Jaquelina

He remained with her fully two hours. It did not seem to him so long. The time went very fast looking at that fair face and listening to that musical voice. For a wonder Mrs. Meredith did not call her to the house for anything. Dollie had grown large enough to walk and run alone, and did not need so much attention.

"Is it true that you are going to become a governess?" he said to her. "Violet Earle told me so this morning."

"Yes, if I can find a situation," she replied. "Do you think I shall be likely to find one, Mr. Valchester?"

There was a wistful anxiety in the sweet voice. He looked at the fair young face thoughtfully.

A slanting ray of sunlight pierced the green boughs of the tree and penciled her white brow with a finger of light that brought out its child-like innocence more clearly.

"No, I hardly think you will be successful," he replied.

"You do not?" she said, and he saw the red lips quiver. "Why not, Mr. Valchester? I have studied very hard and learned a great deal since I have been away at school."

"You look too young," he replied. "No one would like to engage one who appeared so childish. You look too inexperienced."

"Do you really think that would weigh against me?" she asked, distressed. "I assure you my looks are very deceptive. I am eighteen."

"Quite a venerable age," he laughed. "Yet still very young for an instructor of youth."

"You see I only expect to teach little children," she said, apologetically.

He looked at her gravely and curiously.

"Do you think you will enjoy such a life?" he inquired.

"No," she admitted, frankly, "I do not imagine that it will be a pleasant life, certainly. But it will be better than the farm. I shall earn my support and not have my dependence continually thrust in my face by a vulgar woman."

"Poor child!" he thought to himself, as the sensitive color rushed over her brow and throat.

He left her with a thrill of deep compassion in his heart. She seemed so slight and frail a creature to take arms against the world and win her way alone.

"May I come again to-morrow—with Walter?" he added, fancying that he saw her hesitate.

"Yes," she replied, readily, "and bring Violet with you if she will come."

"Very well," he replied, "I will do so, but I shall come alone the next day to hear you sing. Are you willing?"

"They will think I am selfish if I take you away from them, I fear."

"You will not be taking me away. I belong to no one but myself," he replied. "Then, too, I shall return home in a few days, and I do not know when I shall see you again."

"You may come," she replied, quickly.

The next day he came with Violet and Walter as agreed upon. But the visit was short and unsatisfactory. Violet was fidgety and capricious. She said she had planned a visit to another young lady, and she left very soon, carrying Valchester in her train and telling Walter to remain behind and amuse Jaquelina. Walter remained very willingly. He had been thinking a great deal of what Violet had said to him about marrying Jaquelina. In consequence he had concluded to take her advice.

But it is one thing to resolve and another to execute. Jaquelina, who was exceedingly friendly and sociable with Walter in the company of others was very shy when alone with him. She somehow eluded the efforts he made to give a sentimental tone to the conversation. She sang at his request, but it was a gay and lively air.

If she had known his intention she could not have frustrated it better than she did by her unconscious indifference.

Walter went away with his love unspoken. Two days later he returned alone, having slipped away from his friend and sister, just as Valchester had done once or twice before.

Jaquelina was out under the trees reading. Little Dollie was frisking in the grass beside her. Walter thought he had never seen the girl he loved looking so fair and happy. He pleased himself with thinking how he would take her away from her uncongenial home and lavish upon her all the luxuries and adornments that would suit her beauty so well. The thought gave him courage to speak to Jaquelina. It was not long before she was blushing and trembling at these words from his lips:

"Lina, I love you dearly. Will you be my wife?"

"Oh! Mr. Earle," she cried out, looking lovely as a dream in her dismay and confusion. "I—I am very sorry for you. I did not dream of your loving me. Since yesterday I have been engaged to Mr. Valchester."

CHAPTER XIII.

Walter Earle's handsome face grew pale with surprise and emotion at the words of the beautiful girl he loved so dearly. When at last he could speak he cried out hoarsely:

"Engaged to Valchester! Is it possible? I never dreamed of such a thing."

"Why not, Mr. Earle? If you loved me why should not he have loved me also?" asked Jaquelina, with gentle dignity, though her cheeks flushed deeply.

Walter Earle stared at her a moment in silence. He began to realize the effect of her bright and charming beauty as he had never done before. All along it had seemed to him that other men were blind. He had thought to put forth his hand and pluck a rose that none other had sighed for; but another had been there before him.

"I thought Valchester was too selfishly absorbed in his books and poetry to think of love," he responded; then he added with a bitterness he could not repress: "You will allow me to congratulate you, Miss Meredith, on having secured such a desirable parti."

"Thank you. I consider myself a very fortunate girl," Jaquelina answered, with a movement of graceful pride.

"No doubt!" said Walter, so excited and pained by her refusal of his suit that he was not prepared to do her justice even in his thoughts. "Others will consider you a very fortunate person also. It is well known that Valchester's parents are exceedingly wealthy."

Jaquelina's pretty, proud face grew pale at his words.

"I—did not know that," she said.

"Did you not, really?" asked Walter.

"No, I did not," she replied; then with a crimson blush: "Did you think, Mr. Earle, that I accepted Mr. Valchester for mercenary considerations?"

The pain and shame in the winning face overcame Walter's unreasonable and unjust mood.

"Forgive me," he said, "I was tempted a moment to think so; but of course I know better after what you have just told me. The smart of my own pain made me unjust. Do not be angry with me, Lina, if I may call you so this once. I shall hope still to be your friend since I cannot claim a dearer title."

Jaquelina held out her hand to him impulsively. Walter kissed it tenderly and regretfully.

"Valchester is a noble fellow," he said, bravely. "I hope you may be very happy together."

When he was gone, Jaquelina wept a shower of bright tears upon the pages of her book. She was very sorry for poor Walter's disappointment. She cried so bitterly that little Dollie was affected to participation in her grief, and wept in unison, whereat Jaquelina dried her tears and laughed.

"There now, Dollie, we are done crying," she said. "We are very sorry for Walter. He is gay and good and handsome, but Ronald is my prince."

Her spirits were very light and gay now. It was only the day before that Ronald Valchester had wooed her to be his wife. He had told her how beautiful and gifted she was, and how fondly he loved her. And then Jaquelina had suddenly wakened to the truth that she had long ago given her heart into his keeping.

"Lina, can you give your heart to me?" he had pleaded, and she had answered frankly, yet shyly, with her sweet face turned away:

"I believe it has been yours a long—long time, Mr. Valchester, only I did not quite know it until now."

Mr. Valchester was very demonstrative for awhile, considering that he was usually so quiet and grave. Before he left he had made his betrothed promise that, with her uncle's consent, the wedding should be in three months.

"Because, darling, I am anxious to take you away from your uncongenial home and transplant my rosebud to a sunnier sphere of life," he said, kissing the dewy crimson lips ardently yet tenderly.

The dark eyes looked at him shyly from under the white lids and the jetty fringe of her long curling lashes.

"So I shall not have to seek a situation after all," she said, happily.

"No, indeed," he answered with a shudder, "I could not bear to think of you, my tender flower, out in the cold world alone. The bleak frosts of adversity and sorrow would destroy you."

He was mistaken. The time was coming when he was to learn what a brave heart and strong patience lay hidden beneath the fragile seeming of the lovely girl who held his heart.

The summer breeze sighing softly over the grass and flowers, and lifting the dark, careless locks from his broad, white brow had no subtle voice to warn him of the long, dark shadow that was ever widening between him and the prize that seemed almost within his grasp.

Walter Earle did not go home immediately after his rejection by Jaquelina.

He had loved her with as much ardor as he was capable of, and he felt the pain of his disappointment deeply.

He wandered homeward slowly through the green woods, and threw himself down by a purling brook to rest.

It was twilight when he reached home. He looked in the parlor for Violet, but she was not there.

His father and Ronald Valchester were discussing some political news, his mother was placidly crocheting lace on the sofa.

He went on quietly up-stairs to Violet's own especial room, and tapped lightly on the door.

"Come in," she said, and he turned the door-knob and entered.

Violet was at the mirror, looping back her fair curls with roses and white jessamine.

She looked very fair and sweet in her white evening dress and pearl and turquoise jewelry—a fact of which she was not unaware herself, for a smile of gratified vanity curved her rosy lips as she surveyed her own reflection in the full length mirror.

"Ah, Miss Vanity," cried Walter, trying hard to be his natural, careless self. "How do you like yourself?"

Violet turned around and swept him a gay little courtesy.

"Very well, indeed, sir," she laughed. "How do you like me, Walter?"

Walter looked at the tall, stylish figure, and the fair, smiling face with its large blue eyes and rosy lips, with genuine admiration.

"I do not believe any other fellow has as pretty a sister as I have," he replied, and Violet gave him a charming kiss in return for his praise.

"Where have you been, Walter?" she said. "We have missed you all the evening. Mr. Valchester was quite puzzled, but I could very nearly guess—only I did not let him know it."

Walter had thrown himself down in a chair at the window.

The rich lace curtains were drawn aside, admitting the evening breeze, sweet with the breath of flowers. He stared moodily out at the full moon rising over the dark line of the distant hills.

"Where have you been, Walter?" said Violet again, seeing that he made her no answer. "Were you with Jaquelina?"

"Yes," he replied, with cold brevity.

Violet went over and sat down by his side. She raised her fair, smiling face to his in wonder.

She saw the brooding shadow of pain on the blonde, handsome face.

"Walter, what is it? Has—has anything happened?" she said, vaguely.

"Nothing has happened," he replied, in a moody tone.

"Was Jaquelina well?" she asked, puzzled.

"Never better," he replied, with transient bitterness.

Violet did not know what to think.

"Walter, was not Lina kind to you?" she asked, gently.

"No," he replied, briefly and bitterly.

The soft flush had faded from Violet's cheeks. A look of dread came into her eyes, but Walter did not see it.

He had never turned his sad gaze from the distant hills gilded with glory by the rising moon.

"Walter, do you mean," she said, with lips that quivered strangely, "that—you have asked Lina to marry you?"

"Yes," he answered, very low.

"And she—oh, she did not refuse you!" cried Violet, indignantly.

"Yes, again," said Walter, still without looking at her.

There was a moment's pause, and then Violet cried out:

"The impertinent little jade! Why, what did she mean? I should have thought that she would have jumped at the chance of marrying a rich, handsome young man like you, Walter!"

Then Walter looked round at her.

"Violet, do not use such hasty words," he said, sadly. "She has a right to make her own choice. She has set her mark higher even than your unworthy brother."

"You do not mean," said Violet slowly, then paused, while every vestige of color fled from her lips and cheeks as she stared at Walter.

"She is engaged to Valchester," he answered, abruptly.

The words came with the suddenness of a blow.

Violet shivered and moaned like something wounded to death; then all in a moment she slid from her seat to the floor, and lay there, a white and senseless heap, upon the rich velvet carpet.

Walter sprang from his seat in alarm and consternation. He had never before suspected the secret of Violet's hidden love for Ronald Valchester. It all rushed over him now overwhelmingly. With almost womanly tenderness he lifted his stricken sister gently to a sofa, and bringing eau de cologne from the toilet-table laved her cold face and hands with the refreshing water.

She opened her eyes and stared blankly at him in a moment.

"Darling, are you any better?" he asked, gently.

Then Violet threw her white arms round his neck and clung to him, weeping wildly.

"Walter, is it indeed true?" she sobbed. "Is she to marry Ronald?"

"So she says," he answered. "Do you care, Violet?"

"I hate her!" Violet cried, drawing herself from his arms and sitting upright, while rage and jealousy flashed from her eyes—"I hate her! She has stolen my lover from me!"

Walter's blue eyes flashed lightning.

"Violet, is that true?" he asked. "I thought my friend was the soul of honor; but if he has dared to trifle with your affections he shall render me an account for his perfidy!"

Violet only wept and sobbed, without replying.

"Tell me, dear," persisted Walter, "has Valchester made love to you, really, while he was slyly wooing Miss Meredith?"

Violet was obliged to admit that he had not.

"But if he had never seen her—if she had let him alone—I must have won him by the strength of my own love. He could not help loving me in time. Therefore, Lina has really stolen him from me," she persisted, most unreasonably.

Walter could not see that it was as Violet said. He tried to argue the case with her; but he soon found that Violet was too jealous and miserable to listen to reason. She only reiterated again and again her hatred of Jaquelina Meredith.

Walter took a great deal of blame to himself. He acknowledged that he had done wrong ever to have brought Ronald Valchester to Laurel Hill.

"You see, Vi," he said, miserably, "I never looked upon Valchester as one to be lightly won, or one to lightly win a woman's heart. He is not usually gallant, or even attentive, to ladies. I thought him only a book-worm, wrapped up in metaphysics and poetry. He is a splendid fellow. I have told you that too often, Vi, for me to deny it now when he has become my successful rival and the source of sorrow to yourself: but I thought he was simply one of the men whom his own sex always admire, but women seldom or never."

"I do not believe that Jaquelina admires him," cried Violet. "She is attracted by his wealth and position."

Nothing that Walter could say could change her opinion. She adhered to it tenaciously. Walter was deeply sorry for her. Her jealous anger and her wild grief distressed him exceedingly.

"Violet, think no more of it," he would say. "Valchester is going away to-morrow. I will never invite him to Laurel Hill again, and when he is out of sight you will forget him."

"I shall never forget him," his sister replied. "I shall never forget him, and I shall never love anyone but Ronald Valchester my life-long! Oh, Walter, cannot you think of something to separate them and turn his heart to me!" she added, with piteous pleading.

Walter was shocked.

"Darling, you are talking wildly," he cried; "you would not wish such a thing. Let me call mother. She can soothe you better than I can."

She sprang up in the wildest alarm.

"Walter, promise me here and now," she cried, "that you will never reveal my wretched secret to mamma, nor to any living one. I will never unlock my arms from your neck until you swear to me that you will never, never betray me."

Her arms were wreathed tightly round his neck; her anguished, white face and wild blue eyes looked into his own imploringly.

Walter could not refuse to give her the promise she pleaded for, but he regretted it many and many a day afterward.

He promised her, and she kissed him and thanked him.

"Now, Violet, we must really go down to the parlor," he said, anxious to distract her attention. "Our absence will be noticed and wondered at. Smooth your hair and dress and come with me. This is the last night of Valchester's stay, and we must not seem discourteous."

"You may go," she said, "but I cannot to-night. Tell them I have a headache and do not wish to be disturbed. Do not suffer mamma to come. I feel very angry with her. It was she who insisted on patronizing that wretched girl. But for that Ronald never would have seen her!"

Her brother went down reluctantly. Violet lay motionless on her couch for long hours. When she roused herself at last and went to close the window the lamp had burned low, and the mysterious stillness of midnight brooded over everything. Violet lifted her hand and turned a white, desperate face up to the starry sky.

"Before God," she cried, in low, passionate accents, "I swear that I will be revenged on Jaquelina Meredith for winning Ronald Valchester away from me. She shall never be his wife, and if mortal power can accomplish it, I will make of her life one long agony, such as she has made of mine."

So, under the starry arch of Heaven, Violet's vow of vengeance was registered beside that of Gerald Huntington. Poor Jaquelina, sleeping softly on her little white couch and dreaming of her handsome, gifted lover, did no swift, subtle warning tell her of the false friend and the outraged prisoner whose hands were outstretched to dash the cup of happiness from her beautiful lips?

CHAPTER XIV.

One golden evening in September, Mr. Meredith came in from his weekly trip to town considerably excited.

"There's news, Lina," he said to his niece, who was laying the cloth on the table, and deftly arranging the tea-things.

Jaquelina looked at him with a start and a blush. She fancied he had brought her a letter from her lover.

"Well, Uncle Charlie?" she said, expectantly.

"Yes," said Farmer Meredith, "there's wonderful news for you. The horse-thief, Gerald Huntington, attempted to escape night before last. He knocked down two keepers, and got almost a mile away before he was caught and taken back. They say he fought like a lion for his freedom."

Jaquelina started and grew deadly pale at his words.

"I have brought the newspaper with me," went on the farmer. "It's all written there. Stop clattering the dishes a minute, Lina, and I'll read it out for you."

His niece stood still with her hand resting on the table, and listened while he turned the paper and read out, slowly:

"Attempted escape of Gerald Huntington, the chief of the outlaw gang that had infested the mountains so long, and who was so summarily captured little more than a year ago by a brave young girl."

Having read this much, which was printed in flaring head lines and capitals, Mr. Meredith cleared his throat, and proceeded to attack the smaller type:

"It is well known to the most of our readers that the long-pending case against Gerald Huntington was decided in the court on Monday by a sentence of ten years' confinement in the penitentiary. The prisoner was remanded to the county jail to remain until Friday, when he was to be removed to the penitentiary. Tuesday evening, at dusk, he was visited in his cell by a veiled lady who remained with him half an hour engaged in deep and private conversation. It is supposed that this mysterious stranger conveyed to him a club which was skillfully concealed beneath her voluminous draperies. At nightfall the prisoner, armed with this enormous and heavy implement, assaulted the keeper who brought him his supper, and succeeded in escaping into the hall, where he knocked down the door-keeper and made a desperate run for liberty. He was pursued by several persons, who captured and bound him after a terrible struggle. He is now heavily ironed and chained down to the floor of his cell. Public curiosity is highly excited over the mysterious veiled visitant who furnished him the club, but the prisoner preserves a dogged and obstinate silence regarding her, and nothing is known of her in the town."

"Oh, poor fellow!" cried Jaquelina, quite involuntarily, as he paused. "Chained to the floor of his cell! How dreadful!"

"You are not sorry for the wretch—are you, Lina?" said her uncle, looking at her in surprise.

"Yes—very sorry," she said, shuddering at the thought of the gloomy prison cell, and the clanking chains that held Gerald Huntington down from the free, wild woodland life he loved.

"Well, you hadn't ought to be sorry," said Mrs. Meredith, who had come in from the spring-house with the fresh butter and milk for tea, with Dollie trotting behind her, a great, red apple in either chubby fist; "his capture made you two hundred dollars the richer—if you hadn't spent every dollar of it so foolishly," she added, as an after-thought, and in an injured tone, for she had been deeply offended at the way in which Jaquelina had spent her money. "She had ought to have given it to her uncle to pay for her keep," was her frankly expressed opinion.

Jaquelina made no answer to Mrs. Meredith's taunt. She was looking at her uncle wistfully.

"Uncle Charles, did you stop at the post-office?" she asked, shyly.

"Why, certainly. How did I come by the newspaper, else?" inquired the farmer, with a sly twinkle of his gray eyes.

"Were—were there any letters for me?" said the girl, coloring under his laughing glance.

"Two," said Mr. Meredith, "and only the day before yesterday there were two. It seems as if Mr. Valchester has nothing to do but write love-letters."

He fished the mail out of his coat pocket as he spoke, and gave her the two letters.

She caught them eagerly from his hand and hurried from the room.

"Two of the love-sickest ninnies ever I saw," sniffed Mrs. Meredith, disdainfully. "Everlastingly writing back and forth to each other. I should think they'd run out of news."

"Tut, tut, wife," said the farmer, gaily, "don't be hard on the young folks. Don't you remember when you and I were sparking at singing school that winter, how many little notes we kept passing to each other? And no news in any of them, either—nothing but love, love, love."

Mrs. Meredith turned her back at this juncture, but the homely reminiscence must have had its effect on her. Her sharp tongue was silenced for awhile. She busied herself in setting the appetizing supper on the small table, then went out to the door and called Jaquelina in to the meal.

Jaquelina, sitting under a maple tree that was beginning to turn crimson under the kisses of September, returned an answer to the effect that she was not hungry, and did not desire any supper.

"Always the way," said Mrs. Meredith, returning to the table and supplying Dollie with her portion of mush and milk. "After she gets one of them letters from that solemn-looking, long-legged beau of hers, she is that excited she can't swallow a bite to eat. Say what you will, Charlie Meredith, you can't prove that ever I lost my appetite while you courted me."

Mr. Meredith only laughed as he drew up his chair to the table, and Lina was left unmolested to read and re-read the closely written letter in which her lover poured out his affection clothed in the beautiful imagery of a poetic heart.

"My darling," wrote Ronald Valchester, "as our bridal day is now only two weeks off, I have one request to make of you. As our wedding is to be such a simple and quiet one in the little country church, will you not wear, just to please me, the pretty white robe you wore on the night I saw you first? Never mind what others say. It is a beautiful dress, and you will be beautiful in it. I have a fancy for you to wear it in the moment when you give yourself to me—the happiest moment of my life. Afterwards you shall have silks and satins, laces and jewels, if you care for these things. I shall be with you the day before the wedding. My mother will accompany me. I will tell you in confidence, darling, she is a very proud and stately old lady. But you must not be afraid of her. I know she cannot help but love you, as I know you cannot help but love her. I have had a kind letter recently, from Walter Earle, and a charming note from Violet, in which she tells me you have asked her to be your bridesmaid and she has consented. Violet is a very sweet and lovely girl. I am glad you are such friends with her."

This and a great deal more Ronald Valchester wrote to his betrothed.

She pored over it fondly, and blushingly kissed the page where the dear white hand had rested while it traced the loving words.

Mrs. Meredith had spoken truly when she said that Jaquelina could never eat when she received one of those letters from Ronald. They filled her heart and soul so fully that mere material food seemed unnecessary.

The young heart which had gone hungering for love so long, and suffered isolation through all its dreary years of orphanage, was steeped to its depths in the golden glamour of first love's bewildering dream.

She rose at last and wandered down to the little brook and sat down to watch its dimpling flow with dreamy dark eyes.

Mrs. Meredith forbore to call her to help with the milking or tend Dollie as she had been wont to do.

Since Jaquelina had returned home with the added polish of her boarding-school upon her, and more especially since she had become the affianced of the proud Ronald Valchester, the coarse woman had stood somewhat in awe of her husband's graceful and refined niece. A newly awakened and resentful sense of vague inferiority made her feel ill at ease in her company.

The sun was setting goldenly and warmly as it does under Virginia's skies in the golden month of September. The soft sounds of early autumn filled the balmy air. Slowly the gold and purple and crimson of sunset faded from the sky, and gave place to dusky twilight.

Jaquelina scarcely noticed it. She did not feel the soft dew falling on her face and hands. She was lost in a sweet and dreamy revery.

Yet suddenly, with an inexplicable start and shiver, she lifted her eyes.

In the silence that seemed only more audible by the low, melodious murmur of the streamlet, she had caught a strange sound—not a voice, not a footstep—only the cold, heavy clank of an iron chain.

When she looked up she saw a man standing on the opposite side of the brook, and looking across at her with steadfast, gleaming eyes.

He was a tall man, dressed in ragged clothing like a common tramp. His face was blackened to the hue of a negro's by soot or charcoal, but the finely molded features were those of a white man. In the waning light Jaquelina could see that his wrists were manacled, and heavy irons were fastened about his ankles, from which depended chains that had been severed in two.

CHAPTER XV.

At that sudden and terrible-looking apparition, Jaquelina remained for a moment perfectly motionless.

Surprise and terror had rendered her for the time perfectly incapable of speech or motion.

Meanwhile the gleaming black eyes of the man, looking inordinately large and fierce in his blackened face, were riveted upon her beautiful, pallid features.

"Miss Meredith, do you not know me?" he asked, breaking the silence at last, in a low, deep, angry voice.

Jaquelina shivered and started at that intense voice. His name fell from her lips in a gasp:

"Gerald Huntington!"

"Yes," he said, bitterly. "Gerald Huntington! I see you have not forgotten me. My tattered garb, my blackened face are not sufficient to hide your victim from your keen eyes."

He held up his hands, that were blackened also, and she shivered as she saw the heavy handcuffs that were still clasped about his wrists, though the strong chain that had bound them together was filed in half.

"I have escaped from the prison to which you betrayed me," he said to her in a tone of fierce triumph and joy.

In all the terror of that moment Jaquelina felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted off her heart.

"Before God, I am glad!" she broke out fervently, clasping her small hands together while her dark eyes sparkled with joy.

But a scowl of withering scorn and unbelief broke over the dark features of the outlaw, transforming them to the semblance of a demon's.

Jaquelina was reminded irresistibly of the vivid words in which Byron had described the Corsair.

"Do not lie to me, Miss Meredith," exclaimed Gerald Huntington, with that terrible sneer still curling his closely-shaven lips. "Do not lie to me in hope of turning aside the shaft of my deadly revenge. I have sworn to punish you, and I shall keep my vow. You pretend to a penitence you do not feel; I have not the least doubt that you would be glad to deliver me up to justice this minute."

"No, I would not," replied Jaquelina earnestly. She was getting over the first shock of her surprise and terror, and her young face looked brave and almost fearless as she lifted it in the dim light. "I would not for worlds betray you to your foes again. See how quietly I sit here without raising my voice, or trying to alarm anyone."

"That is because you are afraid of me," he said, mockingly, as he put his hand in his bosom that she might hear the click of his threatening weapon. "I am a desperate man, and you know it, Miss Meredith. If you tried to raise an alarm I should immediately shoot you."

They looked at each other a moment silently across the narrow strip of singing water.

A braver heart than little Jaquelina's might have quailed at his aspect, the murderous gleam in his eyes might have daunted a heart less true and pure than hers, but he did not see her tremble as she answered earnestly:

"I do not intend to raise an alarm, Mr. Huntington. On the contrary, I am willing, and even anxious, to do you a kindness if it lies in my power. Is there aught I can do for you? Are you thirsty or hungry? If so, let me bring you food and drink."

He stared at her with a muttered curse.

"So you are laying a trap to ensnare me," he said, roughly. "No, thank you, fair lady, I am not ready to fall into your power so easily. Perhaps, now, you would lend me a horse to carry me a few miles to-night out of danger's reach, since you are so kindly disposed toward me," sneeringly.

The young moon rising over the hills threw a beam upon Jaquelina's face, showing it white and troubled and earnest.

"I—have no horse of my own," she said, hesitatingly. "If I should lend you one of my uncle's, might I dare hope that you would turn it loose after a few miles, and let it come back?"

"No, you might not dare to hope," he said, mockingly. "I ask no favors at your hands. It would spoil the sweet flavor of my revenge. I am not friendless as you suppose. I have a purse of gold in my breast and a swift horse waiting for me not a mile away from here. I but turned aside from my way for one look at the fair flower-face that beguiled me to my ruin. And now that I have seen you, lovely Jaquelina, I am loath to part from you again; I am tempted to take you away with me, and make you an outlaw's cherished and fondly worshiped bride."

With a low cry of sudden fear and alarm, Jaquelina sprang up and turned to flee.

But her enemy was too swift for her. At a single bound he cleared the brook, and before she had run a dozen rods he caught her arm in a grasp of steel.

She turned toward him with a white imploring face and frightened eyes.

"Let me go," she panted, with failing breath. "I cannot go with you, I cannot be your wife!"

He laughed scornfully.

"You shall go free," he said. "Do not be frightened—the time for my revenge is not yet. I shall only dash the cup of joy from your lips when it is so full that a rose-leaf will cause it to overflow. I am going now; but remember this truth, my fair enemy, I am not powerless. I am only biding my time. In the moment that is the happiest of your whole life I shall take my revenge!"

He threw her wrathfully from him, and in a moment had disappeared from sight and hearing. Jaquelina lay half-stunned a moment in the long, dewy grass where she had fallen, her heart thrilling with a dumb, prescient fear and dread.

"In the moment that is the happiest of your whole life I will take my revenge," Gerald Huntington had said, and those words had strangely recalled the words of her lover's letter.

"In the moment when you give yourself to me—the happiest moment of my life!" Ronald Valchester had written; and Jaquelina shivered with a nameless dread and terror, for she knew that that moment would be the happiest one of her whole life also.

CHAPTER XVI.

"Oh, Ronald—Ronald!"

"Lina, my little darling!" and Ronald Valchester drew his betrothed into his arms, and pressed a score of fond kisses on the dewy, crimson lips.

It was the day before the wedding, and though Jaquelina had been expecting him all the morning, he had taken her by surprise at last.

After dinner she had gone out into the orchard and sat down beneath her favorite tree, feeling certain that Ronald would seek her there first. But after watching for him vainly for awhile, she fell into a dreamy revery in which he came unseen and unheard at last.

He sat down beside her, letting his arm remain about the slender waist, and with the beauty and silence of nature all about them, they talked of their happiness in meeting again, and of the coming morrow, when they should be united to part no more.

"It seems too blissful to be true," Jaquelina murmured wistfully, looking up in her lover's happy face. "Oh, Ronald, if anything should happen?"

"What could happen, Lina?" said Ronald Valchester, laughing at her fears. "I hope you are not growing nervous and fanciful, little one."

Then he suddenly saw that the bright rose-flush that had come into her face when she met him was dying out, and leaving her pale and wistful-looking.

"Lina, you do not look quite so well as usual," he said, anxiously. "You are paler than I ever saw you, and your eyes have a startled expression now and then. It seems to me that you are slightly nervous. Are you not well?"

"I am perfectly well," she replied, quickly; but his attention once awakened, he could not help seeing that there was a slight and subtle change in her.

She would start and look around at the rustle of the falling leaves that began to strew the orchard with a carpeting of scarlet and russet and gold. Every time the great mellow globes of winter apples would fall into the grass, she would look up quickly, with something like fear in her eyes. It was plain to be seen, as Ronald Valchester had said, that she was nervous.

As his gaze dwelt on her, full of tender solicitude, she was tempted to tell him of that night, two weeks ago, when she had been so startled and frightened by the sudden appearance and menacing words of Gerald Huntington. A haunting dread and terror had possessed her ever since.

She waked at night from startling dreams, in which the lowering gaze and the clanking irons of the escaped prisoner were so terribly real that she could scarcely persuade herself that it had only been a vision of her slumber.

Her nights were restless, her days were filled with dread. She was afraid to dwell too much on her love and her happiness. She remembered that the outlaw had said he would take his revenge in the moment that was the happiest of her life.

Yet she shrank from telling Ronald Valchester the truth. She had noticed that he seemed to dislike the mention of Gerald Huntington. He had never praised her as others did for capturing the outlaw. He had never even told her whether he thought she had acted right or wrong in the matter. She decided that she would not tell him. She had never told anyone of her adventure that night, though the whole country was excited over the second, and this time successful, escape of the prisoner.

"My mother came with me," he said, after a little. "She was fatigued with travel, and did not feel like calling on you to-day, but to-morrow I shall bring her to see you. She claims the privilege of dressing the bride."

The lovely color came surging up into Jaquelina's pale cheeks at her lover's words.

"Oh! you do not know how I dread the ordeal of to-morrow night," she whispered to him. "All the country people will be crowded into the little church, and—only think—I must walk up the aisle before them all to be—married!"

Ronald Valchester laughed at her pretty bashfulness.

"To-morrow night will be a slight ordeal to what you will have to encounter in the way of people when I take you home to Richmond," he replied. "I have never told you yet, my darling, that we are very wealthy. I was pleased to think that you loved me for myself alone. But the truth is, Lina, my father is a millionaire, and you will enter the highest rank of society when you become my bride. After we have been married awhile, and you have learned something of the world, I shall take you with me on a tour to Europe. Shall you like that, my dearest?"

"Very much," Lina replied, delightedly.

He did not tell her that his father, the proud General Valchester, was both grieved and disappointed that his handsome son, whom half the belles of Richmond were sighing for, had chosen to marry an obscure and simple little country girl.

His gentle mother, too, was distressed over it, but she had allowed her darling son to persuade her that his betrothed was the fairest and most lovable girl on earth, and she had come with Ronald to the wedding, determined, for the sake of her son, to make the most of her daughter-in-law.

She was staying with the Earles by express invitation and Violet was especially charming and affectionate to Ronald Valchester's mother—so much so, indeed, that stately old Mrs. Valchester unbent from her quiet dignity enough to say, frankly:

"It is a wonder to me, Miss Earle, that my Ronald could have strayed any further than Laurel Hill to make his choice. If Miss Meredith is any more charming and lovely than you she must be a wonderful girl."

A peculiar expression came over Violet's pale, fair face. She turned her head away and looked out of the window silently a moment, but when she looked back her face wore a careless smile.

"Many thanks for your compliment, Mrs. Valchester," she replied. "Lina is very pretty, I assure you. She has a gipsyish kind of beauty."

"Is she dark?" asked Mrs. Valchester, and Violet replied:

"She has a brown skin and dark eyes, and her hair is a kind of chestnut, but rather sunburned, I think. You see she is always out in the wind and sun."

"I am rather sorry she is a brunette," said Mrs. Valchester, looking at Violet's lily-white beauty. "I always admired blondes the most. But," hopefully, "my son tells me she is a beautiful singer."

"Yes, she has a good voice," admitted Violet. "It is loud and clear, yet almost totally uncultivated. She has had only a few months' tuition, you know. But, of course, after she—is—married, Mr. Valchester will secure a teacher for her in all those branches in which she is deficient."

"Of course," said Ronald Valchester's mother, but in her heart she winced at the idea of a daughter-in-law who would require teachers after she was married. What would her fashionable and exclusive set say to such a wife for her only son of whom she was so proud?

"Ronald told me that Miss Meredith is quite fresh from boarding-school," she said faintly, after a moment.

"Oh! yes, she had one year at Staunton," said Violet, carelessly, yet enjoying to the utmost the anxiety she had awakened in the mind of the proud old lady. "Of course you know, dear Mrs. Valchester, that one year would not be sufficient to give the polish requisite for such society as your son's wife will mingle in. You will have to give Lina the benefit of your own knowledge, of course. I am quite sure she will do her best to appear to an advantage. She has always made the very most of her few opportunities."

Violet talked so kindly and patronizingly that Mrs. Valchester did not suspect the hidden malice that lurked in her words, yet she began to feel vaguely uncomfortable. Her placid conviction that her gifted son could not have made a bad choice began to give place to anxiety.

"I am very anxious to see Miss Meredith," she said. "I wish I had felt well enough to drive over to Meredith farm with Ronald to-day. Tell me, Miss Earle, do you think my son has chosen a wife who is likely to do credit to his judgment?"

"I really should not like to express an opinion," replied the girl, with an appearance of the greatest frankness. "It is always very difficult to decide such a question. Lina Meredith is certainly unformed and a little rustic at present. But these are defects which time and the mingling in good society will certainly amend, you know."

"Do you believe that she is in love with my son?" asked the old lady, anxiously, and feeling to herself that a genuine affection felt for Ronald by the girl of his choice would condone a multitude of faults.

"I could not tell you," replied Violet. "I have never heard her express an opinion concerning him. Of course his wealth would be a great temptation to a girl in her position, but no one has a right to judge that she accepted him for that. It must be that she loved him, Mrs. Valchester. One reared so rudely and plainly as poor Lina has been, could not really form an idea of the great advantages wealth would bring her."

Every innocent seeming word had a barbed point for the heart of the proud mother. Violet talked to her some time about Jaquelina.

She appeared very frank and open, but she made Mrs. Valchester understand very plainly by skillful innuendoes that she was by no means on terms of intimate association with her son's betrothed, and that their acquaintance had simply consisted of a series of kindly, patronizing acts on her part.

CHAPTER XVII.

Ronald Valchester, whiling away the sunny afternoon by the side of his betrothed, little dreamed with what subtle art Violet Earle was implanting a prejudice in his mother's mind against his darling.

He was fastidious, and harder to please than most men, but even his exacting taste could find few things in Jaquelina that he would have cared to change.

She was naturally refined, graceful and polished, and her beauty was so remarkable that even in her simple print dress and white ruffled apron, Ronald thought her lovelier than any satin and jewel-bedecked belle he had ever met in society.

"Lina, sing to me," he said, when the sunset glow began to crimson the west. "I have longed to hear you sing so often while I was away from you."

She smiled, and turned her face to watch the setting sun as she began to sing.

Ronald thought there was nothing on earth so fair as that face, with the parted crimson lips, and the wonderful light that always came upon it when she sang.