Transcriber’s Note:

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

THE SELECT SERIES

A SEMI-MONTHLY PUBLICATION,

Devoted to Good Reading in American Fiction.

Subscription Price, $6.00 Per Year. No. 80.—MARCH 21, 1891.

Copyrighted, 1891, by Street & Smith.

Entered at the Post-Office, New York, as Second-Class Matter.

Thrice Wedded,
BUT ONLY ONCE A WIFE.

BY

MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

AUTHOR OF

“SIBYL’S INFLUENCE,” “THAT DOWDY,” “TRIXY,” “A TRUE ARISTOCRAT,” “LOST—A PEARLE,” ETC.

NEW YORK:

STREET & SMITH, Publishers,

31 Rose Street.

DENMAN THOMPSON’S OLD HOMESTEAD.

STREET & SMITH’S SELECT SERIES No. 23.

Price, 25 Cents.

Some Opinions of the Press.

“As the probabilities are remote of the play ‘The Old Homestead’ being seen anywhere but in large cities it is only fair that the story of the piece should be printed. Like most stories written from plays it contains a great deal which is not said or done on the boards, yet it is no more verbose than such a story should be, and it gives some good pictures of the scenes and people who for a year or more have been delighting thousands nightly. Uncle Josh, Aunt Tildy, Old Cy Prime, Reuben, the mythical Bill Jones, the sheriff and all the other characters are here, beside some new ones. It is to be hoped that the book will make a large sale, not only on its merits, but that other play owners may feel encouraged to let their works be read by the many thousands who cannot hope to see them on the stage.”—N. Y. Herald, June 2d.

“Denman Thompson’s ‘The Old Homestead’ is a story of clouds and sunshine alternating over a venerated home; of a grand old man, honest and blunt, who loves his honor as he loves his life, yet suffers the agony of the condemned in learning of the deplorable conduct of a wayward son; a story of country life, love and jealousy, without an impure thought, and with the healthy flavor of the fields in every chapter. It is founded on Denman Thompson’s drama of ‘The Old Homestead.’”—N. Y. Press, May 26th.

“Messrs. Street & Smith, publishers of the New York Weekly, have brought out in book-form the story of ‘The Old Homestead,’ the play which, as produced by Mr. Denman Thompson, has met with such wondrous success. It will probably have a great sale, thus justifying the foresight of the publishers in giving the drama this permanent fiction form.”—N. Y. Morning Journal, June 2d.

“The popularity of Denman Thompson’s play of ‘The Old Homestead’ has encouraged Street & Smith, evidently with his permission, to publish a good-sized novel with the same title, set in the same scenes and including the same characters and more too. The book is a fair match for the play in the simple good taste and real ability with which it is written. The publishers are Street & Smith, and they have gotten the volume up in cheap popular form.”—N. Y. Graphic, May 29.

“Denman Thompson’s play, ‘The Old Homestead,’ is familiar, at least by reputation, to every play-goer in the country. Its truth to nature and its simple pathos have been admirably preserved in this story, which is founded upon it and follows its incidents closely. The requirements of the stage make the action a little hurried at times, but the scenes described are brought before the mind’s eye with remarkable vividness, and the portrayal of life in the little New England town is almost perfect. Those who have never seen the play can get an excellent idea of what it is like from the book. Both are free from sentimentality and sensation, and are remarkably healthy in tone.”—Albany Express.

“Denman Thompson’s ‘Old Homestead’ has been put into story-form and is issued by Street & Smith. The story will somewhat explain to those who have not seen it the great popularity of the play.”—Brooklyn Times, June 8th.

“The fame of Denman Thompson’s play, ‘Old Homestead,’ is world-wide. Tens of thousands have enjoyed it, and frequently recall the pure, lively pleasure they took in its representation. This is the story told in narrative form as well as it was told on the stage, and will be a treat to all, whether they have seen the play or not.”—National Tribune, Washington, D. C.

“Here we have the shaded lanes, the dusty roads, the hilly pastures, the peaked roofs, the school-house, and the familiar faces of dear old Swanzey, and the story which, dramatized, has packed the largest theater in New York, and has been a success everywhere because of its true and sympathetic touches of nature. All the incidents which have held audiences spell-bound are here recorded—the accusation of robbery directed against the innocent boy, his shame, and leaving home; the dear old Aunt Tilda, who has been courted for thirty years by the mendacious Cy Prime, who has never had the courage to propose; the fall of the country boy into the temptations of city life, and his recovery by the good old man who braves the metropolis to find him. The story embodies all that the play tells, and all that it suggests as well.”—Kansas City Journal, May 27th.

THRICE WEDDED.

CHAPTER I.
“GO! AND MY WORST CURSES GO WITH YOU!”

In a retired street in one of the inland cities of Massachusetts stood a neat and attractive little cottage of purest white, the dark green of its blinds making it seem still whiter beneath the dazzling sunshine of a lovely June morning.

Its little gem of a yard was surrounded by the daintiest of white fences, and filled with the brightest and choicest of flowers, showing that the owner was a person of taste and refinement.

The neatly graveled walk, from which every intruding blade of grass was carefully plucked, led to a smooth, wide stepping-stone as clean and spotless as a daily application of soap and water could make it.

The door stands invitingly open this bright morning, but we will not enter just yet. An introduction first is necessary to its inmates.

The sound of wheels is heard, and down the street comes a light, elegant buggy, drawn by a noble, spirited, but yet gentle horse of coal black. On and on it comes, until, at a word from the driver, it stops directly in front of the gate before the little cottage.

A boy of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age sprang lightly to the ground, tied his horse, then, with a look of eager expectation upon his face, walked quickly toward the open door.

He was a bright and active-appearing youth, with a full, round face, whose frank, open expression won you at once. His eyes were a fine hazel, large and full. His forehead, as he lifted his hat and ran his fingers through the clustering rings of chestnut hair that crowned his head, shone white and fair as polished marble, and was broad and high. His nose was straight and rather thin for the rest of his face, while his mouth was small but very pleasant in its expression, though there were certain lines about in that indicated firmness and a will of his own.

He was manly in form and bearing, and there was a look of conscious pride upon his beaming face as he glanced complacently back at the handsome equipage at the gate, while the silver tinkle of a bell gave back an answering echo to his touch.

“Oh, mamma, Robbie has come at last.”

And a bright little elf sprang dancing into the hall, and instantly a pair of chubby arms were around Robbie’s neck, and a hearty smack testified to the warmth of his reception.

She was just the sweetest little bit of sunshine ever caught and imprisoned in human form. A little round rosy face, all smiles and dimples; a pair of laughing blue eyes that danced and sparkled every minute in the day with fun and mischief. A pug nose and a rosebud mouth, always ready to give and take the sweetest kisses, as she had already proved. Her hair hung in curls around her plump cheeks, and was a sort of yellowish brown—not at all red, reader, but the brightest and richest auburn you ever saw.

Her figure was short and plump, while her little skipping fairy feet seemed almost too tiny to hold up so much precious flesh and blood.

“Oh, Robbie!” she said, almost breathless with delight and anticipation. “I thought you never, never, never would come; and mamma has coaxed and scolded to get me from the window, watching for you. She says it’s so unbecoming and unladylike to be so impatient; but I couldn’t help it, it’s so long since I had a ride. How nice the old pony looks, doesn’t he? and o-oh! you’ve had the buggy newly painted, too. What a grand time we will have! Come, I can’t wait any longer.”

The little witch was about to spring down the step, when a voice from within arrested her.

“Dora, Dora, wait, my child, you have no collar or gloves. Your hat is on wrong side front, and your cape is not fastened; come here, my dear, and let me fix you.”

A quiet, lady-like looking woman followed the pleasant voice, and approached her lovely little daughter with the missing collar and gloves.

“Good-morning, Robert,” she said, smiling. “Did you ever see such a little Miss Wild-fire before?”

“Good-morning, auntie! I can’t blame Dora a mite, for I can hardly keep still myself this bright day. I wish you could go with us.”

“Thank you, Robert, I fear Dora would hardly consent, for she thinks it is a great thing for you to take her out alone. How is your father to-day?”

“He is about as usual, only he does not seem to be in very good spirits. I told him the other day he would be happier if he was a poor man and had to work for a living. He would then have something besides himself to think about.”

“What did he say to that?” asked Mrs. Dupont.

“Oh, he only laughed and said I was a queer boy, and that I might work for my living if I wanted to.”

“Now, Dora,” said her mother, “you must hold still or I shall never be able to dress you. Put on your gloves while I pin the collar. I fear Robert will not wish to take you riding often if you don’t make a better appearance. Ladies never go to ride without their gloves.”

“But, mamma, I ain’t a lady; I’m only a little girl, and I hate gloves and starched things.”

The bright little face was very red just now from the effort of putting on the troublesome gloves, and there was something very like a pout upon the red lips.

“Well, never mind, dear,” returned her mother, kindly, “you will forget all about them after you have started. Have a happy time, and come home and tell me all about it. I hope you are a careful driver,” she added, turning to Robert. “You won’t forget that Dora is my all now.”

“You may trust me, auntie, and then old Prince is so gentle there is no fear. Come, Brightie, you are ready now, and we will start.”

He took Dora by the hand, and leading her to the buggy, put her carefully in; then unfastening the horse he sprang lightly after her, and with smiles and waving of hands they started, and were soon out of sight.

Mrs. Dupont stood looking after them for a few minutes, a happy smile upon her fine face. She was a widow, and this one pet lamb—this bright and winsome Dora was her all in the world.

Her husband had been a physician, and had settled in S—— soon after marriage, building up a good practice, which increased every year; until he had earned this snug little home, which with a few thousands at interest, made him feel quite easy as to the future. Besides this he had his life insured for five thousand more, and so when he was suddenly stricken with a malignant fever, and knew he could not live, he felt that he should leave his dear ones in comfortable circumstances if not in affluence. It was a heavy blow to Mrs. Dupont, for it left her almost alone in the world. She was an orphan, with no relatives except a maiden aunt, who, disapproving her union with the poor physician, had cast her off forever, and threatened to leave her large fortune to some charitable institution.

Maggie Alroyd, scorning the fortune, married her own true love, and was happy with the penniless doctor. He had been dead now four years; having died when Dora was eight years of age. But he was not forgotten. His memory was still fondly cherished in their hearts, and not a day passed that loving words did not testify to the strength and depth of their affection for him.

Robert Ellerton, Jr., was the son of one of Dr. Dupont’s patients. A rich and influential man, who was proud as Lucifer of his wealth, and also his name, which he claimed was spotless. His wife had died when Robert, their only child, was born, and he had never married again, his household affairs being governed by a maiden sister. He had conceived a sudden attachment for Dr. Dupont, who had saved Robert’s life—for Mr. Ellerton declared that he did—when he had a severe attack of the croup.

There was nothing he would not do for the doctor after that; the families immediately became intimate, while Robert and Dora grew to love each other like brother and sister. Better, in fact, for Robert used to tell her that some time she should be “his little bright-eyed wife.” And he always called Mrs. Dupont “Auntie.”

After the doctor died the intimacy continued, until within the last year or two Mr. Ellerton had suddenly become cold and distant, though he still allowed Robert and Dora to visit each other. Whenever questioned why he did not visit them, his reply invariably was that his health was failing and he did not go out much. Indeed, it seemed to be, for he grew thin, pale, sullen, and cross to everybody about him.

Even Robert began to fear him and keep out of his way. But in his secret heart he worshiped his bright and handsome boy, and planned his future course, building wondrous castles in the air for him.

He was beginning to think that it was about time to put a stop to “Robert’s foolish fancy for that girl Dora,” for they could not always expect to keep it up. His son would be rich, and would move in very different circles from the doctor’s daughter, who was comparatively poor.

How well he succeeded the future alone will show!

The youthful pair, all unconscious of these plots against their peace, and also of the very queer act in life’s drama which they were to play that bright June day, were riding briskly along the smooth, wide road that led into the country, enjoying to the uttermost the green fields, sparkling brooks, and gay flowers, with faces as bright and smiling as their own happy, joyous hearts could make them.

“Where are we going, Robbie?” asked Dora, suddenly remembering that she did not know.

“I thought we’d ride out to N—— and look at Squire Moulton’s new statuary. I heard he had just received some, and that it’s the finest collection in the country. I have a nice little lunch in a basket here, and after we’ve seen all we want to, we’ll go down by the lake and eat it.”

“Oh, how nice!” said Dora, clapping her hands. “Is it that great, big house with the beautiful grounds, where we went to the picnic last summer?”

“Yes; only you remember I didn’t go. Father doesn’t like the squire very much,” his face clouding for an instant.

“What is the reason he does not like him?” asked Dora, inquisitively.

“I don’t know, I’m sure, only he was very cross last year when I asked if I might go to the squire’s picnic, and I thought he swore about him.”

“I don’t care,” said Dora hotly. “I think he’s a real nice man to give all the children a picnic, and we had a splendid time. I shouldn’t think he’d let you go to-day, if he wouldn’t then.”

“He didn’t know where I was going to-day. I asked if I might take old Prince, and he said yes; but I don’t think there would be any harm in going to see the statuary,” replied Robert, though the hot blood rushed to his face, as if he felt half guilty.

“I don’t think there is any harm, either; but, oh, Robbie, look at that squirrel there!—there he goes, right through the wall.”

“Yes, and there goes its mate. Now they’ve both gone into that hole in that tree.”

“Yes; how cunning they were! I wish you and I were squirrels, with nothing else to do but run around in the sunshine all day, and eat nuts; it must be real fun,” glancing back wistfully toward the place where the squirrels had disappeared.

“Oh, no, Dora, you don’t, either; you forget that if we were squirrels we could not be married, and, you know that some day you are to be my little wife,” replied Robert, looking roguishly at her.

“Yes, I could be your wife just the same; for don’t you suppose one of those squirrels was the other’s wife? And then we shouldn’t have to work. I hate to wash dishes, and dust, and——”

“Well, Dora,” interrupted Robert, “you won’t have to work when you marry me, for I shall have plenty of money, and you can have servants to do the work, and all you’ll have to do will be to dress up in pretty clothes and trinkets, and play all the time, if you want to.”

“Oh, that will be so nice, Robbie!” exclaimed Dora, heaving a sigh of relief at the pleasing prospect of not having to work. “I wish I were your little wife now.”

“Do you?” he asked, a bright look coming into his face. “Well, I’ll tell you what we will do. We will go and be married before we go home, then I can take you to mother, for she will be my mother too, then. Will you, Brightie?”

“Yes, indeed, we will,” replied Dora. “Then my name will be Dora Ellerton, won’t it? I think it’s a real pretty name, too. But who will marry us, Robbie?”

“I don’t know. I guess Squire Moulton will; he’s justice, or something. Any way, I’ll ask him. Come, get up, old Prince, for we are going to be married.”

He touched the horse lightly with the whip, and these two children, so full of their fun and mischief, laughed, chatted, and planned for the future, little dreaming of the sorrow and misery they were about to entail upon themselves.

At length they rode up the broad drive-way, and stopped before the squire’s elegant country seat.

He was not in, the man said, who opened the door for them, but guessed they would find him somewhere about the grounds.

“Well, no matter,” said Robert, who was beginning to feel a little embarrassed with his strange errand. “We will go and find him.”

And taking Dora by the hand, they strolled down one of the beautiful walks until they came to a rustic arbor.

On looking within they discovered a little bent man of about fifty, with sharp black eyes and grizzly hair.

He looked up crossly as they entered, and demanded what they wanted, in a tone that made Dora shrink closer to Robert’s side.

“Are you Squire Moulton, sir?” asked Robert, respectfully.

“Yes, I’m Squire Moulton. What is it?” he replied sarcastically mimicking the boy’s manner.

“We’ve come to be married; that’s what we want,” said Dora, smartly, at the same time snapping her large eyes angrily at him.

“Come to be married, indeed! Ha! ha! ha!”

The little gray-headed old man went off into a paroxysm of laughter that made the echoes ring all over the grounds, while his evil black eyes glowed with the intensity of his merriment.

“And pray,” he continued, when he could find breath to speak, and looking amusedly at the youthful pair before him, “who are you, and what may be the names of the parties who wish to assume the hymeneal yoke?”

And he laughed again.

“My name is Dora Dupont, and Robbie’s is Robert Ellerton, and you needn’t laugh, either, for we’ve been engaged this long time.”

There was a sudden change in the man’s manner, and he repeated, with a dark scowl, looking first at one, then the other.

“Been engaged this long time, have you?”

“Yes, we have, and if you won’t marry us, we can go to some one else. Robbie is rich, and I guess he can pay for it, so you needn’t be afraid about that.”

The indignant little lady’s face was of a crimson hue, and her blue eyes snapped fire, while she enforced her speech with a stamp of her tiny foot, as she stood erect and defiant before him.

They made a strange picture, and one that each remembered in the long, dreary years that followed. That gray old man, with his evil face, and wicked eyes, sitting there, looking so intently at the two children before him. Robert, with his fine, manly face, glowing with excitement and exercise, a smile wreathing his full lips at Dora’s anger, while at the same time there was a half perplexed look in his eyes at the old man’s words and manner. He was holding Dora’s hand in a protecting sort of way, while she stood all flushed and indignant, and half ready to cry at the bare idea of being made fun of, her hair tossed and flying with every motion of her quivering little form.

Yes, it was an interesting and striking picture beneath that rustic arbor, with the waving trees, the bright sunshine, and beautiful flowers, for a background, interspersed here and there with the gleaming white figures of statuary, and an occasional glimpse of the silvery waters of a miniature lake, as the waving branches of the trees were parted by a gentle breeze.

As Dora mentioned the name of Robert Ellerton, a sudden change came over the squire’s wrinkled face.

He became ashy pale, his lips were clenched beneath his teeth until they sank deep into the flesh, and his coal-black eyes became almost red with the fierce blaze of passion that seemed to stir him.

His frame quivered, and he glanced at the youthful lovers in a way that frightened Dora, who pulled Robert by the sleeve, and whispered that she was afraid, and wanted to go home.

Robert stood silent and spell-bound, at the sudden and almost terrifying change in the squire’s manner, staring at him with wonder-wide eyes, and gaping mouth.

“Robert Ellerton!” at length almost gasped the man. “And is your father’s name Robert Ellerton, too, young man?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the boy, still regarding him with surprise.

“And your mother—tell me quick,” he continued, hastily, and almost sternly.

“My mother is dead, sir. She died when I was born, and Aunt Nannie has always taken care of me.”

“Dead! Oh, Heaven, dead! Jessie dead!” muttered the old man, pressing his hand to his side, and staggering back upon the seat from which he had just arisen.

Great beads of perspiration stood upon his brow, and his hands shook as if with palsy, as he took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them off.

“Oh, Jessie,” he wailed, “thou wert lost to me before, but I did not think that thou hadst gone so long to the regions of the unknown.

“Say, boy,” he added, and he clutched Robert almost fiercely by the arm, “was your father kind to her? Did she love him?”

“Of course he was kind to her—of course she loved him,” replied Robert, indignantly, but wondering still more at the man’s strange behavior.

“Come, Dora,” he added, “we will go home; we won’t stay here any longer.”

He again took Dora’s hand, which he had dropped in his astonishment, and started to leave the place.

“Stay,” said Squire Moulton, quickly, and a wicked expression swept away the agony that had been on his white face a moment before, while the devilish look came back to his evil eyes, though he tried to control it, and render his manner pleasant and affable.

“Stay, my young friends, you shall have your wish. I will marry you. I used to know your mother, young man, and hearing that she was dead took me by surprise. Yes, I will marry you, certainly,” he continued, gleefully rubbing his hands together; “only tell me first who this young lady is. Is her papa rich like your father?”

“No, sir,” replied Dora, promptly, her anger vanishing at the squire’s pleasant manner. “Poor papa is dead; he was a doctor; and my name is Dora, and mamma lives in a little cottage; but that is no matter, for Robbie will be rich, so it doesn’t make any difference.”

“No, no, certainly not, my little miss,” and he laughed disagreeably again.

“You stay here a few minutes while I go and make out a certificate—for, luckily, I happen to be clerk as well as justice—and then I’ll come back and perform the ceremony, and you shall be truly Mrs. Robert Ellerton before you go home.”

So saying the squire strode with hasty steps toward his elegant mansion, where, once within his library, he gave free vent to his pent-up feelings.

With clenched hands and wrinkled brow he paced back and forth the spacious length of that great room, cursing, bitterly cursing, and muttering to himself:

“Oh, Robert Ellerton,” he said, “I have you now; I can now pay you twice told for all my weary years of woe and anguish. You shall moan and weep, and gnash your teeth, even as I have done. Your false pride shall have a blow from which it will never recover. I remember you too well to know how it would gall you to have your son marry a poor girl, and under such circumstances, too. And he—he too, will chafe in the future at the chain that binds him. I know how you have built proud castles in the air for him, even as you used to for yourself, but they shall all tumble about your ears in confusion. It is in my power to crush you now, and, curse you, I will do it! Oh, Jessie, my poor blossom, had you but given yourself to me, how bright would I have made your life! I would have held you close—close to this beating heart, and it should have given you life. My life has been, and is, like the dregs of the wine-cup, sour and bitter, but you could have made it sweet and fragrant as burning incense. But now there is nothing left but revenge, and—I will take it! Oh, how I hate you, blighter of my happiness! I curse you! and I will crush you and yours if I can.”

It was a fearful passion that moved him. One moment of intense hatred and anger toward one whom he imagined had wrecked his life. The next full of tenderness and sorrow for the one loved and lost sweetness of his existence. It was a long pent-up agony flowing afresh over his soul, a wound long since healed and scarred over now torn rudely open, and pouring forth his inmost heart’s blood. He tore his hair, he beat his breast, as he strode wildly back and forth, until at last, utterly overcome, he sank back exhausted upon a chair.

Several moments passed, when with a mighty effort he conquered his emotion in a measure, and rising, he went to his secretary, took out some papers, and sitting down, commenced writing. He soon finished, folded the paper, and then went back to the arbor, where the children, having forgotten all unpleasantness, were chatting merrily.

They became silent as he approached, and looked uneasy; but he entered with a pleasant smile, told them to rise and take hold of each other’s right hand, and going hastily through the marriage service, he soon pronounced them man and wife.

His own face paled as he looked into those so earnestly raised to his, and his heart half sank within him as the thought of what he had done rushed over him. But he quickly cast it from him, and giving the folded paper to Dora, he told her, with a sinister smile, that she must never part with it, but treasure it sacredly, or she could not prove that she was Robert’s wife.

She took it, with a feeling half of awe, half of shame, and thrust it quickly within the depths of her pocket.

How could that bold, bad man stand up so calmly and perform such a mockery in the sight of Heaven? How could he so deliberately plan to blight and crush two innocent hearts and lives—two babes, as it were, who had never had a thought or wish of evil for any of God’s creatures? He little knew or realized to what extent his threat would be carried. Perhaps, could he have looked into the future, even he would have shrunk from the depth of woe to which his curses consigned them.

After he had performed this diabolical act, he instantly became the most agreeable of hosts, taking them all over his grounds, showing them the statuary, and explaining the different subjects to them; afterward giving them a sail upon the miniature lake in the daintiest of dainty boats. He then invited them into the grand old house, where, after looking a half-hour or so at some magnificent paintings, he ushered them into a pleasant little room, where they found a tempting little treat of strawberries and cream and cake.

They made merry here for a while, and then, as their buggy was ordered to the door, they bade their host a pleasant good-by, thanking him for his kindness to them; took their seats, and drove merrily away.

Squire Moulton watched them until they disappeared from view; then, raising one clenched hand, he shook it threateningly, and hissed through his shut teeth:

“Go, you young fools! and my worst curses go with you!”

He then went within, slamming the door violently after him. As he did so, two men arose from behind some bushes and shrubs which grew beside the arbor where the strange marriage had taken place, and stealthily made their way out of the grounds, whispering as they went.

CHAPTER II.
“YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE!”

All unmindful of the withering curses invoked upon their devoted heads, the young and newly-wedded pair went on their homeward way, as happy and light-hearted as they had come, little dreaming of the reception that awaited the announcement of their mad freak—little dreaming of the sudden and cruel separation in store for them—that the bright day so happily begun, and well-nigh spent, was to close, as it were, in a night of black despair, and long, long years of weary sorrow and heart-pangs intervene ere joy and reunion would come again to them.

Old Prince held his head higher than ever, and stepped briskly along on the homeward route, as if half conscious of the new and strangely important relations which the occupants of the buggy bore to each other.

“Well, Robbie, I don’t feel any different from what I did before, do you?” asked Dora, with a comical look on her rosy face.

“Why, no, Brightie; I didn’t expect to, did you?”

“I d’no,” replied the child, looking somewhat confused. “Well—yes—I thought folks who got married felt bigger and grander some way.”

Robert laughed.

“Did you?” he asked. “I guess it must be because they always have on new clothes, and are fixed up so much.”

“Perhaps so,” replied Dora, still looking puzzled. “And now I’m married, I suppose I shall have to wear my dresses long, like other ladies, and do my hair up in a waterfall behind, and wear bonnets instead of hats, and, oh, dear! now I shall always have to wear gloves and stiff collars.”

She heaved a little sigh here, half regretful, but presently went on:

“And, Robbie, you must have a tall hat and a long-tailed coat, and I wish you had whiskers and a mustache; then I guess it would seem more real, but I don’t feel a bit as if I was married now.”

Robert looked rather sober and sheepish, as he answered:

“I don’t know, Dora; I’m afraid we shouldn’t know each other rigged up in that style. I don’t think I should like you half so well, with your hair bobbed up behind, and then the long dresses would cover up your pretty little feet; and I’m sure I shouldn’t know how to act in a stove-pipe hat, and a long-tailed coat. I like you best as you are, Brightie, so I guess we hadn’t better change.”

“But,” persisted the little lady, still fearful they would not be able to support the dignity of man and wife, “don’t you think you could raise some whiskers? I think you would look real nice if you had some like Professor Allen.”

“I could get some false ones, if you want——”

“Ugh, don’t!” shivered Dora, as she thought of the horrid thing she had seen in the shop windows on the street. “Well, I don’t care much any way,” she continued; “but what do you suppose mamma will say?”

“I rather think she will be surprised when I call her mother, for I love her dearly, and you know I never had one of my own.”

His bright face fell for a moment.

“I don’t believe I can ever say papa to your father. He has been so sober and cross lately I’m almost afraid of him.”

“I guess he’ll get over that when he finds out what a pretty little daughter he’s got,” replied Robert, with a fond look into the lovely face of his little bride. “Here we are at home again,” he added, as he drew up before the gate. “Whoa, old Prince, till I help my wife out and take her into mother.”

Old Prince stopped in obedience to the word of command, and Robert helped Dora out just as Mrs. Dupont’s smiling face appeared at the door of the cottage to welcome them home.

Robert, taking Dora gravely by the hand, led her up to her mother, and said:

“How do you do, mother? We’ve had a nice day, and I’ve brought my wife back to you safe and sound.”

Mrs. Dupont laughed a light mocking laugh, as she said, with comic seriousness:

“Happy to see you, little Mrs. Ellerton, and very glad to know you have had such a nice time.”

“Very nice time, indeed, mamma,” replied Dora, with funny dignity; “only the man who married us acted so strangely that I was almost afraid of him. However, he got over it, and it’s all right now.”

“Really, my dear madam,” replied her mother, still willing to humor what she thought was one of their old jokes, “who was the clergyman that married you?”

“Oh, it wasn’t a minister at all, mamma, but Squire Moulton, and he gave me the certificate, and told me I must never part with it, or I couldn’t prove I was Robbie’s wife.”

“Nonsense, Dora, what do you know about a marriage certificate?”

“Well, but, mamma, he did, and I have it here in my pocket—haven’t I, Robbie?”

“Yes,” answered Robert, now glad of a chance to say a word; “and you are really and truly my mother now. Aren’t you glad you have a son?”

She did not answer; she looked first at one, then at the other with a puzzled expression, hardly knowing what to make of the affair. Both their faces were so earnest, and they talked in such a matter-of-fact way, that she could not comprehend it.

At last Dora, who had been fumbling in her pocket, took out the certificate and handed it to her mother, saying, triumphantly:

“There, mamma, read and see if we ain’t married, really and truly.”

Mrs. Dupont was frightened, and sank down pale and faint on the door-step, the paper still folded in her fingers.

“Now, Robert and Dora, if this is a joke,” she said, “you have carried it far enough; but if you are in earnest, tell me all about it at once.”

Robert then related all that had transpired from the time they left home until their return. He told her how the squire had questioned him about his father and mother, how angry and excited he seemed to get, and about his wanting to know if Dora’s papa was rich, etc. He described the marriage ceremony, their ramble around the grounds, their sail on the lake, and their treat in the house, with such truthful manner that Mrs. Dupont could not doubt him.

With trembling fingers and paling lips Mrs. Dupont opened the paper, and saw it was a regular certificate, with the children’s names and ages attached. She could no longer doubt the truth of what she heard and saw.

With a low moan the paper dropped from her hand, and she cried out in frightened tones:

“Oh, Robert, oh, Dora, my children, what have you done?”

“Why, mamma!” exclaimed Dora, in astonishment, “I thought you’d like it. You know I always promised to be Robbie’s wife, and now I am, what makes you feel so? I’m sure I’m as glad as can be.”

“Stop!” replied her mother, sternly. “You foolish child, you know not what you have done.”

Poor innocent Dora had never heard her mother speak so before, and with her heart almost broken she rushed sobbing into the house, and crouched half frightened in a corner.

Robert, who had listened to all that passed, with surprise and almost anger, grew pale himself at Mrs. Dupont’s strange manner, and began to think it had not been such a happy day after all. That he had done a serious thing was certain, though for his part he could not yet see the harm.

“Robert,” at length said Mrs. Dupont, “drive home as quickly as you can, and bring your father to me. I must talk this matter over with him immediately.”

Robert became seriously alarmed. He thought if he had done anything that demanded a solemn conference with his father, it must be serious indeed.

“Auntie,” he said, looking wistfully into her face and addressing her by the old name, “I am sorry you feel so badly about this, but do not blame Dora, for I alone am to blame for all that has happened.”

“Go!” she said wearily, pointing toward his buggy.

“But please, auntie——”

“Go bring your father here. My brain is in a whirl, I cannot think or act until I have seen him.”

She stooped and picked up the paper she had dropped, and then entered the house.

With a long drawn sigh and a quivering lip he turned to obey her, and entering his buggy, drove rapidly toward home, fearing, he knew not what, but his heart was heavy within his bosom.

CHAPTER III.
“THE FUTURE WILL SHOW.”

While Robert is gone for his father we will return to Squire Moulton’s mansion.

It was a large and elegant building, unique in its architecture and adornments, and furnished with the most exquisite taste. It was a home of exceeding beauty, but, with all its costliness and splendor, it was a dreary and lonely home, for its master lived alone, with only his servants for companions. No loving smile from a tender and affectionate wife greeted him when he came; no watchful eyes or listening ears waited to catch the shadow of his form, or the sound of his footsteps; no prattling voices made the lofty rooms ring with their joy and merriment, or sang out the glad word “papa” at his approach. No, it was a dreary life of lonely splendor.

I said he lived alone; but not alone all of the time, for his nephew, Ralph Moulton, a youth of seventeen, made his uncle’s mansion his home, and was always there to spend his holidays. The squire had brought him home when he came from abroad, and when the boy was very young, merely saying he was his nephew and would always remain with him.

He gave him every advantage, which, to the lad’s credit be it said, he eagerly improved, and he was now preparing for college. He was a clever, active youth, very attractive in form and feature, and when nothing went wrong was pleasant and agreeable. But when in a passion he displayed the same sinister emotions that moved his uncle. He was selfish and cruel at heart, aiming only to gratify his own desires and passions, in spite of all opposition. Report said that he was to inherit the squire’s property, indeed he had been brought to believe so himself, and the world bowed down in reverence and humility accordingly. He was now at home on a few days’ vacation.

The squire, on entering his mansion, after the departure of the children, proceeded in deep thought to his library again. When here he violently pulled a bell-rope, and then seated himself in a large easy-chair, burying his face in his hands.

Presently the massive door swung softly open, and a servant stood respectfully awaiting his commands.

Squire Moulton raised his head and said, in a harsh voice:

“Is Master Ralph in?”

“No, sir,” replied the man, “he went fishing this morning, and has not yet returned.”

“Well, send him immediately to me on his return. You may go.”

With an humble bow the man disappeared.

Half an hour, perhaps more, elapsed, when the sound of whistling was heard in the hall, and immediately the door opened again, and the young man in question entered.

He was dressed with exquisite neatness, and very gentlemanly in bearing and manners.

“Well, uncle, John told me I was wanted here, so I came as soon as I could get off some of the fish smell—such mean luck I never had before,” he said, a vexed look coming into his handsome face at the remembrance.

“I did wish to see you, Ralph; be seated, for I have much to say to you.”

The young man obeyed, inwardly wondering what was coming.

“Did you ever hear me speak of a man named Robert Ellerton?” asked the old man, looking sharply at his nephew.

“No, sir, but I’ve seen you look mighty cross if any one else happened to speak his name in your presence,” was the curt reply.

“You perhaps know that he has a son by the same name?” was the next query.

“Yes, sir, I’ve met him, and he’s a tip-top fellow, for a youngster, and smart as chain lightning!”

The squire’s face was black as night at this stream of praise, which, coming from such a source, annoyed him exceedingly.

“Spare your praises,” he said sarcastically; “perhaps you won’t laud him so highly when you hear what I have to tell you.”

“Well, out with it, uncle. What has the boy done? Thrown a stone and broken one of your treasured nymphs out yonder?”

And Ralph motioned toward the grounds, which could be seen from the deep bay-window near which they sat.

“Cease your nonsense, boy, and listen, for I have a story to tell you,” replied Squire Moulton, angrily.

He paused a few moments, while an expression of pain swept over his hard face. At length, with an effort, he began; while Ralph listened, wonderingly.

“When I was a boy of nineteen or twenty, I loved a beautiful girl. Her name was Jessie Almyr. I need not describe her; my days of rhapsodies are passed. Sufficient that I loved her with all the fire of my heart. It had grown with the growth of years, for we had been intimate from childhood, and I had almost begun to consider her as rightfully belonging to me.

“I had never told her of my love; I was poor then, and would not offer her an empty hand. I had written to an uncle in the city for a situation, and was waiting for an answer, which, if favorable, I felt would then place me in a position that would warrant my telling Jessie how dear she was to me.

“While waiting for the much-wished for answer, a young man two or three years older than myself came to our village. He was rich, talented and handsome. He was introduced to Jessie, and, of course, loved her, too. Who could help it that knew her? But I will not anticipate. The long-looked for letter at last arrived, telling me that I could have the situation, and offering me an ample salary, more than I had expected, and I felt that now I could support my bride in comfort. Wild with joy, I sought her and poured out the whole story of my love, not dreaming but that her reply would be all I could wish. She listened with downcast eyes and beating heart; I could see it throb beneath the folds of her dress. Her cheek was flushed, and I felt that I was almost sure of my prize, when—oh, my God! I can never forget it——”

The squire stopped and covered his face with his hands, while tears gathered in his eyes and rolled down his withered cheeks, as the memory of his blighted hopes rushed over him. It was some minutes before he could proceed, and there was utter silence in the room. Finally he raised his head; a stern, hard look had taken the place of the softened expression, and he continued:

“We were standing before a window that looked out on the western sky; the sun was just setting, and its yellow rays streamed in a golden glory all around my love, making her look like some bright-robed divinity. When I had finished telling her my hopes and plans, her lips moved as if she was about to speak, and I bent my ear to catch the blessed words. She raised her eyes, and I could have sworn that the love-light was in their bright depths; but—the sound of a horse’s footsteps outside drew them from me to rest on the handsome face and figure of Robert Ellerton as he rode by on horseback.

“He saw us, bowed gracefully, and waved one daintily gloved hand to her.

“The look of love fled from my darling’s eyes, as his form passed from sight, and with an absent-minded air she said she was afraid she did not love me well enough to be my wife—that she could not give me as much in return as I could wish.

“I protested that if she would only be mine, I would never complain of a lack of affection. She replied that she would think of my offer for a day or two before she gave me her answer. I gazed at her for a moment in astonishment—I was so sure she loved me! I could hardly believe it was the same Jessie whom I had always worshiped—her manner was so changed.

“Half-mad with jealousy, and the fear that I might lose her after all, I seized her in my arms and kissed her passionately. She gently released herself, and I went away—and—I never spoke to her again!

“A few days after, she sent me a note, telling me she could not be my wife—that she did not love me well enough, and she would not wrong me by giving me her hand without her heart.

“Oh! I saw it all! I saw it all! Another had usurped my place! Ralph, listen to me!”

The agitated old man leaped forward, while he whispered, hoarsely:

“In three months from that time she married that villain, Robert Ellerton—that city dandy. Yes, she chose a shallow love, of three or four months’ growth, to a devotion of years—but he was rich, and I was poor. But I swear he stole her from me—he stole her from me—the thief that he is!”

The bitter remembrance was too much for the squire, and he sank back nearly fainting in his chair.

Ralph sprang up, poured out a glass of wine, and held it up to his lips. He swallowed it eagerly, and it revived him. He was about to proceed, when his nephew interrupted him:

“Uncle, do not finish your story to-night. Some other time will do as well; though, for the life of me, I can’t see yet what I have to do with it.”

“No, no, my boy; I must finish it now; I should not have courage to begin again. Well, they were married, and went to their city home—for he was rich, and lived in great style—while I was left to my loneliness and desolation, without a thought or care. But I swore revenge, deep and fearful, and since I have had means to secure it, I have sought to keep my oath! For awhile I lost track of them, but finally followed them to this city, though I only heard to-day that Jessie was dead. She died nearly fifteen years ago, and I never knew it until to-day. And to-day I have begun my work of revenge in earnest.”

He then narrated how he had married the children, and sent them home with the certificate made out in due form in their pockets.

“Now Ralph,” he continued, “what I want of you is to help me fulfill my oath. I want you to watch this boy and defeat every plan of his life. Be his evil genius, as it were. I have given the father a heavy blow in marrying his son to a poor girl, for he is as proud as Lucifer. I don’t care what you do or how you do it, only ruin him, and his girl wife, too. I want them to experience a little of what I have suffered, and of what has made me an old man before my time. I look more than fifty, and am not yet forty. In return for your promise to do this I will bequeath you all my fortune. I may not live to see the end of it—I do not expect to, for I have heart disease, and am liable to die at any time. Will you do it?”

Ralph had been deeply interested in his uncle’s story, but he hesitated now to give the desired promise. At last he said:

“I don’t know, uncle, about it; it’s a pretty hard task to set a fellow, to avenge another man’s injuries, especially when he’s in no way concerned himself.”

“Perhaps you’re more concerned in it than you think,” replied his uncle, eying him wickedly.

“I should like the fortune well enough, but I thought—I have always thought I was to have that anyway.”

“Oh, really, young man, have you? Pray, who informed you to that effect?” sneered the squire.

Ralph blushed angrily.

“I have been brought up with that hope always held out to me. If any one is to blame in the matter I think it’s you,” he retorted.

“Indeed! But let me ask you, have you any conscientious scruples about undertaking this affair?”

“Hang it, no!” answered Ralph. “Conscience and I don’t trouble each other much. But how do I know but you may get a grudge against me sometime, and then where will the fortune go?”

“Very well, young man, you can do as you choose about it,” replied the squire, bitterly. “But as long as a fortune of half a million does not seem to tempt you, perhaps I can whisper a word in your ear that will have more weight with you; and you will be glad to seek revenge on your own account.”

“Well, what is it?” impatiently demanded the boy.

“Presently, presently; but first tell me why you thought you would be my heir.”

“Why, I am your nephew for one thing, and——”

“My nephew, are you? Can you prove it?”

“Prove it! what do you mean, sir!”

Ralph was beginning to be frightened at the other’s manner and words.

The squire looked almost fiendish, as his face glowed with a sudden thought and determination. He leaned toward the youth, speaking in a low tone, as if fearful of being overheard.

“I mean,” he said, “that you are not my nephew!”

“You lie!” gasped the thunder-struck boy, with a white face. “Then why am I here?”

“Yes,” coolly replied Squire Moulton, “I have lied. My whole life for the last few years has been a lie. You are here simply because I brought you here. You are a part of my plan of revenge!”

The old man’s face grew ghastly at this statement.

Ah! what a double lie was on his soul!

“You old schemer, this is too much! If I am not your nephew, who am I then?”

He sprang to his feet, and stood with one clenched hand raised as if he would strike the evil man before him dead.

“Oh, you begin to be interested, do you?” was the taunting reply. “You are ready enough to look after your own interests, but won’t risk anything to help another.”

“Who am I? I ask you,” fairly hissed the boy, the perspiration starting from every pore of his white, convulsed face.

“Will you promise——”

“I promise nothing; but I’ll choke you if you don’t tell me quick,” and he glared savagely at his uncle.

The wicked squire looked uneasy. He sat in deep thought for a moment, while Ralph watched him in stern and breathless silence. He was about to venture a great stake, and if he failed it might prove the worse for him. At last he heaved a deep sigh, and with sudden determination in his voice, said:

“Put your ear down here, Ralph, for I would not have a breath of this heard.”

Ralph bent close to the old man, his white face growing whiter with the intense excitement he felt.

“You are——”

The rest was in a swift, hissing whisper, but the boy heard it, for his eyes instantly blazed with a lightning passion, while the rage and hate shown in every feature, and he shook as with an ague fit.

“Curse him! Ten thousand maledictions on him! I will do it!” he wildly exclaimed, striding up and down the room in a towering fury.

“Ha, ha!” laughed the other. “I thought you’d come to your senses, my fine fellow. Now you can work for two fortunes instead of one.”

He laughed wickedly, and looked so evil that his cloven-footed master must have been proud of such an ally.

“I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it,” said Ralph, stopping suddenly, as if in doubt. “I don’t see how it can be possible.”

“Very well,” answered Squire Moulton, with an ugly sneer. “Sit down again and be calm, and I will tell you how it happens to be so. I will give you the whole history.”

Ralph Moulton (for we who are not in the secret must still call him so) went to the sideboard and poured out a glass of wine, which he instantly drained, and then resumed his seat.

“Draw nearer,” said the squire, “for should a breath of this be heard it would spoil all our plans.”

Ralph obeyed, and for an hour listened with breathless interest to the exciting story related by his supposed uncle.

And as they sat there, those two with their white faces and coal black eyes that glowed with the fierce fires of hate and revenge, any one would have been willing to swear, so fearfully alike was the expression of both, that they inherited the same evil passions, and that the same blood flowed in their veins.

Did it?

The future will show.

CHAPTER IV.
“I WILL NOT!”

Robert drove home as fast as he could make old Prince go, his mind all confused, while doubts and fears oppressed him. His father was just going in to tea when he arrived, and Robert followed him into the dining-room.

Mr. Ellerton received Mrs. Dupont’s message with evident displeasure.

“What does Mrs. Dupont wish to-night,” he asked, “that is so important? Can’t she wait until some other time?”

“No, sir; she told me to come back immediately.”

“Do you know what she wants?” inquired his father.

“Yes, sir,” replied Robert, blushing deeply; “but I cannot tell you; she will do that.”

Mr. Ellerton eyed him sharply, as if he mistrusted he had been up to some mischief. He then took his seat at the table, and ate his supper in silence.

As for Robert, he was so anxious and uneasy that he could scarcely swallow; but the meal was soon over, and they started for Mrs. Dupont’s.

It was only a short distance, and they were soon there.

Mrs. Dupont met them in the hall, with a grave and troubled face, and ushered them into the cozy sitting-room, where Dora lay upon a lounge, with red and swollen eyes. At sight of Robert, her tears started afresh, and she sobbed as if her heart were broken.

He went to her, and took her in his arms, whispering words of comfort in her ears, and soon had her smiling again. She could not be unhappy long when he was with her.

Taking Mr. Ellerton’s hat, Mrs. Dupont asked him to be seated, and then drawing a low rocker opposite him, she began her story.

Mr. Ellerton listened with cold politeness until she mentioned Squire Moulton’s name, when he glanced angrily at his son. Robert understood the look, and his own eyes fell.

When she had finished, he replied, half laughing at what he considered children’s play:

“Well, my dear madam, you are making yourself unhappy about a very slight matter. No ceremony like that could possibly be legal. In the first place, they are minors; then there are no witnesses, and they had no certificate.”

“Oh, but I forgot to tell about that,” she replied, hastily. “There it is,” and she handed him the paper.