! Oh, with what anguish she thought of her! Once it occurred to Musa that she could take the little, lovely, dark-eyed darling, and lay her in her lover's arms, and tell him the story of her life, and trust his noble heart to receive her with sympathy and affection. Aih, if she had only followed that inspiration of her good angel, and trusted the great soul who had given her his Whole love and faith, and who trusted her entirely. But no. She shrunk from telling him, lest, in his The Eve of Parting. 9 high, pure sense of truth and honor, he should judge her too sternly; lest he should despise her for the deception she had felt forced to practice in the world; lest he should discard her and never see her more. The thought was death! She could not lose him. She could not even risk the slightest chance of losing him. She must have him, be the consequences what they migiht. She must have him, or die. But, oh! her little child! Well, she resolved that she would not desert that child. Although she could not ac- knowledge her, yet she would not desert her. She would go to New York before her marriage and make ample provision for little Musette, and leave her with the good women who were now taking care of her. And she hoped that, perhaps, after her marriage with August Carew, after she should have proved her de- voted love to him as only a wife could prove it, after she should have secured and liveted his attachment to her- self, beyond the possibility of his breaking it, then she might contrive some means of bringing the child under her own roof. She might adopt it as an orphan, or she might possibly bring herself to confess her former mar- riage, and acknowledge the child as her own. Come! she thought, her position was not so desperate, after all. She would write to Bertie, and obtain, on de- mand, a release from her promise to 'him. She would provide for her child. And she would marry August Carew! Whatever might happen, she would marry Au- gust Carew. Having devised this thoroughfare through her diffi- culties, and, having persuaded herself that it would be a safe one, Musa arose and rearranged her dress, and went downstairs, where she found August and Mrs. Carew tete-a-tete in the oak-paneled parlor. As soon as Musa appeare'd at the door, August arose and met her. He drew her arm within his own, and led her up to the elder lady, and said: "My dear mother, Miss Percie is to be my wife/' "The mischief she is!" was the reception Kate Carew gave to this anouncement. "Well, I suppose, it is fate. So have it your own way, Musa, though you might have 10 The Eve of Parting. done better. You might have been the Duchess of Montcalla. But have your own way. It is fate." "A very happy fate! Will you not congratulate us?" inquired August, with a smile. "Here is Mrs. Shrewsbury; it is more in her line than in mine. She will do it for me," laughed Mrs. Carew, as the old lady entered the room. "No, Kate, I entreat you. Stay! Say nothing to her, or to any one else, for the present," implored Musa, in a low voice. "All rig i ht; I am mum," answered Mrs. Carew, laugh- ing. Madam Chief Justice sailed up to the fireplace, but did not take the seat that Mr. Carew promptly placed for her. She had come to break up the circle, she said, that every one might go to bed, and get a good night's rest, so that they might be up early in the morning, in time to breakfast comfortably and get ready for the boats. "Your boat, Kate, for Richmond, usually gets here between seven and eight in the morning, and ours for Washington about ten. So you must be up early, at any rate, if you want to catch it. And as we would like to see you off, why, it follows, as a matter of course, that we must be up equally early," added the old lady. The company assented to the prudence of her advice, and in a few moments bade her and each other good- night and retired to rest. Early in the next morning the whole party reas- sembled for the last time at the breakfast-table of Bay Beauty. And, after a comfortable meal, they all walked down to the pier to wait the boat. "I am to come to you at Christmas to claim your hand, dearest Musa, remember," whispered August Ca- rew. "Yes, you have my pledge," she answered, in the same low key. "But it will be hard to stay away from you so long. May I not come to see you in the meantime, once or twice?" he inquired. "Come as often and stay as long as you please," an- The Eve of Parting. II swered Musa, who loved her betrothed too devotedly to use any finesse on this occasion. "Heaven bless you for your kind, frank words! Good- by, my best beloved," he whispered, pressing her hand before he stepped forward to hand Mrs. Kate Carew across the gangplank into the steamer. In another moment he was on the deck of the steamer, which was just putting off from the pier. In a few minutes the Washington steamer came puff- ing up to the pier. They were all soon on board, the boat steaming rapidly before wind and tide for the en- trance of the Potomac Eiver. After a cold but rather pleasant voyage of two days, the steamer reached the wharf at the foot of Sixth street, Washington City. Musa's carriage, horses and servants awaited her party on the landing. Leaving all their baggage in the charge of a footman, Ic be forwarded to the house, the party entered the large carriage, and were driven at once home to Vermont ave- nue. After tea, Musa, leaving the ladies of her houshold to their own devices, and leaving her servants to attend to the unpacking and arranging of her wardrobe, went and locked herself up in the library to write to Bertie. She found the task the most difficult one that she had ever undertaken to do. It occupied her the whole after- noon. She wrote and tore up many letters before she got one to suit 'her. In writing to the young duke, she threw herself upon his generosity. She told him that she had never loved him but as a very dear brother; she reminded him that she had never even professed to do so. She prayed him to remember that she had never given him any reason to believe she could ever marry him, though she bad rashly promised never to marry any one else. She entreated now to be released from that promise; because when she made it, she did not know her own heart. And she added that he had known her heart better than she had, when he prophesied that she would 12 The Eve of Parting. love again„ This prophecy, she told him, had been ful- filled. She could not help it. It was her fate. Ending as she had begun, she threw herself on his generosity. When she had signed, sealed, and directed this letter she felt that she had done a very cruel and selfish thing. She was piereced to the heart by compassion and re- morse. Yet not for that would she pause in her course. She must break with Bertie, and she must marry August Carew, let the consequences be what they might. On Saturday, at the breakfast-table, she announced to the ladies of her household that she should go to New York on Monday for a few days. Her sudden and erratic movements had ceased to surprise her friends. So they made no comment beyond expressing a wish that she might have a pleasant journey. On Monday morning, Musa, attended by her faithful old servant Cassy, took the early train to New York, where she arrived late in the afternoon. Without stopping in the city, she went straight to the Hudson River train of the hour, and ran up to Inwood, where she arrived just as the sun was sinking behind the Palisades on the west bank of the river. She had not notified the inmates of the cottage of her intended arrival. She wished to take them by surprise, and see how she should find her child, when they did not expect her. Intending to go right in upon the family, when they got up to the top of the wooded bank, on which the cot- tage stood, they went around the garden wall, and en- tered by the back gate. As they walked up a path covered by a grapevine arbor to the back door, they saw the back windows sud- denly illumined, as if the lamps had just that moment been lighted. But the shutters were not yet closed. "Hush, Cassy! Tread softly. I wish to look in at the windows and see what my baby is doing, if she is there/' whispered Musa, as she crept up to the wall. She stood on one side and peeped through the lighted window, and this was what she saw in the back parlor: Near the window, on a low stool, with his back to her, sat Sam Seaforth, and before him stood her dark-eyed The Eve of Parting. i) baby, whose tiny hands Sam was holding, while he talked to her and tried to teach her to stand alone. "All alony — lony! All alony now for Sam!" he said, as he let go her little fingers gradually. She stood alone for an instant, and then, with a de- precating little laugh, she fell forward, with her hands grabbing his knees. He was trying the experiment over again, when Musa whispered to Cassy: 'The baby is all right, nurse. See how healthy she looks and how happy she is. Now let us go around to the front door and ring," she added, with a delighted smile, as she softly withdrew from the window and passed along the side of the cottage wall and around to the front door. As she came in front, quite accidentally she saw through another lighted window into the front parlor. And this is what she saw there: Under the full blaze of a hanging chandelier, seated on a tete-a-tete sofa, was pretty, rosy Maggie Seaforth and — the Rev. Mr. Wilks, ex-traveling preacher and present schoolmaster. The parson was sitting so close to the widow that it was im- possible to be mistaken as to the meaning of that scene. Musa smiled as she hurried by the window and rang the bell at the front door. The door was opened by Mary Morris, whose bloom- ing face, at the sight of the visitor, became as pale as that of a corpse. •'Why, Mary, what is the matter? Don't you know me?" Musa inquired. "Oh, yes, ma'am, I do ; I know you well enough. And I know you have come to ta — ta — take my baby away from me!" exclaimed the young foster-nurse, bursting into tears and sobbing aloud. "Why. I have not come to do anything of the sort, you foolish girl! Come, let me in. Do you want to keep me standing out here in the cold all night?" "Oh! I beg vour pardon, ma'am, I'm sure. Do come in." Mary Morris led the way to the door of the back par- lor. "Stop, let me go in quietly by myself first/' said Musa, 14 The Eve of Parting. as she glided past the young woman, and softly opened the door and entered. What she saw now pleased her even more than what she had first seen through the window. The boy Sam Seaforth held the child in his arms up before a fine life-sized, half-length oil painting of herself, Musa, and he was teaching the little creature to kiss her hand to her mother's picture and to say "mamma." "Kiss hand to mamma. Pretty mamma!" said the boy. And the baby smacked her little hand with her lips, and lisped, "Mam — mam " At that moment the boy turned around with the baby in his arms, and the child, seeing the living original of the picture standing there, stretched out her little hands, crying: "Mam — mam!" "She knows me. She knows me," said Musa, smiling through happy tears, as she caught the child to her bosom, and sank with her into one of the crimson arm- chairs. "I was bound not to let her forget you, ma'am. 'Cause it was my duty not to," solemnly said the lad. "That is right. Always try to do your duty, Sam," said Musa, gravely. "Yes, I will; but for all that, if mammy marries the parson, I am going to run away and go to sea, I am that! I can't stand so many stepfathers." And before Musa could rebuke him for his reckless words, some one came out of the front parlor, and there was the sound of leave-takings, and the noise of the front door clanging to, and the next moment Mrs. Sea- forth came into the back parlor. "Why, my dear Mrs. White! I hadn't the least no- tion that you were here. When did you come?" inquired Maggie Seaforth, in surprise, as she held out her hand to her patroness. "I came by the evening train — the last one. I have run on to spend my baby's birthday with her. Don't you know she will be one year old on Wednesday?" "Will she now, indeed, ma'am? I knew it was some time this month, but I had forgotten the day. La! how time flies!" mused Mrs. Seaforth. The Eve of Parting, 15 "Look ahere, white 'oman!" 'cried Cassy, to the nurse. "An't yer gwine to give nobody no supper to-night? Here have me an' my mistess been travelin' all day long on de realroad cares, 'out nuffin to eat but them there nasty, chalky, windy slabs of dry dough and tar as they calls pastry. I 'clar my mistess couldn't touch 'em. No more could I. They turned my stomick, and so now we want somethin' to eat." "Oh, indeed, yes! Mary Morris, if you will attend Mrs. White to her room, and see that she has every- thing comfortable there, I will go into the kitchen and , get the supper, so that she can have it all ready by the time she comes down again. And Sam can mind the baby," said Mrs. Seaforth. Musa, who was longing to get some of the railroad dust and soot off her face and hands, promptly put little Musette into the arms of her boy nurse, and followed Mary Morris upstairs. When she went down, an excellent supper awaited her in the back parlor. And when she sat down to the table, little Musette was put in an infant's high chair and placed by her side. Musa retired very soon after supper, and took her baby to bed with her. And that night the bereaved young foster-mother missed the child from her own bosom so much that she cried all night about it. "And to think that some day she will take the baby away from me altogether, and I shall never see her again. Oh! it would kill me!" was the burden of all Mary Morris' thoughts. Musa spent nearly a month at Inwood, receiving all her letters through Mr. Locke, who forwarded them from Washington, and Mr. Haughton, at whose office in the city she regularly called for them. During her stay, Musa made an ample provision for her child, and constituted Mr. I. V. Haughton, of No. 8 Judiciary Place, New York, guardian of its person and trustee of its property. On the first of December she took a most sorrowful leave of her lovely child, pressing it fervently to her bosom, gazing into its dark, loving, w T istful eyes, kiss- 16 The Eve of Parting. ing it with wild ardor, and finally placing it in the arms of its nurse, and earnestly, passionately, commending it to her care. She reached home the next morning, and, after a re- freshing toilet and a nourishing breakfast, she la> down on the sofa in her sitting-room to rest herself, while she listened to the old lady's news. For Mrs. Shrewsbury liad news to tell which she had wisely deferred until after breakfast. First, then, the marriage of her son with the heiress of Pirate's Peak would have to 'be deferred, on account of the death of Mrs. Colonel Carew, which had just oc- curred, after a short, sharp attack of pneumonia. Secondly, Musa would lose the company of her "friend" Miss Sutton, for this season, because that young lady had just been called to the sick bed of her mother, who was hopelessly ill of consumption. Before Musa could digest all this news, Mrs. Shrews- bury drew from her pocket a parcel of letters tied to- gether, which she handed to Musa, saying: "And here, my love, are the letters that have accumu- lated for you in the last two days. Mr. Locke brought the English letter here last night, instead of sending it on by mail, as he knew you were expected home this morning.''' "The English letter!" exclaimed Musa, in excitement, and all sense of fatigue vanished as she started up and held out her hand for the packet. Casting all the other letters aside, as of little worth, she picked out the London letter and hastily tore it open. She fully expected that this was Bertie's reply to her petition for a release from her promise to him, and that it would certainly be the release she sought. It was indeed a letter from the young Duke of Mont- calla; but it was not in the least what she anticipated that it would 'be. On the contrary, its contents filled her With amazement. CHAPTER II. bertie's decision* Bertie's letter to Musa was as follows: Montcalla House, Kensington, November 20, 18 — . My Dearest Musa : — Your letter did not in the least take me by surprise. It was but the realization of my forebodings, the fulfillment of my prophecy. Do you remember? Nor did it give the "offense" that you deprecated. What happened is -natural, is in order, was to be expected. I have no word of blame for that, or of censure for you, my dearest friend, whom I would have made my beloved wife. (Now let that pass.) But though your communication affected me neither with sur- prise nor anger, I cannot say that it did not fill my mind with anxiety on your account. My dear, enthusiastic, impulsive Musa! Is the man upon whom you have set your heart, and for whose sake you have thrown me over, worthy of you? That is the question for me to consider. Of course you will say "Yes," with all the earnestness of your soul — "Yes," and a thousand times "Yes." But that does not satisfy me. I must see and know and judge for myself before I release you from your promise. If I find him worthy of you I will set you free to marry him. If I find him unworthy of you, I will hold you to the sacred vow sworn upon the Holy Word, and which you dare not break. This letter goes by the Sues, which sails to-morrow morning from Liverpool. I shall follow it by the Darien, which sails from Southampton three days hence. Watch, therefore, for the Darien, and expect to see me within twenty-four hours after her arrival. May the Lord bless you, my dearest Musa, and may He guide us aright. Ever your faithful friend, Montcalla. Musa let the letter fall from her hands, while she cov- ered her face, and shuddered with dismay. "Bertie coming here! Bertie resolved to see and sit in judgment on August Carew before releasing me from my vow, and allowing me to marry him!" she thought, with consternation. "And he may be here to-morrow, to-day, this hour! The Sues arrived two days ago. It is quite possible the Darien may nave come in last night or this morning. He may be here any moment. Oh! what shall I do? How 18 Bertie's Decision. shall I meet Bertie? And., oh, good Heaven! how shall I bear to introduce him to August?" she mentally added, in great alarm. Then she rang the bell. "Bring me the morning papers," she said to the foot- man who answered the summons. John brought the Globe, the Union and the Intelli- gencer, and laid them on the table before his mistress. Musa took up the last-named paper, turned to the "Marine Intelligence," and read: New York, December 3. The steamship Darien, from Southampton on the 23d ultimo., arrived at this port last night. "Bertie will be here to-night ! He will be here to- night ! Great Heaven! what shall I do? Yes, he will walk in upon us to-night. He said I must expect him within twenty-four hours after the arrival of the Darien. That is, I think he did. Let me look and be sure," said Musa to herself, as, all in a tremor, she took up his letter and read it over again to confirm her thought. And now, in this second reading, she perceived and ap- preciated that which, in her utter self-absorption during the first reading, she had entirely overlooked and ignored — that was Bertie's utter self-forgetfulness, in which he refrained from all reproach, from all complaint; and thought and wrote only of her happiness, and of her wel- fare. "Oh, generous, noble, and dear Bertie! How much too good you always were for me ! Oh, how I hope, how I do hope, you may soon meet some young lady a thousand times prettier, better, worthier than I ever was, whom you will love a thousand times more than you ever loved me ; and who will love you — even as I love August Carew !" she exclaimed, pressing his letter to her lips, while her tears fell fast upon it. At that moment the footman entered with a card on a silver waiter, which he handed his mistress, saying: "The gentleman is in the drawing room, miss." "It is Bertie!" thought Musa, with a spasm of the heart, as she took up and looked at the card. But no. The little slip of enameled pasteboard bore the name of Bertie's Decision. 19 "Francis August Carew." 'Tell the gentleman that I will be down in a moment," said Musa, in glad surprise, as she started up and hurried to her dressing-room to adorn her beauty for him whose presence was renewed life. She sat down before her dressing-table, rearranged her glossy black tresses in their own natural ringlets, and then changed the soft quilled silk wrapper in which she had lounged all day, for a home dress of crimson moire, trimmed with deep flounces of black guipure lace, and fin- ished with a bertha of the same. This rich dark toilet was lighted up by jewelry of pearls and rubies. As she gave a last look at her mirror, her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed with delight in her own regal beauty, and in the power it gave her to win and keep the love of one who was now dearer to her than her own soul. Sparkling and glowing with life and love, she passed downstairs and entered the drawing-room. August Carew was standing at one of the front win- dows, but he turned immediately and came, with ex- tended hands and radiant smile, to meet her. "I received your letter notifying me that you would be here to-day, dearest, and I took the first boat that left for Washington. I drove from the landing directly here. Have I come too soon?" he inquired, when they were seated side by side on the sofa. "Oh, no. You could not come too soon. I am so glad you came directly to us. Mrs. Shrewsbury is your aunt, you know. And it will be quite right that you should stop with us during your stay in Washington," answered Musa, frankly and warmly. "Thanks, dearest. My only errand to the city is to see you. But for you, my love and life, I should scarcely ever come here," said August, holding and pressing her hand. "Then, of course, that is another reason why you must 'bide' with us," said Musa, with a smile. "And how soon shall you come to 'bide' with me for- ever, dearest? That is not settled yet, you know. How soon?" he earnestly inquired. "Just as soon as may be. Oh, August, I have no will to part with you, even for a day. I have no one in the Bertie's Decision. world but you. I am so singularly alone, without par- ents, without brothers or sisters, without even collateral relatives. I have no one but you. And I want no one but you!" she added, passionately, forgetting, for the moment, the child, who should have been the first in the mother's heart. "I am and I will be all to you. I swear it, dearest. But when, when will you come and be with me forever ?" Musa paused and reflected for a moment. "See, love," he continued, "I am preparing to receive you. A month ago I put a squad of workmen into our Richmond house, to renovate it thoroughly. They will have finished it by Christmas. When, dear Musa, will you come and inhabit it?" "We must speak with Mrs. Shrewsbury first. She is your relative, your oldest living relative, I think, and she is my chaperon. She has not yet been told of our en- gagement," replied Musa. "She must be told to-day," added August. And even as he spoke the door was swung open by the footman, and Mrs. Chief Justice Shrewsbury sailed into the room. Mr. Carew arose to receive her. "How do you do, August ? This is really quite a pleas- ant surprise. When did you arrive ? How did you leave Kate?" inquired Mrs. Shrewsbury, giving her hand to her nephew, and then sinking slowly into a large easy- chair. Mr. Carew answered all her questions, and then took the hand of Musa, and led her up to the elder lady, and said : "Aunt Shrewsbury, I know how warmly you love and esteem Miss Percie. And I know, therefore, how re- joiced you will feel to hear that she is to be more closely connected with you by marriage. Miss Percie is to be your niece." Mrs. Chief Justice was surprised out of her usual stately propriety. "What is all this?" she said. "Why, I thought she was engaged to the " Then, recovering, she resumed her self-command, and said, more slowly and guardedly: "I am very glad to hear it, my dear August. I wish Bertie's Decision. 21 you both much happiness, with all my heart. When is the wedding to come off ? Has the day been fixed?" "The day has not been fixed. But Miss Percie has promised to do it now," answered Mr. Carew, with an appealing look to Musa. "When will it be, Musa? You know that I should have the earliest information, my dear girl," said Mrs. Chief Justice. "Early in the new year," said Musa, hesitatingly — "the first Tuesday in January." "Ah, that will fall on the seventh of the month. It is a very short time," commented the old lady, with a deep sigh. Musa read her anxious thought, and answered it. "My dear Mrs. Shrewsbury," said she, kindly, "our marriage shall not break up this home that you have pre- sided over with such excellent taste and tact. We shall keep it on as a winter home. For I think that we shall like to spend the season in Washington. And you, 1 hope, will still remain in it, in precisely the same position and under the same conditions as now." "Thanks, Musa, my love. You have, indeed, been as a daughter to me ever since we first met," said the old lady, with more feeling than any one would have given her credit for possessing. "But what will your husband say to this arrangement?" she inquired, rather anxiously. "I believe that I have spoken August's sentiments. Is it not so?" questioned the bride-elect, turning with a smile to her betrothed. "Assuredly," answered Mr. Carew, with cheerful promptitude. "And think, Mrs. Shrewsbury, how pleasant it will be for us all. We shall all gather here every winter as usual, under your wing — Clarice, Horace, Armida, Au- gust, myself and Kate." "That will be very pleasant, my love. But are you al- ways going to call your future mother-in-law 'Kate?'" inquired the formal old lady. Musa broke into a silvery laugh. "The idea of Kate being a mother-in-law ! Yes, I shall always call her Kate. I am not going to make an old woman of bonny Kate by calling her anything else." 22 Bertie's Decision. As Musa was still laughing the door was once more swung wide open, and "The Duke of Montcalla," was announced. While Musa's heart was throbbing stormily, Bertie en- tered with a bow and a sweeping glance that seemed to include the three persons present, and then he walked straight up to Mrs. Shrewsbury, who arose to welcome him. "Delighted to 'see your grace," said Mrs. Shrewsbury, as the young duke paid his respects. "So, I am sure, is Miss Percie, who is here," she added. Bertie turned and shook hands with Musa, and tried to meet her eyes, but they were lowered to the carpet, while her flushed cheeks grew suddenly pale. "And here is my nephew, Mr. Carew, of Raven Rocks, who has not yet had the honor of meeting your grace. Mr. Carew, the Duke of Montcalla," continued Mrs. Shrewsbury, too much engaged in doing the honors of the house to observe the pallor and agitation of Musa. The gentlemen thus presented to each other bowed, and exchanged some words of courteous greeting. And in another moment Bertie was seated among them. It was well that August Carew knew nothing of the former proposal of marriage from the young duke to Musa Percie. Such knowledge might have somewhat em- barrassed his intercourse with the visitor. But as the case now stood, his manner was free and courteous. And Bertie, to all eyes but Musa's, was as courteous, free, and gay as he ever had been. Musa saw with deep compunction that he had lost all the vivid bloom and freshness of his youth, and that the maintenance of his easy manner was an effort to him. Mrs. Shrewsbury pressed the young duke to remain and dine with them. And Bertie frankly accepted the invi- tation. Mrs. Shrewsbury withdrew from the room to interview the housekeeper and cook, in honor of the unexpected guests who were added to the family dinner party. Bertie drew Mr. Carew into conversation on the lead- ing topics of the day — that engaged the attention of all philanthropists both in England and America — Emanci- pation of the Nations, Elevation of the Masses, Education Bertie's Decision. 23 of Poior Children, Reclamation of Criminals, Reform of Prisons, Revision of Laws, and so forth. ■Musa listened, occasionally joining in the conversation, As Bertie warmed in debate he seemed to forget his troubles, and to recover all his former youthful vivacity and earnestness. There was nothing of the ''languid swell" about this hearty young English nobleman. "He will forget me in a little time. He will throw him- self into the grand work of the nineteenth century, and forget me, as I ought to be forgotten — by him," said Muisa to herself as she watched him. Dinner came on in due course. And in the evening their circle was augmented by the arrival of Mr. Lyttleton Locke and several other gentle- men. Bertie talked mostly to August Carew and Mrs. Shrewsbury. He told them that he should soon leave Washington to join a party of young Englishmen, who were at present at New Orleans, en route for the Plains, where they in- tended to hunt, or, as Bertie amended his speech, to try to hunt, the buffalo. He added that he did not expect to be in London again before the meeting of Parliament, in February. "When you will take your seat for the first time in the House of Peers," said Mrs. Shrewsbury. "Yes, madam," gravely assented the young duke, with a bow. Soon after this he arose to take leave. But last of all, he bade good-by to Musa. He took her hand, and detained it in his own for a moment. He met her eyes in one thrilling gaze of devotion, of renunciation, and then bowed over her hand, dropped it, and left the room. Musa stood witth her hand fallen to her side as he had dropped it, her face bowed upon her bosom, and her eyes fixed upon the carpet in such a strange, oblivious trance- like state, in the midst of her mixed company, that August Carew came at length to her side and led her to a seat. "The young duke is a great admirer of you, Musa," said August Carew, as he stood near the head of the sofa upon which she reclined. Bertie's Decision. r "He is as noble by nature as he is bv birth. He is the very best friend I have in the whole world, except your- self. And — he saved my life once, at the imminent risk of his own," sighed Musa. "God bless him !" earnestly added August. The next morning the little family party that gathered around the breakfast-table consisted of Mrs. Shrewsbury, Musa and August Carew. Just as breakfast was over the postman knocked, and all arose from the table and sepa- rated to read their letters. Musa received but one, and that was (sealed with the crest of the Duke of Montcalla. She wkhdrew to the privacy of her own room to read it. Gadsby's, December 5, 18 — . My Dearest Musa: — I have seen and I approve your choice. I release you of your vow to me. You are free. Before you receive this I shall be en route for New Orleans. I cannot trust myself to say good-by to you in person. But — God bless you. Montcalla. Musa cried a little over this letter, pressed it to her lips, then dropped it in the fire, and breathed a silent prayer for Bertie's happiness. An hour after that, oblivious of Bertie's renunciation and sorrow, arrayed in a most becoming habit, mounted on a fine horse, and attended by her lover, she was can- tering briskly along the margin of Rock Creek, enjoying her morning ride as she never had enjoyed it before. August Carew remained for a week at Vermont ave- nue, and might have lingered longer had not Mrs. Shrewsbury given him a hint (that the strict rules of eti- quette required his absence just now. Then, laughing at these absurd "rules of etiquette," he reluctantly took leave, to remain away until the morning of the marriage, when he should meet his bride at the church. After the departure of August Carew the preparations for the wedding went on rapidly. About one thousand invitations were sent out for the ceremony. And about one hundred for the breakfast. In due time answers came to all these special letters. And all these answers were acceptances, except in one Bertie's Decision. 25 caise — that of Armida Sutton, who replied that she could not leave the sickbed of her mother even to officiate as Miss Percie's first bridesmaid. Musa's eight bridesmaids were then selected from among the youngest and prettiest girls of her acquaint- ance. And they all accepted her invitation to take part in the beautiful pageant. Musa's wedding dress and trousseau had been ordered from a New York house, and were expected to arrive a week before the wedding day. Mrs. Shrewsbury complained that it was awkward hav- ing a wedding immediately after New Year's, as it inter- fered so seriously with Christmas and New Year's fes- tivities. Musa astonished and disgusted Mrs. Shrewsbury by starting off on the morning of Christmas Eve for a fly- ing visit to New York. Her ostensible reason was to look after her trousseau. Her real reason was to press her child once more to her heart, to spend Christmas with her, and to load her and her protectors with Christmas presents. On this occasion Musa went unattended, not even tak- ing old Cassy with her. She reached Inwood on the -night of Christmas Eve. She found her little girl well and thriving as ever, but, as it seemed to the weeping mother, the child's meek, dark eyes looked more mournful than ever they had looked be- fore. They had a loving, pleading expression in their dark depths that almost broke the mother's heart to meet. 'If I should never see you again! Ah, my tender, dove-eyed darling, if I should never see you again !" she cried, weeping over her child, as she pressed her to her bosom that night when they were alone. She stayed with Musette two days, and then, after pas- sionate, heart-rending embraces, she placed her in the arms of her foster-mother, commending the child to the woman's care, and set out for her return to Washington. On arriving at Vermont avenue she found all the Ca- rews and all the Howards there, settled in their rooms. They had arrived the day before. After bidding them all welcome to her home, Musa re- tired to her own apartment, 26 Bertie s Decision. At this hour she was no happy bride! She was half heart-broken from the parting with her child and the un- certainty of her future. She relieved her oppressed heart by a copious fit of weeping, and then she arose and rang the bell. Old Cassy answered the .summons, and, entering the room, greeted her mistress with much affection. "And how you fine de little gal, honey?" inquired the nurse. "Well, Cassy, quite well, and well taken care of. But, oh, Cassy ! oh, Cassy !" exclaimed the young mother, with a fresh burst of weeping. "Now, what's de matter wid you now, honey? If de chile is well, what you cryin' 'bout?" "Oh, Cassy ! oh, Cassy ! I feel as if I were deserting my poor baby ! You know that after my wedding day I shall no longer be my own mistress as I am now. I can- not go and come long journeys as I do now. And, oh, if I should never see my little child again !" exclaimed Musa, abandoning herself to a paroxysm of weeping and sob- bing. Cassy made no reply, but sat down on a low stool, dropped her head in her hands and groaned at intervals, until her mistress had wept and sobbed herself into a state of comparative quietness. Then the old nurse opened her mouth and spoke like an oracle. "F'om what you say, Miss Musa, I take it as you an't done tell Marse Gus Carew nufifin' 'tall 'bout de chile?" "Oh, no, no, no, Cassy ! I have told Mr. Carew noth- ing." "Well, den, honey, you mus' tell him eberyfmg." "Oh, no, no, no, Cassy! I could not. I never could tell him that." "Well, den, honey, dere an't but one oder way to do. You must gib him right up. Yes, far as fings has gone, you must gib him right up." "Oh, no, no, no, Cassy! I could not. I never could give him up. It would kill me to do so." "Mv good laws o' me alibe, honev ! you must do evether one fing or else the t'other. You must eider tell him all Bertie's Decision. 27 about it, or else gib him right up. There an't no other way, nohow." "I cannot db either, Gassy. It is the punishment of my folly, and the curse of my life, that I cannot do either. For to do either would kill me!" exclaimed Musa, pas- sionately, and covering her face with her hands. "Look here, Miss Musa," said the old nurse, gravely, "I'se a rough ole 'oman, and I knows it — one ob de mos' roughest as ebber was made — but I knows what's right, and what you ought for to do, 'fore you ebber stans up be- fore de Lord's altar along of Marse Gus, or any oder man, Now listen to me, Miss Musa. Is you a listen' to me, honey ?" "Yes, yes," answered Musa, impatiently. "Well, den, here's where it is, honey. You an't done nuffin' wrong yet. You was lawful married to de Early young gentleman, which I myse'f has beard him call you his dear wife a hundred times or more. An' your chile was born in lawful wedtlock, as you calls it. Now, honey, you jest up and tell Marse Gus Carew all about it." "Oh, Casisy — — " "Now don't you interrupt me, honey, jest yet. Jest wait till I'm done. You jest up and tell Marse Gus all about it. How you was secretly married, and how he died, dout havin' ob a chance to 'knowledge you. And how your poor baby was a orphan before she was born. You tell Marse Gus all about it. Nov/ do, honey. Den it will be ofTen your mind. Ef you don't tell him, it will al- ways be on your mind like a millstone. You tell Marse Gus all about it. He lubs you, honey. He'll do all he can to make you happy. He'll act like de honorable gemman as he is. He'll be just. He'll 'dopt your little chile. Mind ef he don't. And lub her, too. Mind ef he don't." "Oh! Gassy, Casisy, that would make me too happy. Such a state of things would turn this earth into a heaven for me. Eut no! It is impossible! I cannot tell him! He thinks that I have never been married before. I can- not run the great risk of undeceiving him. I know not what effect that would have upon him." "Look a here, honey! I an't no witch, thanks be to goodness. I nebber selled my mortal soul to de debbel for onlawful knowledge, and signed it wid a drap o' my blood. 28 Bertie's Decision. But for all dat, it seems to me as I can see trough and trough dat man, and I see as he has got a good, true, just, merciful heart, and one which is 'voted to you. Tell him eberyfing, honey, and he will believe you and comfort you. But don't 'ceive him, whatebber you do, honey, ef you wallys his lub. I don't fink as an hono'ble gemman like him could get ober being 'ceived. But tell him eberyfing, honey, and he will do anyfing you want him to do to make you happy," pleaded the old nurse. "Leave me, nurse, for a little while. I must think — I must think," said Musa. "Yes, honey, think about it. And do it, too, bless you, and you will be happy," answered the old woman, as she took herself out of the room. Musa, left alone, walked up and down the floor in deeply-perturbed thought. "Oh, if I could tell him this sad story ! If I could feel sure that he would receive it as my old nurse says S But I cannot be sure. No one can. And I dare not tell him — I dare not risk losing him. It would kill me to lose him. Oh, Heaven, to think that I must win him only by a con- cealment !" she cried, sinking once more upon the bed 1 , in an agony of self-reproach. And so her moral sense, roused by the plain words of her honest old nurse, warred with her inclinations, making her bosom like a battlefield. And this happened not once, but many times, when she found herself alone. But at other seasons, when in company, or when engaged in ac- tive preparations for her marriage, the voice of conscience was drowned in the confusion of tongues around her. The glad New Year was at hand. But it was under- stood that Mrs. Chief Justice Shrew sbury and Miss Percie would not hold their usual New Year's reception. In fact, they could not well do so without seriously interfering with the arrangements for the grand wedding, which were now going on rapidly, and were completed on the evening of Monday, the fifth. The drawing-room was upholstered in white and sil- ver, the dining-room in rose and gold, and the recep- tion-room in blue and silver. The profuse floral decora- tions seemed to have transformed each room and hall into a temple of Flora, Bertie's Decision. §9 The wedding breakfast-table was set in the long dining-room. Its decorations were wonders of artistic beauty. A curious and beautiful ornament occupied a large space on the center of the table. It was an artificial miniature lake, formed by a large plate of looking-glass laid flat on the board, and surrounded by a bank of flowers, that were reflected in the mirror as in the clear, deep waters of a lake. Upon the middle of this mirror stood the wedding-cake, in the form of a rock rising from the lake, and surmounted by a temple with classic pillars, wreathed with bright and fragrant flowers. The wedding morning dawned — a brilliant, dazzling, winter morning. The family in the house on Vermont avenue were early astir. The bridesmaids were early on duty, but they waited together in a spare chamber, until the hour for going to church. Clarice Howard claimed it as her especial privilege to dress the bride. And she was assisted only by Musa's faithful servants, Cassy and Servia. Musa's dress, though it did not come from Paris, was as elegant as it was costly. It consisted of a rich, heavy, white satin dress, made low on the neck and with short sleeves. It was trimmed with a bertha, sleeve ruffles, and deep flounces of point lace. Over this she wore a train of white Lyons velvet, lined with white silk and trimmed with swan's- down. Her ornaments were a set of superb opals, set in diamonds, the gut of the bridegroom. She did not wear orange flowers, but a wreath of rich white tea- roses crowned her beautiful black curls. And from that hung the bridal veil of fine point lace. A heavy mantle of costly ermine lay ready to be put over her shoulders and worn during the drive to and from the church. But it was to be left in the carriage at the church door. Musa's bridesmaids wore rich white silk dresses, with fine tulle over-dresses, and wreaths of white rose- buds. Clarice Howard wore a pa le blue silk, trimmed with white thread lace, a white Paisley shawl, and a white velvet bonnet, with white and blue flowers. 3o Bertie's Decision. Kate Carew, in half-mourning for her cousin, wore a rich black velvet dress, mantle, and bonnet. Mrs. Shrewsbury, a brown satin dress and bonnet, and a deep sable fur cape and a muff. Espirita Carew was in the deepest mourning for her mother; but she laid this mourning aside for one day, lest, she said, it should bring ill luck to the bride, and she wore a lavender-colored silk dress and bonnet, and a white fur cape and muff. Six carriages were in attendance to take this company to the church, which was very much crowded; yet so perfectly still was the assemblage that every word of the impressive marriage ceremony could be heard in every part of the sacred place. The books were opened, the exhortation was read, the momentous questions were asked and answered, the vows were made, the prayers were offered, the bene- diction bestowed, and all was over. Musa Percie, for good or evil, was the wife of Au- gust Carew. Many friends crowded around the bride to offer their congratulations; but all noticed that, in receiving them, her hand, through her glove, was icy cold, and her face was deathly white. Mrs. Shrewsbury also noticed this, but attributed it to the chilly air of the chancel, and to the fatigue of the ceremony; and she whispered to her nephew: "Put an end to this scene. Musa is almost over- come." And August Carew drew his bride's arm within his own, bowed, and led her through the crowd and out of the church, and put her in his own carriage, into whicH he followed her. In a few minutes they drove up again before her house in Vermont avenue. A crowd of wedding guests, in a long procession of carriages, followed the bride from the church to the house. They soon filled all the rooms. And then the brilliant bustle of the wedding breakfast ensued, which lasted about three hours. And then the bride arose and withdrew, to change her wedding dress for a traveling suit of crimson Irish poplin and s°.ble furs. Musa chose to receive only the adieus of her nearest Love Strong as Death. friends, and so she took leave of them in her own cham- ber. Then she went out, and was met at the door by her husband, who was also dressed in a traveling suit. He led her quietly from the house and put her in the carriage, and ordered the coachman to drive to the Rich- mond boat. For they were to spend their wintry honey- moon in that Southern city. While Mr. Carew was giving minute direction? to the coachman Musa was settling herself comfortably among the cushions of the carriage. In doing s: she saw a letter in a white envelope stuck conspicuously under one of the straps on her right side. Supposing it to be a business circular, she took it and opened it. But her face was blanched to marble as she read: False woman, cruel mother, perjured bride, do you madly hope for a single moment's happiness in your married state? Un- deceive yourself ; for the avenger goes before you. Nemesis will meet you at Richmond. CHAPTER III. LOVE STRONG AS DEATH. Musa had scarcely time to thrust this cruel note out of sight in her pocket when August entered the carriage and took his seat by her side. The horses immediately started. Musa lowered her thick, brown traveling veil, that Au- gust might not see her pale and agitated face. "Are you cold, love?''' he inquired, seeing her shiver and draw her furs around her. ''Yes: the day is turning bitterly cold, I think." an- swered Musa, in a low. tremulous voice. ''And you are overfatigued, and not. therefore, in a condition to be exposed. There should have been a hot brick put into this carriage. Dear love, you shall never suffer from negligence again, now that you have me to take care of you.''' said August, as he picked up two or three loose shawls that lay upon the front seat, |2 Love Strong as Death. and awkwardly wrapped them about her shoulders and feet. On arriving at the boat, Musa, in all her wrappings, was hurried on board, and then into the ladies' cabin. She took the first opportunity, when she found herself unobserved, to draw the threatening letter from her pocket, and put it into the fire that was burning in the stove. And she watched the paper shrivel up and con- sume to ashes before she shut the stove door. Then, with an effort, she controlled all outward ex- pression of the intense anxiety she suffered, and she even forced herself to converse with her husband with seem- ing ease and cheerfulness. They had a very cold voyage down the Potomac, and down the Chesapeake, and up James River to Rich- mond, where they arrived on the evening of the second day. Mr. Carew's carriage was standing at the wharf; Au- gust handed Musa into it, and gave the order: "Home." When the carriage drew up in front of the Carew mansion the doors were thrown open, and a troop of well-trained servants, headed by the housekeeper, waited in the hall to receive the young master and mistress. August led Musa into the house, whispering words of fondest welcome to her. "Mrs. Watson will see you to your room, my dear," he said, indicating the housekeeper, who now came for- ward. Mrs. Watson was a respectable, middle-aged white woman, who at once offered her services to Musa, and took her upstairs 'to a spacious and beautiful chamber, furnished in rose-color and white. "How lovely this is !" said Musa, looking around with what, under happier auspices, would have been delight, but which was now only sorrowful approval and tender gratitude. "Yes, ma'am, it is indeed perfectly lovely," assented Mrs. Watson. "And Mr. Carew had all this made to order under his own direction. And he selected all the little things, even to the mantel and toilet ornaments." Musa shivered. Love Strong as Death. 33 "You are cold, ma'am. The weather has been bitterly cold for the last two days. Come to the fire," said the housekeeper, pushing a comfortable armchair up to the fireplace, where a bright coal fire was burning in the pol- ished steel grate. Musa sank into the offered seat, and stretched her hands out toward the fire; but, ah, the chill that seized her then could not be dispelled by heat! Nemesis — Xemesis was to meet her at Richmond! How? When? In what form? These were the thoughts that seemed to turn her blood to ice. Who was her unknown enemy? How had that enemy got possession of her secret, and thereby got control of her fate? She could not conjecture, unless it had been by means of her lost letter. While she sat shivering over these thoughts, the housekeeper, forgotten, stood waiting. At length Mrs. W T atson ventured to ask: "Can I be of any further use to ycu, ma'am?" "No, thank you. I want nothing. You can go, if your duties require your presence elsewhere," Musa gently replied. But, before the housekeeper could withdraw, steps were heard outside, followed by a rap at the chamber door. "It is my baggage. Will you open the door, Airs. Wat- Son?" inquired Musa. The housekeeper immediately obeyed, and old Cassy entered, followed by two of the menservants, bearing be- tween them a large Saratoga trunk, which they set down under the direction of their conductress, and then retired, followed by Airs. Watson. Musa said to Cassy: "Will you open the trunk and lay out my maize-col- ored moire antique?" "Oh, yes, honey," said the old woman, drawing the bunch of keys from her pocket, and proceeding to busi- ness. Musa never spent much time over her toilet. And so, in a few minutes, she changed her traveling dress of crimson Irish poplin for an evening dress of maize- 34 Love Strong as Death. colored moire antique, trimmed with white point applique flounces, and with bertha and sleeve-falls of the same lace. She wore the set of opal jewelry that had been the bridal present of August. And she took a pale tea rose from the vase of flowers on her dressing- table, and placed it in her hair. She was ready to go down, but where was August? He was closeted with "Nemesis," in the shape of Ar- mida Sutton. At the very moment that Musa had left his side to go to her own room, attended by the housekeeper, and as he himself was about to repair to his dressing-room, a card was put in his hand by the hall footman, who said in explanation: "The lady arrived a few minutes ago, sir, and re- quested to see you alone as soon as you arrived." " 'Miss Armida Sutton!' " said Mr. Carew, reading the card. "This is most strange. Where did you show the lady?" "In the crimson reception-room, sir." August Carew, without a moment's delay, went to a small front room, on the right hand of the entrance hall, known as the crimson reception-room. He opened the door and entered unannounced. A glowing coal fire in a polished steel grate rather overheated this small room. Yet Armida, closely wrapped in furs, sat in a large, cushioned easy-chair be- fore the fire. "Miss Sutton!" exclaimed Mr. Carew, scarcely able to repress his surprise and displeasure at her inopportune presence. "You are astonished to see me here, Mr. Carew," she said, rising and facing him. "Indeed, yes. But pray resume your seat. You seem wearied," he said, as he noticed the paleness of her face. "I am wearied," she answered, with a sigh, as she sank again into the large armchair. "Why, when did you arrive?" inqu-ired Mr. Carew. "But a few moments in advance of yourself. In fact, I left Washington and came down to Richmond on f&e same boat that brought yourself." Love Strong as Death. 35 "Is that possible? You were on the boat with us? And we did not know it? How could that ha^e been?" inquired Mr. Carew, in astonishment. "I had a stateroom in the lower cabin. And I never left it;" answered Armida, with a strange smile. "Did my wife know that you were there?" "No." ''Did she expect you here?" "No." '''Does she know that you have arrived?" "No." ''Pardon me. I have been rudely putting questions, when I should rather have hastened to notify Mrs. Carew of the presence of her friend/'' said Mr. Carew, as he stretched his hand toward the bell. "Stop!" exclaimed Armida, arresting his hand. He paused and gazed at her now in undisguised amaze- ment. "Stop. Mr. Carew. My visit is to yourself alone. I requested to see you for a few moments alone. I have something of the most vital importance to yourself to say, but you had better sit down, sir. I cannot talk to a man who stands and srares at me." "I beg pardon," said Mr. Carew. And he sat down, immediately attentive. "'In the first place, Mr. Carew, I must ask you whether or not you received certain important letters, postmarked Rockville?" inquired Armida. ''Anonymous letters?" questioned Mr. Carew, in his turn. "Yes, necessarily anonymous." ''I did," grimly replied August Carew. "And — read them?" exclaimed Armida, in surprise.