"There is a stange secret in the matter," exclaimed I, very foolish, very red, and very awkward when I said making another bolt. it. "There is a secret, sir, or a mystery which you think of a profession? It is time for you to decide upshare " "Stop, Mark. If I do share a secret, and you are so positive about the matter that I am willing to allow the hypothesis for the sake of the argument-if I do share a secret, it isn't mine you know." "You are very right, sir, but I am deeply interested in Miss Ellington-" "In whom do you fear a rival? Mr. Clarefield or me?" I could not restrain an impatient stamp of the foot. With a flushed cheek and angry manner I recounted the affair of the preceding evening; my unexpected appearance in the boudoir, the rapid withdrawal of himself and Mr. Clarefield, and Grace's singular agitation. "That's the story, sir, and you see for yourself that I cannot help experiencing a painful perplexity upon the subject. If I can obtain any light from you, well; if not, I must demand it from another source." My father, during my relation of the story, became intensely absorbed in pruning and nipping an apricot, and in the abstraction of his employment, even turned his back upon me. When I had finished, his frame began to shake with suppressed laughter. "I thought, Mark, that I was past such suspicion. It is rather odd, to be sure, to be accused by my own on a career." "Indeed; what?" a fair trial of your ability in that direction. And yet, Suc แ "Oh, sir, if you persist in refusing me, I'll with- cess, if entire and great, is fascinating; but, ah, Mark, draw." of all the battles in the world, in nothing is there s struggle so terrible, where so many sink down and are destroyed-where so few emerge from the conflict, and they stained, battered, and torn! To one victor there are a thousand slain." "Genius will always triumph." "That means that you are a genius. I shan't dispute it with you. But I think you are in error in attempting without experience or knowledge, so bold a venture as a book. Skirmish a while first, Mark. Strength is the result of exercise and training. Try your wings first; you will drown if you fly too far at the start." "You talk as if genius were muscle. It is fire snatched from heaven-the Promethean spark which fights with a magnetic touch the innermost circle of—" "Please to be intelligible, Mark.” my huge literary vanity, and letting its inflation out. Young author-dom is the vainest of bipeds; his airs and assumptions might make angels weep; he struts about with bedraggled feathers, flapping his wings and crowing in the face of the world. I kept on urging True to his speed, dashing along in a cloud of dust, heedless of all that I met or encountered, when suddenly upon turning a short corner, I pitched headlong into a horse upon the road. There was a snort, a plunge, a shout, a cloud of dust before my eyes, and then, as I reined True forcibly in, I found myself in the presence of a man standing by the roadside, holding a horse by the bridle. It was no other than Doctor Ellington. My eloquence collapsed and hung its head. It revived fashioned fellow; always dressed in a snuff-colored suit in a moment." "We had better not measure the Titans, Mark. Proceed as you will, but don't break your neck by climbing." A good deal worsted by the encounter, with my vanity in sad tatters, and numberless thorns pricking my self-sufficiency, I withdrew from the interview. I sought revenge on True. I flew to the stable, hastily bridled and saddled him, and dashed off along the road in the direction of Grace's cottage, at True's best speed. I ground my teeth together as I vowed that the mystery should be explained, and infuriated even by an imaginary refusal, struck at my horse, and blindly urged him to a speed in keeping with the excitement into which I was plunged. My father's humor was genial and happy, but he concealed under an urbane temper, a smooth and polished manner-so perfect in its smoothness and polish, that you didn't know how sharp it was until it impaled you. It was a kind of sarcasm that lingered, and stung with the recollection, more than at the time. Sometimes, you would be quite unconscious of any hidden point, until, perhaps, long afterward, you would suddenly discover that you had been caressing a nettle all the while and such discoveries, how they would send the blood tingling through the veins ! a world too wide; with a snuff-colored wig a world too big; and a snuff-colored complexion. You would continually encounter him in all sorts of places, and upon all sorts of roads, public highways and obscure by-ways, and invariably leading his horse by his bridle. No mortal ever saw him mounted. I have met him hundreds of times, even long distances from his home, but always exactly in the same way-coming around a corner upon you, his bridle slipped over his arm, trudging, heated, dusty but patiently along. His horse was a bony, huge footed, loose-jointed affair, and was gifted with a motion that looked as if it would churn up one's bones to ride him. The Doctor was noted for another peculiarity. His oldest friend had never heard him say Yes or No to any question. He drawled out his words with the most provoking slowness, and never committed himself positively, even upon the matter of a shoe-tie. "It is a pleasant morning, sir," said I, finding there was no chance of obtaining any information. "Well-there-isn't-much-chance-of rain." "Good morning, sir," said I, touching up my horse. "Well-it's-most-noon-ain't it?" were the last words I heard as I rode off. Grace was Doctor Ellington's ward. Beneath the Doctor's eccentricity of manner, so Grace often said, were great goodness of heart, extensive learning, and deep knowledge of the world. These acquirements were somewhat incredible, but Grace always exacted perfect faith in them. Grace had been under his charge since she was ten years of age. As we, however, had only been their neighbors for little more than two years, we knew nothing about Grace's girlhood. For a long time we had all supposed that she was the Doctor's daughter, until Grace herself undeceived me one But I know now how wise my father was in puncturing day-stating that she was an orphan, and that the Doc tor had assumed her care out of friendship for her parents. "It is very strange, Mark," she once remarked, "but I appear to have no relations-no near ones. Both my father and mother must have been without kin. My mother was the descendant of a French émigré-which accounts for her isolation; my father was an orphan, without brother or sister. I am the last of my race." After parting from the Doctor, I kept True upon his speed, until I drew up before the Doctor's cottage. To my inquiry of the servant, the reply was, that Miss Grace had gone to walk in the forest. I knew her familiar haunts, and walking my horse through a lane, passed by a gate into a forest path. I rode along leisurely, through the shadowy aisles, sure of finding Grace by the old oak, if not before reaching it. The oak I have described as standing upon the outskirts of the forest. In the direction which I approached, it was screened somewhat by low growths, and, as I drew near, I heard the voice of Grace before I could see her. It was necessary to ride around a short space in order to find a practicable approach; and just as I turned my horse's head to do so, I was astonished to hear Harold's voice in response to that of Grace's. Urging my horse forward, in a moment more I came in view of the tree, and then was revealed to me a scene which cut into my heart like a two-edged blade. A laugh, full of bitterness, broke from my lips. I was frantic with rage. "I think of what I have seen. There lies the degradation, Grace Ellington. You have betrayed me! wronged me! cheated me! been false to me! Farewell, Grace Ellington. I have seen enough to know what a poor, fond fool I have been. We never meet again. Go to your new love. I crave your pardon for interrupting your pleasures." "Mark! Mark! This jealousy is groundless!" "Groundless! I saw you together-fondling, caressing, here, now, upon this spot. Groundless, indeed!" With mad fury I struck my horse a violent blow, but as he leaped forward, Harold, with a clear single bound, sprang to the bridle, and catching it desperately, clung dangling to it, bending True's head to the ground and arresting his progress. Infuriated, I even raised my whip to strike him, but the thin, pale face, and strangely glittering eye, checked my uplifted arm. "Mark, you love Grace. She is an angel, Mark. I know it. Her voice is like the ripple of a river—there is peace in it. It puts out the fire in the heart. Come down. Love her, Mark, love her-I'm nothing but—" I heard no more. My whip fell furiously upon the head of True, who leaped high in the air, and springing forward with a wild bound, flung Harold upon the ground at her side, and then, with a scream ringing behind me, dashed with a fierce speed through the forest paths. CHAPTER V. DEPARTURE. JEALOUS of a boy-a harmless, pitiful creature, maimed in mind, walking under an impending doom! Jealous of poor Harold! I beat at my brow and tugged at my heart in very shame; but still the jealousy was there-a flame that would not be quenched. Upon the ground, leaning against the tree, Grace was seated, and stretched upon the grass at her feet, with his head in her lap, was Harold Clarefield. I sat paralyzed, and looked. He was winding his fingers among her curls, and shaking them out in the air. He plucked wild flowers and twined them among her locks. And she smoothed his brow, and left her hand resting upon his bosom. It was pain, keen, acute, and terrible which I experienced first; but as I continued looking on, rage dark and furious surged up. I could feel it rising as the angry sea rises. Spurring up my horse, and crushing through the brush, I rode directly into their presence. Jealous of Harold? Did I not see? She had been Harold sprang to his feet, and Grace rose a little caught by his strange, wild beauty. He had fascinated flushed, but looking at me steadily. I could only glare her. For there was something infatuating about at them. My lips worked, but the emotion's which Harold. I had observed how Imy was affected when raged and tossed in my breast could find no expression. they first met. Grace's heart had never been mine, but an Why, Mark," exclaimed Harold, are you ill? open page for new impressions; Harold had stamped it Don't you know Grace? So beautiful, Mark: so like a-boy and mad as he was; and I might go sip elsestar." where. The flower I had feasted upon would yield no more sweets to me. Jealous of Harold, truly, for I had mighty cause ! แ "Know her," cried I, at last finding voice, "know her? Now I know her-never before-never after this. Oh, Grace! I would have thanked God to have struck me dead, before bringing this knowledge Aye, but doubt of Grace? Again, had I not seen? It was not proof fished up and jointed. There was no cool weighing of probabilities. One single, terrible fact had burst upon me, convincing every senseagainst feeling, impulse, love, desire, and every motive and thought I had-the fact topped them, blazed higher than them all, drowned them all-the fact was a tremendous black tower of strength, against which love might hurl itself forever, against which hearts might be shivered-it would still stand impregnable. How else but doubt Grace at the foot of such a fact as this? I might seek to drown the doubt with clamor of protestation, it lived coeval with the fact! I saw them in each other's arms, This was the fact. What cunning could undo it? The scene flew before me, and repeated itself a thousand times around me, as True sped frantically along, spurred, and beaten, and whipped with abandoned fury, until she bounded beneath me as if she were all nerve and fire. Chaos was within me, but out of the chaos gradually came such fragments as those above. Shame mingled with my fury, and at moments suffused me; but thrusting through the shame stalked the huge fact, and rage came howling up to drive out all other spirits. Passion consumes itself. Succeeding my paroxysms of rage came at last calmer feelings, and with them the melting mood. Love, torn hopes, secret dreams, fond purposes the gentler passions came crowding upon me, moaning and sad, blinding eyes with tears, and piercing the heart afresh with keen blades; following this anguish and dark suffering, came fixed purpose and stern resolve. I stood dusty and stained in my father's library. "Yes, sir. To-day." "To-day?" My father stared at me incredulously. "To-day, sir. You spoke of my need of a profession. I will begin at once." "What profession do you propose, Mark ?" I patted her cheek, and forced a smile. "Don't think of it, sis. Talk to me of yourself. Tell me plainly, do you love Frank Bloomer ?" How suddenly the eyes dropped! how suddenly the cheeks mantled! "He is a noble fellow, Imy. I see you do love him. I won't put you to the pain of saying so. I couldn't see my Imy married to one I would like better." Her eyes looked up, bright and suffused; her cheeks glowed richly; happiness beamed from her face. For beauty, give me the blush of young innocence in the first consciousness of love. But her face grew shadowed quickly. "Some great sorrow has befallen you, Mark. This departure is so sudden, so strange, so unaccountable. You could not have thought of it an hour ago. I shall be most unhappy, if you leave without explaining." "It is not so sudden," said I, cheerfully, as it appears. I have secretly contemplated it for a long My father's lips did not move, but yet there was time. Circumstances have only hastened it. Come, a transparent smile about them. "I have a manuscript, sir. I will sell that, and embark in literature." "But why so suddenly?" "Do not ask me, sir. I wish to depart at once-by the evening train. I require no preparation." The assent was given. But my father, with his hands in his pockets, jingled his keys, and stared wonderingly at the floor. 66 Imy, you must promise to ask no more questions-you shall know everything, eventually. Help me now to make ready. John shall drive to the station with my trunk. I will ride True over, and John can lead her back. Come, bustle, bustle, Imy-time is short. No tears-only smiles, I charge you." My father came in to say some parting words. He I hastened to my own apartment, and tossed my evidently looked for a further explanation of my conapparel in a trunk. 66 "Now for a career," exclaimed I, trying to force up a little enthusiasm ; now for fame and greatness. They shall see what is in me." My simulated enthusiasm fell vapid and cold. Fame was no longer a glory and a star; it looked bedraggled and dead as a dish-clout. I sat down, and burying my face in my hands, thought of Grace. To think of Grace was to think in a tumult; with wind and wave rising and beating; with emotions and passions tossing, jostling, crowding, and topping one upon another, until chaos reigned again. They came, these passions, rolling over me like black waves. Suddenly, like a shock, a hand was laid upon my shoulder. I jumped up. It was my sister Imy. She flung her arms around my neck, exclaiming “Mark, are you going away? Is it possible? Do not leave us." "I must, Imy." "Something has happened, I'm sure.” "Something has, Imy; but, don't ask me what. I'm going to town-going into the world to win fame and greatness, as you know we used to dream I should. My happiness is all shattered here." duct, but I avoided the subject. My trunk duly strapped, John tossed it in his wagon, and drove off. Mr. Clarefield came up to make a parting salutation. I thought that he looked pale and ill. I leaped upon True—it would be the last time that I could mount her for many a long day-and waving my hand to the little group gathered in the doorway, galloped off. There was a hard tug at the heart as I did so. I assumed a gay manner while facing my friends, but no sooner turned from them, than my heart went down, down, down like a rock. I was striding out into a future, all shadow nowwith the light of love no longer upon it; sundered hopes, dead happiness, shattered peace, were all behind. Darkness was upon me; gloomy bitterness, and hate, and all the passions raged within, coming up grimly again the moment restraint was removed-stirred up, perhaps, in a search for justification of my conduct. A little way from the house, I met Harold. He was tramping up and down the water's edge, as he often did, plashing into the pools, stretching out his arms, and muttering wild things. When my eyes fell upon him, I was seized with sudden shame. There was a slight wound upon his temple, and a little blood-a wound inflicted by me. I wanted to hide my head forever. To think that I had warred upon tender and sad-hearted Harold-upon a poor, frail, broken flower. I was pierced with exquisite remorse. "Mark," said he, walking towards me, "why did you run away from us? Grace began to weep. Isn't she beautiful? Her voice is music-it stills my soul. If I could only hear it forever. I love her, Mark." Passion is a kaleidoscope. With every turn, it takes a new aspect. Or, it is a chameleon-with every object a new color. Remorse fled when Harold ceased, and insane jealousy rose up. "How did you come to know her?" said I, sharply. "Come to know her? My father took me to her. Some one to love,' said he, and that made me happy." Had I not been doggedly blind, the clue, by this speech, to all my perplexity would have been within my grasp. But passion always raves in darkness, and jealousy stumbles in the light of day. I saw nothing, as it was, but confirmation of my doubts. 66 แ Harold," said I, you ever." I struck at my horse until he bounded forward as if I would escape the fact. Then in the next reaction of feeling, in a spasm of incredulous tenderness, I even turned and galloped a little way back, determined to seize and recover my lost happiness. I cursed myself as mad and infatuated. I railed at the folly that was within me, and clutched at it with my fingers, as if I would drag it forth and put it under my feet. Alas! the folly was fortified in high walls, and all the devils guarded it. Crushing through the brush, a horse came speeding along a forest path, and bounded out upon the road within ten feet of me. I was nearly impelled upon the rider, before I could draw up, and when I looked, was startled and amazed to see before me Grace Ellington. She had rode far and fast, as dust and heat denoted. "Mark Harlow," said she, looking grandly down, "will you walk with me a little way?" She pointed to have driven me away for the secluded path from which she had just emerged. I dismounted, without speaking, and threw the bridle It isn't so, Mark Harlow. I like over a shrub. Grace sprang to the ground without you-how could I drive you away?" waiting for assistance, and led the way. We went on a few feet in silence, then she abruptly turned towards me. "How? how? "You have plunged me in misery, dark, hopeless, Harold. I leave this place, this house, the country; leave them, and care never to see them again, and you are the cause." "How? how?" I heard him wildly cry as I struck True sharply, and galloped swiftly away. I would not heed his cry, but doggedly rode on. Thoughts shifted, and feelings blew hot and cold on that memorable ride. I stopped my horse at times, and tried to measure the extent of the vast changes which one day had effected. I thought of Grace as I had known her so fair, so full of love and tenderness, so brilliant; of the hours of exquisite happiness I had known beneath her smiles, of the hopes that had flourished and were dead-I thought of these things until I leaned forward, and, burying my face in True's mane, shed unmanly tears. Then I shot upright, and asked if I were not in a dream-if this consciousness of shattered happiness was not a mad fancy! I turned my horse's head, and looked homeward. I lifted my cap in the sweet air, and pressed my temples with my hands. In that sweet air, and that familiar scene, unchanged in no particular from a hundred preceding days of happiness, was I to believe all that I was trying to believe? Grace Ellington-Grace, the truest, fairest, noblest woman in the county-Grace, whose heart I had sounded time and time-Grace, the flower which I had vowed to pluck and wear, whose heart had been welded to mine, whom I knew better than all the world else, loved better than all the world else-she, whose tears, and smiles, and thoughts, and fears, and hopes, had all been mine-she false? Oh, the monstrous, huge absurdity! "Stop, sir. We will not recount the matter. You are the last man in the world who has a right to doubt me. My faith in you has been perfect and entire, above the reach of circumstances to shatter. I expected yours in me to be no less beyond suspicion-and suspicion, Mark Harlow, is what I will not bear." "Grace, Grace, I could have believed nothing but the evidences of my senses. You can explain." "I will explain nothing." "Have you sought this interview to tell me only this?" "I will not descend to remove unfounded doubts. If you cannot trust me in the face of circumstances, you will be the sport of every trifle your jealous nature may contrive into evidences of unfaithfulness. I ask you if you trust me, or if you doubt me-now, upon the strength of your faith in me, and upon no other basis?" "I love you, Grace "Jealous natures love weakly." "And without pausing to take counsel of your love or your faith, you allowed a single unexplained incident-which to love and confidence would have been made clear as glass-to outweigh all your knowledge But then there was that gaunt, hideous, impregnable of me, your vows, your belief, your love. Mark Har FACT. They were in each other's arms! low, I will not be the sport of jealousy-I will not be exposed to its whims and caprices. Trust me |