CHAPTER I.

Three o'clock on a warm June afternoon. The great heat has caused something like a purple haze to cloud over the deep blue of the sapphire sky. There is not one breath of wind to stir the leaves or cool the flushed faces of those whose duties call them out on this sultry June day. Away in the deep green heart of the broad land broad streams are flowing; in the very heart of the green woods there is cool, silent shade; by the borders of the sea, where the waves break with a low, musical murmur, there is a cooling breeze; but here in London on this bright June afternoon there is nothing to lessen the white, intense heat, and even the flowers exposed for sale in the streets are drooping, the crimson roses look thirsting for dew, the white lilies are fading, the bunches of mignonette give forth a fragrance sweet as the "song of the swan in dying," and the golden sun pours down its flood of rich, warm light over all.

Three o'clock, and the express leaves Euston Square for Scotland at a quarter past. The heat in the station is very great, the noise almost deafening; huge engines are pouring out volumes of steam, the shrill whistle sounds, porters are hurrying to and fro. The quarter-past three train is a great favorite—more people travel by that than by any other—and the platform is crowded by ladies, children, tourists, commercial gentlemen. There are very few of the humbler class. Ten minutes past three. The passengers are taking their places. The goddess of discord and noise reigns supreme, when from one of the smaller doors there glides, with soft, almost noiseless step, the figure of a woman.

She wore a long gray cloak that entirely shrouded her figure; a black veil hid her face so completely that not one feature could be seen. When she entered the station the change from the blinding glare outside to the shade within seemed to bewilder her. She stood for a few moments perfectly motionless; then she looked around her in a cautious, furtive manner, as though she would fain see if there was any one she recognized.

But in that busy crowd every one was intent on his or her business; no one had any attention to spare for her. She went with the same noiseless step to the booking office. Most of the passengers had taken their tickets; she was one of the very last. She looked at the clerk in a vague, helpless way.

"Where to, ma'am?" he asked, for she had only said, "I want a ticket."

"Where to?" she repeated. "Where does the train stop?"

"It will stop at Chester and Crewe."

"Then give me a ticket for Crewe," she said, and, with a smile on his face, the clerk complied. She took the ticket and he gave her the change. She swept it into her purse with an absent, preoccupied manner, and he turned with a smile to one of his fellow-clerks, touching his forehead significantly.

"She is evidently on the road for Colney Hatch," he observed. "If I had said the train would stop at Liliput, in my opinion she would have said, 'Give me a ticket for there.'"

But the object of his remarks, all unconscious of them, had gone on to the platform. With the same appearance of not wishing to be seen, she looked into the carriages.

There was one almost empty; she entered it, took her seat in the corner, drew her veil still more closely over her face, and never raised her eyes.

A quarter past three; the bell rings loudly. There is a shrill whistle, and then, slowly at first, the train moves out of the station. A few minutes more, and the long walls, the numerous arches, are all left behind, and they are out in the blinding sunlight, hurrying through the clear, golden day as though life and death depended upon its speed. On, on, past the green meadows, where the hedgerows were filled with woodbines and wild roses, and the clover filled the air with fragrance; past gray old churches whose tapering spires pointed to heaven; past quiet homesteads sleeping in the sunshine; past silent, quaint villages and towns; past broad rivers and dark woods. Yet never once did the silent woman raise her eyes, never once did she look from the windows at the glowing landscape that lay on either side. Once, and once only, she caught a glimpse of the golden sunlight, and she turned away with a faint, sick, shuddering sigh.

Her fellow-passengers looked wonderingly at her. She never moved; her hands were tightly clasped, as one whose thoughts were all despairing: Once a lady addressed her, but she never heard the words. Silent, mute, and motionless, she might have been a marble statute, only that every now and then a quick, faint shiver came over her.

On through the fair, English counties, and the heat of the sun grew less. The birds came from their shelter in the leafy trees and began to sing; the flowers yielded their loveliest perfumes, and the sweet summer wind that blew in at the carriage windows was like the breath of Paradise.

Still she had neither spoken nor moved. Then the train stopped, and the sudden cessation from all sound made her start up suddenly, as though roused from painful dreams.

"Have we—have we passed Crewe?" she asked.

And then her fellow-passengers looked wonderingly at her, for the voice was like no other sound—no human sound; it was a faint gasp, as of one who had escaped a deadly peril, and was still faint with the remembrance of it.

"No," replied a gentleman; "we have not reached Crewe yet. They are stopping for water, I should imagine. This is supposed to be one of the most out-of-the-way villages in England. It is called Redcliffe."

She gave one look through the open windows. There, behind the woods, a little village lay stretched and half hidden by the thick green foliage.

"I want to get out here," she said, in the same faint voice.

Her fellow-travelers looked at each other, and their glances said plainly, "There is something strange about her; let her go." A gentleman called the guard, and the woman, whose face was so carefully veiled, put something in his hand that shone like gold.

"Let me get out here," she said, and without a word he unlocked the door, and she left the carriage. Those who remained behind breathed more freely after she had gone. That strange, mute presence had had a depressing effect on them all.

She looked neither to the right nor to the left, but made her way quickly to the green fields, where the golden silence of summer reigned. She walked there with hasty steps, looking behind her to see if she were pursued.

She opened the white gates and went into a field where the tall trees threw a deep shade. She sat down then, or, rather, flung herself on the ground with a vehement cry, like one who had suffered from a deadly pain without daring to murmur—one loud cry, and, from the sound of it, it was easy to tell that it came from a broken heart. She bowed her head against the rugged bark of a tree, and then fell into a deep slumber. The wearied limbs seemed to relax. To sleep as she did she must have been watching long.

When she opened her eyes again the afternoon had gone and the shadows of evening were falling. It was still bright and warm, but she shivered like one seized with mortal cold.

She rose and made her way to the quiet little village. It was almost out of the world, so completely was it hidden by the trees and hills. She reached the quiet little street at last. She looked at the windows of the houses, but the notice she wanted to see was not in any of them. At the end of the street she came to a narrow lane that led to the woods; half-way down the lane was a small cottage half buried in elder trees.

In the window hung a small placard—"Rooms to let." She knocked at the door, which was opened by a kindly-looking elderly woman.

"You have rooms to let?" said the faint, low voice. "I want two."

Then followed a few words as to terms, etc., and the transaction was concluded.

"Shall my son fetch your luggage?" asked the landlady, Mrs. Hirste.

"I have no luggage," she replied; then seeing something like a doubtful expression on the kindly face, she added; "I will pay you a month's money in advance."

That was quite satisfactory. Mrs. Hirste led the way to a pretty little parlor, which she showed with no little pride.

"This is the other room," she said, throwing open the door of a pretty white chamber. "And now, is there anything I can get for you?"

"No," replied the strange, weak voice. "I will ask when I want anything; for the present I only desire to be alone."

Mrs. Hirste withdrew, and her lodger immediately locked the door. Then she threw off the gray cloak and thick veil.

"I am alone," she said—"alone and safe. Oh, if my wretched life be worth gratitude, thank God! thank God!"

She repeated the words with a burst of hysterical weeping. She knelt by the little white bed and buried her face in her hands. Deep, bitter sobs shook her whole frame; from her white lips came a low moan that betokened anguish too great for words. Then, when the passion of grief had subsided and she was exhausted, she rose and stood erect. Then one saw how superbly beautiful she was, although her face was stained with tears.

She was still young, not more than three-and-twenty; her figure was of rarest symmetry; when the great world knew her it had been accustomed to say that her figure resembled that of the celebrated Diana for the Louvre; there was the marvelous, free-spirited grace and matchless perfection.

She had the face and head of a young queen, a face of peerless beauty; a white, broad brow that might have worn a crown; eyes of the dark hue of the violets, with long fringes that rested on a cheek perfect in shape and color; brows straight, like those of a Greek goddess; lips sweet and proud—they were white now, and quivering, but the beauty of the mouth was unchanged.

So she stood in all the splendor of her grand loveliness. There is over her whole figure and face that indescribable something which tells that she is wife and mother both, that look of completed life.

The hands, so tightly clasped, are white and slender. There is no attribute of womanly loveliness that does not belong to her.

After a time she went to the window. Great crimson roses, wet with dew, and odorous woodbine peeped in as she opened it. The night-wind was heavy with the perfume of the sleeping flowers, the golden stars were shining in the sky, and she raised her pale, lovely face to the radiant heavens.

"My God!" she prayed, "take pity on me, and before I realize what has happened, let me die!"

"Let me die!" No other prayer went from her lips, although she sat there from sunset until the early dawn of the new day flushed in the glorious eastern skies.

While she sits there, with that despairing prayer rising from the depths of her despairing heart, we will tell the story of Marian Arleigh's penance.

CHAPTER II.

"You cannot be cruel. You cannot think it is wrong to meet me. My whole life, with everything in it, belongs to you. If you told me to lie down here and die at your feet, I should do so and smile. Why do you say it is wrong, Marion?"

A lovely, child-like face was raised to the speaker.

"I do not know. I have a vague idea that anything requiring secrecy must be wrong. Is it not so?"

He laughed.

"No, sweet. What would the great diplomatists of the world say to such a theory? Rather try to believe that what is stolen is sweet."

She smiled, but the anxious expression still lingered on her lovely young face. He noticed it.

"As a rule, Marion, you are quite right. Concealments are odious. But there are exceptions—this is one—I love you; but I am only a poor artist, struggling to make a name. You, sweet, are rich and beautiful. From your high estate you smile upon me as a queen might smile on a subject. You are a true heroine. You are content 'to lose the world for love.'"

"I am content," said the girl, with a little sigh of supreme happiness; "but I wish it were all open and straightforward. I wish you would go to my guardian and tell him you love me. Then tell Miss Carleton. Indeed, she would not be angry."

"Do you know what would happen if I did as you advise, Marion?" he asked.

"Nothing would happen," she replied; "and they would be pleased to see me happy."

"You have to learn some of the world's lessons yet," he said. "If I were to go to Lord Ridsdale and say to him, 'My Lord, I love your ward and she loves me,' do you know what he would do?"

"No," she replied, slowly.

"He would send for you at once, and take such measures as would prevent me from ever seeing you again. If I were to tell him, Marion, we should be parted forever. Could you bear that, darling?"

"No," she replied, "I could not, Allan. If you think so, we—we will keep our secret a little longer."

"Thank you," he said, gratefully, kissing the little white hand clasped in his. "I knew you would not be cruel, Marion. You are so heroic and grand—so unlike other girls; you would not darken my solitary life for an absurd scruple—you would not refuse to see me, when the sight of you is the only sunbeam that cheers my life."

The beautiful face brightened at his words.

"You will write to me, Marion—and, darling, my heart lives on your words—they are ever present with me. When I read one of your letters it seems to me your voice is whispering, and that whisper makes the only music that cheers my day. Tell me in your letters once, and once again, that you will be my wife, that you will love me, and never care for any one else."

"I have told you so," she said; "but if the words please you, I will tell you over and over again, as you say. You know I love you, Allan."

"I know you are an angel!" cried the young man. "In all the wide world there is none like you."

Then he clasped the little white hands more tightly in his own, and whispered sweet words to her that brought a bright flush to her face and a love light to her eyes. She drooped her head with the coy, pretty shyness of a bird, listening to words that seemed to her all poetry and music.

It was a pretty love scene. The lovers stood at the end of an old-fashioned orchard; the fruit hung ripe on the trees—golden-brown pears and purple plums, the grass under foot was thick and soft, the sun had set, the dew was falling, and the birds had gone to rest.

The girl, standing under the trees, with downcast, blushing face and bright, clear eyes, was lovely as a poet's dream. She was not more than seventeen, and looked both young and childlike for that age. She had a face fair as a summer's morning, radiant with youth and happiness. Greuze might have painted her and immortalized her. She had a delicate color that was like the faint flush one sees inside a rose. She had eyes of the same beautiful blue as the purple heartsease, and great masses of golden-brown hair that fell in rich waves on her neck and shoulders.

She was patrician from the crown of her dainty head to the little feet; the slender, girlish figure was full of grace and symmetry, the white, rounded throat and beautiful shoulders were fit models for a sculptor. She had pretty white hands, with a soft, rose-leaf flush on the fingers. She was a lovely girl, fair, high-bred and elegant, and she gave promise of a most superb and magnificent womanhood. Such was Marion Arleigh on this June evening. The young man by her side was handsome after a certain style; the impression his face left upon every one was that he was not to be trusted; his dark eyes were not frank and clear, the thin lips were shrewd, with lines about them that betokened cruelty; it was a face from which children shrank instinctively, and women as a rule did not love. They stood side by side under the shade of an elder tree. Plainly as patrician was written on her beautiful face and figure, plebeian was imprinted on his. He was tall, but there was no high-bred grace, no ease of manner, no courteous dignity such as distinguishes the

true English gentleman. His face expressed passion, but half a dozen meaner emotions were there as well. None were perceptible to the girl by his side. She thought him perfection and nothing else.

How comes Marion Arleigh, the heiress of Hanton, ward of Lord Ridsdale, one of the proudest men in England, and pupil of Miss Carleton, to be alone in the sweet, soft eveningtide with Allan Lyster, whose name was not of the fairest repute among men?

If Lord Ridsdale had known it, his anger would have been without bounds; if Miss Carleton had guessed it, she would have been too shocked ever to have admitted Miss Arleigh in her doors again. How came she there? It was the old story of girlish imprudence, of girlish romance and folly, of a vivid imagination and bright, warm poetical fancy wrongly influenced and led astray. Much may be forgiven her, for lovely Marion Arleigh, one of the richest heiresses in England, was an orphan. No mother's love had taught her wisdom. She had no memory of a mother's gentle warning, or sweet and tender wisdom. Her mother died when she was born, and her father, John Arleigh, of Hanton, did not long survive his wife. He left his child to the care of Lady Ridsdale—his sister—but she died when Marion was four years old, and Lord Ridsdale, not knowing what better to do, sent his little ward to school. He thought first of having a governess at home for her; that would have necessitated a chaperon, and for that he was not inclined.

"Send her to school," was the advice given him by all his lady friends, and Lord Ridsdale followed it, as being the safest and wisest plan yet suggested to him. She was sent first to a lady's school at Brighton, then to Paris, with Lady Livingstone's daughters, then to Miss Carleton's, and Miss Carleton was by universal consent considered the most efficient finishing governess in England.

Marion was very clever; she was romantic to a fault; she idealized everything and every one with whom she came into contact. She had a poet's soul, loving most dearly all things bright and beautiful; she was very affectionate, very impressionable, able, generous with a queenly lavishness, truthful, noble. Had she been trained by a careful mother, Marion Arleigh would have been one of the noblest of women; but the best of school training cannot compensate for the wise and loving discipline of home. She grew up a most accomplished and lovely girl; the greatest fault that could be found with her was that she was terribly unreal. She knew nothing of the practical part of life. She idealized every one so completely that she never really understood any one.

Lord Ridsdale wondered often what he was to do with this beautiful and gifted girl when her school days were ended.

"She must be introduced to the world then," he thought; "and I fervently hope she'll soon be married."

But as her coming to Ridsdale House would cause so great an alteration in his way of life, he deferred that event as long as it was possible to do so.

When Adelaide Lyster came as a governess-pupil to Miss Carleton's school Marion Arleigh was just sixteen. Miss Lyster was not long before she knew the rank and social importance of her beautiful young pupil.

"When you have the world at your feet," she would say to her sometimes, "I shall ask you a favor."

"Ask me now!" said Marion, and then Miss Lyster told her how she had a brother—a genius—an artist—whose talent equaled that of Raphael, but that he was unknown to the world and had no one to take an interest in his fortunes.