PRELUDE. THREE PICTURES.

Picture number one shows us a young man of about twenty-eight years standing on the veranda of a fine country residence that rises out of the midst of spacious and well-kept grounds, while stretching out and around on every hand are many broad acres of carefully tilled fields of grain, luxuriant waving grass, and, in the distance, a belt of woodland.

Behind the mansion are roomy and substantial barns and outhouses for various purposes, all in perfect repair and telling of comfortable quarters for horses, cows, and other kinds of stock. It is, in fact, a thrifty and ideal New England farm, and a home of which any man might reasonably feel proud.

But the young man standing upon the broad veranda has at this moment no thought of his prospective inheritance. His form is as rigid as that of a statue; his face is set and colorless; his eyes wide and staring and full of hopeless wretchedness, as they scan the letter which he is holding in his hand. The missive had been brought to him a few moments previous by[4] the hired man who had just returned from the village post-office, and who had shot a sly glance and smile up at his young master, to indicate that he had not been unmindful of the delicate and flowing handwriting in which it had been addressed, that had caused such a glad light to leap into the eyes of the recipient and made him blush like a girl as he tore it eagerly open.

Let us read the lines which occasioned such a sudden transformation, blotting out the love-light from his eyes, burning to ashes all the tenderness in his nature and writing hard and cruel lines upon his face:

“Alfred: I know that you can never forgive me the wrong I am doing you, but, too late, I have learned that I love another and not you. When you receive this I shall be the wife of that other—you well know who. I wish I could have saved you this blow, so near the day that was set for our wedding; but I should have doubly wronged you had I remained and fulfilled my pledge to you with my heart irrevocably given elsewhere. Forget and forgive if you can.

“T. A.”

“My God! and she was to have been my wife one month from to-day!” bursts from the white lips of the reader as he finishes perusing the above for the second time.

He sways dizzily, then staggers toward one of the massive pillars that support the roof of the piazza, and leans against it, too weak from the terrible shock he has received to stand alone; and there he remains, staring sightlessly before him, oblivious to everything save his[5] own misery, until an elderly gentle-faced woman comes to the door and says:

“Alfred, supper is ready.”

The man starts, stands erect, his brows contracted, his lips set in a white line of determination. He deliberately folds the letter, returns it to its envelope, and slips it into an inner pocket. As he crushes it down out of sight a look of hate sweeps over his face and blazes in his eyes.

Then he turns and follows the woman into the house.

Picture number two was sketched more than two years later, and shows a small, meagerly furnished room, in an humble tenement, located in a narrow street of a great Western city. It has only one occupant—a young and attractive woman, who is sitting before a fire in an open grate, for it is a chill November night.

Her face is stained with weeping; her eyes are red and swollen; great heart-rending sobs burst from her every now and then, and she is trembling from head to foot.

As in the first picture, there is a letter. She holds it in her hands, upon her lap, and she has crumpled it with her fingers, which are twitching nervously, causing the paper to rattle in her grasp.

“Merciful Heaven! can it be true?” she breathes, between her quivering lips. “I cannot, will not believe a human being could be so heartless, so lost to all honor and manliness.”

She raises the missive, spreads it out before her, and[6] reads it through again, although every word was already seared, as with a hot iron, upon her brain. It was brief, cold, and fiendishly cruel. It was addressed to no one, and was also without signature.

“I’m off,” it began. “There is no use in longer trying to conceal the fact that I am tired of the continual grind of the last two years. It was a great mistake that we ever married, and I may as well confess what you have already surmised—that I never really loved you. Why did I marry you, then? Well, you know that I never could endure to be balked in anything, and as I had made up my mind to cut a certain person out, I was bound to carry my point. You know whom I mean, and that he and I were always at cross-purposes. The best thing you can do will be to go back to your own people—tell whatever story you choose about me. I shall never take the trouble to refute it, neither will I ever annoy you in any way. Get a divorce if you want one. I will not oppose it; as I said before, I am tired of the infernal grind and bound to get out of it. I’ll go my way, and you may go yours; but don’t attempt to find or follow me, for I won’t be hampered by any responsibilities in the future.”

The woman fell into deep thought after this last perusal of the letter, and she sat more than an hour gazing into the fire, scarcely moving during that time.

The cheap little clock on the mantel striking eight finally aroused her, and, with a long-drawn sigh, she arose, walked deliberately to the grate, laid the epistle on the coals and watched it while the flames devoured[7] it, reducing it to ashes, which were finally whirled in tiny particles up the chimney by the draft.

“So that dream has vanished,” she murmured; “now I will come down to the practical realities of life. But, oh! what has the future for me?”

Picture number three is not unveiled until fourteen years later.

In a palatial residence on Nob Hill, in San Francisco, a distinguished-looking gentleman may be seen sitting in his luxurious library. Its walls are hung with an exquisite shade of old rose, the broad frieze representing garlands of flowers in old rose, gold, and white. The furniture is of solid mahogany, richly carved, upholstered in blue velvet and satins; costly draperies are at the windows; Turkish rugs of almost priceless value are strewn about the inlaid and highly polished floor, and statues, bric-a-brac, and fine pictures, gathered from many countries, are artistically arranged about the room.

The gentleman, who is in evening dress, excepting that he has on a smoking-jacket of rich black velvet, is lazily reclining in an adjustable chair, and engaged in cutting the leaves of one of the late magazines, while he smokes a cigar.

Presently the portieres of a doorway are swept aside, and a beautiful woman enters. She is in full evening dress, and clad like a princess in satin, of a deep shade of pink, brocaded with white. Diamonds encircle her white neck, gleam in her ears, and amid her nut-brown hair.

[8]

The gentleman turns to her, his face glowing with mingled pride and pleasure.

“Nell! what a vision of loveliness!” he exclaims, with an eager thrill in his tones.

She comes to him with a fond smile upon her lips, lays her fair arms around his neck, and kisses him.

“So much for your flattery,” she playfully responds.

“Ah, I am tempted to try for the same reward again,” he returns, in the same vein, as he captures one jeweled hand and lays it against his lips.

“But, dear, do you know how late it is getting to be?” questions the lady, as she glances at the gilded clock on the mantel.

“Well, I am all ready, except getting into my coat. Run away for your opera-cloak, and I will not be a minute behind you, though really, Nell, I am too comfortable to move,” concludes the man, in a regretful tone.

“Oh, you lazy, unappreciative fellow,” gaily retorts his companion. “Here one of the leaders in society is about to tender a brilliant reception to the distinguished mayor of the city, and he is so indifferent to the honor that he prefers to sit and smoke at home to receive the homage awaiting him. Come, sir; your wife is ambitious if you are not.”

She administers a playful box on his ear as she ceases, then trips away, while the gentleman watches her with a smile on his lips and his heart in his eyes.

He arises the instant she disappears, and is on the point of following her when his glance falls upon a paper which, until that moment, has lain unnoticed[9] upon the table. He picks it up, and runs his eyes up and down its columns.

Suddenly a shock seems to go quivering through him, and every particle of color fades out of his face. He stands up as if transfixed for a full minute. Then the paper drops from his grasp.

“At last!” he mutters; “at last!”

He draws a long, deep breath, like one who, having been long oppressed, suddenly feels a weight removed. Then he throws back his shoulders and walks with a proudly uplifted head and elastic step from the room.

[10]

CHAPTER I. AN ACT OF HEROISM.

A long and heavily laden passenger-train—the 3 o’clock limited express from Boston to New York—and composed chiefly of parlor-cars, was almost ready to pull out of the station. The engineer and fireman were in their places, while the porters, standing beside their steps, were awaiting the last signal from the gong.

Midway of the train, and sitting at the open window of her section, a young girl of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years, was sitting. She was a veritable pink-and-white beauty, with golden hair lying in soft, fluffy curls about her forehead, beneath which a pair of mischievous blue eyes—a saucy light gleaming in their azure depths—looked out and down upon the handsome face of a tall, well-formed youth, with an unmistakable air of high breeding about him, who was standing on the platform outside with a somewhat lugubrious expression on his countenance.

He was evidently about eighteen years of age, and everything about him indicated a scion of a wealthy aristocrat.

“Remember, Mollie,” he was saying, “you have promised to write me every week, and I shall expect you to tell me everything you hear, see, and do—yes,[11] and think. I don’t know how I’m going to stand it to have you gone, for nobody knows how long, with the ocean between us and all our good times at an end.”

“Nonsense, Phil, you silly boy! You are going to be at Harvard, and, absorbed in your studies and your various clubs and societies, you will soon forget all about those ‘old times,’ and be bored beyond expression if I should take you at your word and inflict a letter, filled with foolish, girlish gossip, upon you every week,” the girl laughingly retorted.

Nevertheless, her saucy eyes grew a trifle sad while she was speaking, and a deeper pink glowed upon her cheeks.

“No, it is not ‘nonsense,’ and I shall never ‘forget,’ as you will prove to your satisfaction, if you will only do your duty,” the young man earnestly returned. “So send on your letters, and mind, Mollie, you don’t let any one steal your heart away from me, for you know you are to marry me just as soon as I am through college.”

He had lowered his voice during this last sentence, while he regarded the lovely face with a tender, admiring look that spoke volumes. The azure eyes drooped and a scarlet wave leaped to the delicately blue-veined temples; but she replied:

“Marry you as soon as you are through college, indeed!—who said so, I should like to know?” A tantalizing laugh revealed two rows of small white teeth between the ruby lips.

“Mollie! Mollie! don’t torment me,” the youthful lover returned, with a note of earnest entreaty in his[12] tone. “You know that we have planned it all a hundred times, when you and I were playing ‘keep house’ together in the tent under the old elms at your home on the Hudson.”

“Oh, but that was only play, Phil. In another month you’ll be dancing attendance on the pretty Cambridge girls, and, after four years of such fun, you’ll cease to remember that such a being as Mollie Heatherford exists, or that she ever played Joan to your Darby under the elms at Sunnyhurst,” and two roguish eyes gleamed with mischief as they scanned the clouded face beneath her.

“You are cruel, Mollie. I shall always be faithful to you, and I wish you would give me some pledge before you go; say,” as his glance fell upon the small, white hand that rested upon the window-sill, and on which there gleamed several costly rings, “give me that cameo you are wearing to seal the compact. It really isn’t a lady’s ring, and would look far better on my hand than yours, and I’ll send you something pretty and nice in place of it. Now, Mollie, dear, be good to me—don’t go away and leave me in suspense.”

But Miss Mischief had no intention of being caught in the net so cleverly spread for her. She laughed roguishly back into the handsome face upturned to her, and saucily shook her head.

“No, I can’t give you the cameo, Phil,” she said, “and I’m not going to make any promises—now. Hark, there is the last bell. Good-by, and do yourself credit at college.”

The train began to move as she spoke. Phil clasped[13] the hand outstretched to him while he ran along beside the car.

“Remember, it is mine. I shall claim it in four years, promise or no promise. Now, write me every week; don’t forget me; good-by.”

He had to relinquish the hand at last, but he took off his hat and waved a farewell, while his fond eyes lingered upon the sweet, smiling face looking back at him, until the train rolled out of the station.

He knew it would be the last time he would see it for a long while, for pretty Mollie Heatherford was soon to go abroad for an indefinite period. She had been spending a week with the Temples in Brookline—Phil’s home—making a farewell visit previous to her departure, and she was now on her way to New York to rejoin her father and mother, and the trio were to sail for Europe within a few days.

“By Jove! I believe she is the prettiest girl I ever saw, and she’ll have a pile of money some day. I’ll stick to Mollie and her pile, and the Cambridge girls may hang their harps on the willows for all me. I’m going to look out for number one.”

Such were the mental comments of Philip Wentworth, whose mother—a widow—had married a wealthy man by the name of Temple some four years previous. And these comments were an index to the young man’s character, which, summed up in a word, might be written selfish.

The express-train steamed rapidly on its way, bearing the pretty heiress of the Heatherford million toward her home. The day had been very hot and[14] sultry—it was late in July—and some three hours after leaving Boston ominous clouds began to gather in the West. A little later the train ran into a terrific electric-storm.

Mollie Heatherford sat crouching in her section, white and trembling, and dreading every instant a deadly bolt which would bring swift destruction and annihilation to her, yet too proud and sensitive to confess her fear and seek the reassuring companionship of some fellow traveler.

The heavens were so thickly overcast, and the rain descended in such torrents it seemed almost like night in the car, and the porter began to light the lamps.

He had only half-completed his task when there burst upon the affrighted ears of the awe-stricken passengers within the train a startling, warning whistle from the engine, then a sudden shock and crash, followed by shrieks and cries of men, women, and children.

On this same afternoon, while “the Limited” was speeding on its way from Boston to New York, a youth of perhaps seventeen years might have been seen toiling beneath the blazing sun in a hay-field, adjoining the grounds surrounding a stately mansion, and which was located on the outskirts of a beautiful country town not far from New Haven.

Every now and then the young man would glance anxiously up at a small cloud that was floating along the western horizon, and every time he looked it seemed to have grown larger and larger. Then he would fall to work again with fresh vigor, apparently unmindful[15] of the broiling heat and of the great beads of perspiration which rolled over his face and dropped upon the ground.

He was working alone, and it did not seem possible that he would be able to get all the hay in the field into cocks and covered with caps before the storm would be upon him. But there was a resolution in every glance of his eye, determination in every vigorous movement of his body, and he pressed on, while the cloud grew, mounting higher and higher in the heavens, while vivid flashes of lightning, followed by the heavy roll of thunder, gave warning that the storm was coming nearer and nearer.

He had timed himself well; the task was completed; the last cap spread as the first drops fell, when the youth shouldered his rake and turned his steps toward the farmhouse. He had to run for it, for the storm was fast overtaking him, but he reached the great barn just in season to escape the deluge.

Hanging his rake upon a beam, he removed his broad hat, wiped the perspiration from his face, and heaved a long sigh of relief.

“Well, I did it,” he observed, with a satisfied uplifting of his head, “but small thanks I’ll get for my efforts. However, that is not my affair. My part was to do as I’d be done by, thanks or no thanks. Great Cæsar! how it rains! What lightning! What thunder!” he exclaimed, as flash after flash swept athwart the murky sky and almost simultaneous reports crashed like the continuous firing of mighty cannons,[16] while the rain came down in sheets and drenched the thirsty earth.

He stood watching the conflict of elements for a few moments, then he remarked again:

“I am sure I have earned the right to rest a while, so I’m going in to have a tussle with Tacitus for an hour or two. Ho! hum! I wonder if I shall be able to pass the exams. and enter college this fall.”

He tossed his hat upon a peg, then, passing through a side door, traversed a short passage, then a shed, and finally entered the roomy, pleasant kitchen of the farmhouse, where a tidy, good-natured looking woman was mixing biscuit for supper.

With a smile and a pleasant word to her, the young man crossed the room, opened a door and mounted a flight of stairs to a small room on the back of the house, and which overlooked a winding stream, and, a few rods away, the railroad. Here he threw himself into a chair before a table, upon which there were several books, and was soon absorbed in the “Annals of Tacitus.”

Suddenly there came a blinding flash of lightning, followed instantly by a crash that seemed to shake the very foundation of the earth.

“That was very near,” muttered the youth, looking up from his book and glancing out of the window.

A startled cry burst from him as he did so, and he sprang to his feet.

“Heavens! the old crooked maple has been struck and fallen directly across the track!” he exclaimed.

He snatched a cheap watch from his pocket and[17] glanced at it, his face growing white with a terrible fear.

“The New York limited express will be due here in exactly half an hour. Unless something is done, some warning given before it rounds the curve there will be a horrible accident,” he soliloquized with pale lips.

He rushed from the room, down the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the shed, where, seizing an ax, he darted out of a back door unmindful of the pouring rain, through a garden, and down a bank beyond, and, in another moment, was on the railroad beside the great tree, whose trunk was at least twelve inches in diameter, and whose branches spread out over the track for many feet.