nervous, half-agitated way peculiar to invalids venturing abroad before being sufficiently strong or restored. "Handstome as a prince," she ejaculated, watching the carriage drive rapidly away with the patrician-looking gentleman leaning back on the cushions, his eyes bright and cheek feverish with suppressed excitement. Opposite him the bloated, and, as the Frenchwoman had told Fulke, "vaillainous-looking" sailor, Devèy, sat upright, apparently unaccustomed to the luxury of silken cushions. "Ciel !" muttered the vivacious watcher at the drawingroom window, "I fancy, Monsieur Bernard, that in twentyfour hours you will wish you had not taken that ogre, Fulke, at his word, and rushed off so impetuously. Yes, there is something wrong about this matter, and Hugh knows nothing. But if it gives Hugh peace, it don't matter who suffers. Fulke has had a long interview with Devey, and he is such a tiger one can't manage Fulke," and gathering another daintily arranged bouquet of rare exotics, the Frenchwoman sauntered out of the drawingroom up-stairs. Instead of going to her own room, she turned toward the apartment occupied by Bernie. The doors stood open, and a mulatto valet was moving about, gathering up the various coats, hats and sundry garments scattered about in the hasty departure of the invalid. Her keen glance rested on a letter lying on the table, and before the preoccupied servant was aware of the lady's presence, Marie held the billet in her own tenacious, claw-like fingers. "I beg your pardon, madame," the man said, in some confusion. "Marse Bernie said as I was to gib dat letter to Miss Winifred; I promise it sho', and he gib me a dollah fo' doin' of it, en Miss Winifred was to gib me a dollah mo when she gets it." Marie laughed pleasantly. "Your master does not wish Miss Winifred to have this letter, Wilson, but you shall have your dollar, and I will hand this to General Jocelyn. Miss Winifred is to marry Mr. Fulkerson very soon, and your master does not wish her to receive letters from Mr. Jocelyn-you shall have your dollar; here it is now, and half a dollar more for doing your duty;" and dropping the coins into the man's hand, Marie dropped the letter with its boldly written inscription-"Miss Winifred Jocelyn"-dropped it into a pocket, under her ruffles and frills, and strolled away with a virtuous air of doing a righteous thing. "Now, bress God !" ejaculated Wilson, standing stock still; "ef dat ain't de brassiest thing I ebber seen dis many a day. Ole marse nebber knowed a bressed thing about dat letter, I'm sartain sho', en Marse Bernie he done gimme dis yere brown cloth suit en blue neck-hankercher, en dem shirts wid de stannin' collahs, en dat breast-pin, en dese yere flowered slippahs, en dem fine boots, en dat razor and two razor-straps, en dat sweet-smellin' soap, en a bottle ob sweet-brier water, as 'll make dem cloe's smell like a bunch of flowers fur six months, en a dollah, en den, Wilson Browne, you done let dat little furrin witch creep in heah, sneakin' ez a kitten, and whisk dat letter off'n de table-well 'tain't no use sayin' nuffin long ob de letter, fo' niggah can't do nuffin gin dat little furrin witch, wid eyes in de back ob her head. I rather spects Wilson will take de shine off ebery niggar on de plantation next Sunday at meetin'. Marse Bernie forgit 'bout dat letter fo' he gits back agin." With a flourish of one of Bernie's handkerchiefs, well saturated with "sweet-brier," the valet gathered up his spoils and hurried away, pausing occasionally to say to himself: "I nebber seed de little furrin witch till she done hab dat letter." Wilson consoled himself for his negligence, and determined to repair the difficulty by saying nothing to Winifred. Marie Frissae tripped to her chamber with the billet penned in the last hurried moments before Bernard quitted Jocelyn Hall-the only adieu to his unsuspecting Winifred, secure in the trim little pocket. "This would tell the story," she said, drawing it therefrom, and examining the seal curiously. "I refrain from giving it to Hugh for his own sake; it will or will not confirm my suspicion. Is it wise to act in the dark? is it diplomatic to permit an admirable opportunity of ascertaining the truth to escape you? Clearly it is not-clearly my duty to my friend requires me to open this letter; and then the girl told him I painted-slandered me grossly, because of my harmless cosmetics. Yes, she said I painted. I will read the letter!" The French woman broke the seal with a vindictive jerk, a vengeful glitter in her black eyes. "Winifred, my darling wife," it began. "Tenez! just as I said," ejaculated Marie, aloud. "The hypocrisy of that pretty mamselle is appalling." "By some strange contradiction my orders are again altered. My vessel sails at sunrise to-morrow. I have just time, by traveling all night, to reach her an hour before she sails. My love, the imperative necessity of taking this appointment alone compels me to leave you without a last kiss from your sweet lips. Trust me, darling. Be true to me through everything. Trust no represenFrissae. They are both perfidy itself where you are concerned. tation coming to you from Fulke or your doubtful guest, Madame Remember that you are my wedded wife, and that nothing can, or shall, take you away from me. I have an abiding faith that I shall return with mended fortunes. Share that faith, my own love. The separation is only for a few months. Farewell, BERNIE." "Ingrate," muttered Marie, angrily. "Mon Dieu-I am so lucky and so unlucky-if she had read this note it would have put her on her guard against Fulke and myself. It is not right or honorable to encourage disobedience. I must be honorable if I am shabby, poor. Poverty makes one wise; it would be wise to show this note to Winifred's betrothed husband." Once more the Frenchwoman descended to the library with Bernie's letter in her pocket. Fulke read it sulkily, and laughed an unpleasant, evil laugh. "The representation won't come from me or from you, but it is just possible that this time to-morrow Jocelyn may want to pen a different epistle; it is just possible that my pretty cousin will find his fortunes not mended by this expedition, even if he returns-and who knows whether that will ever happen? The doctors tell me that any violent shock may prove fatal to Jocelyn for months to come. By this time to-morrow," added Fulke, with that same sinister triumph, "Jocelyn will have had a violent shock-who knows whether he will survive it ?" CHAPTER X. STRANDED. WINIFRED galloped up the winding, well-shaded road leading to the porter's lodge. The girl spent most of her time on horseback in the bright October sun, breathing the fresh frosty October air. It brought to the delicate cheek a glow which, save for the exhilarating exercise, might not have been there, for of late, since Bernie quitted Jocelyn Hall without a word of farewell, and the sombre gloom of past evil had descended upon them, both Winifred and her father grew pale and drear in aspect. The beautiful dusky eyes had dark hollows beneath them, and a mournful sadness in their luminous depths, stirring the compassion of those who met their glance. The sensitive, rosebud lips oftener curled in a mocking, less joyous smile than of yore. The girl had lost her blithe gayety, always gentle and sweet, but ever unflagging. Winifred seemed to shrink with a curious timidity from | Nobody understood the armistice granted by their enemy, Bociety, and even Marie Frissae's hard eyes sometimes unless, possibly, the Frenchwoman, but all were grateful softened as if the melancholy pathos of the musical voice for it. touched her battered heart. General Jocelyn grew more cheerful, and smiled pleasBernie had been gone more than a fortnight, and, oddly antly at the wit and vivacity of his lively guest. Winifred 70 Jocelyn Hall. Winifred, like her father, yielded tacitly. | passionately, and he seemed drifting away from her, gone She gave up the fight as hopelessly as Hugh Jocelyn himself. Her brave spirit seemed cowed and grown timid in this last fortnight; so she galloped for hours over the moors. "It is the only way I can be free of these people," she said, when Mammie Jane reproachfully reminded her that Madame Frissae now had to entertain the visitors drawn to Jocelyn Hall by Winifred's winning beauty and the general's family prestige. "Dey'll think dat furrin lady is de missus. Folks don't know what's come ob you, Miss Winifred, when you is ridin' en ridin' over de whole creation, en dat little madame is a-settin' in de drawin'-room fannin', en talkin', en bowin', en laughin', en axin' folks to lunch or dinner, like of de whole bressed place 'longed to her, en dat, too, when we is de fustest fambly in de land, en God-a-mighty knows who dem Freeze-ups is. "Tain't right, honey-in your grandam's own drawin'-room." "Oh, Mammie Jane," pathetically moaned Winifred, "I cannot talk now and laugh, and I cannot breathe in the room with that false, dreadful, painted woman.' And she had gone again and again, although her birthday was approaching, and Madame Frissae had announced General Jocelyn's intention of celebrating it by a fêle of some kind. It lacked only a week of the day Winifred would be twenty years of age, and the girl had been absent until far into the afternoon. She rode swiftly along the road to the gate, which, however, remained unopened until Winifred drew rein before it. "Oh, miss, I am sorry you had to wait," apologetically began a sickly-looking woman, emerging from the cottage in some consternation at finding Miss Jocelyn at the gate. "Brown has stepped over to see the doctor for me, and I am so poorly and trifling that I can't sit up all the time." "It don't matter in the least," Winifred said, kindly, as she rode through and the gate swung back into its place. "Have you been ill very long? You look dreadfully weak." "Yes, miss; I am that weak and nervous I can't bear nothing. I've been worse since the night Mr. Jocelyn got knocked down; it did give me an awful turn; and then his gettin' up and goin' off so sudden-like, and lookin' so like he wasn't fit to be out of his bed when he and John It's foolish of me, miss. drove by here in the carriage. The gontry knows their own business; but wasn't it a bit venturesome in him ?" inquired the woman, gasping for breath as she sank into a chair on the little porch. Winifred was almost as pale as the woman herself as she let the reins fall on the neck of the thoroughbred, and said, in a low tone: "Did he look ill ?" He seemed kinder fevered It was hard for her to talk of Bernie, and yet her heart mystery surrounding her. A terrible fear, too, possessed "Nothing whatever. Perhaps papa secured the place The woman shook her head, doubtfully. "Between you and me, miss, I am glad he is gone; but I don't think he's the person General Jocelyn would choose to go with Mr. Bernie if he only knowed him; and leastways I know your father never set eyes on John; and, kinsfolk an ill turn-but Brown and me was scared to death miss, if you won't let it go no further-I wouldn't do my all the time he was here. You see, miss "-she dropped "John Devèy has always been a terrible bad man. There her voice into a whisper as she glanced around furtivelyhow he come to get the place, and why he was so secret ain't no kind of good in him; and it beats me to know about it." "I must ask my father," Winifred said, conscious of a "Do, miss, for I mistrust there's sommut wrong about pang of apprehension creeping over her. it. There's always sommut wrong about John Devèy's doings. Mr. Bernie knowed nothin' about it, or about The woman stopped abruptly. John's goin', for he's the last man he would have had' "Why?" demanded Winifred, sharply. "Why? Tell me the truth." "Well, miss, you see, Mr. Bernie thrashed him like a dared show his face here afterward till Mr. Bernie got hurt. dog last Summer for beatin' old Peters, and he never Then he come skulkin' back; and that's why I knowed Mr. Bernie wouldn't have had him if there wasn't no other Take my word for it, there's sommut man in the world. John Devèy has a hand in," the woman added, lugubrr wrong under it all, and no good will come of anything ously, rocking herself to and fro in the chair, and shaking "Papa knew nothing of this," interposed Winifred. her head with a weird, ominous significance. "Are you sure it is the same man ?" "General Jocelyn never set eyes on him, miss. Nobody but Mr. Fulkerson. He knowed that John Devèy hated for it, miss, no good will come of it, mark you, now. Mr. Bernie like pisen-he knowed it; and, take my word Susan Brown says no good will come of anything John Devèy has a hand in, and, take my word for it, there's sommut wrong under it all." "I'll ask papa at once," exclaimed Winifred, gathering up the reins, hastily. "Do, miss; but, all the same, there's sommut wrong," she persisted, still rocking and shaking her head ominShe was several shades paler when the groom ously, long after Winifred galloped away up the broad helped her to dismount, but she gathered up her ridingFulke had deserted it of late. dress and entered the library. No one was there even avenue. Winifred passed up-stairs to the study, quite sure of finding her father there-and she was not mistaken. General Jocelyn was writing, and Madame Frissae, sitting at the opposite side of the table, with some papers and open letters, evidently just read, seemed to be drawing designs on a sheet of foolscap. Winifred hesitated; it was always this way now-the Frenchwoman and the general-she could never see her father alone, never say anything to him, or have the old confidential talks as they had before they became rich and miserable. "Fapa, can I speak to you a moment?" The general hesitated and glanced at Marie, who never moved or lifted her head. "My dear, unless it is a very great secret, just tell me now, will you. Our friend Marie is so thoroughly acquainted with our family affairs that it is scarcely worth while to maintain any reserve in her presence," he said, without laying down his pen. "Ciel! is that you, Winifred ?" exclaimed the Frenchwoman. "I am so happy! I want to know how you like this design for decorating that great, superb hall. It is really adorable." "Papa," Winifred said, going close and laying her hand on his shoulder-"papa, did you send that man, John Devey, with Bernard ?" "Why, no, my dear. It happened, fortunately, that he was to cruise on the same vessel; he was only a common sailor, but he might be of use to Bernie on the journey," her father said, putting his arm around her waist. "Did you procure the place for him, papa ?" she persisted. "Certainly not, child. I never heard of the man until the day they left here. I only thought it a fortunate coincidence. I supposed that Bernard had taken the appointment I succeeded in obtaining for him. I had reason to believe that Bernard would sail on the Arcturus, and that this sailor would sail on the same vessel." He patted her hand affectionately for a moment, then said: "Don't perplex yourself about it, my child; it is very singular." "What is singular, papa ?" she asked, quickly. The Frenchwoman laughed and glanced at the general, significantly. "Ma petite!" she broke out, with naive impetuosity, "you have not read the papers. We are horribly perplexed! That handsome Bernard was a grand mystery." She pointed to the morning paper. "There is the announcement: The Arcturus sails day after to-morrow, October 28th. There is the list of crew and officers. Bernard's name is not in it. Instead, there is the name of W. R. Penrose, vice Bernard Jocelyn." "Papa, you tell me, will you? I will believe you-what does it mean?" Winifred's face was quite pale. The general drew it down and kissed the white, cold cheek kindly, but he evinced neither alarm nor distress. "It means that the Arcturus will not sail until day after to-morrow, and that Bernard will not sail in her. It means that there has been some dreadful mistake, and that he has deliberately deceived us, or that he is—” "Dead," came in a low, stealthy whisper from the French woman. CHAPTER XI. THE MESSAGE. WHEN Marie uttered that one terrible word, "dead," the general tightened his arm around his daughter, as if he would save her from falling, but Winifred broke away from him and stood like a tigress at bay-then turned on Marie "It is false, I say! Bernard is not dead. Why do you dare to tell such falsehoods? He is alive and will come back; and there is some terrible mistake, papa." "Ah, mon Dieu !" murmured Marie, in the subdued tone she sometimes used. "Let her see it, dear general. My grand compassion would not let me read it." "Read what? Papa, what is it ?" cried out Winifred, the mighty dread coming into her voice, despite her faith. "Ma foi! then her own eyes may read it," retorted Marie, with a disdainful shrug of her thin shoulders. "My grand compassion would have saved her the truth. Ah! mon Dieu! the magnificent Bernard was not prudent." She laid the paper before Winifred, repeating its one fatal line slowly: "W. R. Penrose, vice Bernard Jocelyn-dead." Winifred glared at it fiercely. The general said not a word. She seemed to be devouring the brief printed words. The whole history of the expedition, to her, lay in those three words-short enough, but freighted with a horrible import-"Bernard Jocelyn, dead!" It "Papa," she swallowed a suffocating sob, and gasped faintly, then Winifred's old bravery seemed to return. had shaken her hand like the shock of an earthquake, but having survived it, she stood as resolute and skeptical as ever. "Papa, it is not true-it is not true! I tell you Bernard is living. Papa, will you send to the Arcturus, and find out? Will you telegraph now-now ?" she implored, folding her arms around his neck caressingly, as if she dreaded he might refuse. "Yes, my darling; certainly. I will investigate the matter at once, and set your mind at rest. But do not hope, Winifred; it is best you should not. It seems an interposition of Providence to make you forget Bernardbecause I fear me an inexorable necessity may separate you, at any rate." The general stroked and patted her hand as he spoke. "Will you telegraph now, papa? I will ring for one of the servants," persisted Winifred, still pale. "Will you write the message now ?" "Certainly, Winifred. I only wish I had known of this before. The boy should have had a relative at his bedside. Poor fellow, he had friends, if they only were aware of his situation." "Papa," interrupted Winifred, almost savagely, "you shall not say that. You shall not. Bernard is living. Oh, papa, don't you think he is living ?" she moaned. "Why should he die ?" The general dipped his pen in the ink, reflectively; a pained expression crossed his countenance. "My dear, the message to Bernard was the cause of his abrupt departure." "I know it, papa. You told me they telegraphed him to come," echoed Winifred, watching him breathlessly. "Yes, my dear. I am glad to remember that I did not have a hand in hastening him on that journey. It was premature; he was not in a condition to be excited. He did not consult with me. I knew nothing of it until he had gone, and remonstrance was not possible. Simple removal to his lodgings would not have injured him." "Why should he remove ?" demanded Winifred, hotly. "My dear, your Cousin Fulke insisted upon his moving," replied her father, gently. "The ogre, the monster !" interpolated Madame Frissae, glancing up curiously at the girl. Winifred made no angry outcry; she looked as if the tip of a lash had stung her. "Fulke," she repeated, brokenly, "Fulke-Fulke again." 66 'But I had no band in Bernard's sudden journey to his ship, Winifred, understand that. Falke could be concerned in it. to the message by telegraph. Neither can I see that Bernard went in response I never saw it. I should have urged him to give up such a hazardous undertaking. You do not blame any one, do you, my child ?" inquired Hugh Jocelyn, uneasily. His conscience goaded him painfully as he strove to imagine or convince himself, as well as Winifred, that nothing coming from him tended to endanger Bernard's life or bias his abrupt action. 'No, no, papa. How could you do anything so cruel to your nephew? He is not dead, papa; I know that. Bernard will return," she said, shuddering in spite of herself, and turning very pale. "I trust there is a mistake," the general slowly answered. nard. He was his rival, and he will not forget him." “There is a mistake, there is a mistake—” "Ciel! While you have talked I have written the message. Ah, it gives me a sadness to utter the words. Read it, mon ami," interrupted Marie, handing the sheet to the general. Madame Frissae gathered up her papers, and as she did so the deft hand lifted the dark box of dueling-pistols, and then she tripped out of the room, unobserved by Hugh Jocelyn, who still leaned his head on his hands, still wore the haggard misery of expression, changing the once "When and where did Bernard Jocelyn die? Is it pleasant countenance to something akin to desperation. certain he is dead?' Will that do, Winifred ?” The girl's fingers shook visibly. She seemed to strive to decipher the words, plain enough to any save a blurred vision. The Frenchwoman, watching her keenly, said, with how much of expostulation she herself only knew, "She half believes it now. She is hard hit, the little fool." 46 That will do, papa." She rang the bell violently, and then returned to her father. "Papa, will you send some one to see whether it is true if—if they should telegraph that it is? I do not believe it, papa. I would not be lieve it if the messenger comes back with the worst news. Will you believe it, papa ?" She asked the question with a pathetic entreaty to him in every accent, to assure her that he, too, would be doubtful. Hugh Jocelyn understood the appeal, but shook his head gloomily. "I am afraid there is too much ground for probability. Dr. Foster predicted it, Winifred, the moment he heard of Bernard's rashness, and this time I fear the doctor's prediction is verified." "I will not believe it," asserted Winifred, turning to to the door, opened by the servant. "Papa, you will send me the answer as soon as it comes, will you," she asked, "and not let it fall into any other hands first? You will let me open it ?" "You shall open it, certainly, my dear," assured the general, in some surprise. "Ma foi!" exclaimed the French woman, pettishly, as the door closed after Winifred and the servant. "Who is suspect? I cannot understand it at all." "She dreads Fulke's agency, I am afraid," suggested Hugh Jocelyn. "She certainly detests him. God knows it is only her good I seek by yielding to his demand for Winifred's hand. God knows, if it concerned only myself I could soon end it. But my poor little Winifred I cannot leave disgraced and a pauper. I am pledged not to do that. But, heaven have pity, I may be doing wrong still!" "Cher ami, you are right." Marie laid her thin, tawny hand upon his, softly. "You must purchase reprieve for yourself to save her. You must marry her to the heir to avert the calamity of poverty. Oh, mon Dieu! Poverty is the worst of all sorrows and unhappiness, carking, miserable, grinding poverty, narrowing you down to wretched prejudices and meanness; paltry, nasty, vulgar little ways, and disgusting, shabby shifts to keep body and soul together. Save her from that, Hugh; save your Winifred from the revolting ways and necessities of poverty. Leave that for the petty little souls who never "One can never be sure what he might do. These Jocelyns are a mad race, and Hugh has a wild time ahead with that obstinate girl and that savage Fulke. But Marie is beside him," she said, depositing the pistols in the safety of the locked closet in her own chamber. "Mon Dieu! I was beside him once before, but these were not the pistols; ah, no, these were not the pistols. There were no pistols that time. Ah, fortunate Marie!" The French woman paused in front of the glass, to take a last survey of herself before descending to the library. "I really believe I might have a brighter touch of rouge; this country air and marvelous fare might justify a deeper tint. Only this morning Hugh said I had improved, and looked almost as well as in the old days. Ah, me! when it is all tranquil, and Winifred is married to Fulke, and the compact is burned, and that tiger takes off his claws, Hugh will glance again at me. Poor Marie will have her day then, if she keeps her wits about her. Yes, I will put on a little more rouge, a bit more color, now that I am growing young, and then I will go down to Fulke;" and Marie skillfully deepened the hue of her already well-colored cheek, until it glowed with a startling redness, strangely unnatural on the thin cheek, never again to round into youthful plumpness. "Ab, yes, she shall marry Fulke ; it is all plain now. But-but-it is terrible, the ferocious brute. Ciel! She said I painted, the little diable. She slandered me to her father and Bernard, all because of my harmless cosmetics." Fulke was not there, but Dr. Foster came in just as Madame Frissae settled herself in a chair, with inward thankfulness that it lacked an hour of time to dress for dinner-an important event nothing ever interfered with. "Ah, Dr. Foster," she exclaimed, impulsively, pointing to the paragraph in the paper, "I have just sent for Mr. Fulkerson to hear of this! Ah, your handsome patient!" "My handsome patient, madame, has been actually murdered by sending him off on that fool's errand three weeks ago." The physician talked loudly and angrily. He was, without doubt, suspicious as well as disturbed by the news in the morning paper. "Whose doing was it, ma'am? Be as good as to tell me that, will you? For everybody in the house knew that Bernard Jocelyn's life hung on a thread-everybody knew that any violent shock would kill him-any excitement or agitation, and yet, knowing this, somebody hurried him out of a sickbed into the rush and bustle of embarking on that cursed expedition. Somebody did that, and whoever did it, murdered that fine young fellow in cold blood-deliberate, premeditated murder! Now, who did it ?” |