THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
43 
since, and thought there was a hidden meaning 
in them ; but I was wrong—the desk only con¬ 
tained what I had placed there myself. 
“ We parted next day early, I insisting on 
rising to make the breakfast. He went away, 
and from that day to this we have never met.” 
The doctor and Edith looked ominously at each 
other. 
“ The days passed, full of hope and Joy, when, 
one day, my servant announced, with rather a 
peculiar face, that a gentleman wished to see me. 
“Thinking he might come from ray husband, I 
bade her admit him. His card bore the name of 
Major Cameron. 
“ He entered in a Jaunty kind of way, that as¬ 
tounded me at once. 
“ ‘ Did you come from my husband ?' I asked. 
“ 1 Husband,’ he said. ‘ What husband ?’ 
" ‘My husband,' 1 repeated angrily, ' Captain 
Arthur Mortimer. I am Mrs Mortimer.’ 
“ 1 There is no such captain,’ he cried, * and 
therefore there is no Mrs. Mortimer. You have 
been deceived by a rascal, who has now utterly 
abandoned you—whom you will never see again.’ 
“ I stood annihilated, wholly unable to speak, 
scarcely able to stand. 
“ ‘ It is false !' I cried at last. ‘ It is a vile ca¬ 
lumny ! My husband will return and refute it.' 
•‘‘Never!’ he said. Insolently. ‘I have pur¬ 
chased the place as it stands, and I give you un¬ 
til to-morrow to leave—unless, indeed, you like to 
remain with me.’ 
“ This was said with such unctuous insolence 
that I could have struck him. 
“ I bade him stand aside, that I might leave the 
room. 
“ Have you uo marriage certificate to show ?’ 
he asked, not allowing me to pass. 
“ * None,” I replied. 
“ He rubbed his hands, and let me go. 
“ * I packed up my few things, especially my 
desk, and then got from the woman who waited 
on me some Idea of where I was. 
“My husband, as I st.lll believed him to be, and 
as I shall to my latest hour, had left me ample 
means, 
“ I procured a fly, drove to the nearest town, 
where I found a coach that drove through the 
town where my aunt resided. 
“ Yes, in my distress, 1 was going home to my 
aunt. It was Ignorance of the world, it is true; 
but what else could I do ? 
“ It was night when I reached the old place, 
and the coach put, rue down at the door. I gave 
a feeble knock or ring, and a man put my things 
in the hall. 
“ Then the old attendant gave a great scream 
as she rushed Into the parlor. 
“ ‘ Miss Alice come home I’ she cried. 
“ Sty aunt appeared on the threshold, and gave 
me a withering look. She was much aged, and 
leaned on a stick. 
“‘Woman,’she said, In a harsh voice, ‘what 
want you here?’ 
“ * Aunt, tf I have sinned towards you, I have 
repented; but I have not sinned-’ 
“ ‘Begone!’ she cried. 
“ ‘ At least hear me 1’ I urged, piteously. 
“ ‘ No; leave my house,’ she said, • or I will 
have you thrust forth!’ 
“ ‘Not to-night,' put In a gentle voice, that of 
Mr. Linton, * not, at least, until you have heard 
what she has to say!’ And, offering me his arm, 
he calmly led the way into the parlor, where a 
cosy tea was laid out, of which he made me par¬ 
take. 
“Then refreshed and encouraged, I told my 
story, to which he listened without interruption, 
though my aunt's severity did not relax. 
“When I had flnlshed, the excellent man 
spoke. 
“ ‘ That the poor child has been married I have 
no doubt,’ he began; 4 but the whole thing has 
been so cunningly managed we shall have some 
difficulty to prove it. 
“ 1 That Is what I fear.’ 
» ‘You have no idea of the church,’ he contin¬ 
ued, * and you arc told that this officer and gen¬ 
tleman adopted and assumed a false name. All 
this can he searched into. But what do you in¬ 
tend to do ? he said, addressing himself to my 
aunt. 
“ ‘She cannot remain here/ was the cold reply, 
‘ after what has happened. 1 should be pointed 
at with the floger of scorn. As I believe the poor 
girl has been wronged, I shall provide for her.’ 
“ 4 That la like my old friend!’ 
“‘But while you are looking for this rascal,’ 
she continued, ‘she must live in retirement. The 
best thing to do will be to assume a widow’s 
garb,' she said, wlih peculiar significance, ‘and 
a false name. Until she find her husband, I will 
allow her two hundred a year. 1 
“ ‘Verygood,’ said Mr. Linton, stopping any 
objection on my part. 
‘“If she never finds him, which Is most likely, 
she shall have an annuity of the same amount.’ 
i “ I at once removed to a village at no great dis¬ 
tance, where amid sorrow and tribulation, my 
daughter was born. 
“ Meanwhile, Mr. Linton had not been Idle. 
“ He bad looked far and wide for my marriage 
certificate, and could not find it. 
44 Then lie searched for the house in which I 
had lived. He found It, and discovered that the 
man who had frightened me away had left 
wlthln.half an hour of my departure. 
“My husband came home a week alter, and 
heard I had eloped with the Major. 
“ I presume he believed it of me—Heaven for¬ 
give blm!—and so forsook me forever. 
“ Was It a plot of that dreadful man, or was he 
an agent of the father, who had discovered our 
marriage ? 
“ How can I tell now ? 
44 But the approach of death often makes us see 
more clearly, and I believe that I was legally 
married, that my husband dearly loved me, and 
that we were separated by some treachery. 
41 Had we found him, we should have discover¬ 
ed the mystery of the the name. I never saw my 
marriage certificate, and how do 1 know what he 
signed, any more than the name of the church? 
“I never saw the license, and I am sure never 
heard a word of the service, or knew what the 
parson said to me. 
“ I shall die In the belief that he Intended me 
well. 
“Heave my daughter a thousand pounds In¬ 
vested In good mortgages. Mi'. Linton has seen 
to all that, as he has attended to all my affairs 
since tha birth of my child. 
“ Once he wanted me to marry him, saying my 
child would have a father. I declined, firsf, be¬ 
cause I have never loved but once; and second, 
because my husband may still be living. 
“ As soon as I am no more, my child must go to 
London. 
44 Let her take the Inclosed letter to Mr. Lin¬ 
ton, and do as he wishes. 
44 1 have brought her up, with the aid of my 
little means, to earn her own living. 
“Should my child ever meet with any one she 
grows to love, never let her marry clandestinely. 
Let It happen openly, In the light of day, before 
his friends and her friends. It she have any,” 
“Oh, mother!” said Edith, falling on her knees, 
44 1 have deceived you very much! I am engaged 
to he married to Royston Yorke!” 
There was a fearful silence for some mluutes. 
“Give me a strotig dose!” cried the anxious 
i mother. "I should like to hear all about it be¬ 
fore I die!” 
The doctor obeyed, and Edith, with 
tears and Sobs, told her story. 
“ At all events, no harm is done,” 
she said, with a sigh; ** but don’t ex¬ 
pect much of him, as you have not 
heard anything. Poor Jack; this 
accounts for his jealousy, and the cool¬ 
ness of his parents. Finish reading 
my letter.” 
“But I wish her,In all things,” con¬ 
tinued her mother, “ to derer to the 
opinion of Mr. Linton. He will advise 
her for the best, and be her friend." 
“ Should Heaven bring you face to 
face with your father, say 1 died be¬ 
lieving In and blessing him. 
“ Heaven bless and guard my child, 
who, since I lost him, has been to me 
the one earthly blessing. 
"Alice Mortimer.” 
“This lsa most remarkable histo¬ 
ry,” said the doctor, “ and I do believe, 
my dear madam, that there is some 
warrant for your confidence. Did you 
never have a portrait of your hus¬ 
band?” he added, musing. 
“ He showed me a medallion, which 
he intended to give me.” she faintly 
answered; “ but what he did with it I 
know not. 1 was too happy with the 
original to ask for the faint present¬ 
ment. And now I will rest.” 
“You will do the same. Miss Edith," 
urged the doctor, or we shall have you 
111 .” 
“I will not leave her, 'said Edith, 
quietly. 
And they had to yield to her. 
In the morning there was wailing 
and distress. The spirit of the excel¬ 
lent woman known to the people of 
Longmead had passed away. 
CHAPTER VI. 
The Funeral and Departure. 
There were several persons to call 
upon Edith—even the Claytons com¬ 
ing, now that she was In sorrow and 
trouble. 
She saw no one but the doctor and 
the rector. 
A week after the funeral, everything 
being sold up except her personal ef¬ 
fects, a few relics and the desk, Ed¬ 
ith took her departure Into the wide 
world, accompanied only by Gale, who 
said she had Jrlends she wanted to 
see. Of course it was pious fraud to 
accompany the young girl, but that 
was the poor woman’s business. 
Ou reaching London—which seemed 
to .them a wilderness, a waste—they 
found a coffee-house, and put up there 
for the night. 
As soon as they thought the hour 
propitious, they hired a cab, after lock¬ 
ing their things up lu a room, and 
drove to Chelsea, where Mr. Linton 
lived in an old-fashioned house In 
Cheyne Walk. 
A. HAPPY NEW YEAR’ 
THE DEAD VIOLET. 
Where is Hi* hand that gathered it, the violet fresh 
and sweet, 
From its ne*t‘mid the dewy mosses that clothed the 
great oak’s feet ? 
Alas for the ewer fingers ! 
They handled the sword-hilt well ; 
But they could not guard the bright young head 
That found a soldier’s gory bed, 
When the vines were crushed ’neath the guardsman’s 
tread. 
And the night over Alma fell. 
Where is the smile that welcomed it with her gallant 
lover's vow. 
And placed it amid the golden braids that crowned 
her fah' young brow ? 
It ts carved on the lips of marble 
Of the statue that marks her rest. 
As she lies alone in her maiden grave 
In the great cathedral’s solemn nave. 
Where the organ’s voice, like a rolling wave. 
Flows over her virgin breast. 
Leave the violet in the volume of the old romantic 
rhyme— 
Pale symbol of love that has passed away, dry pledge 
of u sweet old time ! 
What would avail to place it 
Again in the soft green grass ? 
The old oak, felled, 'mid the moss is flung ; 
The tale is told and the song is sung; 
Let it molder the moldering pages among; 
So does youth, love, and spring-time pass, 
[S. K. Phillips. 
HER MOTHER’S SECRET. 
CHAPTER V. 
The Elopement. 
[Continued from page LE).] 
“ It will be necesasary to follow me carefully lu 
order to understand all that rollowed. 
g 44 We were to meet on the river hank, and 
go In the boat to a landing, where a close vehicle 
would await us. 
44 A female would be In the carriage, and she 
and I would drive to the spot where we were to 
be married. 
“ I sighed deeply as I parted from my poor 
aunt and Mr. Linton, whom I never expected to 
see again, and went up to my room. 
44 1 put on a neat traveling-dress, 
and that Is all, going down thus ac¬ 
coutered to the garden, where Arthur 
Mortimer — as such I knew him — 
awaited me. 
“We entered the boat, and were 
speedily rowed to where the carriage 
was posted. A very respectable wo¬ 
man stood near the vehicle, which 1 
entered with her, and was driven off 
through the night for about an hour, 
having gone forward on horseback. 
“Wo reached an Inn. Now com¬ 
menced the chief cause of my after 
perplexities. 
44 In my terror and confusion—for 1 
was arrald and confused—I thought or 
nothing. I never heard the name of 
the hotel we stopped at, nor the town 
where we were married. 
“The ceremony, all being ready, was 
performed in a church, the door being 
open, and several persons looking on. 
44 The minister gave us a copy of the 
certificate of marriage, which my hus¬ 
band put In his pocket; and, entering 
a post-chaise, we gave ourselves up to 
the ecstacles of happiness. 
“I knew nothing of the road we 
took, except that It wound a good 
deal amid woods and picturesque 
scenery. Then we reached a small 
Italian villa, where we found every¬ 
thing prepared by my husband, one 
female attendant for myself, a cook, 
and his own man. 
“Now commenced a life of happi¬ 
ness, which I must say never changed 
while we were together. 
“ My husband was necessarily ab¬ 
sent for some time to attend to his 
regimental duties, and to keep our se¬ 
cret. 
44 Thus passed six months, when he 
came home, looking harrassed and 
pale. 
44 4 What is the matter ?’ 1 asked, 
eagerly. 
“ ‘ I must leave you for a week ! It 
Is an Important summons to London. 
I really cannot make out what It 
means. Be careful of yourselr,’ he 
said, gently and kindly, ‘and do not 
go out until 1 come back.' 
“ It was not likely, as 1 had no ac¬ 
quaintance ; but 1 promised all the 
same. 
“Avery handsome present he had 
made me la the first week of our mar¬ 
riage. It was au inlaid desk, In which 
I had collected a few hasty notes 
signed ‘A. M.,’ some bouquets, and 
other trifles, which to me were Inval¬ 
uable. 
44 ‘ Ah, Alice,’ he said, rather grave¬ 
ly, 4 whatever you do, take care of 
that! It Is more valuable than It 
looks.’ 
44 1 have remembered the words ever 
