THE RSJBAL J'JEW-YOBKEE, 
she would refuse the love and tenderness he offer¬ 
ed. He spoke truly when he said she needed the 
shelter of his name and of his devotion. As Counts 
essot Ivor the world would have been chary of 
cast!lift a stone at her; as Jean Blair, atone and 
unprotected, they would have an additional 
weapon in the fact that even ho who loved her 
had rorsaken her. 
The light; of the ruddy tire felt full upon her 
face as she stood, showing plainly' the ravages 
her trouble had made; and luting her eyes, she 
let them dwell on him with a love he could not 
but see and leel—and, seeing It and feeling It, he 
canto back to her, and sank on his knees beside 
her. 
“ Ah ! forgive those cruel words," he murmured, 
tenderly. “ Darling, you are trying me sorely, 
and 1 have no more patience. Put your hands In 
mine, sweetheart, and tell me that you will aoeept 
the love I offer- that you will be iny wife!" 
“No," she repeated, drearily, “ no,” 
“No!” He rose and moved away; she looked 
after him with yearning eyes, and her lips trem¬ 
bled at the anger and pain on his face. 
There was a pause then—there was a lifetime of 
anguish to her concentrated in the few moments 
which followed. 
“ is your decision Irrevocable?” he said. “ Could 
no change of circumstances alter it?” 
The stony calm of her face broke, a gleam of 
hope shone In her sad eyes. 
“Only if rny Junocenee were clearly proved,” 
she said, faintly. 
“Not otherwise, Jeauie? think to what misery 
you are condemning 11 s—think of your own loneli¬ 
ness—think of my anguish!" 
“Better loneliness than worse pain—better a 
short anguish now than a lifetime of misery,” she 
said, in a voice of one lu deadly pain. 
“ You send me lrom you?” he went on, In a low 
hoarse voice. 
“ I cannot bring you shame.” 
“ If 1 am willing to accept It?” he pleaded, mote 
gently. 
“ I cannot bestow such a gilt, Archie,” and she 
stretched out her hands to him la passionate en¬ 
treaty ; •* do not leave me tr. anger. ” 
He sprang to her stde again, caught her In his 
arms, covering her eyes, lips, hair, and her little 
thin hands wit h tin; closest, kisses, and the red 
blood rose lu her wan cheek under his touch, 
“ You will have pity on me, Jeauie? Darling, I 
am trying to be patient, but you are taklug from 
me all my happiness " 
She tried to disengage herself, but he held her 
close. 
“ You will not send me away ?” he cried. “ You 
will not—Jean—you will not!” 
“ I must," she said, faintly. 
He flung himself away from her with a passion¬ 
ate exclamation or pain, covering Ids face with his 
hands, she stood watching him wilh a hopeless 
agony on her face. 
“I must,” she repealed; “do not let your last 
words be angry ones, l love you—I shall always 
love you, but I cannot bring you disgrace 1” 
“ You never loved mol” he said, tlercely. 
‘•I love you but too well,” she answered, gently. 
“ Then why condemn me to misery ?” he said, 
more softly. 
“ Why ? Because of that, love.” 
lie watched her for a moment with wonder, and 
admiration, and reverence; he loved her well, 
truly and deeply, but he never loved her wlthsuch 
a love as that I 
Going to her side, he took her hands In his. 
“Hove you,” he said, gravely and quietly. “1 
love you with my whole heart. Nothing can 
change my love. You send me from you and I go, 
but If ever you wish to recall your decision, a word 
from you will bring me to you again.” 
lie stooped and kissed her as he spoke—a grave, 
long, tender kiss, in which w r as no passion now. 
“ We can be rrieuda,” sue answered, tremulously. 
“You know t am leaving Sholto soon; the doctors 
tell me l must not winter here. 1 am going south¬ 
ward wilh the swallows,” she added, torclng a 
smile. “ Meanwhile we can be friends, cun we 
not?” 
“ No, friendship Is possible between us,” he said, 
brokenly, “i cannot be your friend, Jeauie. if 
you are ever in trouble, and need a lrlend’s assist¬ 
ance—send to me then, and i will come, 1 will bo 
your friend." 
He waited a moment longer, but she did not 
speak ; her eyes dwelt on him with a lung, linger¬ 
ing glance, In which was a hopeless melancholy, a 
long farewell; then he dropped the hands he held 
In Ills clasp, andleither, not daring to speak again, 
to her loneliness. 
She stood lor a moment as he left her; her tears 
fell fast and heavy down on the clasped frail bands 
—she was so lonely, so alone now'; and her heart 
ached for love, her youth craved for happiness, as 
a thirsty man craves for the cool water to quench 
his thirst, and both were denied her. 
CHAPTER XXX. 
S1.0VAUE AND ITS GOSSteS. 
The place which Jean had chosen for her win¬ 
ter residence, and whither Collins accompanied 
her, as soon as she was able to bear the Journey, 
was a lovely little Devonshire village, nestling in 
a valley, rich in all nature's loveliness, and hid¬ 
den away in the heart ol that, ralrest of all Eng¬ 
land’s counties. It was a quaint, sleepy little 
place, with but little changes as the years passed 
on, save In the outward lace of nature, the 
change of the seasons; the fair, tender colors of 
-spring, the richer glow of summer’s beauty, au¬ 
tumn’s splendid, tlery magnificence, and winter's 
grave, cold sternness, succeeded each other In due 
course ; a few lives began, a. few ended there, as 
time went on. but, the village Itself slumbered on. 
There was little poverty there and little vice, buL 
there was as much meanness, as much petty envy 
and jealousy, ay, and more, than In larger towns, 
where If crime Is more frequeut, charity Is wider, 
and pity more generous. 
Thither Jean had gone to recover health and 
strength in the mildness of its soft air. in the 
shelter of its wooded hills, colllns was with her, 
and two or three of the servants rrom Blair Gates 
who loved her, and who asked to go with her; It 
was but a modest little establishment for her 
wealth, but site eared for no more; she only 
wanted to forget, and In Airs. Mcl.eod (lor she hail 
retaken her maiden name), she hoped to pass un¬ 
known and unnoticed. 
Lord Sholto hud taken a house for her—a quaint, 
pretty little villa, which they had made as dainty 
and luxurious as possible, so that her arrival was 
rather eagerly looked for by the residents of 
Slovalo, consisting chiefly of the members of de¬ 
cayed families, who prided themselves on their 
respectability and position, and were generally 
poor and arrogant, and sticklers for “birth and 
connections." 
To these people the new tenant, of Bellevue was 
an object of absorbing Interest; that she was 
rich seemed evident, lorall the appointments 01 
her house, though simple, were ot the best and 
most costly; the two horses In her stalnes were 
thoroughbreds, Her one carriage was perfection; 
her staff of servants-throe maids and a man- 
seemed large for one lady; a gardener and a 
stable man completed the establishment—small, 
indeed, in comparison to the household at Blair 
Gates or at Hholto 11 all, but large In the eyes of 
the residents at Hlovaio 
They learned that she was in delicate health, 
and young. Would she receive visitors, and go 
Into society, they wondered. And very soon alter 
her arrival that point was settled, lor hi answer 10 
their calls, Jean sent prettily worded thanks and 
apologies, but said her health did not permit her 
to go into society. 
on the ttrst, .Sunday after her arrival the congre¬ 
gation at the parish church were nil c.n the tiui. 
vtve to see her, and more than one head was 
turned to look at the slender, graceful figure 
which came up the aisle In sweeping mourning 
robes and crape-covered lace When she lifted 
her veil, there was eager curiosity to see t he lace 
It had concealed a tace unutterably sad and 
weary, but very lair to look upon. Then the calls 
had not been made, nor Jean’s apologies for not 
receiving visitors, so .SlOvnlu was prepared to re¬ 
ceive her warmly, and she was pronounced to be 
"very pale, but pretty, and very good style.” 
But as days went by, and Mrs. Mcl.eod showed 
no desire to become better acquainted with her 
neighbors, opinions began to alter; she was pro¬ 
nounced cold and stiff, the languor ol her manner 
was dubbed affectation, her retirement insolence, 
even the pale beauty ot her face lost Its meed 01 
admiration; she was sallow, her face wanted ex¬ 
pression, while as for her liguie, who “oversaw 
any beauty in a maypole?” 
One oi' two of the gentlemen of the coterie were 
more generous; they saw Jean outwardly as she 
was, a beauthuL graceful woman, with suffering 
written distinctly on her lace-suffering borne and 
conquered, but which had text Its scars. 
One friend only had Jeau made: the clergy¬ 
man of the parish had called upon her, and sho 
had been pleased with Iris unaffected kindliness 
of manner and no I mess of life. He was a young 
man, earnest and devoted, and noL very lung mar¬ 
ried; his visit had done Jean good, and she had 
entered warmly Into Ins schemes (or the improve¬ 
ment oi his parish and the bond it hta parish¬ 
ioners. 
‘ il I can help you,” slio said, " 1 shall be very 
glad. 1 am rich, and have but little use now for 
my wealth.” 
When he rose to go, she held out her hand with 
some of her old sweet grace In the gesture, 
■ My wile would ha vc called," he said, coloring 
a little, - but she Is nut yet strong.” 
'• I know," she said, smiling *• l heard that a 
little angel-life had fluttered Into your home-nest 
lately. 1 shall be glad to see you agaiu ; and if 
you think it right to bring her, it will give me 
great pleasure to see Mrs. Moore." 
‘ Jf 1 think it right," he repeated. “ What do 
you mean, Mrs. McLeod V” 
“ Hit down again,” she said, with a faint smile; 
aud l will tell you. When you know my name 
you will know all. McLeod Is my maiden name, 
My husband’s name was Andrew Blair, of Blair 
Gates.” 
There were a few minutes’ stillness uud silence, 
then Juan went on ; 
Yes. J am that most unhappy woman,” she 
said, sadly. “ I was accused of the murder, and 
the verdict was ‘ Not Proven.’ That many think 
me gulliy, I cannot doubt; but. those who know 
and loved me did noL distrust rire lor one moment. 
M ay heaven bless them for that generous belief in 
me I” she added, brokenly. 
You read the trial, Mr. Moore ?” she said, in a 
moment. 
Yes,” he said, hesitatingly; “ I read It.” 
And you deemed me guilty?” said Jean, lilting 
her clear eyes to his face for a moment. 
Yes,” he answered, frankly. “And the ver¬ 
dict surprised me. it does so no longer,” he went 
on qidekly. “J believe you Innocent, Mrs. Mc¬ 
Leod. Yours Is a face which cannot lie.” 
“ You will keep my secret,” she said, smiling 
faintly, as she ln-Jd out her hand to him. “ 1 need 
scarcely ask It. But it you bring your wire to me, 
Mr. Moore, you must tell her llrst. I can have no 
friends unacquainted with my past.” 
“ I will tell her. As soon as she is able she will 
come to you,” he said, and as he bent down in 
farewell, he touched her hand to his Ups with as 
much reverence ns though it had been the lingers 
of an empress. 
so there was a close Intimacy between the Rec¬ 
tory and Bellevue, and the other residents at sio- 
vale were angry thereat. What right, had Mrs. 
Moore to give hersel 1 stuck-up airs ? She was not 
too unwell to receive Mrs. Moore, and to have the 
child at. her house for hours together, and to go 
out driving with the Rector’s wife. Putillc opinion 
was bitterly against her, and the winter passed 
by heavily enough to poor Jean, her only pleasures 
being the society of Mr. and Airs. Aloore and an 
occasional letter from Sholto Hall and Lord Ivor, 
who tiled to write In a Irlcndly tone, but whose 
deep love would break out In spite of Ids efforts to 
restrain it; and sometimes his letters had a 
yearning sadness, which made Jean’s heart, ache 
as she read. 
She heard of him often, for he had thrown him¬ 
self with all his energy Into his poll)leal career, 
and was making himself famous. Jean’s heart 
beat Ugh with triumph us she read of his; her 
bj es Hashed, her cheek bright cued, she was almost 
happy l hen. once. In a court journal, she saw his 
name coupled with the name of one of the fairest 
dcliiiUinirs of the season, a girl whom she had 
known and liked; and although her color faded 
and her eyes grew dim as she read, she tried to 
think she was happiest, because Us life was bright¬ 
ening, and lu her next letter she sent a few tender 
congratulatory words, which came, as she told 
him, from her heart. 
By return or post came the Earl's reply: it was 
shorter and colder than any letter she had ever 
received from him, and it gave a distinct and un¬ 
hesitating denial of the assertion in the newspaper. 
J'oor Jean was inconsistent enough to iccl all the 
happier alter the anl mi ol that letter, 
“ 1 wonder who ( lie man was w ho was spoken of 
in Lbo trial by Mr David Carnes," said little Mis. 
Aloore one day to her husband. “Don't you re¬ 
member. George, she said she had refused to uo to 
the ball because she was afraid of meeting him; l 
wonder why he did not marry her after the trial?" 
“ Perhaps hu did not care to bear her shame with 
her,” sail! the Rev. George, dubiously. 
“Or perhaps she did not care to let him share 
It," said the little wire, gently. “And yet, If he 
had given her his name, They could have goue 
abroad and no one would have recognized her.” 
“He may have been some man of Ugh rank, 
whose actions are always before the public,” said 
the Rector, meditatively. 
“Perhaps, 1 wish she would look less sad, 
George. It is dreary here lor her.' 
“ she Is tranquil, at least, dear wife, and we will 
keep her secret,said tUe Hector, as he dismissed 
the subject, and turned to his Interrupted sermon 
But though they kept litr secret well and 
faithfully, It. oozed out by what means no one 
ever knew : but envy and malice have better 
eyes to discover than love has means of conceal¬ 
ment; and after having spread all manner of 
false reports and stories about the tenant of Belle¬ 
vue, the petty village gossips found out the truih, 
and spread It abroad with all the gusto of a great 
discovery. 
It was some time before Jean guessed that she 
was known; she had kept herself too much In 
retirement 10 mark the avoidance and lUe open 
contempt with which they began to treat Iter; and 
her servants had long know n me brand which was 
upon their mistress before 11 came to her ears, and 
It was only by chance at last that It did so. 
Jean was walking alone down the village street 
when a little yellow-haired child, running across 
the road, foil on the rough stones and began to 
cry. Jean stooped aud lilted it up, saying a few 
gentle words, and slipping a coin into the little 
enubhy ha nds, grazed w Uh the fall; but the child 
shrank from her. 
“ You shan't touch me!" he cried, sturdily, 
through I lie sobs. “ You're wicked! My mother 
says you killed some one once!” 
80 saying, he ran away from her wit h a defiant 
glance, and Jean made hor way home quickly, 
knowing that her secret was known, aud feeling 
utterly miserable aud desolate. 
And then began u Lima which, to a sensitive, 
delicately-nurtured woman, was nothing more 
or less than martyrdom She dared not show 
herself lu the street, so strong was her dread of 
receiving Insults, or hearing coarse insinuations 
il was in valu that Mr. Moore used all Ids Influ¬ 
ence to quell the angry longues; lu valu that Mrs. 
Moore went dally to Bellevue and showed the 
warmest friendship for poor Jeiln ; scandal, ha ving 
such a 1 heme 1,0 descant upon, could not be 
silenced, aud tongues wagged lustily, 
“ 1 must go away," said Jean, one day, to Mr. 
Moore, speaking ever so wearily. “ ( cannot stay; 
and yet, wherever 1 go, the same dreadful story 
will ever follow me! There Is no rest, no respite 
for me! Oh, Mr. Moore! is it wrong to wish my 
pilgrimage, ended ? Every day seems more miser¬ 
able ihan yesterday." 
“ Poor eh I id!” he said, pityingly. “ Bo brave, 
and you will live it down!” 
“BraveI” she repealed. “All my courage is 
gone; and yet I don't think I could die unless 1 
Knew that my Innocence would be proved.” 
“ It is lu wiser ha nds than yours,” said the Rec¬ 
tor, tenderly. “ My child, all things are working 
lor good to them that love him.” 
“ All things!” she repealed, softly, and the de¬ 
spair laded from her eyes. “ Then I will not mur¬ 
mur! it cannot—It shall not be a cross which 
brings me nearer to Him 1 ” 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
WHAT THE 8PUINCI KltOL'GUT. 
It was the springtime again—the lovely April 
month, beloved of poets and painters, half-laugh¬ 
ing, lialf-sorrowful, with Its mingled tears and 
laughter. In the northern counties the chilliness 
of the past winter still lingered; but In the favored 
south the air was soft and balmy, and the country 
was at its fairest. The grass and the moss took 
their brightest coloring; the trees donned their 
spring attire; the hedgerows brightened Into varie¬ 
gated masses of dowers, and tlio violate and prim¬ 
roses were abundant. 
At no place did the sweet springtide' como In 
fairer loveliness than'at Klovalo, and Jean was too 
ardent a lover of nature not to leel soothed and 
calmed by the beauty around her; but her heart 
was too heavy to know any real happiness. The 
time was gone by forever when she would have 
enjoyed a long rumble through t he lanes, and have 
Idled her hands with the violets aud primroaeSJ 
with a child’s pleasure In their sweetness -achlld s 
delight in the mere physical pleasure ol ah' aud 
sunshine; and her eyes would go longingly after 
the rosy children as t hey scampered by her house 
with 1 heir floral treasures. 
But the springtime which brought primroses, 
and violets, and wood-anemones, and snowdrops 
to the village children, was to bring to Jean the 
blessing for which she craved, aud alter the long 
weary months of gloom, the sunshine was shed 
upon llur Ufe once more. 
The French windows of the little drawing-room 
ol Bellevue were open, and the bright April sun¬ 
beams, as they played over (lie pretty velvety 
law 11 and on the flower-beds, gay with many- 
colored spring blossoms, glinted lu through the 
long lace curtains, and touched Jean's gmeerul 
head with a sort, lingering tenderness, as she 
leaned back In a low chaff, looklug out, dreamily 
over the beautliul grounds. Her book lay open on 
her knee, but she was not reading, and she was so 
lost, in h««r day-dream t hat sho did not heed the 
opening of Die door, and the Intruder came softly 
In and stood watching her for some minutes un- 
percelved. 
Suddenly she looked Tip and recognized him— 
recognized him with a little cry of joy which 
broke irom her Ups;as she rose. 
“Archie, Archie, Archie!" she cried out, and 
threw herself Into his outstretched arms with a joy 
which told him that he was welcome beyond all 
words. 
“ Ah ! Jpanic—yon are glad," he said, with a 
tender smile. " Your tace says it plainly, aud 
you need not try to deny It." 
“ You knew I would be glad, Arclllc,” she an¬ 
swered, struggling for cairnness. “Arid 1 am 
glad—how can l help It—when l have longed for 
you with such a bitter longing!” 
“Aud yet you sent me away, Jeanle,” he said, 
with tender reproach. 
Her lace shadowed over. 
“ l welcome my mend,” she said gravely, and 
she die w herself out of hla arms, and motioned 
him to sit down. 
But Lord Ivor laughed softly, and took pos¬ 
session of her again 
“lain not come as your friend,” he said, with 
his eyes on hers. “Do you remember what you 
said, my darling?” 
Her eyes sought his In startled questioning. 
“Are you able to hear good news ?”he said, 
tenderly, "Jeanle, 1 think 1 sun the happiest 
man in all England,” he added, with Irrepressi¬ 
ble gladness. 
“ Tell mo.” she said, faintly. 
He put her Into her chuff again, for she was 
trembling and very pale, and taking his sea t be¬ 
side her, he clasped both her hands tenderly In 
his. 
“ Listen, darling’” he said, softly. “When you 
sent me from you, you told me that, ou one con¬ 
dition only would you listen to the prayers I ad¬ 
dressed to you; that your Innocence should bo 
clearly proved before all the world. It Is so now 
Jeanle!” 
she grew white to hor Ups as sho listened, but 
her eyes, with their silent entreaty, urged uim 
to contlnuu his story. 
The unhappy woman lias confessed all, my dar¬ 
ling. 1 mean Emily Brett,” be went on, tenderly 
“ she has mover known peace, she has never known 
happiness Since anil her remorse has eaten into 
her heart 1t11t.ll slit*,could keep her secret ho longer.” 
“ Emily Brett fl’came from the white lips, 
“ Even so, love, Sir David suspected her from 
the llrat, uud l was determined to know the 
truth. Bear of discovery was ever before her, 
remorse preyed upon her, her health decayed’ 
under the pressure, and when she found death 
was near, she sent lor me and confessed all. It 
seems that she bad loved (he unhappy man whose 
death lay at her door; that he had premised her 
marriage; that when she found him lost to her 
she resolved to revenge herself upon him; and she 
hated you because you Uud supplanted her— 
bitterly enough lo make suspicion fall upon you. 
It is all clear now, my darling; I Imve put the 
confession Into Mr David's hands; lie has taken 
the necessary steps to make It public, amt you are 
cleared for ever from a shadow ol doubt," 
For a moment she did not answer or speak to 
him. but sat watching his face with dilated eyes; 
then a mereilul Hood ot tears came to her relief, 
and with a murmur of thanksgiving, sho lot her 
head (all upon Ills breast, and wept away the last 
bitterness of the cloud which had overshadowed 
her lif e so long. 
“ My darting,” whispered the Earl, after a long 
silence, as he stooped to touch with his Ups the 
closed eyelids, and kiss a way the tears which still 
glittered on tlio long lashes, “ have you nothing 
to say to me V” 
‘•could 1 find words to thank you?” she said, 
with her ayes hidden. “ l cuu guess all you leave 
unsaid, Archie. You have sought to prove my in¬ 
nocence, and so It Is proved.” 
“ it may be so," be said, smlflng. “ 1 do not say it 
is so; but It it be, my dai ling, It was in the selfish 
hope of a reward. Will you deny it me still, 
Jean?” 
She stole her hand up round his neck and clung 
to him, feeling as If this horn- repaid her for all 
her suffering. The silver lining of the cloud was 
turned outwards now, the future rose before them 
with lt.s rainbow of hope and joy, and as Lord 
l vor pressed her to his heart, and Ills lips trembled 
on hens, he knew that she was his own again—for 
ever—for the love wherewith they loved each 
other would not end with Ufe, but would live be¬ 
yond the giavc. 
* » » » * * * 
Then’ Is but little' more to tell.' Happiness 
has no history, they say, and after the long 
course of misery came a perfect feast of Joy. 
Kor many years neither has known anything 
but Joy and pleasure; but t,lie shadow that had 
fallen upon t heir lives had taught them howto 
endure—no moan lesson! ITiUi a swimmer has 
breasted the waves he oanuot tell his strength; 
until a soldier has been m battle his courage can¬ 
not lie proved j until adversity comes upon us wo 
