Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

POPULAR NOVELS

BY

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES.

Tempest and Sunshine.

English Orphans.

Homestead on Hillside.

‘Lena Rivers.

Meadow Brook.

Dora Deane.

Cousin Maude.

Marian Grey.

Edith Lyle.

Daisy Thornton.

Chateau d’Or.

Queenie Hetherton.

Bessie’s Fortune.

Marguerite.

Mrs. Hallam’s Companion Paul Ralston.

The Tracy Diamonds. (New.)

Darkness and Daylight.

Hugh Worthington.

Cameron Pride.

Rose Mather.

Ethelyn’s Mistake.

Milbank.

Edna Browning.

West Lawn.

Mildred.

Forrest House.

Madeline.

Christmas Stories.

Gretchen.

Dr. Hathern’s Daughters.

“Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer. Her books are always entertaining, and she has the rare faculty of enlisting the sympathy and affections of her readers, and of holding their attention to her pages with deep and absorbing interest.”

Handsomely bound in cloth. Price, $1.00 each, and sent free by mail on receipt of price,

G. W. Dillingham Co., Publishers

NEW YORK.

HAVERLEIGH SAT WITH HIS FACE BURIED IN HIS HANDS.—Chateau d’Or, Page [185].

CHATEAU D’OR
Norah and Kitty Craig

BY

MARY J. HOLMES

G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Copyright, 1880,

BY

DANIEL HOLMES.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

CONTENTS.

CHATEAU D’OR.

We had left Paris behind us, and were going down to the southern part of France, as far as Marseilles and Nice. All day Hal and I had had the compartment to ourselves, and had talked, and smoked, and read, and looked out upon the country through which we were passing so rapidly. But this had become rather monotonous, and I was beginning to tire of the gray rocks, and bleak mountain sides, and gnarled olive trees, when suddenly, as we turned a curve and came out into a more open and fertile tract, Hal seized my arm, and pointing to the left of us, said:

“Quick, quick! Do you see that old chateau in the distance?”

Following the direction of his hand, I saw what at first seemed to be a mass of dark stone walls, turrets, towers, and balconies, tumbled promiscuously together, and forming an immense pile of ruins. A closer and nearer inspection, however, showed me a huge stone building, which must have been very old, judging from its style of architecture, and the thickness of its walls, and the gray moss, which had crept up to the very eaves, and found there before it the ivy, which grows so rankly and luxuriously in many parts of France.

“Yes, I see it,” I said. “What of it, and what place is it?”

“That,” said Hal, “is Chateau d’Or, which, translated into plain English for a stupid like you, means ‘Chateau of gold,’ though why that somber, dreary old pile should have that name is more than I can tell, unless it is that it cost so much to build it. It is nearly two hundred years old. Its first owner ruined himself on it, I believe, and it has passed through many hands since. You see that stream of water yonder, almost a river? Well, that passes entirely round the chateau, which really stands on an island, and is only accessible from one point, and that an iron bridge. That old building has been the scene of the strangest story you ever heard—almost a tragedy, in fact, and the heroine was an American woman, and native of my own town. I’ll tell you about it to-night, after we have had our dinner.”

I was interested now, and leaned far out of the window to look at the chateau, which seemed gloomy and dreary enough to warrant the wildest story one could tell of it. And that night I heard the story which I now write down, using sometimes Hal Morton’s words, and sometimes my own.

THE STORY.

CHAPTER I.
ANNIE STRONG.

“Millfield,” said Hal, “is one of those little New England towns which seem to have been finished up years and years ago, and gone quietly to sleep without a suspicion that anything more could be expected of it. It stands on a spur of the mountains which lie between Pittsfield and Albany, and can be distinctly seen from the car windows, with its spotless houses of white, with fresh green blinds, and the inevitable lilac bushes and sweet syringas in front. I was born there, and when I wish to rest and get away from the noise and turmoil of New York, I go there and grow a younger and a better man amid the Sunday stillness which reigns perpetually in its streets. And yet you would be surprised to find how much intelligence and genuine aristocracy that little village has. There are the Crosbys, who claim relationship with the Adamses, and a real scion of the Washingtons, and a lineal descendant of Lord Cornwallis, and Miss Talleyrand, who prides herself upon having, in her veins, the best blood in New England, though good old Deacon Larkin’s wife once shocked her horribly by saying ‘she didn’t see, for her part, why Polly Talleyrand need to brag so about good blood, when she was as full of erysipelas as she could hold.’”

Here I laughed heartily over Miss Talleyrand’s good blood, while Hal lighted a fresh cigar, and continued:

“Next to these aristocrats—upper crust, as the deacon’s wife called them—comes the well-to-do class, tradespeople and mechanics, the people whose sons and daughters work in the shoe-shops, for you know the shoe business is nowhere carried on so extensively as in New England, and it gives employment to many girls as well as boys, the former stitching the uppers, as they are called, and the latter putting on the soles. There is a very large shop in Millfield, which employs at least fifty girls, and at the time I am telling you about, there was not in the whole fifty—no, nor in the entire town—so pretty a girl as Annie Strong, the heroine of my story. She was not very intellectual, it is true, or very fond of books, but she was beautiful to look at, with a lithe, graceful figure, and winsome ways, while her voice was sweet and clear as a robin’s. Birdie Strong, we called her, on account of her voice, and when she sang in the gallery of the old brick church, I used to shut my eyes, and fancy I was in Heaven, listening to the music of the sweetest singer there.

“Bob I may as well be frank with you. I was in love with Annie Strong, and I am certain she liked me a little, though she never encouraged me in the least. She was not a bit of a coquette, and made no secret of the fact that money, and nothing else, would have any influence with her. Annie was ambitious, and when, from her shoe-bench in the hot work-room, she saw Judge Crosby’s daughter go by in her dainty white dress and sash of blue, she thought hard, bitter things of the humble life she led, and vowed to accept the first man who could give her silks, and lace, and diamonds, and a place in society.

“At last the man came—a brusque, haughty Englishman, with a slight limp in his left ankle, and a cold, hard expression in his steel-gray eyes, but tolerably good-looking, with a certain assurance and style, and lavish generosity, which won upon the people, and made him quite a lion. Eva Crosby invited him to tea; Miss Talleyrand’s niece drove with him once or twice; and so he became the fashion. He was not young—was thirty-five at least, and looked older. He was of Scottish descent, he said, though English born, and he owned an estate in the north of Scotland, a large chateau in the south of France, and a city house in London, and he called himself Ernest Walsingham Haverleigh. If he chose he could be very gracious and agreeable, though his manner was always haughty in the extreme, and had in it an undisguised contempt for everything American.

“I disliked him from the first, and hated him after the day of Miss Crosby’s lawn party, to which Annie Strong was invited, and where she shone the belle of the fête, notwithstanding that her dress was a simple blue muslin, and the ruffle round her throat imitation lace. I learned that fact from hearing Miss Talleyrand’s niece, from Springfield, say to Eva Crosby, in speaking of Anna, ‘She is rather pretty, but decidedly flashy. Her love of finery leads her to wear imitation lace. If there’s any one thing I detest, it is that. It always stamps a person.’

“And so Anna was stamped, but did not seem to mind it at all. How plainly I can see her now as she came through the gate with her hat in her hand, and her beautiful hair falling in curls about her neck and shoulders.

“Up to that moment Haverleigh had maintained an indolent, bored attitude, with a look of supreme indifference on his face, but when Anna joined us, his manner changed at once, and he devoted himself to her with a persistency which brought upon her the jealous rancor of every lady present. But Anna did not seem to know it, and received the Englishman’s attentions with an air of sweet unconsciousness, which only deepened his ardor, and made him perfectly oblivious to every one around him. The next day he made some inquiries with regard to Anna’s family, and before night had learned all there was to know of them, both good and bad. They were poor, but perfectly respectable people, and no taint had ever rested upon the name of Strong. Years and years before, Grandfather Strong had married a second wife, with a daughter about the age of his own son, afterwards Anna’s father, and this daughter, Milly Gardner, who was in no way connected with the Strongs, had run away with a Boston man, who promised her marriage and then deserted her. A few years later news was received in Millfield of her death, and so the scandal died and was buried in poor Milly’s grave, and the family seldom spoke her name. Indeed, Anna’s mother, who was many years younger than her husband, had never known Milly, while Mr. Strong himself, who had loved her as a dear sister, never blamed her. She was more sinned against than sinning, and so he let her rest in peace, and his children only knew of her as Aunt Milly, who was very pretty, and who was dead. Mr. Strong was dead now himself, and his widow lived in a little red house on the common, with her three children—Mary, who made dresses in the winter, and taught school in the summer; Anna, who worked in the shoe-shop; and Fred, the youngest and pet of the family, who was destined for college, and for whom the mother and sisters hoarded their small earnings and denied themselves everything.

“This is the history of the Strongs up to the time when Haverleigh came to Millfield and made up his mind to marry Anna, with the decided understanding, however, that in taking her he was not taking her family. And Anna listened to him, and throwing aside her love, and pride, and womanhood, cast into one scale her humble home, with its poverty and privations, her scanty dress, her hateful life of toil in the dingy shop, stitching shoes for the negroes to wear; while into the other she put a life of ease and luxury, the country seat in Scotland, the chateau in Southern France, the city house in London, with the gay seasons there, and what weighed more with her—the satins, and laces, and diamonds which, as Mrs. Haverleigh, she was sure to wear. Of course, the latter scale overbalanced the former, and without a particle of love, but rather with a feeling of dread and fear for the cold Englishman, Anna promised to be his wife, on one condition. Fred was to go to college, the mortgage of five hundred dollars on the red house was to be paid, her mother was to have a dress of handsome black silk, and Mary one of dark blue. This request she made timidly, not daring to look at the man who, with a sneer on his face, answered, laughingly:

“‘Oh, that is a mere trifle. Fred shall go to college, the mortgage shall be paid, the silk gowns shall be forthcoming, and here is the wherewithal.’

“It was a check for five thousand dollars which he gave her, and his unlooked-for generosity went far toward reconciling Mrs. Strong and Mary to the match. And so it was a settled thing, and Anna stitched her last shoe in the dingy shop; went down the staircase for the last time, sang her last song in church, and was married quietly at home one lovely morning in July, when Millfield was looking its best from the effects of a recent rain. There were drops of crystal on the freshly cut grass, and the air was sweet with the perfume of roses and pinks, and heliotrope, while the sky overhead was blue and clear as the eyes of the young bride, who, if she felt any regret for the home she was leaving, did not show it in the least. Perhaps she was thinking of the costly diamond on her finger, and the silken robe she wore, or possibly of the grandeur which awaited her over the sea. Poor Anna—she was very young—only eighteen—and to change at once from a poor girl, who was every morning awakened by the shoe-shop whistle, to a life she hated, to step into wealth and elegance must have benumbed and bewildered her so that she did not realize what she was doing, when at last she said good-by to the home of her childhood, and went away alone with a man she had scarcely known two months—a man whom she did not love, and who, even while caressing her, made her feel the immense condescension it had been on his part to make her his wife.

“Their destination was New York, where Anna had never been, and where they were to spend a week or two before sailing for Europe. At the hotel where they stopped, Anna met with an old school friend, who, like herself, was a bride taking her wedding trip. As was natural, the two young girls talked together freely of their future prospects and the husbands they had chosen, and Anna could not help showing her elation at being the wife of a man like Mr. Haverleigh.

“‘But tell me honestly, do you love him?’ Mrs. Fleming, said to her one day. ‘He is not at all the person I should have selected for you. Why, do you know I feel a kind of terror stealing over me every time he speaks to me, there is such a hard ring in his voice, and it seems to me a cruel look in his eyes. Then I always thought you would eventually marry Hal Morton.’

“This was a great deal to say to a bride concerning her husband, but Lucy Fleming was just the one to take liberties, and Anna did not resent it in the least, but answered laughingly: ‘Oh, Hal is quite too poor. He took it hard, and looked like a goosey at the wedding. I fancy he did not like Mr. Haverleigh, and I see you think him a kind of Blue Beard, too, and so I confess do I, but then I never intend to peek, and lose my life as did his silly wives. Honestly, though, Lucy, I do not love him, and I experience that same fear of him which you describe, and actually shrink from him when he kisses me; but he is very kind to me, and I believe loves me truly, and I shall make him think that I love him. I married him for money, for fine dresses, and jewelry, and handsome furniture, and servants, and horses and carriages, and that Chateau d’Or, which did more toward influencing me than anything else. Only think of living in a house almost as large as a castle, with a French maid, and troops of servants, and a housekeeper to take every care from me; one could endure almost any man for the sake of all that.’

“Here the conversation ceased, and a moment after Mr. Haverleigh himself entered the room. To an ordinary observer there was nothing in his manner to indicate that he had overheard a word, but there was a kind of ferocious look in his eyes, and his lips were shut more tightly together than usual as he bowed to Mrs. Fleming, and then, crossing to his wife, bent over her affectionately, and kissed her forehead as he asked if she would take a drive. It was a lovely afternoon. The Park was full of people, and Anna’s fresh young face attracted a great deal of notice, as did the haughty looking man at her side, who had never been as lover-like in his attentions as he was from that day on until the ocean was crossed, and they were at the Grosvenor House in London. His own house was closed, he said, when Anna asked why they did not go there, but he drove her past it, and she was sure she saw a lady’s face looking at them from one of the upper windows. Haverleigh must have seen it, too, for he muttered something which sounded like an execration under his breath, and drove on faster than before.

“‘Does any one live in your house? I thought I saw a lady at the window,’ Anna said, timidly, for she was beginning to understand his moods, as he called his frequent fits of abstraction, and knew he was in one now.

“There was nobody occupying his house, and she had not seen any one at the window, he answered rather curtly; but Anna knew she had, and dreamed that night of the large black eyes which had peered at her so curiously from the house on Belgrave Square. She could not be ignorant of the fact, either, that her husband, while paying her marked attention, especially in the parks and at table, was restless, and nervous, and very anxious to hurry away from London, and very impatient on account of the slight illness which kept them there a week longer than he wished to stay.

“Once, just before their marriage, he had asked her whether she would rather go to Scotland first or France, and she had answered Scotland, preferring Southern France later in the autumn, when she hoped to see Nice and Mentone, before settling down for the winter at Chateau d’Or. ‘Then to Scotland we will go,’ he had replied, and she had greatly anticipated her visit to Scotland, and her trip through the Trosachs, and across the beautiful Lakes Lomond and Katrine, but all this was to be given up; her master had changed his mind, and without a word of explanation told her they were going at once to Paris.

“‘You can attend to your dressmaking better there than elsewhere, and you know you are fond of satins, and laces, and jewelry,’ he said, and there was a gleam in his eye from which Anna would have shrunk had she noticed it; but she did not. She was thinking of Paris and its gayeties, and she packed her trunks without a word of dissent, and was soon established in a handsome suite of rooms, at the Grand Hotel, with permission to buy whatever she wanted, irrespective of expense.

“‘I’d like you to have morning dresses, and dinner dresses, and evening dresses, and riding dresses, and walking dresses, and everything necessary to a lady’s wardrobe,’ he said; and poor unsuspecting Anna thought, ‘How much society he must expect me to see, and how glad I shall be of it!’”

Anna was beginning to feel a good deal bored with no company but that of her husband, for though he sometimes bowed to ladies on the Boulevards, no one came to see her, and as their meals were served in their parlor, she had but little chance to cultivate the acquaintance of the people staying at the hotel, so that, with the exception of her milliner and dressmaker, both of whom spoke English, and a few clerks at the different stores, she could talk with no one in all the great, gay city, and there gradually settled down upon her a feeling of loneliness and homesickness, for which all her costly dresses and jewelry could not make amends. But this would be changed when they were at Nice or Mentone, or even at the chateau, which her husband told her was frequently full of guests during the autumn months. Oh, how many pictures she drew of that chateau, with its turrets and towers overlooking the surrounding country, its beautiful grounds, its elegantly furnished rooms, its troops of servants, and herself mistress of it all, with a new dress for every day in the month if she liked, for it almost amounted to that before her shopping was done, and when at last they left Paris, the porters counted fourteen trunks which they had brought down from No. —, all the property of the pretty little lady, whose traveling-dress of gray silk was a marvel of puffs, and ruffles, and plaitings, and sashes, as she took her seat in the carriage, and was driven away through the streets of Paris to the Lyons Station.

“They were going to the chateau first, her husband told her, adding that he hoped the arrangement suited her.

“‘Oh, certainly,’ she replied. ‘I shall be so glad to see one of my new homes. I know I shall like it and perhaps be so happy there that I shall not care to leave it for a long time. I am getting a little tired.’

“They were alone in the railway carriage, and as Anna said this she leaned her head against his arm as if she were really tired and wanted rest. It was the first voluntary demonstration of the kind she had ever made toward him, and there came a sudden flush into his face and a light into his eyes, but he did not pass his arm around the drooping little figure—he merely suffered the bright head to rest upon his shoulder, while he gazed gloomily out upon the country they were passing, not thinking of the dreary landscape, the barren hills, and gray mountain tops, but rather of the diabolical purpose from which he had never swerved an hour since the moment it was formed.

CHAPTER II.
CHATEAU D’OR.

“It was late one September afternoon when they came at last in sight of the chateau, and Haverleigh pointed it out to Anna, who involuntarily exclaimed:

“‘Why, it’s more like a prison than a house: is that Chateau d’Or?’

“‘Yes, that’s Chateau d’Or,’ was the short reply, and fifteen minutes later they stopped at the little town where they were to leave the train.

“Two men were waiting for them, one the coachman, who touched his hat with the utmost deference to his master, while the other seemed on more familiar terms with Mr. Haverleigh, and stared so curiously at Anna that she drew her veil over her face, and conceived for him on the instant an aversion which she never overcame. He was a tall, dark man, with a sinister expression on his face, and a look in his keen black eyes as if he was constantly on the alert for something which it was his duty to discover. Her husband introduced him as Monsieur Brunell, explaining to her that he was his confidential agent, his head man, who superintended Chateau d’Or in his absence, and whose house was close to the bridge which crossed the river so that no one could ever leave the grounds without his knowledge.

“Anna paid little heed to what he was saying then, though it afterward came back to her with fearful significance. Now, however, she was too tired and too anxious to see the inside of the chateau to think of anything except the man’s disagreeable face, and she was glad to find herself alone with her husband in the carriage.

“‘Why does that man stare so impudently at me? I do not like it,’ she said, and Haverleigh replied, jestingly:

‘Oh, that’s the way with Frenchmen; he thinks you pretty, no doubt.’

“They had crossed the bridge by this time, and Anna noticed that they passed through a heavy iron gate, which immediately swung together with a dull thud, which involuntarily sent a shiver through her as if it really were the gate of a prison. They were now in the park and grounds, which were beautifully kept, and Anna forgot everything else in her delight at what she saw about her.

“‘Oh, I shall be so happy here!’ she cried, as they rode along the broad carriage road, and she saw everywhere signs of luxury and wealth.

“And at that moment Anna was happy. She had sighed for money, for a home handsomer than the humble red house far away among the New England hills, and lo, here was something more beautiful than anything of which she had even dreamed. If there had been anything lovable about Ernest Haverleigh, Anna might have loved him then in her great delight with the home he was bringing her to; but there was nothing in his nature answering to hers, and he did not seem to see how pleased she was, but sat back in the carriage, with a dark look on his face and a darker purpose in his heart. And still he saw her every moment, and watched the light in her eyes and the clasping of her hands as she leaned from the window; but it awoke no answering chord of gladness, unless it were a gladness that he had it in his power to avenge the insult he had received. They were close to the chateau now, directly in the shadow of the gray old walls, which looked so dark and gloomy, so out of keeping with the beauty of the grounds, that Anna’s spirits sank again, and there was a tremor in her frame as she descended from the carriage in the wide court, around which balconies ran, tier upon tier, and into which so many long, narrow windows looked.

“At the head of a flight of steps an elderly woman was standing, her white hair arranged in puffs about her face, which, though old and wrinkled, was so sweet and sad in its expression that Anna felt drawn to her at once, and the court was not half so damp and dreary, or the walls so dark and high.

“The woman was dressed in black silk, with a tasteful lace cap upon her head, while the bunch of keys attached to her side with a silver chain showed her to be the housekeeper, even before Mr. Haverleigh said:

“‘This is Madame Verwest, the head of the house, just as Monsieur Brunell is head of the grounds. You will do well to conciliate her, and not show your dislike, if you feel it, as you did to monsieur.’

“‘Oh, I shall love her. I love her now for that sweet sorry face. Has she had some great trouble, Ernest?’

“It was the first time Anna had ever called her husband by the familiar name of Ernest. He had asked her to do so in the days of their courtship, and she had answered him, playfully: ‘Oh, Mr. Haverleigh, you are so much older than I am, and know so much more, and then—Well, to tell the truth, I am a little bit afraid of you yet, but by and by I mean to learn to say Ernest.’

“But the by and by had never come until now. Anna was the creature of impulse, and while driving through the handsome grounds she had felt elated and proud, that she, little Anna Strong, who once sewed shoes in New England, and planned how to get an extra pair of gloves, should be riding in her carriage, the mistress of so much wealth, and her heart had thrilled a little for the man through whom this good fortune had come to her. But the gloomy chateau, and the still more gloomy court, had driven this all away, and a wave of genuine homesickness was sweeping over her when the serene face of Madame Verwest looked so kindly down upon her and brought the better feeling back. She was happy. She was glad she was there, Mr. Haverleigh’s wife, and she called him Ernest purposely, and looked up in his face as she did so. Did he soften toward her at all? Possibly, for a red flush crept up to his hair; but he raised his hand as if to brush it away, and then he was himself again—the man who never forgave, and who could break a young girl’s heart even while seeming to caress her. If he heard Anna’s question with regard to Madam Verwest, he did not notice it or make her any answer. He merely took her arm in his, and, leading her up the broad stone steps, presented her to the lady as Madam Haverleigh, his wife.

“Instantly there came a change over the placid features, which kindled with a strange light, and the dim eyes, which looked so accustomed to tears, fastened themselves eagerly upon the fair face of the young girl, and then were raised questioningly to the dark face of the man whose lips curled with a sneering smile, as he said, in French:

“‘She does not understand a word. Ask me what you please.’

“‘Your wife truly!’ was the quick question of the woman, and Haverleigh replied:

“‘Yes, truly. What do you take me for?’

“To this there was no answer, but the woman’s arms were stretched toward Anna with a quick, sudden motion, as if they fain would hold her a moment in their embrace; but a look from Mr. Haverleigh checked the impulse, and only madame’s hand was offered to Anna, who, nevertheless, felt the warm welcome in the way the fingers tightened round her own, and was sure she had found a friend.

“‘Madame is very welcome, and I hope she will be happy here,’ the woman said; but she might as well have talked in Greek to Anna, who could only guess from her manner what she meant to say, and who smiled brightly back upon her, as she followed on up one narrow staircase after another, until they reached a lofty room, which she first thought a hall such as the New Englanders call a ball-room, but which she soon discovered to be the apartment intended for herself.

“The floor was inlaid and waxed, and so slippery that, she came near falling as she first crossed the threshold. A few Persian rugs were thrown down here and there, and at the further end, near to a deep alcove, was a massive rosewood bed with lace and silken hangings, and heavy tassels with knotted fringe. On the bed was a light blue satin spread, covered with real Valenciennes lace of a most exquisite pattern, and Anna stood a moment in wonder to look at and marvel at its richness. Then her eyes went on to the alcove, across which lace curtains were stretched, and which was daintily fitted up with the appliances of the toilet, with the bath-room just beyond. All this was at the far end of the room, the remainder of which might have served as a boudoir for the empress herself, it was so exquisitely furnished with everything which the ingenuity of Paris could devise in the way of fauteuil, ottoman, easy-chair, and lounge, with mosaic tables from Florence, inlaid cabinets from Rome, lovely porcelains from Munich and full-length mirrors from Marseilles.

“‘This is your room; how do you like it?’ Mr. Haverleigh asked: and Annie replied:

“‘I wish mother and Mary knew. I wish they could be here too. Only the windows are kind of prison-like, they are so long and narrow, and so deep in the wall.’

“As she said this she entered one of the arched recesses and tried to look from the window, but it was almost too high for her, and by standing on tip-toe she could just look over the ledge and get a view of the tree-tops in the grounds, of rocky hills beyond, and in the far distance a bit of the blue Mediterranean, which brought back to her mind a day at the seaside, where she had gone with a picnic party and bathed in the Atlantic. That day seemed so very, very far back in the past, and the ocean waves she had watched as they broke upon the beach was so far, far away that again that throb of homesickness swept over her, and there were tears in her eyes when she turned from the window and came back into the salon. It was empty, for both her husband and Madame Verwest had left it, and she was free to look about her as much as she liked, and to examine the many beautiful things with which the salon was filled. But they did not quite satisfy her now, for that pang of pain was still in her heart cutting like a knife, and her thoughts went back to the day when she and Mary had fitted the cheap ingrain carpet and white curtains to the little parlor at home, and thought it, when done, the finest room in Millfield. The carpet and curtains were there still, but oh, how many miles and miles of land and sea lay between her and the humble surroundings she had once so fretted against, longing for something better! She had the something better, but it did not satisfy, and it was so dreadful to be in a strange land where she could not understand a word the people said, and it would be still more dreadful without Mr. Haverleigh there as interpreter, she thought; and there began to grow in her a sense of nearness to her husband, a feeling of dependence upon and protection in him such as she had not experienced before.

‘I believe I could love him after all; anyway, I mean to try, and will begin to-night,’ she thought, just as there came a knock upon the door, and in answer to her ‘Entrez,’ the one French word besides oui which she knew, a smart-looking young woman entered, followed by a man, who was bringing in her trunks.

“With a low courtesy, the girl managed to make Anna understand that her name was Celine, and that she was to be her waiting-maid, and had come to dress her for dinner.

“‘Voyez les clefs,’ she said, holding up the keys which her master had given her, one of which she proceeded to fit to a certain trunk, as if she knew its contents, and that it contained what she wanted.

“Anna had not before had the luxury of a maid, but she accepted it naturally as she did everything else, and gave herself at once into the deft hands of Celine, who brushed and arranged her beautiful hair with many expressions of delight, not one of which Anna understood. But she knew she was being complimented, and when her toilet was completed, and she saw herself in one of the long mirrors arrayed in a soft, light gray silk, with trimmings of blue and lace, with flowers in her hair, and pearls on her arms and neck, she felt that Celine’s praises were just, and laughed back at the vision of her own loveliness.

“‘Oh, if the folks at home could see me now they would say it paid,’ she thought, as she walked up and down the apartment, trailing her silken robe after her, and catching frequent flashes of her beauty in the mirrors as she passed.

“And still there was a little of the old homesickness left, a yearning for companionship, for somebody to see her, somebody to talk to, and then she remembered her resolution to try to love her husband, and she said again: ‘I’ll do it, and I’ll begin to-night.’

“But where was he that he left her thus alone, walking up and down, until, too tired to walk longer, she seated herself upon a satin couch to await his coming, little dreaming as she sat there of the scene which had taken place between him and Madame Verwest, who had invited him to her own room, and then turning fiercely upon him, demanded: ‘Tell me, is she your wife, or another Agatha, brought here to beat her wings against her prison bars until death gives her release? She is too young for that, too beautiful, too innocent, with those childish eyes of blue. Tell me you mean well by her, or——’

“She did not finish her threat, save by a stamp of her foot and an angry flash of the eyes, which had looked so pityingly at Anna, for Haverleigh interrupted her with a coarse laugh, and said: ‘Spare yourself all uneasiness and puny threats which can avail nothing. You are as much in my power as she. Honestly, though, this girl is as lawfully my wife as a New England parson could make her.’

“‘New England,’ and the woman started as if stung. ‘Is she an American? Is she from New England? You wrote me she was English born.’

“‘Did I? I had forgotten it. Well, then, she is an American and a New Englander, and her name was Anna Strong, and she worked in a shoe-shop in Millfield, where I stopped for a few months on account of the scenery first, and her pretty face afterward. I married her for love, and because I fancied she loved me a little; but I have found she does not, and so she shall pay the penalty, but have her price all the same, diamonds and pearls, with satins and laces and a dress for every day of the month.’

“He spoke bitterly, and in his eyes there was a look which boded no good to Anna, but Madame Verwest scarcely heard him. At the mention of Anna’s name and Millfield she had laid her hand suddenly over her heart, which beat so loudly that she could hear it herself, while her eyes had in them a concentrated, far-off look, and she evidently was not thinking of the objects around her, the old chateau and the dreadful man who brought her back to the present by saying:

“‘I shall leave her here with you for a time, and it is my wish that she has everything she wants except, of course, her freedom; you understand?’

“She did understand; she had been through the same thing once before, and she shuddered as she remembered the dark-haired, white-faced girl, who had died in that gloomy house, with wild snatches of song upon her lips, songs of ‘Ma Normandie,’ and the home where she had once been pure and innocent. ‘Je vais re voir, ma Normandie’ poor Agatha had sung as the breath was leaving her quivering lips, and the sad, sweet refrain had seemed to Madame Verwest to haunt the old chateau ever since, and now was she destined to hear another death-song or moaning cry for New England instead of Normandy? ‘Never!’ was her mental reply, and to herself she vowed that the fate of Anna Strong should not be like that of Agatha Wynde. But she could do nothing then except to bow in acquiescence as she listened to Haverleigh’s instructions, and from them gathered what his intentions were. Not to desert Anna absolutely; he could not bring himself to do that, for the love he had felt for her was not yet extinct; but she had offended him deeply, and had hurt his pride, and for the present she was a prisoner in Chateau d’Or, till such time as he chose to set her free, or ‘till she recovers her reason, you know,’ he said to Madame Verwest, who made no sign that she heard him, but whose face was white as ashes as she went out from his presence, and gave orders that dinner was to be served at once in the grand salle-a-manger, which was all ablaze with wax candles and tapers when Haverleigh led his bride thither, and gave her a place at the head of his table.

“He had found her asleep on the couch, where she had thrown herself from sheer fatigue, and for a moment had stood looking down upon her childish, beautiful face, while something like pity did for an instant stir his stony heart. But only for an instant, for when he remembered her words, ‘I do not love him, and never expect to,’ he hardened against her at once, and the gleam in his eye was the gleam of a mad man as he touched her arm and bade her rouse herself.

“It is not necessary to describe in detail that elaborate dinner of ten courses, which was served from solid silver, with two or three servants in attendance. Haverleigh was very rich and very purse-proud, and it suited him to live like a prince wherever he was; besides, he wished to impress the simple New England girl with a sense of his greatness and wealth, and he enjoyed her evident embarrassment, or rather bewilderment, at so much glitter and display for just themselves and no one else. Anna had not forgotten her resolution to try to love him, and after their return to the salon, where a bright wood fire had been kindled, as the autumn night was chilly, she stole up behind him as he lounged in his easy-chair, and laying her white arms about his neck, drew his head back until her lips touched his forehead. Then she said, softly and timidly:

“‘Ernest, this is our first coming home, and I want to thank you for all the beautiful things with which you have surrounded me, and to tell you that I mean to be the best and most faithful of little wives to you.’

“It was quite a speech for Anna, who stood in great fear of the man she could not understand, and who seemed to her to be possessed of two spirits, one good and one bad, and should she rouse the latter she knew it would not be in her power to cope with it. But she had no fear of rousing it now, and she felt as if turning into stone when, for reply to her caress, he sprang to his feet and placing a hand on either of her shoulders, stood looking at her with an expression in his eyes she could not meet and before which she cowered at last, and with quivering lip said to him:

“‘Please take your hands from my shoulders; you hurt me, you press so hard. And why do you look so terribly at me? You make me afraid of you, and I wanted to love you to-night. What have I done?’

“Then he released her, and flinging her from him left the salon without a word, and she saw him no more that night. At eleven o’clock Celine came in to undress her, and when Anna managed to make her understand that she wished to know where Monsieur Haverleigh was, she only received for answer a meaning shrug and a peculiar lifting of the eyelids, which she could construe as she liked. It was not so pleasant a home-coming after all, and Anna’s first night at the chateau was passed with watching, and waiting, and tears, and that intense listening which tells so upon the brain. Once she thought to leave the room, but the door was bolted on the other side, and so at last, when wearied with walking up and down the long apartment, she threw herself upon the rosewood bed and fell into a disturbed and unrestful sleep.

“Meanwhile the master—Haverleigh—was fighting a fiercer battle with himself than he had ever fought before. He had said that his mind was made up, and he was one who boasted that when once this was so nothing could turn him from his purpose; his yea was yea, his nay, nay, but those white arms around his neck, and the touch of those fresh lips upon his forehead had not been without their effect, though the effect was like the pouring of molten lead into his veins, and had made him what, at times, he was, a mad man. When he rushed from Anna’s presence, with that wild look in his eye and the raging fire in his heart, he went straight to the dark, dreary room where Agatha had died with the sweet refrain ‘Je vais revoir, ma Normandie,’ upon her lips, and there amid the gloom and haunting memories of the place walked up and down the livelong night, now thinking, thinking, with head bent down, and now gesticulating in empty air with clinched fist, and again talking to himself, or rather to the spirits, good and bad, which seemed to have possession of him.

“‘Was she in earnest? Did she mean it? Is it possible that she might learn to love me through these baubles she prizes so much?’ he questioned of his better nature, which replied:

“‘Try her, and see. Don’t leave her here in this dreary place Don’t shut out all the gladness and sunshine from her young life. Give her a chance. Remember Agatha.’

“Just then, through the casement he had thrown open, there came a gust of the night-wind, which lifted the muslin drapery of the tall bed in the corner and swept it toward him, making him start, it was so like the white, tossing, billowy figure he had seen there once, begging him for the love of God to set her free, and let her go back to ‘la belle Normandie,’ where the father was watching for her, and would welcome her home again.

“Was Agatha, the wild rose of Normandy, pleading for Anna, the singing bird from New England? Possibly; and if so, she pleaded well, and might have gained her cause if the wicked spirit had not interposed, and sneeringly repeated: ‘Do not love him—shrink from his caresses—can’t endure to have him touch me—married him for money—can wind him round my little finger.’ And that last turned the scale. No man likes to be wound round any finger, however small it may be, and Ernest Haverleigh was not an exception.

“‘She shall pay for that,’ he said—‘shall suffer until the demon within me is satisfied, and I rather think I am possessed of the devil. Eugenie says I am, in her last interesting document,’ and he laughed bitterly, as he took from his pocket a dainty little epistle, bearing the London post-mark, and stepping to the window, through which the early morning light was streaming, glanced again at the letter which had been forwarded to him from Paris, and a part of which had reference to Anna.

“‘Who was the doll-faced little girl I saw with you in the carriage, and why didn’t you call upon me after that day? Were you afraid to meet me, and what new fancy is this so soon after that other affair? Ernest Haverleigh, I believe you are possessed with a demon, which makes you at times a maniac.’

‘Yes, I believe I am mad. I wonder if it is in the family far back, working itself out in me?’ Haverleigh said, as he stood with his eyes riveted upon the last two lines. ‘Curse this woman with that spell she holds over me. If it were not for her Agatha might have been living, and I might forgive Anna, for I do believe I am nearer loving her than any woman I ever saw, and that is why I feel so bitter, so unrelenting, so determined upon revenge.’

“There were signs of waking life in and around the chateau now. The servants were astir, and so Haverleigh left the room where he had passed the night, and which since Agatha’s death had borne the cognomen of ‘the haunted chamber.’ On the stairs he met with Madame Verwest, who stood with hands folded and eyes bent down, her usual attitude while receiving his orders.

“Anna was to have breakfast in her own room, he said, and be waited on by Celine, and then about ten o’clock he would see her alone, for he must be off that night for Paris.

“It was a very dainty breakfast of chocolate, and fruits, and French rolls, and limpid honey and eggs which Celine took to her mistress, whom she had dressed becomingly in a white cashmere wrapper, with broad blue sash, knotted at the side, and a blue silk, sleeveless jacket. In spite of the weary night, Anna was very beautiful that morning, though a little pale and worn, with a shadow about the eyes, which were lifted so timidly and questioningly to Haverleigh when at last he entered the salon and closed the door behind him.

“‘Oh, Ernest, husband!’ she began; but she never called him by either of those names again, and half an hour later she lay on her face among the silken cushions of the couch, a terrified, bewildered, half-crazed creature, to whom death would have been a welcome relief just then.

“He had succeeded in making her comprehend her position fully, and in some degree to comprehend him. He was a man who never forgot and who never forgave. He had loved her, he believed; at least, he had conferred upon her the great honor of becoming his wife—had raised her from nothing to a high and dazzling position, because he liked her face and fancied she liked him. She had certainly made him think so, and he, whom many a high-born damsel of both Scotland and England had tried to captivate, had made a little Yankee shoe-stitcher Mrs. Haverleigh, and then had heard from her own lips that she loathed him, that she shrank from his touch, that she married him for money, for fine dresses, and jewelry, and furniture, and horses, and carriages, and servants—and he added with an oath: ‘You shall have all this. You shall have everything you married me for, except your freedom, and that you never shall have until I change my purpose;’ then, without giving her a chance to speak in her own defense, he went on to unfold his plan formed on the instant when he stood by the door in New York and heard her foolish speech to Mrs. Fleming. She was to remain at Chateau d’Or, where every possible luxury was to be hers, and where the servants were to yield her perfect obedience, except in one particular. She was never to go unattended outside the grounds, or off the little island on which the chateau stood. Monsieur Brunell, who kept the gate, would see this law enforced, as he would see to everything else. All letters which she wished to send to him or her friends would be given to Brunell’s care. No other person would dare touch them, and it would be useless for her to try to persuade or bribe them, as they all feared him and would obey his orders. For society she would have Madame Verwest, and plenty of books in the library, and a splendid piano, which she would find in the same room, with a small cabinet organ for Sunday use, ‘as you New Englanders are all so pious,’ he added, with a sneer. Then pausing a moment, as if to rally his forces for a last blow, he said, slowly and distinctly:

“Brunell and Madame Verwest know you are my wife, but I have told them you are crazy, and that rather than send you to a lunatic asylum, I shall keep you in close confinement here for a while, unless you become furious, in which case there are plenty of places for you, not so good as this, or as much to your taste. To the other servants I make no explanations, except that you are crazy, and that it is a fancy of yours that you are not. This fancy they will humor to a certain extent, but you cannot bribe them. They will give you every possible attention. Celine will wait upon you as if you were a queen. You can dine in state every day, with twenty courses, if you like, and wear a new dress each time. You can drive in the grounds when it suits you, and drive alone there; but when you go outside the gates, Madame Verwest, or Celine, or some trusty person will accompany you, as it is not safe for a lunatic to go by herself into strange quarters. At intervals, as it suits my convenience or pleasure, I shall visit you as my wife, and shall be the most devoted of husbands in the presence of the servants, who will thus give me their sympathy and wholly discredit anything you may tell them. So beat your pretty wings as you may, and break your heart as often as you like, you cannot help yourself. I am supreme here. I am your master, and Madame Verwest says of me sometimes that I am a madman—ha, ha!”

“It was the laugh of a demon, and the look of the man was the look of a madman as he pushed from him the quivering form which had thrown itself upon the floor at his feet supplicating for pity, for pardon. He had neither, and with a coarse laugh which echoed through the salon like the knell of death to all poor Anna’s happiness, he left the room and she heard his heavy footsteps as he went swiftly down the stone stairway and out into the court.

“Was it a dream, a nightmare, or a horrible reality, she asked herself as she tried to recall the dreadful things he had said to her and to understand their import. ‘A prisoner, a maniac,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, mother, oh, Mary, that I should come to this. Oh, if I could die, if I could die;’ and in her anguish she looked about her for some means of ending her wretched life. Her New England training, however, was too strong for that. She dared not deliberately and suddenly die by her own hand, but if this thing were true, if she were a prisoner here with no means of escape, she would starve herself to death. They could not compel her to eat, and she would never taste food again until she knew that she was free.

“There was a murmur of voices in the court below, and a sound of wheels crushing over the gravel. Was he really going, and without her? She must know, and springing from her crouching attitude she started for the door, but found it locked from the other side it would seem, and she was a prisoner indeed, and for a time a maniac as well, if sobs and moans and piteous cries for some one to come to her aid could be called proofs of insanity. But no one came, and the hours dragged heavily on till she heard the house clock strike four, and then Celine came in to dress madame for dinner, but Anna waved her off loathing the very thought of food—loathing the glitter and display of the day before—loathing the elegant dresses which Celine spread out before her, hoping thus to tempt her.

“‘Go away, go away, or let me out,’ she cried, while Celine, who could not understand a word, kept at a safe distance, eying her young mistress and thinking it very strange that her master should have two crazy girls in succession—poor Agatha Wynde and this fair American, who Madame Verwest said was his wife.

“‘Perhaps,’ Celine had thought with a shrug of her shoulders; ‘but if the lady is his wife why leave her so quick?’

“But wife or not it was Celine’s business to attend her, and she had no intention of shrinking from her duty.

“‘Poor girl, and so young,’ she thought, and she tried to quiet and conciliate her, and brought out dress after dress and held up to view, until, maddened at the sight of the finery so detestable to her now, Anna shut her eyes, and stopping her ears shrieked aloud in the utter abandonment of despair.

“‘Mon Dieu,’ Celine exclaimed, as she fled from the room in quest of Madame Verwest, whose face was white as marble and whose eyes had in them a look which Celine had never seen before. But she did not offer to go near the lady whom Celine represented as being so bad, nor did she see her during that day or the next. She, too, was acting very queerly, the servants said to each other, as they talked in whispers of the American who refused to touch a morsel of food, and who had not tasted a mouthful since the master went away.

“She was in bed now, Celine said, lying with her face to the wall, and moaning so sadly and saying things she could not understand. ‘If Madame would only go to her and speak one word—Anglaise,’ she said to Madame Verwest on the morning of the third day, and with that same white, pinched look upon her face, madame started at last for the salon.

CHAPTER III.
MADAME VERWEST AND ANNA.

“It was now the third day since Haverleigh’s departure, and Anna had adhered to her resolution not to eat or drink, hoping thus to hasten the death she so longed for, and yet dared not achieve by rasher means. Four times a day Celine had carried her the most tempting dishes which a French cook could manufacture, and tried by signs, and gestures, and a voluble rattling of her mother tongue, to persuade her mistress to eat, or, at least, sip the delicious chocolate, or cafe au lait, whose perfume itself was almost meat and drink. But all in vain. Anna neither turned her head nor spoke, but lay with her face to the wall on the massive bedstead of rosewood and gilt, whose silken and lace hangings seemed to aggravate her misery. So much grandeur, so much elegance, and she so hopeless and wretched. Oh, with what wild yearnings she thought of her New England home, and the labor she had so despised.

“‘Oh, mother, mother, if you only knew, but I shall never see you again. I shall die, and nobody will know. I believe I am dying now,’ she moaned, as the gnawings of hunger and thirst began to make themselves felt, and there stole over her that deathly sickness and cold, clammy sweat which so often precedes a fainting fit, or a severe attack of vomiting. ‘Yes, I’m dying and I’m glad,’ she whispered, as everything around her began to grow dark, and she seemed to be floating away on a billow of the sea.

‘No, you are not dying. You are only faint with hunger and excitement. Take a sip of this wine,’ was spoken in her ear in a pure English accent, while a cool hand was laid kindly upon her hot, throbbing head.

“It was the English voice, the sound of home, which brought Anna back to consciousness, and turning herself quickly toward the speaker, she saw Madame Verwest bending over her, with a glass of spiced wine and some biscuits, at which she clutched eagerly, forgetful of her recent desire to die. The English voice had saved her, and a flood of tears rained over her young face as she glanced up at Madame Verwest, and met the same kind expression which had greeted her the first day of her arrival at Chateau d’Or.

“‘Oh, you can speak English. You will help me to get away, to go home to mother? You’ll save me from him, won’t you? Why didn’t you come to me before?’ she cried; and raising herself in bed, she laid her head upon the bosom of the woman and sobbed convulsively. ‘Are you crying, too? Crying for me?’ she asked, as she felt the hot tears falling upon her hair, and drawing herself a little from Madame Verwest, she gazed at her in astonishment, for every feature was convulsed with emotion, and the tears were running down her pallid cheeks.

“‘What is it? Are you a prisoner? Does he say you are crazy like me? Who are you, and why are you in this dreadful place?’ Anna asked, and then Madame was herself again, and answered, calmly:

“‘I am Madame Verwest, Mr. Haverleigh’s housekeeper, and I am here from choice. I am neither a prisoner nor crazy, but I am your friend and can help you in many ways.’

“‘Can you set me free; oh, can you set me free and send me home to mother?’ Anna cried, but the lady shook her head.

‘I dare not do that, and could not if I would. Monsieur Brunell keeps the gate, the only way of escape, and would not let you pass. I can, however, make your life more endurable while you are here; but the servants must not suspect me, that is, they must not know that I talk English so fluently. They are aware that I speak it a very little, so never expect much talking from me in their presence. But learn the French yourself at once; it will be better for you.’

“Anna was too wholly unsuspicious to think for a moment that Madame Verwest was not French, though she did wonder at the perfect ease with which she spoke English, and said to her:

“‘You talk almost as well as I do. Where did you learn?’

“‘I have lived three years in London, and two in Edinburgh,’ was the quiet reply, as the woman held the wine again to Anna’s lips, bidding her drink before talking any more.

“Anna obeyed eagerly, and then continued:

“‘You lived in London three years, and in Edinburgh two? Were you with Mr. Haverleigh all the time?’

“‘Part of the time I lived with him, and part of the time alone, though always in his employ.’

“‘You must have known him a long, long time,’ Anna rejoined. ‘Tell me then who he is and what he is? What kind of man, I mean?’

“‘That is a strange question for a wife to ask concerning her husband. Who did you think he was, and what? Surely your mother, if you have one, did not allow you to marry him, without knowing something of his antecedents,’ Madame Verwest said, and Anna colored painfully, for she remembered well how her mother and sister both had at first opposed her marrying an entire stranger of whom they knew nothing, except what he said of himself.

“‘Did you know nothing of his history? Did you not inquire? How long had you known him, and what was he doing in your town?’ Madame continued, and Anna replied:

“‘He was traveling for pleasure, I think, and stopped for a few days in Millfield because he liked the scenery; then he was sick, I believe, and so staid on as everybody was kind to him and made so much of him. He came from New York with a Mr. Stevens whom he knew and who said he was all right, and he had so much money and spent it so freely—’

“‘Yes, but what did he say of himself?’ madame persisted in asking, and Anna answered:

“‘He said he was of Scottish descent on his father’s side, but born in England, at Grasmere, I think—that he left there when he was three years old—that his father died when he was twenty-two, and left him a large property which by judicious management had doubled in value, so that he was very rich, and that weighed so much with me, for we were poor, mother, and Mary, and Fred, who wants to go to college. I’ll tell you just the truth, I worked in the shoe-shop, and my hands were cut with the waxed-ends, and my clothes smelled of leather, and I was nothing but a shop-girl, and I hated it and wanted handsome dresses, and jewelry, and money, and position, and Mr. Haverleigh could give me these, I thought, and he showed us letters from London and Liverpool, and so I married him, and he overheard what I said of him to Lucy Fleming in New York, and it made him so angry and jealous that he brought me here, and that is all. Oh, madame, tell me, please, what you know of him, and what people say of him who know him best, and will he ever set me free?’

“Anna asked her questions rapidly, but madame replied in the same quiet, measured manner, which marked all her movements.

“‘I think he told you truly with regard to his birth and his money, and people who know him best say he is honest, and upright, and generous to a fault. Did he tell you anything of his mother? He must have spoken of her.’

“Madame was the questioner now, and Anna replied:

“‘He never said much of her, nothing which I recall, but I have an impression that her family was not as good as his father’s. Do you know? Did you ever see her?’

“‘Yes, I have seen his mother.’

“‘Oh, tell me of her, please. Was she a lady?’

“‘Not as the English account ladies, perhaps,’ madame said, and Anna went on:

“‘Was she nice? Was she good?’

“‘I believe she tried to be good,’ was the low-spoken answer, and Anna cried:

“‘Then there must be some good in him and sometime he’ll relent and set me free. It would be so terrible to die here, and mother and Mary never know. He says I am crazy; he has told you so, but you don’t believe it; tell me, you do not believe me mad!’

“‘Not yet, but you will be if you suffer yourself to get so fearfully excited. Be quiet and make the best of the situation, which is not without its ameliorating circumstances. Everybody will be very kind to you here, and believe me when I say it is better to live here without him, than to travel the world over with him; so make the best of it, and at least seem to acquiesce. If you are fond of reading there are plenty of books in the library, many of them English. There is a fine piano, too. Are you fond of music?’

“‘Yes, but do not play. I always had to work, and could not afford the lessons,’ Anna replied, and Madame Verwest said:

“‘I think I can get you a teacher. I know Mr. Haverleigh will not object to that: and now you must rest—must sleep. I’ll draw the curtains of the bed, and leave you alone for a time.’

“There was something so soothing and reassuring in madame’s manner that Anna felt the influence, and worn out as she was and tired, she turned upon her pillow and fell into a quiet sleep, which lasted till the sun went down, and the evening shadows were gathering in the room. Madame was sitting by her when she woke, and on a table at her side was a dainty supper which Celine had just brought in, and which Anna did not refuse.

“‘Perhaps you would like to tell me of your home in Millfield. I am always pleased to hear of foreign countries, and how the people live there,’ Madame Verwest said, as she saw the color coming back to Anna’s face, and knew that she was stronger.

“So Anna told her of New England and her Millfield home, the hills around it and the little ponds sleeping in the valley, and the river winding its graceful way to the east, until it was lost in the noble Connecticut. And Madame Verwest listened eagerly, with a deep flush on her pallid cheek, and a bright gleam in her eye.

“‘And the pond lilies grow there by the old bridge, and the boat-house is near by,’ she said, in a half-whisper, as Anna told her of the beautiful lilies which open their petals in June, and fill the summer air with such delicious perfume.

“‘Why, were you ever there? Did you ever see the boat-house?’ Anna asked, in some surprise, and madame replied:

“‘You describe it all so vividly that I feel as if I had seen it. I love New England, and some day, perhaps—who knows—we may go there together—you and I.’

“She wrung her hands nervously, like one under strong excitement, and Anna looked at her wonderingly, while she continued:

“‘Yes, some day we’ll go away from this prison-house, but it may be long hence. He is vigilant and cunning, and mad, I believe; so be quiet, and seem to be content, nor beat your wings till you die like poor—’

“She checked herself ere the name of Agatha escaped her lips, but a new idea had crossed Anna’s mind, making her unmindful of what Madame Verwest was saying. She would write at once to Millfield, telling her mother where she was, and begging her to send some one to her relief. Strange she had not thought of that before as a way of escape, and she begged Madame Verwest for the lamp and writing material, that she might at once begin the letter which was to bring relief.

“‘Wait till to-morrow,’ madame said, ‘when you will be stronger and fresher.’

“And to this Anna was finally persuaded, but early the next morning the letter was written, detailing every particular of her unhappy position, and asking her mother to send some one at once to liberate her.

“This letter she intrusted to Celine, while Madame Verwest looked pityingly on, knowing in her heart that in all human probability the letter would never reach New England, but go instead to Paris, there to be read by Haverleigh and committed to the flames.

CHAPTER IV.
THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO MILLFIELD.

It was Thanksgiving day, and in the little red house which Anna had once called her home, the table was laid for dinner, laid for four—Mary, Fred, and the Anna over the sea, who had never been absent before from the festival which, in New England, means so much and is kept so sacredly. They knew she would not be there, and they had grown somewhat accustomed to living without her, but on this day it was Mary’s fancy to lay the table for her, to put her plate just where she used to sit, and place by it the little napkin ring of Stuart plaid which had been Fred’s present to her on her last birth-day.

“‘We’ll play she is here, mother,’ Mary said. ‘She will be in fancy. Surely she’ll remember us to-day of all days, and I know she’ll wish herself here once more. How long it is now since we heard from her. Only one letter since she reached Paris. You don’t suppose she is forgetting us with all the grandeur and the fine things she has?’

“‘Oh, no, Anna will never do that. She is probably too much occupied in Paris, and too happy with Mr. Haverleigh to write many letters,’ Mrs. Strong replied, but her face belied her hopeful words.

“She had felt many misgivings with regard to Anna’s marriage, and her chance for happiness with a man as cold, and proud, and reticent as Mr. Haverleigh. But it could not now be helped, and so she made the best of it, and prided herself on having a daughter abroad, and rather enjoyed the slight elevation in society which it really had given her. In the little town of Millfield it was something to be the mother of the rich Mrs. Haverleigh, and to talk of my ‘daughter’s country-house in Scotland, and Chateau d’Or in France;’ and on this Thanksgiving day the good woman wore her new black silk—Mr. Haverleigh’s gift—in honor of him, and committed the extravagance of celery and cranberries, too, and wondered as she basted the turkey browning in the oven, where Anna was and what her dinner would be.

“‘Perhaps Fred will bring us a letter. I told him to stop at the office. It is time he was here, she said, as, her arrangements for dinner completed, she stood a moment looking into the street, where the first snow-flakes were falling.

“Why was it that the day seemed so dreary to her, and why was there such an undefined dread of something in her heart? Was it a presentiment of the sad news coming to her so fast, borne by Fred, who appeared round a corner running rapidly, and waving his cap when he saw his mother’s face at the window.

“‘Here’s a letter from Anna,’ he cried, as he burst into the room, and held the precious document to sight. ‘Isn’t it jolly to get it on Thanksgiving day? ‘Most as good as having her here. Let’s keep it for the dessert!’

“But the mother could not wait, and taking the letter from her son, she glanced at the superscription, which was in Mr. Haverleigh’s handwriting. But that was not strange. The other letter had been directed by him, and so she had no suspicion of the blow awaiting her as she hastily broke the seal.

“‘Why, it is written by Mr. Haverleigh,’ she exclaimed, and then, with Mary and Fred both looking over her shoulder, she read the following:

“‘Paris, November 10th.

“‘Mrs. Strong:—Dear Madame:—I am sorry to be obliged to tell you the sad news about Anna, and I hope you will bear up bravely, for there is hope, and insanity is not as bad as death.’

“‘Insanity,’ the three whispered together, with white lips, and then read on rapidly:

“‘My bright-haired darling, whom I loved so much, and who every day was growing more and more into my heart, has been very sick here in Paris, and when the fever left her her reason seemed wholly gone. The ablest physicians in France were consulted, but her case seemed to baffle all their skill, and as she constantly grew worse, they advised me, as a last resort, to place her in a private asylum, where she would have absolute quiet, together with the best and kindest of care.

“‘I need not tell you how I shrank from such an alternative, feeling, for a time, that I would rather see my darling dead than behind a grated window, but it was my only hope of restoring her, and as she was at times very violent and uncontrollable, I yielded at last to the judgment of others, and yesterday I took her to a private asylum in——’

“Here was a great blot, which entirely obliterated the name of the place, but in their sorrow and surprise the three did not observe it then, but read on rapidly:

“‘It is a charming spot, with lovely views. She has her own apartments, and maid, and private table, and carriage, and is surrounded by every comfort which love can devise or money buy, but oh, my heart is wrung with anguish when I think of her there, my beautiful Anna, who enjoyed everything so much. She was happy for the brief space that she was with me, and I am glad to remember that in the dreariness and darkness which have so suddenly overshadowed my life. But oh, dear madame, what can I say to comfort you, her mother. Nothing, alas, nothing, except bid you hope, as I do, that time will restore her to us again, and that reminds me of a question the physician asked me. Is there insanity on either side of her family? If not, her recovery is certain. Meanwhile, do not be troubled about her treatment; it will be the tenderest and best, as I know her doctor and nurse personally, and money will secure everything but happiness. It is not thought advisable for me to see her often, but I shall keep myself thoroughly informed with regard to her condition, and report to you accordingly.

“The last time Anna was out with me before her sickness, she saw and greatly admired an oil painting from a scene among the mountains of the Tyrol. It reminded her, she said, of New England, and the view from the hill across the river in Millfield. Recently I have seen the picture again, and remembering that she said, ‘Oh, how I wish mother and Mary could see it,’ I purchased it, and yesterday it started for America, marked to your address. In the same box is a porcelain picture of Murillo’s Madonna (the one in the Louvre gallery), and I send it because it bears a strong resemblance to Anna, as I have seen her in her white dressing-gown, with her hair unbound, her hands folded upon her breast, and her sweet face upturned to the evening sky, which she loved to contemplate, because, she said, ‘the same moon and stars were shining down on you.’ I hope you will like them, and accept them as coming—the painting from Anna, and the Madonna from me. Should you ever be in need of money, I beg you will command me to any extent, for I desire to be to you a son for the sake of the daughter I have taken from you.

“‘As I may not be in Paris the entire winter, direct to Munroe & Co., and your letters will be forwarded.

Very truly, dear madame, yours,

“‘Ernest Haverleigh.’

“This was the letter received at the red house that Thanksgiving day, and for a time the mother and sister felt that Anna was as surely lost to them as if she had been lying dead in some far-off grave across the sea. There was no insanity in the family on either side that Mrs. Strong had ever heard of, and that gave them a little hope, but their hearts were aching with a bitter pain as they sat down to the dinner which was scarcely touched, so intent were they upon the sorrow which had come so suddenly. It was terrible to think of their beautiful Anna as a maniac, confined behind bars and bolts, and so far away from home.

“‘If we could only see her,’ Mary said, while Fred suggested going to France himself to find her if she did not recover soon.

“‘Where is she? Where did Mr. Haverleigh say the asylum was?’ he asked, and then reference was had to the letter, but the name of the place was wholly unintelligible, and after trying in vain to make it out, they gave it up and gathered what comfort they could from the apparent kindness and cordiality evinced in Mr. Haverleigh’s letter, so different from his cold, proud manner when there, Mrs. Strong remarked, and she felt her love go out toward him as to a son, and before she slept that night she wrote him a long letter, which contained many messages of love for poor Anna, and thanks to himself for his kindness and interest in her sorrowing family.

“That night there was a Thanksgiving party in the ball-room of the village hotel. It had been the custom to have one there for years, and heretofore Anna Strong had been the very prettiest girl present; and the one most sought for in the games we played, and the merry dance. But that night she was not with us, and the news that she was insane, and the inmate of a mad-house, came upon us with a heavy shock, saddening our spirits and casting a gloom over the gay scene. Poor Anna! How little we guessed the truth, or dreamed how many, many times that day her thoughts had been with us, or how, until the last ray of sunset faded, she had stood by the window of her room looking to the west, as if, with the departing daylight, she would send some message to her far-off home.

CHAPTER V.
THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO CHATEAU D’OR.

Monsieur Brunell had received a telegram saying that M. Haverleigh would visit the chateau the following day, and both Anna and Madame Verwest had received letters apprising them of his home-coming, and bidding the one see that a grand dinner was in readiness for him, and the other to array herself in her most becoming attire, as befitted a wife about to receive her husband after a separation of many months. To Anna this visit seemed more awful than anything she had yet experienced at the chateau, for as a whole her life there had not been without its pleasures. Acting upon Madame Verwest’s advice, she had tried to make the best of her position, and in acquiring the language and a knowledge of music, she had found a solace for many a weary hour which otherwise would have hung heavily upon her hands. She was fond of French and music, and had developed a remarkable talent for them both, while in the well-selected library she had found a delight she had never thought she could find in books. Madame Verwest was herself a good scholar and a clear reasoner and thinker, and in her constant companionship Anna was rapidly developing into a self-reliant woman, capable of thinking and acting for herself. She had long since given up all hope of hearing from home, unless she could find some other method of communication than through the medium of Monsieur Brunell, who took charge of every letter from the chateau, and who, when questioned upon the subject as to why no answer ever came to her, always replied that he did not know, unless her letters were lost on the voyage. He always deposited them in the post, and more than that he could not do. It was in vain that Anna had tried other methods of getting her letters to the post. It could not be done, even through Madame Verwest, who said always, ‘I would so gladly, but I dare not.’

“And so, though letter after letter had been written home, there had come to her no reply, and she guessed pretty accurately that her letters were sent directly to her husband, who, of course, destroyed them. A prisoner for life she began to fear she was, and sometimes beat her wings cruelly against her gilded cage. Haverleigh had kept his word, and every luxury in the way of service, elegant dress, and furniture was hers. All the servants were respectful and attentive, while Celine was her devoted slave. Anna could talk with her now tolerably well, and the first use she made of her knowledge was an effort to convince her maid of her sanity, and that she was kept a prisoner there to suit the whim of her husband, whom she represented as a dreadful man. But to this Celine gave no credence, though she at first smilingly assented to her young mistress’ assertion, as if it were a part of her business to humor every fancy of the poor lunatic. Once Anna was more earnest than usual, and begged her maid to say if she believed her crazy.

“‘Oui, oui,’ Celine answered, vehemently, ‘I must think it, else why are you here, shut up from the world and Paris, and monsieur is far too kind, too fond to imprison madame for naught, and yet——’

“Here Celine paused a moment, as if a new idea had just occurred to her, and then she continued:

“‘And yet it is a little strange that mademoiselle Agatha should be crazy, too, like you, and like you shut up here.’

“‘Who was Agatha?’ Anna asked; and then, little by little, she heard the story of the poor young girl from Normandy, who had died in what Celine called the ‘Ghost Room,’ with the words ‘Je vais revoir ma Normandie’ on her lips.

“‘She haunts the room still,’ Celine said; ‘and often on stormy nights, when the wind howls round the old chateau, we hear her voice singing of Normandy. You see, that was her home, and she thought she was going back to see it again. Oh, but she was pretty, much like madame; only she was mademoiselle—no wedding ring, for true—no priest—and she was not lady, like you Americaine. She was people—very people.’

“This was Celine’s version of the story, and that night Anna heard from Madame Verwest more of poor Agatha, who believed herself a wife, and who went really mad when she found that she was not. If anything had been wanting to complete Anna’s loathing and horror of her husband, this story would have accomplished it. That he was a demon in human form, as well as a madman, she had no doubt, and there gradually crept into her heart a fear lest she, too, like Agatha of Normandy, would die in that dreary house. Still youth is hopeful, and Anna was young and cheered by the courage of Madame Verwest, who was to her more like a mother than a servant, she found herself constantly forming plans for escape from the chateau. When she received her husband’s letter, telling her he was coming, her first and predominant feeling was one of horror and dread; but anon there arose in her mind a hope that he might be coming to release her, or at least to take her with him to Paris, and once there she would fall in with Americans or English, and through them obtain her freedom.

“With this end in view she determined to make herself as attractive and agreeable as possible to the man she detested, and on the day when he was expected she suffered Celine to dress her in one of the many Paris gowns which she had never worn, for it had hitherto seemed worse than folly to array herself in laces, and silks, and jewels for her solitary meals. But to-day there was a reason for dressing, and she bade Celine do her best, and when that best was done and she saw herself in the glass, a picture of rare loveliness in blue satin and lace, with pearls on her neck and arms, something of her old vanity awoke within her, and she found herself again wishing that her friends at home could see her.

“In the kitchen below all was bustle and expectation, for whatever Ernest Haverleigh might be to others, he was exceedingly popular with his servants, and not a man or woman of them but would have walked through fire and water to serve him. In the dining salon the table was set for dinner as it never had been laid since the first night of Anna’s arrival at Chateau d’Or, more than five months ago. And Anna glanced in there once as she was passing the door, and felt herself grow sick and faint as she saw the costly array, and remembered what it was for.

“At half-past five the train was due, and just as the little silver clock chimed the half hour, the whistle was heard, and from the window where she had so often watched the sun setting she saw the long train moving off toward Marseilles, and a few moments after the sound of carriage wheels in the court below told her that her husband had come. She did not go to meet him, but with clasped hands and rapidly beating heart stood waiting for him just where he left her months before, terrified, bewildered, crouching upon the couch, with her face hidden in her hands. Now she stood erect, with an unnatural brightness in her blue eyes, and a flush on her cheeks, which deepened to scarlet as her ear caught the sound of heavy footsteps, and she knew he was coming.

“The next moment he opened the door, and started involuntarily, as if he had not been prepared to see her thus. He had not expected to find her so beautiful and so matured. He had left her a timid, shrinking girl; he found her a woman, with that expression upon her face which only experience or suffering brings. His role had been all marked out and arranged. He should find her tearful, reproachful, desperate possibly, and that would suit him well, and make her insanity more probable to his servants, while he would be the patient, enduring, martyr-husband, humoring her like a child, and petting her as he would pet a kitten which scratched and spit at his caresses. How then was he disappointed, when, with a steady step, she crossed the room to meet him, and offered her hand as quietly and self-possessed, to all appearance, as if he had been a stranger seeking audience of her.

“‘Ma precieuse, ma belle reine, how charming I find you, and how delighted I am to see you looking so well,’ he exclaimed, as he encircled her in his arms as lovingly as if she had been the bride of yesterday.

“Oh, how she loathed his caresses, and felt her blood curdling in her veins as he pressed kiss after kiss upon her cheek and lips, and called her his darling and pet, and asked if she were glad to see him again. She could not tell a lie, and she dared not tell the truth, but her eyes told it for her, and he saw it at once, and said in a deprecating tone:

“‘What! not glad to see me when I have lived in the anticipation of this meeting ever since I parted with you last autumn. Why then didn’t I come before? you may ask. Business before pleasure, you know, and then I hoped that perfect quiet in this lovely retreat would go far toward restoring you. Eh, ma petite. How is it, are you any better here?’ And he touched his forehead significantly.

“That exasperated Anna, who, for a moment, lost her self-control, and releasing herself from him, stepped backward, and with a proud gesture of her head, exclaimed:

“‘Have done with that. You know I’m not crazy, and you shall not stay in my presence if you insult me thus!’

“She was very beautiful then, and for a moment Haverleigh felt a wave of his old love or passion sweeping over him as he stood looking at her; then the demon within whispered of that day in New York, and the words he had overheard, and he was himself again, her jailer and master rather than her lover and husband.

“‘Ha, my pretty pet,’ said he, ‘and so you are mistress here, and can refuse or permit my presence as you please! So be it then, and if it suits you better to be sane, why sane you are to me at least. But, Mrs. Haverleigh, joking aside, I am glad to see you, and I think you greatly improved, and I come in peace and not in war, and if you incline to the latter I would advise a change in your programme. Upon my soul, you are charming.’

‘He drew her to him again, and she suffered his kisses in silence, and did not even shrink from him when in the presence of Celine he drew her down upon his knee, and called her his angel and dove. But the color had all faded from her cheeks, and left her very pale, while her hands shook so that she could scarcely manage her soup, when at last dinner was announced, and he led her to the dining salon. He was all attention to her, and a stranger watching him would have thought him the most devoted of husbands, but to Anna there was something disgusting and terrible in his manner which she knew was assumed as a means of deceiving the servants, who pitied their master for being so unfortunately married.

“When dinner was over, and they had returned to the salon, Anna could restrain herself no longer, but going up to her husband startled him with the question:

“‘There is something I must ask you, and for the love of heaven answer me truthfully. I have written home seven times since you left me here last October, but have never received a word in reply. Tell me, do you think my letters ever crossed the sea? Did mother ever get them?’

“For an instant the hot blood flamed up in Mr. Haverleigh’s face, and his eyes fell beneath the steady gaze fixed so searchingly upon him. Anna knew that her suspicions were correct, and that her letters had never gone to America, and the lie he told her did not in the least shake her belief.

“‘Do I think your mother ever got them?’ He repeated, at last. ‘She must have gotten some of them, and some may have been lost. You gave them to Brunel?’

“Yes, always to Brunel. No one else would touch them, and I was never allowed to post one myself. Why not? Why am I treated so like a prisoner? Why do you keep me here? Surely I have been sufficiently punished for the foolish words you overheard. Forgive me for them. Try me again. Let me go with you to Paris, when you return. I shall die here or go mad. Don’t drive me to that. Oh, let me go away somewhere. Let me go home—back to mother.”

“She was kneeling now at his feet, and he was looking down upon her with a strange glitter in his eye. Then the look softened, and there was unutterable tenderness in the tone of his voice as he stooped to raise her, and leading her to the couch, said to her pityingly:

“‘Poor child, you don’t know what you ask. You have no home to go to. Your mother is dead—died suddenly—and in kindness to you I have withheld your sister’s letter, wishing to spare you pain, but I have it with me. Can you read it now?’

“He held a worn-looking envelope toward her but for a moment she did not see it. The blow had fallen so suddenly, and was so terrible in its magnitude, that for a brief space both sight and sense failed her, and she sat staring blankly into his face as if she neither saw nor heard. After a moment, however, her eyes relaxed from their stony expression; there was a quivering of the lips, a rapid heaving of the chest, and then in a voice her husband would never have recognized as hers, she said:

“‘Give me the letter, please. I can read it now.’

“He gave it to her, and holding it mechanically in her hand she studied the address, in her sister’s handwriting: ‘Ernest Haverleigh, Esq., Paris, France. Care of Munroe & Co.’ The date upon the back was Dec. 8th, and there was the dear old Millfield post-mark seeming to bring her so near her home, and making her heart throb wildly in her throat, where was a strange sense of suffocation. At last, when every part of the soiled envelope had been studied, she slowly opened it and drew forth the sheet folded inside. Then the look of anguish on her face gave way to one of perplexity, as she said:

“‘Look, this is not Mary’s letter. It is from your agent in Scotland.’

‘My agent in Scotland! Not Mary’s letter! What do you mean?’ Mr. Haverleigh asked, and taking the paper from her he saw that she was right, and that he held a communication from his Scottish steward regarding his estate in the Highlands. ‘What can this mean? I don’t understand,’ he said, and seemed to be intently thinking; then suddenly he added: ‘Oh, I believe I know how the mistake occurred. This from McKenzie I received the same day with the one from your sister, and instead of putting the latter in this envelope, as I meant to do, I tore it up, as I do all my letters of no importance, and put this in its place. I am sorry, but I can give you the particulars. Can you bear it now? There, lay your head against my arm, you look so white and strange.’

“He sat down beside her, and drawing her to him made her lean against him while he told her how her mother, after an unusually hard day’s work, had sickened suddenly and died within three days peacefully, happily, with a message of love on her lips for her absent daughter. After the funeral was over, yielding to the earnest solicitations of a lady who was visiting in Millfield, Mary had decided to rent the house and go West with the woman as governess for her children. Fred, too, had accompanied them, as there was in the place a good school, where he could finish his preparation for college. The name of the lady Mr. Haverleigh could not recollect, except that it was something like Creydock or Heydock, while the town he had quite forgotten, and could by no means recall. It was very unfortunate, that mistake about the letters, and he was so sorry, he kept reiterating; but Anna did not seem to hear, or if she did, she did not care. She only was conscious of the fact that her mother was dead, her home broken up, and all hope of help from that quarter cut off. The effect was terrible, and even her husband was alarmed when he saw how white and motionless she sat, with her hands dropped helplessly at her side. Bad as he was, he did not wish her to die then and there, and he tried to move her from her state of apathy; but she only answered, ‘Please go away. I want to be alone.’

“He made her lie down on the couch, and to this she did not object, but, like a tired child, laid her head among the soft silken cushions, and with a long, low gasping sob, closed her eyes wearily, as if to shut out all sight of everything. Madame Verwest and Celine were sent to her, and were told of the sad news which had so affected her, and one believed it, and the other did not; but both were unremitting in their attentions to the poor heartbroken girl, who gave no sign that she knew what they were doing or saying to her, except to moan, occasionally: ‘Oh, my mother is dead! my mother is dead.’

“Mr. Haverleigh, too, was exceedingly kind, and very lavish with his caresses, which Anna permitted in a dumb, passionless kind of way, like one who could not help herself. Once, when he stroked her long, bright hair, she lifted her mournful eyes to him, and asked: ‘Won’t you take me from here? Won’t you let me go back to where you found me? I can take care of myself; I can work in the shop again, and after awhile you will be free from me. Will you let me go?’

“Free from her! Did he wish to be that? For a moment, when he remembered the glittering black eyes, the only eyes in the world which had power to make him quail, he half believed he did. On his return to Paris he had met the woman with the glittering eyes, which seemed to read his very soul, and ferret out his inmost thoughts. There had been a stormy scene, for Eugenie Arschinard was not one to brook a rival. She had compassed the ruin of poor Agatha of Normandy, whom, but for her, Haverleigh might have dealt fairly with, and made the marriage tie more than a mere farce, a horrid mockery. From his town-house in London, Eugenie had seen the young, fair-haired girl driving by and looking so eagerly at the place, and with her thorough knowledge of the world, she knew her to be an American, and guessed her to be some new flame whom he had lured from home, as the plaything of an hour. She never for a moment believed him married; he was not a marrying man; he dared not marry, bound as he was to her by the tie of honor, which, in her infidel heart, she held above the marriage vow. So when she met him in Paris by appointment, she charged him with his new fancy, demanding who and where she was, and he was a very coward in her presence, and dared not tell her the truth of that simple wedding among the New England hills, but suffered her to believe that Anna, like Agatha, was only his dupe, whom he could cast off at pleasure. Eugenie had no wish, at present, to be bound herself. She was true to Haverleigh, and she enjoyed to the full the luxuries with which he surrounded her, and in Paris, where such connections were common, she had her circle of friends, and reigned among them a queen because of Haverleigh’s name and the style in which she lived. By and by, when she was older, and ceased to attract admiration, she meant to marry him and so pass into a respectable old age, but just now her freedom suited her best, and she gave no sign of her real intentions for the future. But Haverleigh knew well that to confess he had a wife was to raise a storm he had not courage to meet, and so he told her the girl she had seen was a little wild rose from America, whom he had lifted from poverty and taken to Chateau d’Or.

“‘You know I must have something to amuse me when I am at that dreary place, and Anna does as well as any one. A little washed-out, spiritless body of whom you need not be jealous.’

“This he had said to Eugenie, and then had bought her the diamond set at Tiffany’s which she admired so much, had driven with her in the Bois de Boulogne, and afterward dined with her in the little fairy palace just off the Champs d’Elysees, her home, of which she had the title-deed in her possession. And yet, in his heart, Ernest Haverleigh respected Anna far more than he did this woman, who so fascinated and enthralled him, for though Anna had come to him with a lie on her lips, and a lie in her heart, and had wounded his self-love cruelly, she was pure and womanly, while Eugenie was steeped to the dregs in sin and in intrigue.

“But she ruled him completely, and if he had desired he did not dare take Anna back with him to Paris and present her as his wife, and he was not bad enough to cast upon her publicly the odium of being his mistress. Neither would he send her back to America, for there was no pretext whatever by which he could be free from the bond which held him her husband. She had plenty of pretexts, he had none. He could not let her go, and besides, he was conscious of a real interest in her, a something which fascinated him, and made him wish to keep her at Chateau d’Or, where he, and he alone, could see her at his will. Some time, perhaps, when Eugenie was less troublesome, he might take her away, but not now, and when she said to him so pleadingly, ‘Will you let me go, home?’ he answered her very gently, ‘Poor child, you have no home to go to in America. Your home is here, with me. Not always Chateau d’Or, for some time I mean to take you with me. I cannot do so now for certain reasons, but by and by—so be patient, and wait for the happiness in store.’

“A shudder was Anna’s only answer, as she turned her face away from him and wished that she might die. For five weeks Mr. Haverleigh remained at the chateau, devoting himself entirely to Anna, who, while shrinking with intense disgust from his caresses, permitted them because she must. To Madame Verwest he was very distant and cold, treating her civilly, it is true, but always in a manner which showed how wide was the distance between them. He was master, she was servant, and he made her feel it keenly. Once, however, when she came suddenly upon him as he sat alone in his room, she laid her hand on his arm, and asked:

“‘How long is this to go on?’

“‘What to go on?’ he replied, savagely, and she continued:

“‘This horrid life of sin and deception. You know the girl’s mother is not dead.’

“‘It’s a lie!’ he cried, springing to his feet. ‘A lie—I swear it to you! And you shall not interfere, or if you do, by——’

“There was a frightful oath as he threatened the trembling woman, who did not speak again while he went on:

“‘I am beginning to love her once more; to feel a real interest in her. I find her greatly improved, thanks to you, I suppose. A few months more of seclusion, and I shall introduce her to the world; but I will not have her family hanging on me—a set of low Yankees, working in shoe-shops, teaching school, and making dresses for the rabble.

“‘Is not her family a good one, then?’ Madame Verwest asked, and he replied:

“‘Good enough for its kind, for aught I know. No stain, unless it be the half-sister or something of the father, who went to the bad they say—ran off with a Boston man, who never meant to marry her, and the natural consequence, of course.’

“‘Where is this woman?’ madame asked, and he replied:

“‘Dead, I believe, or ought to be. Why should such women live?’

“‘Yes, oh, why?’ was answered sadly in madame’s heart; but she made no response, and when her tyrant of a master motioned her to the door in token that the interview was ended, she went out without a word.

“Three days later he left the chateau, saying he should come again in September or October, and possibly bring people with him. Madame Arschinard, a lady of high position and great wealth, had long wished to visit Southern France, and he might perhaps invite her down with other friends, and fill the chateau.

“‘And you, my little white rose,’ he said to Anna, ‘I want you to get your color back, and be like your old self, for I shall wish my wife not to be behind any Parisian beauties. I shall send you the very latest styles. Worth has your number, I believe. And now good-by, my pet. Take care of yourself, and if——’

“He bent down to her, and whispered something in her ear which turned her face to scarlet, and made her involuntarily exclaim:

“‘Oh, anything but that—anything but that!’

CHAPTER VI.
IN THE AUTUMN.

“The summer had gone by—a long, bright beautiful summer so far as sunny skies, and fair flowers, and singing birds, and fresh, green grass could make it bright and beautiful; but to Anna, still watching drearily the daylight fading in the western sky, and whispering messages for the sun to carry to the dear ones across the water, it had dragged heavily, and not all Madame Verwest’s love and petting which were given without stint to the poor girl, had availed to win her back to the comparatively cheerful state of mind she had been in before receiving the sad news of her mother’s death.

“She had ceased writing to America; that was useless, she knew. Her letters would never reach there, and she had ceased to expect any news from home, for however often Mary or Fred might write, their letters would never come to her. Of this she was convinced, and she gradually settled into a state of hopeless apathy, taking little or no interest in anything, except poor Agatha’s grave.

“She had found it in a little inclosure on the island which held Chateau d’Or choked with tall grass and weeds, and smothered by the drooping branches of the pine and willow which overshadowed it and hid from view the plain white stone on which was simply inscribed, ‘Agatha, aged 20.’ Nothing to tell when she died, or where, or where her home had been, and what her life. But Anna knew now all the sad story of the sweet peasant-girl lured from her home by promises of a marriage, which did take place at last, but with a flaw in it which made it illegal, and poor Agatha no wife. Then, when reparation had been refused, she had held herself as pure and spotless as was Eve when she came first from the hands of her Creator, but had gone mad with shame and remorse, and died at Chateau d’Or, with a song of Normandy on her lips.

“With the help of Celine, the weeds and grass were cleared away from the neglected yard, which, as the summer advanced, grew bright with flowers and vines, and was Anna’s favorite resort. Here she would sit for hours with her head bent down, thinking sadly of the past, and wondering what the future, which many a young wife would have looked forward to eagerly, might have in store for her. When first there dawned upon her the possibility that another life than her own might be intrusted to her keeping she had recoiled with horror, feeling that she could not love the child of which Ernest Haverleigh was father; then there crept over her a better, softer feeling, which was succeeded by a presentiment which grew to a certainty that both would die, mother and little one, and be buried by Agatha; there was just room between her grave and the fence, room in length and breadth both, for she had lain herself down in the grass and measured the space with her own person. She would have a headstone, too, like Agatha, with ‘Anna, aged 19’ on it, and in the other world, far away from Chateau d’Or, she might perhaps meet Agatha some day, and with her recount the sorrows they had borne, and which had helped to fit them for the eternal home, where Anna hoped now and believed she would go. Sorrow had brought her to her Saviour’s feet, and she felt that whether she lived or died it would be well with her.

“Occasionally her husband had written to her, short but kind letters, and once or twice, when he had asked her some direct questions she had answered him, but nothing he might now do could ever awaken in her a single throb of affection for him, and when there came to her from Paris several boxes of dresses, Worth’s very latest styles, she felt no gratitude to the giver, and when a day or two after his letter arrived, telling her of his intention to fill the chateau with company, and expressing a wish that she should look her best, as some of the guests would be ladies of cultivation and taste, she experienced only feelings of aversion and dread in view of the coming festivities. The servants on the contrary, were delighted. There had been no company at the chateau for years, and now it was a pleasant excitement, opening the chambers long shut up, airing linen, uncovering furniture, sorting silver, hunting up receipts, making jellies, and cakes, and sweetmeats, and speculating as to who was coming and what they would wear. Madame Arschinard was certain, for Monsieur Haverleigh had written Madame Verwest to that effect, and the largest and best sleeping room was to be hers, and the finest saddle-horse, and her maid was to have the large closet adjoining her room, so as to be always within call, and madame was talked up and speculated upon almost as much as if it had been the empress herself expected at the chateau, instead of the woman who had originated this visit and insisted upon it, partly because she wanted change, and partly because she knew that at Chateau d’Or was the fair-haired American of whom she had caught a glimpse in London. She had often questioned Mr. Haverleigh sharply with regard to Anna, and at last, after a hot and angry quarrel, she had wrung from him the fact that in an inadvertent hour he had married the little New England girl, who recently had become hopelessly insane, and was immured within the walls of Chateau d’Or. At first Eugenie’s rage had been something fearful, and even Haverleigh had trembled at her violence. After a little, however, when the first shock was over, she grew more calm, and began more rationally to consider the situation, which was not so bad after all. True, she could not marry him now herself, should such a fancy take her, but she had not by any means lost her power over him or any part of it. He spent his money for her as freely, and was quite as devoted to her as he had been before he saw this American, who had conveniently gone crazy, and was kept so close at Chateau d’Or. In her heart Eugenie did not quite believe in the insanity, though it suited her to have it so, and she was very anxious to see one who in a way was a kind of rival to her, so she proposed and insisted upon the visit to the chateau, and chose her own companions, three of them ladies of her own rank in life, and six of them young men who were all in a way her satellites, and would do to play off against each other when there was nothing better for amusement.

“To these people Mr. Haverleigh had explained that there was a Mrs. Haverleigh, a sweet, unfortunate young creature, who was hopelessly insane. She was perfectly harmless, and quiet, and ladylike, he said, and might easily be taken for a rational woman, unless she got upon the subject of her sanity. Then she would probably declare that she was sane, and kept at Chateau d’Or against her will, and that her friends knew nothing of her fate, as none of her letters ever reached them, and none of theirs reached her. Of course, all this was false, he said, as she was free to write as often as she pleased, while he always showed her whatever he thought she ought to see from home. When the sad news of her mother’s death reached him, he had withheld it for a time, thinking it better so, but he had told her at last, and the result was as he had feared, an aggravation of her malady and a state of deep despondency from which she was seldom roused. He did not know what effect so much gayety and dissipation would have upon her, but he hoped the best, and trusted to their good sense not to talk with her of her trouble, or to credit anything she might say with regard to him. He repeated all this with a most grieved expression upon his face, as if his burden was almost heavier than he could bear, and the younger ladies were deeply sorry and pitiful for the man upon whose life so great a blight had fallen.

“Eugenie Arschinard, who knew him so well, kept her own counsel, but of the four ladies none were half as anxious to see Anna Haverleigh as herself. It was late one lovely September afternoon when the guests arrived at the chateau, where all was in readiness for them, and Madame Verwest, in her best black silk and laces, stood waiting for them, courtesying respectfully as they were presented to her, and then conducting them to their several rooms. Anna was not present to receive them. She preferred not to see them until dinner, and stood waiting for her husband in the salon. She had not been permitted to wear mourning for her mother, as she had wished to do, but on this occasion she was dressed in a black silk grenadine, with puffings of soft illusion lace at her neck and wrists, while her only ornaments were a necklace and earrings of jet. To relieve the somberness of this attire, Celine had fastened in her bright, wavy hair a beautiful blush rose, which was far more effective than any costly ornament could have been, and had Anna studied her toilet for a month, she could not have chosen a more becoming one, or one which better pleased her fastidious lord. She was beautiful as she stood before him with that pale, pensive style of beauty so attractive to most men, and as he held her in his arms he felt, for a few moments, how far superior she was to the brazen, painted women he had brought there as her associates, and for half an instant he resolved to keep her from them, lest so much as their breath should fall upon and contaminate her in some way. But it was too late now. She must meet them day after day, and he must see her with them, and go on acting his false part, and make himself a still greater villain, if possible, than ever. But he would be very kind to her, and deferential, too, especially before Eugenie, whom for the time being he felt that he hated with a most bitter hatred, not only for what she was, but for the power she had over him. How gorgeous she was at dinner in her dress of crimson satin, with lace overskirt, and diamonds flashing on her neck and arms, and how like a queen, or rather like the mistress of the house, she carried herself among her companions as they stood in the grand salon waiting for Mrs. Haverleigh, the younger portion speculating upon the probabilities of her acting rationally in their presence, while she, Eugenie, listened to their speculations with a scornful curl on her lip, and an increased glitter in her black eyes.

“There was the sound of soft, trailing garments on the stairs, and Eugenie drew her tall figure to its full height, and tossed her head proudly as Anna entered the room, a graceful little creature, with a tint of the sun on her wavy hair, a faint flush on her cheeks, and the purity of her complexion heightened by the color of her dress. And still she was not a child, for the woman was stamped in every lineament, and shone in the blue eyes she bent so curiously upon the guests, as, one by one, they gathered around her to be presented. And Anna received them graciously, and welcomed them to the chateau, which, she said, would be pleasanter for having them there.

“‘You must be often very lonely living here alone so much,’ Eugenie said to her, and instantly the great blue eyes, which had been scanning her so curiously, filled with tears, and the sweet voice was inexpressibly sad which replied: