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CHAPTER VHI. 
“ There are points from which we can command our life, 
When the soul sweeps the future like a glass.” 
Virginia got out of the boat in the little wooded cove and 
began to walk rapidly back toward the Hall. She had for¬ 
gotten the sick boy who was awaiting her return, for she 
was completely absorbed in the idea of escape from a men¬ 
acing danger. She shrank back from herself with a feel¬ 
ing that the time might come when she could no longer 
control her life. She must fly while strength yet remained. 
Her heart fluttered like a frightened bird with the thought 
of those impetuous, burning words of love that had been 
poured into her ears. She had given her heart- ignorantly 
and unconsciously, but now the knowledge that she was 
loved brought no joy, only despair and anguish. She felt 
basely wicked. What was there in loving or being loved 
that could atone for the sin of treachery to the friend who 
had trusted her with such generous, open-hearted confi¬ 
dence ? 
Eor a long time Virginie had been secretly determined to 
leave the Hall, and her thoughts and plans had all looked 
to that etid. She had written to Pastor Viardot, but a 
fortnight must elapse before his answer could’arrive, and 
now she was without means to make the journey back to 
Geneva. Her uncle, who filled her with fear and loathing, 
aDd who yet possessed a strange power over the poor girl, 
had by mysterious missives summoned her to more than 
one secret interview since their first meeting in the pine 
grove. She dared not expose him to her friends, and his 
covert threats filled her with shuddering dread for their 
safety. She had given him nearly all the gold pieces in her 
little purse at an interview in the grounds. And it was 
from this interview, late in the evening, that Hanna had 
let her into the house looking white and scared. 
Although Ereeborn had grumbled at the small sum 
which the little purse contained, and had accused her of a 
deplorable want of all proper affection and feeling for him, 
in not bleeding Miss Braithwaite, he had promised to leave 
the neighborhood. His lurking presence near the Hall 
filled Virginie with a creeping terror, for she was sure this 
sinister man had possessed himself of every secret con¬ 
nected with the place, and a vague sense of danger hover¬ 
ing over her kind friends and protectors destroyed sleep 
and appetite. She seemed held in the grasp of a night¬ 
mare, and yet the time that must elapse before an answer 
could come from Pastor Viardot brought a certain relief, for 
it gave her the power to watch over the safety of the house, 
and to assure herself that 'Walter Ereeborn had actually 
quit the country. Night after night she lay broad awake, 
with a painful tension of the nerves, waiting, watching, 
dreading she knew not what. 
For several days past he had left her unmolested, and 
she was beginning to breathe a little more freely, when 
Edgar Swayue’s account of the burglary at Deanport had 
brought all the old terror back with tenfold force upon her 
heart. She had nearly fainted at the breakfast table, and 
it was impossible to conceal her agitation from Bradley, 
whose eye she had felt searching down into her secret. 
Those moments when Edgar was detailing his suspicions 
about the mysterious stranger at the mine were terrible to 
live through, but as well as the confusion of her senses 
would allow her to gather, she heard that the man had dis¬ 
appeared, and it seemed to give a gleam of hope in the 
darkness. It was horrible to be made an accomplice in the 
man’s crime, to have guilty suspicions polluting her pure 
bosom, for it was impossible not to believe the worst of 
Walter Ereeborn. 
If he had participated in the Deanport affair, the country 
now being roused, the mine would no longer be a safe 
hiding place. Virginie had pondered sadly upon this all 
the morning, and now the scene with Bradley in the boat 
had brought a new and overpowering sense of danger and 
shame, and though almost penniless, she was prepared for 
immediate departure from the Hall. The place was fresh 
with subdued gold, and frescoing, and crimson carpets, soft 
to the feet, and with the scent of varnish on the new, rich 
upholstery. Virginie arrested her steps at the sight of a 
pile of letters on the lobby table. She had no correspond¬ 
ents in this country, but the thought occurred to her that 
Parson Viardot’s message might have come sooner than she 
had calculated, and she saw amid the heap a long, slender 
envelope addressed in her name. It bore no foreign post¬ 
mark, and Virginie took it up shudderingly, foreboding a 
mysterious summons to her uncle’s new place of conceal¬ 
ment. She ran with it up the stairs, and locked herself in 
her own room. 
The letter when torn open revealed a sheet of exquisite 
scented note-paper, traced in the finest feminine hand. 
“ Dear Mademoiselle Duval,” it ran, “ you will be sur¬ 
prised to receive a letter from one so nearly a stranger to 
you as I am. Our intercourse on the steamer was very 
slight, but having heard from my son of the great disap¬ 
pointment which attended your arrival iD this country, my 
interest in you could not fail to be awakened. Your resi¬ 
dence at Halcourt Hall has doubtless been of benefit both 
to yourself and 10 my niece Winnifred, but by putting my¬ 
self sympathetically in your situation, I am confident that a 
mere life of dependence will not long satisfy one who has 
the power to place herself in a more becoming and conge¬ 
nial sphere of life and duty. 
“ I know, dear mademoiselle, that you are amply quali¬ 
fied, both in mind and manners, being well versed in music 
and the modern languages, to fill the place of governess in 
one of our best families. Such a position involves little 
hardship, and the young person who occupies it is gener¬ 
ally treated with more kindness and consideration than in 
a similar position in the old world. 
“ With an instinctive regard for the scruples that must 
arise in a mind as delicate as your own, and a knowledge 
of the various annoyances that a sensitive spirit is subjected 
to when in a state of dependence, even among attached 
friends, I have ventured to proffer my services in procuring 
for you a pleasant home, where none of these burdens need 
be felt. If you will come to my house here, it is freely 
open to you for any length of time you may find it agree¬ 
able to remain, while we compare ideas as to what will 
best render your future both useful and happy. I will add 
that I have now in mind a dear friend in Maryland, who 
would gladly receive you into her beautiful home, and 
give you the educational charge of her children. That 
your movements may be quite unembarrassed, I will send 
a sum to defray the expense of your journey, as soon as I 
hear that the plan meets your approbation. Do not hesi¬ 
tate about using it, dear mademoiselle, for you can return 
it at your own convenience. 
“ Of course you are well aware that my son is betrothed 
to his cousin. When the marriage takes place their estab¬ 
lishment will necessarily be put on a different footing, and 
perhaps it may be agreeable to you to have settled plans 
and prospects in life before the event occurs. I shall be 
more than glad to occupy toward you the position of friend 
and helper which my son undertook to fill. He would be¬ 
friend any woman, however poor or old, who needed assist¬ 
ance, but new affections and duties may cause him to over¬ 
look your interests, and I have therefore taken the liberty 
of volunteering my aid and friendship. 
“ Believe me ever sincerely yours, 
“ Edith Halcourt.” 
Virginia, already crushed and beaten down to the earth, 
felt this new humiliation to be more than she could bear. 
Gentle as she was, her pale face burned with anger and 
shame, as she crumpled the hateful letter in her hand, and 
longed to fling it back in the face of the hard, cold, elegant 
woman of the world who had tried to cover up her selfish 
designs with smooth words and proffers of friendship. 
Though inexperienced in the ways of life, she felt the 
covert insult in nearly every line, and penetrated the mo¬ 
tives of the writer. This woman had extorted from her 
son a promise blighting to all his hopes of happiness, and 
now she would sweep out of her path every obstacle in the 
way of her ambition. No, she would never put herself in 
Mrs. Halcourt’s power, and allow her to probe down to the 
sad, hopeless secret hidden in her heart. 
Then came a great revulsion of feeling, and the memory 
of the wrong she had done, the deceit she had practiced 
toward Winnifred, swept over and humbled her to the 
dust. She would force herself to accept Mrs. Halcourt’s 
proffered aid, as a penance for her sin—at least until the 
way opened for her return to Geneva. Then for a long 
hour she lay with her face buried in the pillow, crying out, 
m the depths of her loneliness and friendlessness, to God 
and the good angels, to her dear dead parents, to keep her 
safe from temptation and life-long remorse. If the love in 
her heart could slay her and do no harm to others, she 
would welcome death as a blessed relief. 
At last Virginie arose, and, heavy eyed and pale, but 
tearless, seated herself at her little table and penned a cold 
and formal note to Mrs. Halcourt, in which she thanked 
her, and accepted the situation in Maryland, saying that 
she would go directly to the place as soon as she received 
directions for the journey. The money for her expenses 
she would also take, with the understanding that it was to 
be paid out of her first quarter’s salary. Virginie paused, 
counting the days; two, at least, perhaps three must elapse 
before an answer could reach her. How could she remain 
at the Hall and meet Bradley Halcourt with the knowledge 
that lay between them, and be tortured by the unconscious 
endearments and caresses of Winnifred ? What could she 
do—where spend the interval ? Suddenly there occurred 
to her the name of Hopedale, a little village among the 
hills, that lay upon the railroad some ten or fifteen miles 
from Halcourt. She had never been there with Winnifred, 
no one would recognize her as belonging to the Hall, but 
she knew it lay to the north, and was reached by the rug¬ 
ged mountain roads. She could make the journey on foot, 
and if one day did not suffice she would stop over night at 
some friendly farm-house. There was still enough money 
remaining in the little purse to pay her way for a few days 
in a cheap country place. At the bottom of her note Vir- 
' ginie appended the request that Mrs. Halcourt would direct 
to Hopedale. For the evening she determined to feign 
illness and lock herself in her room, not even admitting old 
Nanna with her tea. Poor child, there was no need of 
feigning. Such nights and days had told terribly upon 
her delicate frame, and now she felt a strange lethargy 
creeping into her limbs, and a dullness stealing over her 
brain. But it was settled firmly in her mind that she 
would escape out of the house early next morning, before 
any soul was stirring, and leave behind her a note for Win¬ 
nifred. 
Nothing remained now but to carry the letter to the 
post-office. As she tied on her hat she felt glad that it 
was all settled, and there was no longer occasion to think. 
She was almost past that now. 0, if she could only creep 
away into the dark and sleep forever! 
Virginie had completely forgotten the sick boy, and now 
the memory came back with a pang of reproach, through 
the dull aching that filled her, as she saw Mrs. Einster 
watching in the path, the heavy baby in her arms, and her 
slatternly dress looking as if it might any moment slip off 
her form, totally devoid of hips. 
“ 0 1 what has kept you so, miss ?” she began, in a quer¬ 
ulous tone of remonstrance, which Virginie’s kindness had 
given her the right to use. “Jakey has fretted himself 
most out of his mind. I’m ’fraid the fever and light-head¬ 
edness is cornin’on again. He just needs you as he does 
the air he breathes. I had no idear you was a-going to do 
more than take a row round the lake with that young man, 
Miss Braithwaite’s intended, and when you didn’t come 
back I was just beat.” 
“Iam so sorry Jakey has needed me,” said Virginie, 
with deep humility. “ I had to go up to the Hall, and there 
I found a letter that required answering at once, and now 
I must walk to the post-office in time for the mail. Tell 
Jakey I will hasten back as soon as possible, and will not 
leave him again to-day. If I can find an orange over at 
the store he shall have it.” 
Mrs. Einster could not help noticing the heavy-lidded 
eyes and pitiful, wan face, framed in a mist of golden hair. 
“ You look sick yourself, miss,” said she, beating up the 
baby as if he had been a feather pillow, “and not fit to 
drag over to the post-office. Let Hendrick take the letter. 
He’s got a nimble pair of legs and would get over the 
ground quicker nor what you would. I’ll time him by the 
clock so that he can’t play truems. Poor Jake would be so 
done up not to see you now, and him with his tongue 
parched up in his mouth like a bit of dry hither.” 
“ I will gladly let Hendrick carry the letter,” said Vir¬ 
ginie, with an immense sense of relief, for her feet were 
like two lumps of lead. She paused a moment and looked 
at Mrs. Einster. “ Could you keep me here to-night? If 
it is not inconvenient I will stay by little Jake and nurse 
him for you.” 
“O, how kind you he to the likes of us, miss! I could 
worship the very ground you step on 1 But it’s poor pick¬ 
in’ you’ll have here ; I do the best as ever I can with such 
a pack o’ childern, and the wind has been contrary for a 
few days and the fish won’t bite, and Einster’s such a soft¬ 
hearted creeter when the childern are sick and things go 
wrong, he has to drown his sorrow at the tavern. Miss 
Braithwaite has promised to do fine things for us, now she’s 
rollin’ in money, and could ride in a gold coach. But I 
s’pose she’s all highty-tighty took up with her beau, that 
handsome young man. No matter; I’m too proud-sperited 
to ask help, and now there ain’t a dust of tea in the house. 
But I’ll send up sly to old Nanna and borry a drawing on 
account of you.” 
“ No,” said Virginie, putting her hand in her pocket; “I 
have money, and Kendrick shall buy a pound of the best 
they have at the store, and there will be a little sum left to 
get Jakey an orange.” 
“Never mind the orange, Miss, and God bless you; the 
poor boy don’t want nothing but the light of your face. 
There, I hear him groanin’. Come right in.” 
Bradley brought the boat to shore and fastened it high 
and dry on Einster’s beach, but he made no explanation as 
to the disappearance of Virginie, for at that moment the 
mother was within doors attending to her sick boy. The 
tumult of his feelings was an exquisite kind of intoxication. 
He lost sight of everything but the knowledge that Vir¬ 
ginie loved him. and that awoke a passionate awe, a deep 
religious sense of bliss that brought tears welling up into 
his eyes. He wandered about in an aimless way, lost in 
his sensations, not thinking or caring where his feet might 
take him, when he found himself at the junction of the 
wooded path with the hill road, at the very spot where 
Virginie had flown almost into his arms like a frightened 
bird on the day of his arrival. 
Bradley had been walking in a magic wood, while a 
strange, unreal happiness thrilled his frame, and he was 
now brought back to reality by the shock of remembrance. 
He had slowly and patiently put together all the signs of 
Virginie’s secret trouble, until something like the truth 
