Chapter IV: Part 4

"Yes," returned her friend, "I love to lie on my couch and gaze upon it, when not able to sit up, and it has been a comfort and help to me in many an hour of pain or sadness. Ah who shall say that an artist's work is a waste of time--when his pencil is devoted to the reproduction of the good and beautiful--or that his God-given talent is not to be improved?"

Then she drew Mildred's attention to other paintings, and pieces of fancy work, to each of which she had a story attached: generally of a struggle with poverty and want on the part of the one of whose talent and skill it was a specimen.

These tales were told in no boastful spirit, yet Mildred learned from them a valuable lesson on the best use of wealth, and how much good might be done with it, in the way of lending a helping hand to those who needed assistance or lift them out of otherwise hopeless poverty, and how it could be accomplished without sacrificing a praiseworthy pride of independence.

Chapter Twelfth.

"O credulity,
Security's blind nurse, the dream of fools."
Mason.

Mrs. Dinsmore carried out her plan of filling her house with company during the holidays. They were mostly young people, and the time was spent in a constant round of festivities.

In these Mildred bore some share; for she thought it right that she should do her part in entertaining her aunt's guests. Nor did her conscience forbid innocent recreation at proper times and seasons, though she could not consent to make mere amusement the business of her life.

Some half dozen or more of the neighboring gentry were invited for the whole fortnight, while others came for an evening, a day, or two or three days, and on Christmas Eve and New Year's night, large parties were given.

It was on the latter occasion that Mildred noticed among the guests, for the first time, a handsome man, apparently about thirty years of age, who was an entire stranger to her.

His broadcloth and linen were of the finest, a magnificent solitaire diamond adorned the little finger of his right hand; he wore an imperial and heavy moustache, and something foreign in his look and manner, as well as the fact that he seemed to be paying assiduous court to Juliet, suggested to Mildred the probability that he was the Count De Lisle, of whom she had heard her make such frequent mention.

She was not long left in doubt as to that, for the next moment Reba whispered his name in her ear, adding "Juliet is in the seventh heaven, of course."

"There is something sinister in the expression of his face," thought Mildred, turning away. "I do not like it. Yet it is strangely familiar too. Where can I possibly have seen it before?"

His attention had been attracted to her and he inquired of Juliet, "Who is that pretty girl in pink and white!"

"Pretty!" returned Miss Marsden with a scornful toss of the head. "I cannot say that I admire her style. She's a Miss Keith, a sort of far away niece of Uncle Dinsmore: a Northern girl and poor, I imagine; for her father's a country lawyer with a large family."

Juliet was absolutely ignorant of Mr. Keith's circumstances, but it suited her plans to make it appear that she was no heiress; quite her own inferior in the matter of wealth, whatever she might be in looks.

"Do not be offended, my angel," he whispered bending over her and speaking with a slightly foreign accent which she had again and again extolled to Reba as "perfectly delicious," "I meant not that she was half so beautiful or charmant as yourself."

"Ah, Count, you are a sad flatterer," she returned with a simper.

"No, no! pardon the contradiction, Miss Juliet, but de truth is nefer flattery."

"A penny for your thoughts, Miss Keith," said a voice at Mildred's side.

"Ah, good evening, Mr. Landreth," she answered turning toward the speaker. "You are welcome to them gratis. I am wondering where I have seen Miss Marsden's admirer before to-night, or if it is only a resemblance, real or fancied, to some one else that I see in him."

"I cannot tell, indeed," he said, furtively watching the man for a moment, "but there is something in his face that would make me sorry to see him ingratiating himself with a lady friend of mine."

"Excuse me, but I must ask you to move, as we are going to dance and want this sofa behind you, put out of the way," said Reba, coming up to them with two servants.

"Certainly," Mildred said, taking Mr. Landreth's offered arm.

They passed down the room and out into the conservatory beyond.

"Are you engaged for the first set?" he asked.

"No; nor for any other," she answered with a smile. "I do not dance, Mr. Landreth."

"It is not too late to begin," he remarked persuasively.

"No, it is too soon."

"You don't think it wrong?" he queried as in surprise, "here in your home as it were? It's different, is it not, from attending a ball?"

"Yes; but I might grow so fond of it as to want to go to balls. I think it safest for me to avoid the temptation."

Sets were forming as they returned to the drawing-room, and Miss Worth, who had been sent for, to play the piano, was just entering by another door.

She had kept apart from the guests, spending almost all her time in her own room; so that Mildred had seen very little of her for some days past.

She noticed on the instant of her entrance, that she was looking pale and worn; then that her pallor suddenly increased to ghastliness, as on stepping in, she came face to face with Juliet and the Count in the nearest set, standing side by side.

He, too, started slightly and turned pale for a moment as his eyes met those of the governess; but neither spoke and pushing hastily past him she sat down at the instrument.

She felt herself reeling in her seat and thought she should fall to the floor; everything seemed to be turning round: but conquering her emotion by a great effort, she ran her fingers over the keys and dashed off into a lively dancing tune.

Her head was in a whirl, a mist swam before her eyes so that she could not see the notes, but her fingers flew so fast that the dancers were soon panting for breath in their efforts to keep pace with the music.

"Not so fast! not so fast!" called several voices, but though for an instant she slackened her speed, the next she was rattling on as before.

Set after set had been danced, Juliet and the count taking part in them all, and now he led her panting to a seat.

"I like not zose tunes so well as some other," he remarked. "May I claim ze privilege to speak to ze player zat she choose something else, and not play quite so rapid?"

"Oh yes, certainly," smiled Juliet sweetly.

Miss Worth was turning over her music in search of a waltz some one had called for, when a voice spoke at her side; a voice that made her start and shiver, though she did not look round.

"Your execution was von leetle bit too rapid for us," it said in an ordinary tone, then in a whisper, the lips close to her ear, "Meet me half an hour after the company disperses; behind the clump of evergreens at the foot of the avenue."

"Yes," she answered, almost under her breath, and without so much as turning her head.

She saw as in a nightmare, a white hand, too large to be a woman's, with a solitaire diamond sparkling on the fourth finger, busied among the sheets of music before her, then it vanished, her strained ear catching the faint echo of the retreating step.

She kept her eyes on her notes, her fingers wandering mechanically over the keys, calling forth low, soft strains of music, while the dancers passed out into the refreshment room. She kept it up unceasingly until they returned; then changed to a waltz in obedience to directions, as couples began taking their places on the floor. How long it lasted she did not know, it seemed an age of suffering to her before she found herself again alone in the solitude of her own room.

As she entered the clock on the mantel struck two. She glanced at it and sank into a chair by the fire.

"Half an hour," she sighed, shivering and crouching over the blaze. "What an age to wait; and yet I'm afraid not long enough to let them all get to bed and asleep. What if I should be seen!"

She dropped her face into her hands with a low groan. It was some minutes before she lifted it again for another glance at the clock; a wan, weary, haggard face, full of dread and distress, but with no tears in the burning eyes.

Slowly the moments dragged themselves along till at last the minute hand pointed to the half hour, when she rose, wrapped herself in a large dark shawl, putting it over her head listened at her door for a moment, to make sure that all was quiet, then glided softly down the stairs, let herself out at a back door, and creeping along close to the wall of the house, then in the shadow of the trees that lined the avenue, gained at length the clump of evergreens at its farther end.

A biting north wind swept the hard, frozen ground, and rustled the dry leaves at her feet, as she stood leaning against a tree in an intensely listening attitude. It seemed to pierce to her very vitals, and shuddering and trembling with the cold, and nervous dread, she drew the shawl more closely about her, while straining her eyes through the gloom to catch a glimpse of him whom she had come to meet; for there was no light save that shining in the winter sky.

She had waited but a moment, when a stealthy step drew near, and a tall form wrapped in a cloak, stood before her.

"Here first?" he said in a cautious whisper.

"Yes," she answered, in the same low key, and with a sudden catching of her breath, "Oh, why are you here?"

"For my own advantage," he answered half defiantly, "and," in a threatening tone, "you'd better have a care how you betray me."

"I have no desire to do so," she returned, with a weary sigh, "but you must go, and at once; you will ruin me if you stay; you must see that."

"Pooh. I see no such thing. And must is a word you have no right to use to me. Keep your mouth shut, and all will go well."

"What is your object in coming here?"

"Plain enough, I should think," he answered with a sneer.

"You are deceiving that silly girl, and intend to marry her, simply for her money?"

"Exactly. Who needs money more than I?"

"And how long will it take you to squander it?"

"Depends upon how much there is," he returned with a sardonic laugh.

"And your luck at the gaming table, I presume," she said bitterly. "You are acting most dishonorably toward the girl. She would not look at you if she knew--"

"That I am an American born citizen, eh? Well, am I any the worse for that?"

"Not for that--not in my esteem; but you know, you _know_ that is not all, nor the worst by a great deal!" she cried in a tone of suppressed agony. "And you ask me to stand by and see you deceive this girl to her ruin, never stretching out a finger for her help! I cannot do it. I will not! Go! go! you must! you must never show your face here again!"

"Be quiet!" he said angrily; for in her excitement she had raised her voice to a dangerously high pitch. "And look at home," he went on: "remember that you are partly responsible for my ruin, and that you, too, are sailing under false colors."

"But not to the injury of any one; not with any evil intent," she answered, clasping her hands beseechingly. "And if you drive me from here, Harry, you will be taking the bread out of our mother's mouth. It is surely enough that you do nothing for her support yourself."

"I'll help with that when I have secured this girl and her money," he said with an evil laugh. "Just you keep quiet and all will go well. Keep my secret, and I'll keep yours."

She leaned back wearily against the tree, clasping her hands more tightly over her throbbing heart; tears sprang to her eyes, her lips trembled, but no sound came from them.

"Well?" he cried impatiently.

"Harry," she said, very low and tremulously, "I have been reading a good deal lately in an old book--one whose teachings we used to respect in our innocent childhood--and it tells me that 'the way of transgressors is hard;' that though 'hand join in hand, the wicked shall not be unpunished'; that there is such a thing as sinning away your day of grace; and it says, 'Seek ye the Lord while he may be found, call ye upon him while he is near.' O, Harry, turn from your wicked ways before it is forever too late. There is mercy even for you, if you will turn now."

Spell-bound with astonishment, he had heard her thus far in absolute silence; but now he interrupted her with a savage oath.

"I didn't know you'd turned pious," he sneered. "And I didn't come here to be preached to. If you know what's for your good you'll keep quiet; that's all I have to say. And now I'm off. I can't stand here catching my death of cold."

He was turning away, but she grasped a fold of his cloak.

"Harry," she said in a choking voice, "we used to be fond of each other: I was very proud of my handsome brother; and--and we've been parted for five years!"

"That's true, Gerty," he said in a softened tone, turning back and throwing an arm about her waist; "let's kiss and be friends."

"Harry," she whispered, clinging to him, "do you know anything of--of _him_?"

"No; and don't want to!" he answered savagely. "You're not fool enough to care for him now?"

"Women are fools," was all she said in reply.

And they parted; he disappearing in the direction of the road, she creeping back to the house, and regaining the shelter of her room; fortunately without meeting any one on the way.

She was tired, oh, _so_ tired! her strength scarcely sufficient to bring her to the desired haven; but even there she could not rest. She did not undress or lie down, but crouched beside the fire, her hands clasped about her knees, her head bowed upon her breast, while the monotonous ticking of the clock told off the weary seconds, and the smouldering embers burned out leaving nothing but the cold ashes on the hearth.

Chapter Thirteenth.

"In desert wilds, in midnight gloom,
In grateful joy, in trying pain,
In laughing youth, or nigh the tomb,
Ah! when is prayer unheard or vain?"
Eliza Cook.

The cold, grey dawn of the winter morning was stealing in at the windows as at last, sighing heavily, the governess lifted her head with a returning consciousness of her surroundings.

How dreary it all looked, in the dim, uncertain light! the disordered room, the fireless hearth--fit emblem, as it seemed, of the cold, almost dead heart within her.

Life was like a desert at that moment, a rough, weary road where thorns and briars constantly pierced her tired feet. Why should she stay? Why not lie down and rest in a quiet grave?

She rose slowly, stiff from the constrained posture, and dragged herself across the room. Opening her wardrobe door, she took from the shelf a vial labelled "laudanum." She held it a moment in her hand.

"It is only to go to sleep," she said, half aloud, "to go to sleep, and never wake again. Never? ah! if I could be sure, _sure_ of that!"

"'And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up forever and ever.' 'Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.'"

With a shudder, she put it hastily back, locked the door, and threw herself upon the bed.

"Oh, God, forgive me!" she cried, "keep me, keep me, or I shall do it yet! And then--forever and ever! No space for repentance, no coming back!"

At length tired nature found temporary relief in the heavy, dreamless slumber of utter exhaustion.

Hours passed, and still she slept on, hearing not, nor heeding the sounds of returning life in the household.

They were very late after their long night of revelry; breakfast was not on the table till ten o'clock, and even then no one answered the summons but the master of the house and Mildred.

The children had taken their morning meal two hours before.

"An unexpected pleasure, this, Milly, my dear," was Mr. Dinsmore's greeting.

"What, uncle, you did not surely expect me to be still in bed!"

"Well no; but I thought you would be looking fagged and worn; instead of which, your face is fresh and fair as a rose just washed with dew, and bright as the morning."

"And why not, if sufficient rest will do it?" she returned, laughingly. "I retired at twelve, and had my eight hours of sound, refreshing sleep."

"Ah, you are a wise little woman! too sensible to let late hours rob you of health and good looks, and make you old before your time. What is it Solomon says? 'Early to bed and early to rise?'"

"O, uncle, what a joke! there no use in your pretending that you don't know any better than that," she answered merrily.

"Well, perhaps I do; but he certainly says something about lying late in bed."

"Several things; one occurs to me now. 'Love not sleep, lest thou come to poverty; open thine eyes, and thou shalt be satisfied with bread.' But it cannot mean that we should not take needful rest?"

"Oh no, of course not! there's nothing gained by that. But where's Miss Worth!"

"She has not joined us since the house has been so full of guests. I think she takes her meals with the children in the nursery."

"Ah, yes; I presume so; but I had forgotten it, and it struck me that she might be ill. I thought she was looking badly last night. Did you notice it?"

"Yes; I did. I will inquire about her," Mildred said, remembering with a pang of self-reproach how ghastly a face the governess had worn on taking her seat at the piano.

She might be very ill, unable to call for help, neglected by the sleepy maids, and she herself had been up for two hours and ought to have gone to her door to inquire.

She went immediately on leaving the table, her alarm and anxiety increased on the way thither by the information, gleaned from one of the servants, that Miss Worth had not been present at the nursery breakfast.

Mildred rapped lightly, then louder, and receiving no answer, tried the door. It opened and she stole softly in.

Miss Worth lay on the outside of the bed, still dressed as she had last seen her--in the drawing room at the piano--and sleeping heavily. Her face was very pale and distressed and she moaned now and then as if in pain.

She had nothing over her; but a heavy dark shawl lay on the floor beside the chimney Mildred picked it up and spread it over her, drew down the blinds to shut out the glare of the sun, rang for the maid, and while waiting for her, moved quietly about the room putting things in their places.

"It is very cold here, for the fire is quite out and must be made up at once," she whispered, meeting the girl at the door and motioning her to make no noise. "Go bring up wood and kindling."

"De governess sick, Miss Milly?" queried the servant, sending a curious glance in the direction of the bed.

"I don't know, Dinah, perhaps only tired, for she was up very late last night; but she is asleep and must not be disturbed." And Mildred motioned her imperatively away.

It was not till an hour later that Miss Worth stirred and woke to find a cheerful fire blazing on the hearth and Mildred beside it quietly knitting.

She put down her work hastily, rose and came forward as she perceived the governess's eyes fixed upon her in a sort of perplexed surprise.

"Excuse the intrusion," Mildred said; "but I thought you seemed ill, and was afraid you might need help. I hope your sleep has refreshed you, and that you will let me order the breakfast they are keeping hot for you in the kitchen."

"Thank you, I cannot understand such kindness to me," Miss Worth said huskily. "I was very tired--not sick, I think--and I suppose the sleep has done me good."

"And you will eat something?"

"I will try, since you are so good."

The effort was but indifferently successful, yet Miss Worth steadily refused to acknowledge herself on the sick list, and insisted that she was able to work and must do so; and Mildred went away, feeling troubled and anxious.

Left alone, Miss Worth took out her writing materials, then resting her elbows on the table, her face in her hands, sat thus for a long time without moving, a heavy sigh now and then escaping her.

At last she took up her pen and wrote rapidly for several minutes, then snatching up the paper, she tore it into fragments and threw them into the fire.

Another sheet shared the same fate, and seemingly giving it up in despair, she rose and walked the floor.

"Oh, if I only knew what to do, what to say!" she moaned. "If he would but hear reason; if he would but forsake his evil courses! And yet!--Oh, if I had a friend! just one wise, true friend to advise and help me! But I dare not breathe my terrible fears to any mortal; and who is there that would care to listen?"

Her eye fell on the Bible lying there on the table, and with the sight came the recollection of the texts Mildred had quoted to her.

She almost heard a gentle, tender voice saying "Come unto me--and I will give you rest," and falling on her knees she cried to him,

"Lord Jesus I do come! I give myself to thee; and oh, I beseech thee in thy great mercy and loving kindness to help me in this my hour of perplexity and distress!"

Strange what a blessed calm succeeded the storm. She rose from her knees wondrously soothed and quieted. She had found a Friend who had pledged His word to help her and who had all power in heaven and in earth. What need she fear? "If God be for us, who can be against us?"

There might be trouble in store for her--great and sore trouble--but He would help her through.

There was a sound of gay young voices in the halls without and on the stairway; a carriage had driven to the door, an open barouche, and presently she saw it going down the avenue and that Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore and the three young ladies were in it.

The older children were away from home, as she knew, spending a few days at a neighboring plantation; the younger ones were probably in the nursery.

She watched the carriage till it was lost to sight far down the road, then was turning from the window, with the thought in her mind that it would be a blessing to Juliet Marsden, as well as herself, if it were taking her home to her father's care, when she caught sight of a horseman coming from the opposite direction.

She stood still, scanning him narrowly as he turned in at the gate and came cantering up the avenue; as he drew near she recognized him with a start of surprise--terror mingling with it at first, but changing instantly to joy that he had assuredly missed the object of his visit.

It was her scoundrel brother; yet spite of all the distress and anguish of mind he was causing her, she was conscious of a thrill of sisterly pride in his handsome face and form, and the grace and ease of his horsemanship.

But she must seize this unhoped-for opportunity; there were motives she could urge which escaped her thoughts the previous night, and that might, perhaps, have weight with him; and much now depended upon prompt action on her part.

She flew down the stairs and admitted him herself, before he had had time to ring; and fortunately no servant had perceived his approach.

He looked at her in extreme surprise.

"How is this?" he inquired, with an ill-natured sneer, "have you been promoted to the office of porter?"

"Hush!" she answered, in an imperative whisper. "Come in here;" and she led the way into a little parlor close at hand.

"Excuse the impertinence, Madame, but I did not come to see you," he said angrily, as he followed her in.

"I am well aware of that fact," she said in a calm tone of quiet firmness, as she turned and faced him. "Nevertheless, I believe I am the one, and the only one you will see; and it is well, for I have something of importance to say."

"Where is Miss Marsden?" he demanded.

"Gone for a drive, and all the other ladies with her; Mr. Dinsmore also. The last of the guests left an hour since, and we may chat for a good while without much fear of interruption."

"Suppose I don't choose," he returned, straightening himself with a defiant air.

"Harry, you must hear me!" she said, laying a detaining hand upon his arm, for he was moving toward the door.

"That's a strong word, and one you've no right to use to me," he answered moodily, yet yielding to her determined will.

She pointed to a chair, and he sat down.

"Speak and be done with it," he said.

Tears sprang to her eyes, but she forced them back.

"Are you mad, Harry, that you venture a return to this country?" she asked in an undertone, her voice trembling with excitement, "can you have forgotten the danger that hangs over you?"

"It's trifling, considering the changes five years have made," he said, with affected nonchalance; but his cheek paled.

"Don't deceive yourself, don't trust to that; I recognized you at the first glance," she said, with the earnestness of one determined to convince.

"Well, one of my own family would, of course, be more apt to do so than any one else. And I was never known in this part of the country."

"No; but people travel about a great deal; Northerners come South frequently; especially in winter; and you may, any day, come face to face with some old acquaintance who will recognize you, and have you arrested; and then--" she hid her face and shuddered. "O Harry," she cried, "I shall live in terror till I know you are safe on the other side of the ocean."

"I'll go in all haste when I have secured my prize," he said coldly.

"Give it up," she entreated, "you have no right to drag an innocent girl down to infamy with you. Better go and make an honest living by the labor of your hands."

"I wasn't brought up to that, and infinitely prefer to live by my wits," he answered, with an evil smile, "and they'll have to help me to the means to pay my passage to those foreign shores you so highly recommend."

"Sell this: it would surely bring more than enough for that," she said, pointing to the glittering gem on his finger.

"Paste, my dear, nothing but paste," he laughed. "Clever imitation, isn't it?"

"Ah, Harry, a fair type of its owner, I fear," she said sorrowfully.

"Thanks for the compliment," he answered with a bitter laugh. "Well, after all, it is a compliment, taken in the sense that I'm as clever an imitation of what Miss Marsden takes me for, as this is of a real diamond; and perhaps she's as good a judge of the first article, as you are of the other; ha! ha!"

"Harry," cried his sister, "are you utterly heartless? have you no pity at all for that poor silly girl?"

"Pooh! Gertrude, I have to look out for myself; and other people must do the same; I tell you it is a case of necessity," he answered doggedly.

"No," she said, "there cannot be a necessity for wrong doing, and if persisted in it must end at last in terrible retribution; both in this world and the next," she added in low, tremulous tones.

"I'll risk it," he said with an oath. "And as to the girl, why she'd break her silly heart if I should forsake her," he added, with an unpleasant laugh, "You've no idea how deeply in love she is."

"You are mistaken: she has no heart to break, and loves nobody, half so well as herself. She will never be the woman to stand by and comfort you in adversity: therefore you will be doing a foolish thing to make her your wife, even though you consult your own interest alone."

At that he only laughed, saying that as the girl's money was all he wanted, he didn't care whether she stood by him or not after he once got it into his possession.

She renewed her warnings and entreaties, urging every motive she could think of to induce him to give up his wicked designs upon Juliet Marsden, and forsake all his evil courses; but in vain; his heart was fully set in him to do evil, and neither love of his mother and sisters, nor pity for the deluded girl, could move him.

Nor did fear of punishment deter him. He was no coward, he said, glorying in his shame, and showing himself utterly devoid of wisdom 'for the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil, is understanding;' and the Bible calls those fools who make a mock at sin, despise instruction and hate to depart from evil.

At length there was a sound of approaching wheels; upon which he exclaimed in a relieved tone, "There, you'd better go; it won't help either you or me for us to be caught together."

"No," she assented, rising hastily, "I must go. O, Harry, think of what I've been saying, and don't rush headlong to destruction!"

"There! I've had enough of it!" he retorted angrily. "I'll do as I please. And do you keep yourself quiet."

Chapter Fourteenth.

"How poor a thing is pride!"

"The beauty you o'erprise so, time or sickness
Can change to loath'd deformity; your wealth
The prey of thieves."
--Massinger.

The most open-handed hospitality having ever been the rule at Roselands, it was no difficult matter for Count De Lisle to get himself invited to stay to tea and spend the evening; in fact it was long past midnight when he at last took leave of Juliet and went away.

The thud of his horse's hoofs as he galloped down the avenue, brought a pale, haggard face to an upper window; but the dim light of the stars revealed nothing save the merest outline of the steed and his rider, and that for but an instant.

The watcher turned away, sighing to herself "I cannot see him, but it must be he," hastily crossed the room and stole noiselessly into the hall beyond.

The hours spent by him in dalliance with Juliet (they had had the drawing-room to themselves since ten o'clock) had been to her--his much tried sister--a time of bitter anguish and fierce mental conflict.

How could she permit this wickedness? yet how prevent it, when the only way to do so was by exposing him--her brother?

It seemed a terribly hard thing to do, for she loved him, and his disgrace was hers, and that of the whole family.

She was sorely tempted to leave Juliet to the fate she seemed to be drawing upon herself by her egregious folly,--that of becoming the wife of a spendthrift, and one whose vices had led him to commit a crime against the laws of the land, the penalty of which was a term of years in the penitentiary.

It would be a sad fate, but perhaps not undeserved by a girl who would rush into it in opposition to the known wishes and commands of her parents.

Harry had unguardedly admitted to his sister that he had no hope of winning the consent of either Mr. or Mrs. Marsden; that they were, in fact, so violently opposed to his suit, that he dared not visit their daughter in her own home; but he had exultingly added that he was perfectly certain of his ability to persuade Juliet to elope with him, and meant to do so sooner or later.

Well, should he accomplish that, and escape to Europe with his prize, his family probably would not suffer any ill consequence. No one here knew his real name, or had the slightest suspicion that Miss Worth was in any way connected with him; but she felt morally certain that in case Mrs. Dinsmore discovered the truth, her situation at Roselands was lost; she would be sent away without a recommendation; then it might be months before she could get employment elsewhere, and that meant beggary to herself, and those nearest and dearest to her.

Surely no motive of self-interest urged her to stretch out a hand to save Juliet Marsden from falling into the snare spread for her unwary feet. Yet pity for the girl, a strong sense of justice, and more than all, a desire to do the will of her new found Friend, prevailed over all selfish considerations, and she fully determined to give the warning, though in a way to risk as little as possible, and for the last half hour she had watched and waited for the opportunity.

Juliet came up the stairs with a light, quick step, and as she passed underneath the lamp swung from the ceiling, its rays, falling full upon her, gave to Miss Worth a moment's distinct view of her face.

It wore an expression of exultant joy; the cheeks were flushed, the eyes glittering, the lips smiling.

"He has offered himself and been accepted," was Miss Worth's conclusion; "there is no time to be lost;" and stepping forward, she stood directly in Juliet's path, confronting her with calm, pale face, and determined air.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked Juliet, recoiling, and regarding the governess with mingled anger and hauteur, "Will you be good enough to step aside, and allow me to pass on to my own apartments?"

"Excuse me, Miss Marsden, but I must have a word with you," returned the person addressed, in low, distinct tones, and not moving a hair's breadth from the position she had taken.

"Indeed!" was the scornful rejoinder, "and pray, who may you be that take such airs upon yourself? My aunt's governess, if I am not mistaken, a person with whom I can have nothing in common. Keep your communications for those in your own station in life. _Will_ you step out of my way?"

"Not yet; not till I have discharged my duty to you, Miss Marsden, I must speak a word of warning; I cannot see you rushing headlong to destruction without crying out to you to beware; and I have no motive for doing so but pity for you."

Juliet's astonishment was unbounded. What could the creature mean? What indeed, but to insult her.

"Pity for me!" she cried with withering scorn, "you, a poor dependent governess, pity me! me the daughter of a wealthy Kentucky planter and an heiress in my own right. Keep your compassion for such as want it, I will none of it!" and she would have pushed past Miss Worth, but the latter laid a hand on her arm, not roughly but with determination.

"It is of Count De Lisle I would speak to you," she said almost under her breath. "No, I call that back; for he has no right to either the name or the title."

"How dare you!" cried Juliet with flashing eyes, shaking off the detaining hand and drawing herself up to her full height. "What do you know of him?"

"Far more than you do," returned the other calmly. "I have known him all his life and I tell you he is not what you suppose--not what he gives himself out to be;--but a man without fortune or title--an American by birth and education, and seeking you merely for your wealth."

"I don't believe a word of it! It's all a pack of lies that you have invented because you are envious of me. Stand out of my way and don't presume to speak to me again on this subject, nor any other."

So saying the angry girl swept proudly past the humble governess, whom she regarded as a menial and an impertinent meddler in her affairs, and gaining her apartments, shut and locked herself in with a noise that roused her sleeping sister.

"The impudent creature!" she muttered.

"Who?" queried Reba, starting up in bed. "Have you actually discovered that pa is right and your count a mercenary adventurer?"

"Nonsense! no; I've learned no such thing!"

"What then? who is the impudent creature you are anathematizing?"

"Aunt Belle's governess. She actually waylaid me in the hall and forced me to stand still and listen while she uttered a warning against him, pretending that he was an old acquaintance of hers. I shall complain to aunt and have her turned adrift for her impertinence."

"Better not," laughed Reba; "'twould only tend to rouse suspicion against him. It must be very late; I advise you to wake up your maid and get ready for bed."

The encounter had left Miss Worth in quite as unamiable a frame of mind as that of her antagonist; for the insulting arrogance of Juliet's manner had sorely wounded her pride; it was hard to take such treatment from one who was her superior in nothing but the accident of wealth, and in fact decidedly inferior in the higher gifts of intellect and education.

"I wash my hands of the whole affair; I will leave her to her fate," Miss Worth said to herself as she turned in at her own door again and secured it after her.

With that she endeavored to dismiss the whole matter from her mind; she was exceedingly weary and must have rest, and presently everything was forgotten in a heavy, dreamless sleep.

But with the first moment of wakefulness the burden again pressed heavily. She could not be indifferent to her brother's wrong-doing nor to the danger of his discovery, arrest and punishment for his former crime.

But the holidays were over and she must return to her duties in the schoolroom; perhaps it was well for her that it was so, since it compelled her to give her thoughts to other subjects.

Still taking her meals in the nursery, she saw nothing of the lady guests till Mildred came in the afternoon with a recitation.

Mildred was quietly and steadily pursuing the course of study which she had laid out for herself; mingling to some extent in the employments and pastimes of those about her, but contriving to retire betimes almost every night, and by early rising to secure the morning hours for the improvement of her mind; a season safe from interruption by her aunt and her nieces, as it was always spent by them in bed.

In fact there was so utter an absence of congeniality between Mildred and the other two girls that they were generally better content to remain apart. And as Mrs. Dinsmore preferred the companionship of her own nieces, because of both the ties of kindred and harmony of taste and feeling, Mildred was left to follow her own inclinations with little hindrance from them.

But though continuing her studies, Mildred, because she felt that the governess was entitled to the full benefit of the holiday rest, had not, during the past two weeks, gone to her for assistance or with recitations.

She was glad that she might now do so with propriety; for since the episode of the previous morning she had not been able to forget Miss Worth's pale, distressed countenance; and was really very anxious about her.

She felt quite sure there was some deeper trouble than mere physical pain, and had a longing desire to give sympathy and relief; a desire untainted by a touch of prying curiosity, and that strengthened so greatly during this afternoon's interview that she was fain to give expression to it; doing so with extreme delicacy and tact.

It was when the business part of their interview was over, and Mildred had closed her books and risen to leave the room.

For a moment Miss Worth was silent, her features working with emotion.

"You are very kind," she said at last. "I wish I might confide fully in you, but you are so young: too young and free from care to understand my--"

She broke off abruptly and with a groan, dropped her face upon her folded arms, on the table at which they had been sitting.

"Perhaps so," Mildred said in gently compassionate tones; "I could almost wish for your sake that I were older."

Miss Worth lifted her head, and with almost startling suddenness, and a feverish eagerness in her tones, asked, "Miss Mildred, where is Miss Juliet Marsden to-day?"

"She has passed the greater part of it in bed, I believe," Mildred answered in utter surprise.

"Has--has her lover been here since--since he left her last night?"

"The Count? No."

"Can you tell me if she is to go out to-night? and where? and who is to be her escort? Ah, I see you are wondering at my curiosity and it is only natural that you should; but believe me, it is not the idle inquisitiveness it must seem to you," she went on rapidly and in anguished accents; "for I have a reason; there is much at stake--I--I have tried to be indifferent--to say to myself that it is nothing to me if--if that vain, silly girl should meet with the fate her folly deserves; but I cannot; I must try to save her--and him. Oh, if I could but save _him_."

And again she hid her face, while sobs shook her from head to foot.

"Him!" Mildred cried in increased amazement, "what is he to you? No, no, I do not ask that. I have no wish to pry into your secrets."

Miss Worth lifted her head, and wiped away her tears.

"Thank you, for withdrawing that question," she said in a broken voice, "I cannot answer it; but--but this much I will tell you in the strictest confidence. I have known him in other days, and he is not what he professes to be; and it would be ruin, _ruin_ to her!"

"Is that so?" Mildred said, with a startled look. "Then surely you will warn her?"

"I have done so, Miss Keith, though it was like drawing my eye teeth to do it; but my sacrifice was unappreciated, my motives were misconstrued; I was treated with scorn and contempt, and have said to myself, 'I have a just right to be angry and indignant, and shall leave her to her fate.'"

"But you will tell my uncle? He might be able to prevent the mischief by setting a watch upon them, and forbidding the man the house."

"No, no, I cannot betray him!" cried Miss Worth in a startled, terrified tone, "and you--you will respect my confidence, Miss Keith?"

"Certainly; but--surely you will not suffer Juliet to be sacrificed?"

"I have warned her," returned the governess, coldly, "and since she refuses to heed, on her own head be the consequences."

It was Mildred's turn to be troubled and perplexed. She stood for a moment in anxious thought.

"Will you not make one more effort?" she said at length. "Would you not save him from this wrong doing? May not the consequences be dreadful to him, too? may not her father take a terrible revenge, as men sometimes do on the deceivers and betrayers of their daughters?"

Miss Worth started, and her wan cheek turned a shade paler.

"I had not thought of that!" she said, drawing a long breath. "Oh, what shall I do?"

They consulted together, but with no more definite result than a mutual agreement to keep a strict watch upon the movements of Juliet and her pseudo nobleman.

Mildred was again about to withdraw, when Miss Worth stopped her.

"Pardon me, Miss Keith," she said, "but you have not answered my questions."

"They all go to the theatre to-night, and, as I happen to know, Mr. Landreth is to escort Miss Juliet."

"Not the count? but she will meet him there; I am sure of it. You do not go, Miss Mildred?"

"To the theatre! oh, no!"

"Then I must go myself, and watch them."

"Surely that is not necessary," reasoned Mildred, "Uncle, Aunt, Reba--all close at hand."

"Ah! perhaps not," assented the governess, "Possibly it were wiser to leave the task to them."

Mildred went to her room to ponder and pray over the matter, for she was sorely perplexed, and not a little anxious for Juliet.

She asked help and direction for herself and Miss Worth; and that the latter might be led to do her duty, however difficult and painful.

Greatly she wondered what was the tie between her and this spurious count, till it flashed upon her that his familiar look was a strong likeness to the governess. Then she knew it was that of relationship.

Her own duty in the affair formed a serious question in her mind.

Much she wished Miss Worth's communication had not been made in confidence, and that she were free to carry it to her uncle, who would, in that case, be sure to interfere effectually to save Juliet from falling a prey to the schemes of this false, designing man.

She could not break her word to the governess, but at length, recalling the fact that she had heard Reba say her father was suspicious of Count De Lisle, she determined to repeat that to her uncle, and thus put him on his guard against the villain, and his probable plot to inveigle Juliet into a clandestine marriage.

It was not a pleasant thing for Mildred to do; she would much rather not interfere, but Juliet must be saved at all risks, and neither she nor Reba had seemed to make a secret of their father's sentiments.

She went at once in search of Mr. Dinsmore, but learned that he was closeted with a gentleman on business. Then a summons came for her to drive out with her aunt; tea was ready when they returned; after that she was occupied with company in the drawing-room, then in assisting Juliet and Reba to make their toilet for the evening.

Thus the time slipped by, and when the carriage had driven away with its load of theatre goers, she retired to her own room, without having had the least opportunity for a word in private with Mr. Dinsmore.

Chapter Fifteenth.

"It is vain
(I see) to argue 'gainst the grain."
--Butler.

Juliet had scarcely taken her seat in Mr. Dinsmore's box when a sweeping glance around the theatre showed her Count De Lisle occupying another at no great distance.

She telegraphed him behind her fan, and during the interval between the first and second acts he joined them.

When Juliet re-entered the carriage which was to convey her home, she carried within her glove, a tiny note written on fine, tinted, highly scented French paper, which he had adroitly slipped into her hand, unobserved by any of her companions.

Under cover of the darkness she transferred it to her bosom, and the first moment that she found herself alone in her dressing-room, it was hastily drawn forth and read at a glance.

Her cheeks flushed, her eyes shone, as with a triumphant smile she refolded and laid it safely by.

On leaving the room to go down to her late breakfast the next morning, she carried it with her; for not for any consideration would she risk having it seen by other eyes than her own.

She was very late and a good deal flurried in consequence; her thoughts were busy, too, with the important step she had determined to take that night. In her absence of mind she must have been guilty of some carelessness, for on returning to her room, after dawdling for an hour over her meal in company with her aunt and sister, she was horrified to find that the note was missing.

In vain she searched her pockets, shook out the folds of her dress, hunted everywhere, even retracing her steps all the way to the breakfast parlor and looking under and around the table. It was hopelessly lost and she dare not make any ado or inquiry about it.

She was exceedingly fretted and troubled but must conceal her anxiety, only hoping that it had fallen into some place where it would be undiscovered until she and the count had made good their escape from Roselands, and placed themselves beyond successful pursuit.

Fortunately, as she esteemed it, no one had been witness to her perturbation, or her quest, Reba and their aunt having, upon leaving the table, retired together to the boudoir of the latter.

Dire would have been Juliet's anger and alarm could she have known what had actually become of her missing treasure.

Miss Worth, in passing between the schoolroom and her own apartment, caught sight of a bit of paper lying on the floor at the head of the stairway, and stooping, picked it up.

There was neither seal nor superscription upon the outside; therefore there seemed nothing wrong or dishonorable in opening it, for indeed how otherwise was she to learn to whom it belonged in order to restore it?

One glance told who was the writer (for she was no stranger to his peculiar chirography), to whom it was addressed, and what it signified.

"My Angel, one o'clock A. M. to-morrow. Signal, cry of an owl beneath your window. Carriage in waiting beyond the hedge.

"Your adorer."

That was all, but it needed not another word to let her, whose eyes now scanned it in indignant sorrow fully into their plans.

She sent a quick glance around to satisfy herself that she was unseen, then crushing the missive in her hand, went on her way deeply thankful that Juliet had lost and that she had found it.

Yet she was sorely perplexed and anxious; so disturbed that it was no easy matter to give the necessary attention to her pupils. What should she do? Appeal again to Juliet? It seemed utterly useless. But this thing must be prevented; yes, even though it cost her the loss of her situation.

But, Harry! she shuddered and turned sick and faint at the thought that he might be taken, identified, and put on trial for the crime committed years ago. He must be saved at all risks. She would go out, meet and warn him ere he had quite reached Roselands.

He would be furious; perhaps in his rage do her some bodily harm; but--he must be saved.

She would give this note to Mr. Dinsmore, she decided, telling him where she had found it, that she had been well acquainted with the writer in former years, and recognized the hand.

That would be sufficient to lead him to prevent Juliet's leaving the house, and if she could succeed in warning Harry away, going and returning unobserved, all would be well.

But her plans miscarried. Mr. Dinsmore, as she learned on seeking an interview, had left home after an early breakfast, taken hastily in his private room, and would not probably return until the next day.

Here was an unexpected difficulty; what now was she to do?

She was slowly mounting the stairs in half despairing mood, when a pleasant, girlish voice addressed her from the hall below.

"Miss Worth, Pomp has just got back from the city with the mail, and here is a letter for you."

Mildred bounded up the stairs with the last words, put the letter into the eagerly outstretched hand of the governess, and hurried on to her own room to revel in the delights of a long epistle from her mother and sisters.

She was not half through it when there came a rap upon her door, and with brows knitting with vexation at the unwelcome interruption, she rose to open it.