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Virgie's Inheritance

by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon · English · Gutenberg #11269 · 376,606 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Virgie's Inheritance

Author: Mrs. Georgie Sheldon


        
Release date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #11269]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11269

Credits: Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VIRGIE'S INHERITANCE ***

Virgie's Inheritance

By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon



Author of "Nora," "Trixy,"
"Earle Wayne's Nobility,"
"Helen's Victory,"
"A True Aristocrat," Etc.

Copyright, 1887, 1888, 1891
By Street & Smith




Virgie's Inheritance.




Chapter I.
Introduces our Heroine and a Benighted Traveler.


"Virgie, I shall have to give up the race."

"Papa!"

"My strength is failing rapidly. It was all that I could do to creep home
to-night. My trembling limbs, my labored breathing, and this dreadful
cough, all warn me that I must set my house in order, and make provision
for your future."

It was an apparently old man who spoke thus, and yet the years of his life
numbered but a little over fifty.

His hair was silvery white; his face was colorless and haggard, his eyes
dim and sunken, and his form was much attenuated and bowed by the disease
which was fast consuming him.

He was sitting by a blazing fire, in an ordinary easy-chair over which a
heavy coverlid had been thrown to make it more comfortable; but he
shivered, and hovered over the blaze, as if he were chilled to the very
marrow, while the hands which he held extended to catch the warmth were
livid, and trembling from weakness.

The room was small, but cozy and home-like. A cheap, coarse carpet, though
of a bright and tasteful pattern, lay upon the floor. An oval table,
covered with a daintily embroidered cloth, stood in the center. There was
a pretty lamp, with a bright Japanese shade upon it. There were also a few
books in choice bindings, and a dainty work-basket filled with implements
for sewing. A few pictures—some done with pen and ink, others in crayon,
but all showing great talent and nicety of execution—hung, in simple
frames, upon the walls. The two windows of the apartment were screened by
pretty curtains of spotless muslin over heavier hangings of crimson, while
a lounge and two or three chairs completed the furnishing of the room.

Beside the table, in a low rocker, several paces from the invalid by the
fire, yet where she could catch every expression of his pale, sad face,
there sat a young girl, with a piece of fancy work in her hands, upon
which she had been busily engaged before her father spoke.

She was perhaps twenty years of age, with a straight, perfect form, and a
face that would have better graced a a palace than the humble mountain
home where she now abode. It was a pure, oval, with delicate, beautiful
brows; soft, round cheeks, in which a lovely pink came and went with every
emotion. Her eyes were of a deep violet color, shaded by dark silken
lashes, though their expression was saddened somewhat just now by a look
of care and anxiety. Her white forehead was surmounted by rich
chestnut-brown hair, which was gathered into a graceful knot at the back
of her finely shaped head. A straight, patrician nose; a small, but rather
resolute mouth, and a rounded chin, in which there was a bewitching
dimple; small, lady-like hands and feet, completed the <i>tout ensemble</i> of
Virginia Abbot, the daughter and only child of a whilom honored and
wealthy bank president of San Francisco.

When addressed, as recorded above, the beautiful girl had started and
grown suddenly pale, and a look of keenest pain shot into her violet eyes.

Then her sweet mouth straightened itself into a stern, resolute line.
There was a moment of solemn silence, which she broke, by saying, in a
repressed but gentle tone:

"I am sorry that you are feeling worse than usual to-night, papa. I know
you must be weary. You are always that after being all day in the mine,
and the storm, of course, aggravates your cough; but if you will rest a
few days you will surely be better."

"No, Virgie, it is useless to build upon false hopes. I shall never be any
better. My work is done. I shall go no more to my claim, and I have
decided to dispose of it to the first one who will offer me a fair price
for it. But, dear child, if it were not for you I believe I should be glad
to know that my saddened life is almost at an end. I——"

The weary voice quivered and failed here, and the man sank back in his
chair with a bitter sigh.

The young girl, her own face now blanched to the hue of death, laid down
her work, arose, and moved swiftly to her father's side, where she knelt
by his chair.

"Papa, do not talk so. You must not leave me," she cried, in a voice of
agony. "I cannot spare you. There must be something to help you—to build
up your strength. Let us go back home, where you can have the best medical
advice."

The man sat up in his chair, stopping her with a gesture almost of
despair.

"Home!" he cried, hoarsely. "Virgie, we have no home but this. You know
that I am already the same as dead to every one but you; that even our
real name is sunk in oblivion."

"But, papa, you must try to live for my sake," Virgie cried, clasping her
trembling hands about his emaciated arm, and shuddering as she felt how
frail it was. "If you will not go back, let me at least send for Dr.
Truel. He is skillful. He was always our friend. He will cheer you and
give you something to build you up, and he will keep our secret, too. Oh,
you ought to have had advice long ago. What shall I do in this dreary
place if you leave me alone?"

The sick man unclasped her clinging hands from his arm, and drew her
slight form to him in a tender embrace.

"My darling," he said, fondly, "that is just what I wish to talk with you
about; so calm yourself and listen to me. Neither Dr. Truel, nor any other
doctor, can help me now; if I had called him a year ago he might have
prolonged my life; but my pride would not let me face any one whom I had
ever known. But I will not speak of the past; it is too familiar and
painful to both of us. It is useless, however, for me to think for a
moment of going back, even to die, in the home where we were once so
happy, for only disgrace is connected with our name—disgrace and wrong,
all the more keenly felt because unmerited."

"Hush, Virgie!" he continued, as a shuddering sob burst from the breast
pressed so closely to his, "you must not give way so. I did not mean to
alarm you unnecessarily by what I have said; I may not leave you for some
time yet. I may be spared for a few months, perhaps until autumn, but I
feel that the time has come to arrange some definite plan for your future.
I must, however, give up my work, for I have no longer strength to carry
it on; but if there was only some one whom I could trust to take charge
of my claim. I might even yet reap something of benefit from it to add to
the hoard that I have been saving for you against this emergency."

"But, papa, I would much rather that you should spend every dollar that
you have, if it would prolong your life; if I lose you, I have not a
friend in the world."

The man heaved a heavy sigh, for too well he realized the truth of her
words.

"My dear," he returned, with tender pathos, "if it were possible for me to
regain my health, at any sacrifice, I would gladly make it for your sake.
But I know that it cannot be, and my care now must be to make the best
provision that I can for you."

"I have been very successful since coming here," he went on, speaking more
cheerfully, "more so than I ever dared to hope, and the claim promises
much for the future and ought to bring a good price if sold; so you will
have quite a snug little fortune, my Virgie, and I trust that your lot in
life will yet be happy, in spite of the dark cloud that has so shadowed it
in the beginning. What say you to writing to my old friend, Laurence
Bancroft, of New York, confiding you to his care after——"

"Oh, my father, you make me utterly wretched," cried the young girl,
reaching up her arms and clasping them convulsively about his neck, while
she lifted her tear-stained face appealingly to him.

He bent forward and kissed her white forehead softly with his trembling
lips.

"Bear with me a little longer, my daughter, and then we will never mention
this again while I live," he returned, huskily. "Laurence Bancroft, as you
know, was a dear friend of my early life. He has a cultivated wife, and
two daughters about your own age; he will believe me when I tell him the
truth regarding our misfortunes, and will, no doubt, give you a home in
his own family, and care for your interests until—woman's best gift—the
love of some true man comes to you, and you have a home of your own. New
York is almost on the other side of the world, and no evil breath of the
past will be likely to touch you there. What do you say, Virgie?—may I
write to my friend, giving you to his care?"

"Yes, papa," Virgie said, wearily assenting to his project, more to put an
end to the painful conversation than because she had any choice in the
matter, "you may do whatever your judgment tells you is best, and I will
be guided entirely by your wishes."

Mr. Abbot looked intensely relieved.

This question had troubled him for many months, and he had always shrunk
from speaking of it, because of the pain which he knew it would inflict.
With this vital matter settled, he felt that he could give up all care,
and spend the few remaining days of his life in peace with his idolized
child, and calmly await the end, which he knew was so near.

"That is right, dear," he said, with a contented smile. "I am greatly
comforted. I will write a full account of everything, together with my
wishes for your future, and it will be ready to be sent to Mr. Bancroft at
a moment's warning. I do not care to have him know anything about us just
yet; hark! what was that?" he broke off abruptly, and started into a
listening attitude.

"Only the wind and the storm beating against the house, I think," answered
Virgie, lifting her head, and calmed for the moment as she, too, listened
to what had seemed an unusual noise.

"It is a wild night, my child. I hope no one is homeless in this storm,"
said Mr. Abbot. "I am thankful for this peaceful, though humble refuge,
after the turmoil and wrong of a few years ago, only it is hard for you to
be so shut away and isolated from those of your own age. But surely that
was a knock, Virgie."

The young girl started to her feet as a loud and imperative rap echoed
through the small entry outside the parlor.

It was seldom that they were disturbed at that hour of the evening, for
among the hard working people of the mining district in which they lived,
there were few who were not early wrapped in slumber after the labors of
the day.

Virgie passed quickly out of the cheerful parlor into the tiny hall, and
opened the outer door, though the heavy burglar chain was fastened and
would admit of its being opened but a little ways.

"Who is there?" she asked, in her clear, sweet tones.

"A stranger who has lost his way and seeks direction to the nearest public
inn," answered a rich, mellow voice from without.

Mr. Abbot now came out, a heavy shawl wrapped about his shoulders to
shield him from the dampness.

"It is more than a mile from here, and a very poor place at that," he
said.

The stranger outside gave a low whistle of dismay at this information, and
muttered something about being in "a very uncomfortable fix."

Mr. Abbot unfastened the chain, threw wide the door, and invited the
unknown to come in out of the storm.

"Thanks," was the courteous response; "but I will not trespass upon your
hospitality if you will kindly direct me to the inn of which you speak.
The darkness came on so suddenly that I lost my way. I left Oreana at
noon to go to Humboldt, but my horse sprained his foot on the rough
mountain road, and I have had to come at a snail's pace ever since."

"You are sadly out of your way, indeed, if you are going to Humboldt, for
it is a good ten miles from here. Come in—come in out of the pouring
rain, and we will discuss what will be best for you to do," returned his
host, in a hearty tone, for he was won by the man's frankness and
courtesy.

The stranger stepped, dripping, into the hall, a tall, straight figure,
booted and spurred, and enveloped in waterproof jacket, trousers, and
havelock.

"Thanks," he said, "you are very kind; but allow me to introduce myself;
my name is Heath—William Heath, at your service."

"Then, Mr. Heath, come to my fireside and dry and warm yourself; my name
is Abbot and this is my daughter," replied Mr. Abbot, leading the way into
the cheerful parlor whither Virgie had retired when her father opened the
door to the benighted wayfarer.

Mr. Heath bowed with all the polish that could have been expected of him
had he been in a royal drawing-room instead of a rude cottage in a ruder
mining district of the mountains of Nevada, while his dark eyes flashed
with a look of admiration over the perfect figure and into the lovely face
of his host's daughter.

He removed his hat and havelock, revealing a grand head covered with
waving brown hair, and a handsome face all aglow with intelligence. His
eyes were a dark, wine-brown, his glance as keen and straight as an
eagle's, his manner and bearing betraying that he was accustomed to mingle
with people of culture and refinement.




Chapter II.
The Stranger Welcomed.


Virginia Abbot simply inclined her regal head in returning the stranger's
greeting; then taking up her work again, she sat down by the table, with
her back toward the fire and the newcomer. She had not failed to notice
his look of surprised admiration when introduced to her, and it had
affected her strangely.

Five years previous Mr. Abbot and his young daughter had come to that wild
region entire strangers—the former, a man of gentlemanly bearing,
somewhat past his prime; the latter a wondrously beautiful girl of
fifteen, just budding into womanhood, and with a dignity of mien and
refinement of speech which, together with her beauty, caused the uncouth
inhabitants of the place to regard her with something of awe, and as if
they thought she belonged to an entirely different sphere from them.

Mr. Abbot owned a claim in the gold and silver region there, which he
asserted that he was going to work himself, much to the surprise of the
rough miners, for he was a frail looking man.

He built a small but very convenient house, containing five rooms, which,
with the few elegancies he had brought with him, for his child's sake, and
which proclaimed that the strangers had been accustomed to the luxuries of
life heretofore, became the pride and wonder of the settlement.

The house was painted inside and out; there were carpets upon the floors,
draperies at the windows, vases and ornaments on the mantels, pictures on
the walls. But though all the furnishings were of the simplest and
cheapest, yet, to the rude and unaccustomed people about them, their home
seemed a veritable palace.

Another mystery and evidence of superiority was the grave and
self-contained Chinaman who came with them, and was installed as cook and
servant in general in the small kitchen, and who waited upon the young
lady of the house with so much respect and deference.

Here the father and daughter lived in the utmost seclusion. Virgie never
was seen outside her home unless accompanied by her father or servant, and
Mr. Abbot, when not in the mine, devoted himself wholly to his child.

They made no friends, and did not mingle at all with those about them,
although they were always kind and courteous to every one, and thus won
the respect of every man, woman and child in the hamlet. Mr. Abbot had the
appearance of being much broken in spirit; his countenance wore a look of
habitual sadness, and his abundant hair, so prematurely whitened, plainly
told that some heavy trouble had overtaken him in the past. Nothing could
be learned of their antecedents, where they had lived, or why they were
there, though Chi Lu, the servant, was often plied with questions by the
curious, and thus they were regarded as a trio of very mysterious
personages.

After a year or so, it began to be whispered about that "the governor," as
Mr. Abbot was called, because of the respect in which he was held, had
"struck it rich," in other words, that his claim was proving an unusually
fruitful one, and he was making money rapidly. How this came to be known
it would be hard to say, for he was very uncommunicative, going and coming
to and from his work quietly and unostentatiously, and living in the
simplest manner.

As time passed, Virginia Abbot grew even more beautiful than she was when
she had first come to her mountain home. The bracing air agreed with her,
her health was perfect, while her simple manner of living and her regular
habits were calculated to develop to the utmost every charm, and keep her
strong, and fresh, and beautiful.

Her mind was not allowed to lie dormant, however, for her father attended
most carefully and faithfully to her education, and not only insisted upon
a regular and thorough course of study, but kept her well provided with
the literature of the times, embracing many new books and various papers
and periodicals.

But for more than a year past, Mr. Abbot's health had been failing. The
change, however, was so gradual that Virgie did not observe it until the
disease had fastened itself so firmly upon him that he was beyond all
human aid. The man himself fought against it for months, striving to
prolong his life for the sake of his idolized daughter, although,
personally, the world had no longer any charms for him; but it never
relaxed its fatal hold, and at last, at the time of the opening of our
story, he felt that the time had come for him to give up labor and lay
down all burdens, for he knew that his days were numbered.

The question of providing a home and protection for Virgie had long
agitated his mind.

They had no relations or friends to whom he could confide her. There were
reasons why he was unwilling to appoint a guardian and send her back to
their former home, and so, at last, he resolved to commit her to the care
of his early friend and college mate, Laurence Bancroft, a wealthy
merchant of New York city.

But the matter was to be taken entirely out of his hands, and the
beautiful girl's destiny settled in a way wholly unexpected by either
father or daughter.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Mr. Heath, the benighted and storm-delayed traveler, threw back his
dripping coat, and seated himself at the invitation of his host, before
the blazing fire, Mr. Abbot thought that he had seldom seen a more
attractive young man.

He was apparently about twenty-five years of age. His dark eyer were full
of intelligence, and fringed with long silken lashes. His features were
clear cut, as if they had been chiseled in marble. A dark brown moustache
shaded, but did not conceal, a sensitive mouth, from which there flashed
the gleam of brilliant teeth whenever he spoke or smiled; his nose was
well formed, and his smooth, rather massive chin betrayed strength of
purpose and decision of character.

His address was very courteous, even fascinating, and his voice possessed
a rich, mellow tone, with a sympathetic ring in it, to which it was a
delight to listen, and which won at once upon the hearts and confidence of
his entertainers.

"You are unfortunate to be obliged to traverse our rough mountain roads on
such a night as this," Mr. Abbot observed, with a shiver, as he drew
nearer the fire, and laid another heavy oaken stick across the glowing
blaze.

"That is true, sir," responded his guest, yet the glance, which he
involuntarily shot at Virgie, bending gracefully over her work, did not
betray an overwhelming sense of his misfortune.

"I am on my way to join a party of sportsmen at Humboldt," he
continued. "I was detained at Virginia city upon a matter of business,
and they went on before, promising to wait there for me until to-morrow
evening."

"Are you traveling on horseback?" Mr. Abbot asked, with some surprise.

"No, sir; but the train on which I started met with an accident this
morning, which was liable to detain it several hours, and being impatient
of the delay, I procured a horse at Oreana, thinking I could easily reach
Humboldt by evening, when I could return it by rail. But the unfortunate
beast sprained his foot on a rolling stone, as I have already told you;
the storm and darkness overtook me, I lost my way, and my courage was just
about failing, when I espied the friendly lights of this settlement, and I
resolved to stop at the first house I came to and ask where I could find
shelter for the night."

Mr. Abbot had been studying the young man's face attentively during this
explanation.

He liked his appearance exceedingly; his countenance was honest and true,
his story straightforward and well told, and some unaccountable impulse
prompted him to take measures to become better acquainted with him.

"If you are going to Humboldt, you should have taken the turn to your left
five miles back on the mountain," he said. "It would be impossible for you
to reach it to-night, even if you could be set right, for you would be
sure to lose your way again in the darkness. The only public house—if you
can call it such—in this region, is at least a mile from here, and far
from inviting or comfortable at that; so allow me, Mr. Heath, to offer
you the hospitality of our home for the night, and to-morrow you can start
afresh and refreshed upon your way."

The young man looked up with a glance of surprise, while a quick flush
mounted to his brow, at this unexpected and rather extraordinary offer,
for he well knew that in a mining district all strangers are regarded with
suspicion if not with positive dislike.

"Sir, you are very kind," he began, casting another glance toward the
lovely maiden by the table, for he had seen her give a quick start at her
father's invitation, "but I fear I should trespass beyond all bounds were
I to accept your offer."

"No, indeed," returned Mr. Abbot, with more of eagerness in his manner
than he was in the habit of betraying over anything. "I could not think of
allowing you to go on in this driving storm, and we can arrange it very
comfortably can we not, Virgie?" turning toward her.

"Yes, sir," was the low though unhesitating reply.

"But I am an entire stranger to you. How dare you take me into your
household? How do you know but that I am a robber or a brigand in
disguise?" queried Mr. Heath, with a twinkle in his fine eyes. But still
he was strongly tempted to accept the friendly offer, not only on account
of the comfort surrounding him, but because he was attracted by the
cultivated gentleman and his charming daughter, both of whom were a great
surprise to him, finding them as he had in that wild region.

"Nay," responded Mr. Abbot, smiling, yet meeting the frank eyes of his
guest steadily, "I think I can vouch for your character as a gentleman
even though you are an utter stranger. Remove your wet garments, I pray,
and make yourself comfortable for the night."

"But my horse," began Mr. Heath, suddenly bethinking himself of the
dripping and suffering animal.

"True. Pardon my thoughtlessness," returned his host, adding, "There is a
small shed attached to our dwelling where he can at least be sheltered.
Virgie, please go and send Chi Lu to assist Mr. Heath."

Virgie immediately arose and left the room, and soon after a diminutive
Chinaman appeared in the doorway, bearing a lighted lantern, and
signifying his readiness to "puttee up te hossee."

Mr. Heath left the house with him, and both were gone some time, attending
to the animal's injured leg and trying to make him as comfortable as
circumstances would allow.

During their absence Virgie, at the suggestion of her father, busied
herself in arranging a supper for the storm-beaten traveler, who upon his
return was greeted by the fumes of steaming coffee, while an appetizing
array of cold meats and other viands was spread upon the table, which had
been drawn up before the fire.

"I fear Miss Abbot is making herself trouble on my account," Mr. Heath
remarked, with a swift and grateful glance at the graceful form and
flushed face that was bending over the glowing coals, where the young girl
was toasting to a delicate brown a slice from a wheaten loaf.

"No, indeed; it is no trouble; and a meal after your long ride in the rain
will not come amiss," Virgie answered, looking up and meeting his fine
eyes for an instant.

She deposited the bread upon a plate, and inviting the young man to be
seated, poured with her own hands a cup of fragrant coffee, which she
placed before him.

She continued to wait upon him with exquisite ease and grace until his
hunger was appeased, which was not soon, for it was a rare pleasure for
him to watch her beautiful and expressive face while he chatted with her
father, sipped his coffee, and ate his toast.

But he finished at length, and then Chi Lu was summoned the table cleared,
and the room restored to its usual order.

Mr. Abbot seldom had met a real gentleman since coming among the
mountains; he had lived chiefly within himself and for his child. But now
he found that he had not lost all interest in the outside world, and he
enjoyed immensely Mr. Heath's account of his travels, and his descriptions
of men and things.

Virgie had not seen her father so bright and animated in all the five
years of their secluded life, and she began to hope that his fears
regarding his failing health were groundless after all. She, too, enjoyed
the young stranger's conversation, although she did not join in it. She
sat by, with her dainty embroidery in her hands, listening, and showing by
her expressive face and shining eyes how rare a pleasure such congenial
society was to her.

But by and by she stole away to her own room, where she lay far into the
night thinking of the handsome stranger—of his eager yet respectful
glances when he looked at her; of the low, rich cadence of his voice when
he spoke to her, and feeling that she should miss him more than she had
ever yet missed anyone during the last five years, when he should go away
on the morrow.

The two men talked some time longer after Virgie left; the Chi Lu was
called again, the pretty lounge was converted into a comfortable bed, and
Mr. Heath was told that the parlor was at his service for the night.

The young man was very thankful for the hearty hospitality of which he had
been the recipient, and felt that he had been extremely fortunate in
finding such a pleasant abiding-place; but, although he was very weary
from his rough and tedious ride over the mountain, he found that slumber
was hard to woo, and he, too, lay awake for long hours, wondering over the
strange experience of the evening, and what hard fate—for hard he felt
sure it must have been—could have driven a cultivated gentleman like Mr.
Abbot, and his peerless daughter, who was so well fitted to shine in the
most brilliant circles of the world, away from the haunts of civilization
into that wilderness, and among the rude, uncultured, uncongenial people
of a mining region.




Chapter III.
Mr. Heath Talks of Becoming a Miner.


The next morning broke fair and beautiful.

Every trace of the storm had passed away, save that the dust was laid and
all nature looked fresher and brighter for the copious bath it had
received.

Virgie Abbot, despite her sleeplessness during the first half of the
night, was up at an early hour, superintending breakfast for her father
and their guest.

If she had been lovely the previous evening she was doubly so now in her
pretty flannel wrapper—for the mornings were chilly in that region, even
in the summer The wrapper was of a light blue tint, wonderfully becoming
to her delicate complexion, and harmonized well with her eyes and the
dainty pink in her cheeks.

Her face wore a brighter, more eager look, than was its wont, this
morning, and she was full of life and energy that was born of her youth
and sunny, hopeful temperament.

The incidents of the previous evening had been a pleasant break in her
hitherto monotonous life, and she was now looking forward, with no small
degree of interest, to meeting by daylight the handsome stranger who had
taken refuge with them.

During all the years that she had been in that rude place she had not seen
one real gentleman, excepting her father; they had never before
entertained a visitor, and there had been nothing but her reading and
studies, her drawing and fancy work, to vary the quiet, almost dull
uniformity of her existence.

Mr. Abbot himself looked brighter and better as he came out from his
chamber and gave Virgie his usual morning greeting and caress.

This visit had evidently done him good also, and Virgie took "heart of
grace" from the fact, and put aside, for the time at least, the anxious
fears that had so burdened her the night before.

Breakfast was served in the simple but clean and cheerful kitchen which
led from the parlor, while the small table, laid for three, had almost an
air of elegance, with its spotless cloth, its few pieces of silver, china,
and cut glass, relics of former glory, and the tiny vase of flowers, with
the dew and rain still on them, which Virgie had gathered from the edge of
the cliff near by.

Mr. Heath's glance expressed something of surprise as it swiftly took in
these appointments; but to him the fairest sight of all was the slim but
perfect figure of the young girl who sat at the head of the table, and
poured his coffee, and waited upon him with all the ease and
self-possession of one who had been long accustomed to the formalities and
etiquette of high life.

The young man wondered at it. There was no other woman in the house, nor
had been since they came there, for Mr. Abbot had mentioned that he lost
his wife more than six years ago; but this girl was a perfect little
hostess, and dainty, to the last degree, in her person. Her hands were
white and delicate, the pretty pink nails without a blemish; her hair
soft and silken, showing a careful wielding of the brush; her linen collar
and cuffs were immaculate, her handkerchief white as snow, and fine and
sheer, while everything about her bespoke lady-like refinement and a high
regard for nicety of toilet.

He could hardly keep his eyes off her, she was so fair a picture; but once
or twice she had looked up and caught his glance, flushed, and fearing to
embarrass her, he turned resolutely to his host and opened a subject upon
which he had been thinking quite, seriously.

"I understood you to say last evening, I believe, sir, that you were
desirous of disposing of your claim," he remarked.

"Yes; my health is too poor to admit of my working it any longer, and I
should be glad to dispose of it to the right person," Mr. Abbot replied.

"I think I know of some one who would like it, if it is still a promising
one," the young man said, but a conscious color flushed his cheek slightly
as he felt Virgie's eyes turned upon him.

"I honestly believe that it is richer to-day than when I began to work
it," Mr. Abbot asserted confidently. "However," he added, "I do not ask
you to take my word for it. If you know a party who would like to
purchase, tell him to bring an expert and examine for himself; and even
then if he is not satisfied to buy outright, he may work it upon shares
until he is convinced of its value."

"That is fair, I am sure," said Mr. Heath.

"Perhaps you would like to take a look at it before you go?" suggested
his host, who was eager to dispose of his property.

"I would, I assure you," was the reply; "but there is hardly time this
morning, for I feel that I must join my party immediately, else they will
be anxious regarding my safety. We are bound upon an excursion through the
northern portion of the State, and intend to be absent a week or more; but
after that, if you will permit me, I will return here and investigate
matters—that is, if you will give me the refusal of the claim until
then."

As the young man said this, his glance involuntarily wandered again to the
beautiful face of Virgie.

There must have been something magnetic in his gaze, for she raised her
white lids just then, and met the earnest, wistful look bent upon her.

A flush leaped to her cheek, and her violet eyes dropped instantly upon
her plate again, while her heart fluttered like a caged wild bird.

"I will gladly wait your time, Mr. Heath," Mr. Abbot responded, in a
satisfied tone. "I begin to think that your losing your way and falling to
our care last evening was providential."

"I have no doubt of it, sir," was the grave and reverent reply. "I believe
that all our ways are ordered for us; that everything is arranged for us
by an All-wise Power."

Something very like a sneer curled the almost colorless lips of his host
at this unexpected assertion.

Mr. Abbot was no believer in the individuality of God, and had spoken both
lightly and at random when he had referred to the young man's visit as
being providential.

"What do you mean by an All-wise Power?" he asked, skeptically.

"I mean God, sir."

"You believe there is a God, then?"

"Certainly; do you not?" and Mr. Heath's kind, grave eyes looked pityingly
into the haggard, sunken face before him.

They seemed almost to say, "If you have not this belief to comfort you,
with the hand of death laid upon your very heart, I grieve inexpressibly
for you."

"If there is, I imagine He must allow Satan to have the control of some of
our lives," was the evasive and bitter retort. "Virgie, Mr. Heath's cup is
empty."

But his face flushed and his hands trembled as he thus abruptly turned the
topic, showing how deeply the subject moved him; notwithstanding his
pretended unbelief.

"Thanks; no more coffee for me," Mr. Heath said, with a smile and a bow to
his young hostess, as she offered to replenish his cup; but he noticed
that there was a troubled, anxious look in her eyes as they rested upon
her father.

He made no reply to Mr. Abbot's remark, although he looked a trifle hurt.

He simply said, as he folded his napkin and pushed back his plate:

"I must ask you to excuse me and my lack of ceremony if I bid you good
morning, and take French leave. I feel that I ought to get on my way as
soon as possible; and believe me I am very grateful for your hospitality
and courtesy."

Virgie arose as he spoke, and like the true little lady that she was,
assured him that it had been a delight to entertain him, and she should
look forward with pleasure to his return.

He thanked her, shook hands warmly with her, and then left the house,
followed by Mr. Abbot, who watched him depart with a feeling of regret
such as he had not experienced over any one during all the years of his
exile.

Still he pleasantly anticipated his coming again, when he meant to make
him remain several days.

He had been strangely attracted toward him from the moment when he had
first heard his mellow, sympathetic tones, asking to be directed to a
place of shelter. He knew that he possessed a grand character, for he
carried the stamp of true nobility upon his frank, handsome face.

"That is a promising young man, Virgie," he said, as he returned to the
parlor after watching the horse and its rider disappear down the mountain.
"I should like to know where he came from, and more about him."

Virgie did not reply, but she turned away from the window where she, too,
had been watching the receding horseman, with a shy, sweet smile on her
red lips. William Heath's last glance had been for her, as he doffed his
hat and bowed low in his saddle when he turned down the road.

During all the week that followed her step was lighter and her face
brighter than its wont, and she went singing about the house to the
delight of her father, who was now at home all the day long, as he had
given up going to the mine.

Mr. Abbot had appeared very thoughtful after the departure of his young
guest, often falling into a profound reverie, in which he would sit for
hours.

Virgie often wondered what he could be thinking about, but she did not
feel like questioning him, lest he should refer again to the painful topic
of his leaving her.

One day, however, coming into the room suddenly, she saw her mother's
bible in his hands, and she was sure there were tears in his eyes. She
appeared not to notice either his employment or his emotion, but soon
stole softly away again, and went weeping up to her own room.

After that he busied himself with writing a great deal, and she felt sure
that he was making arrangements for her of which he had spoken on that
stormy evening. A great dread came over her at the thought of being left
alone in the world; and yet, in spite of all, she looked forward to the
return of Mr. Heath with more of pleasure and anticipation than she had
known for many a year.

Thus more than a week went by, and one afternoon Virgie, her father being
asleep and the house oppressively still, took her book and went out to a
little nook back of her cottage, where she was in the habit of going to
study, and where Chi Lu had built a rustic seat for her beneath a great
pine tree that grew out of a cleft in the mountain.

But she could not concentrate her thoughts upon the page before her; they
went roving after a coal black steed and its handsome rider, until finally
her book dropped from her hands, her eyes fixed themselves dreamily upon
the lofty, far-off peaks of the Humboldt Mountains, and she was lost to
time and place—everything save her own delightful musings.

So absorbed was she that she was not aware of the approach of any one
until a small but exquisitely arranged bouquet of mountain flowers were
laid upon the seat beside her, and a rich but well remembered voice said:

"Pardon me, Miss Abbot, for intruding upon your solitude, but Chi Lu told
me that Mr. Abbot was resting and could not be disturbed at present, and
that I should find you here."

Virginia sprang to her feet, the tint of the wild rose in her cheeks, her
violet eyes grown black with repressed excitement.

"Mr. Heath?" she cried, her scarlet lips parting in a bewildering smile.

"Yes; forgive me for having startled you so," he said, gently, then adding
with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "You were surely in a very brown
study."

"I am afraid I was," she returned, laughing. "But what lovely flowers!"
she continued, taking them up and bending to inhale their fragrance. "How
kind of you to gather them for me."

The young man's eyes lingered about her in a delighted gaze, for she made
the fairest picture imaginable standing there in her soft gray dress with
its collar and cuffs of black velvet, a knot of scarlet ribbon at her
throat, the brilliant flowers in her hands, and a fleecy white shawl
wrapped about her shoulders. Her shining hair was gathered into a satiny
brown coil at the back of her head and pinned with a silver arrow, while a
few naturally curling locks lay lightly on her forehead. The dark,
moss-grown rock was behind her; the softly waving plumy boughs of the
pine tree above her, a carpet of tender green beneath her feet.

"You are still trembling from the shock that I have given you," he said in
a tone of self-reproach, and noticing how the flowers quivered in her
grasp, "pray, pardon me and give me a handshake of welcome, or I shall
almost regret that I came."

She looked up frankly into his dark eyes, and laid her small hand
unhesitatingly in his.

"You are very welcome, Mr. Heath," she said, "and I am sure that papa will
be very glad to see you."

William Heath smiled at her words.

He felt sure that she, too, was glad to see him—that his coming was a
pleasant break in the monotony of her life; her varying color, the bright,
happy gleam of her eyes told him this.

Her wonderful beauty, so out of place in that wild region, thrilled him
strangely. Her queenly manner, her delicacy and refinement astonished him,
and he wondered more and more what mysterious circumstances could have
combined to drive two such cultivated people so far from civilization to
hide themselves in the rugged fastnesses of those dreary mountains.




Chapter IV.
A Mountain Ramble.


"You were reading," he remarked, stooping to pick up the book that had
fallen to the ground as she arose. "Tacitus!" he added, in a tone of
astonishment, as his eye fell upon the title page.

"Yes, I am reviewing; papa likes me to study a little every day, still,"
Virgie returned, quietly, while she examined her flowers with a critical
eye, and wondered that a gentleman could have arranged them so well.

He must be an artist, she thought, for no one save an artist, or a lover
of art, could have taken such pains to harmonize colors like that.

"I should suppose you would labor under serious difficulties in trying to
pursue your studies in such a place as this," Mr. Heath remarked.

"Oh, no, papa is a fine scholar, and he makes a most delightful teacher."

"And have you pursued a regular course under him?"

"Yes, partly. I left school when I was fifteen, but I have kept right on
the same as I should have done if I had remained, and I graduated two
years ago," she concluded, smiling archly at the idea of graduating in
that wild country.

"And with high honors, of course," said her companion in the same vein.

"Certainly; with all the honors, since there was no one to compete with
me or to bear away the palm from me. But, Mr. Heath, you must be both
weary and hungry after your ride over the mountains; come in, and let me
get you a lunch," Virgie concluded, on hospitable thoughts intent.

"No, indeed, thank you; I will eat nothing until tea time, when, if you
will permit me, I will gladly join you. I should much prefer to sit here
and enjoy this magnificent view with you to going indoors."

He seated himself, as he spoke, upon the rustic seat, and Virgie,
following his example, they fell into a pleasant chat, which lasted more
than an hour.

Virgie never forgot that delicious hour, neither did her companion, who
was every moment growing more deeply interested in the beautiful mountain
maiden.

He talked upon many themes, and was surprised to find how fluently she
could converse with him, showing how much and how thoroughly she had read,
and how wisely and carefully her father had superintended her education.
She was far above the average woman in point of intellect and culture, he
told himself and it was a pity that her life should be wasted in that
wretched place.

But they were at length interrupted by Chi Lu, who came to tell them that
Mr. Abbot was awake, and had asked for them.

They immediately arose to go to him, and found him sitting upon the tiny
porch in front of the cottage.

He was looking thinner and more worn, Mr. Heath thought, than when he had
last seen him, and his cough was far from troublesome, even though the
weather was milder. It was evident, to him, at least, that the man was in
the last stages of consumption, and could not live many months, if weeks,
although, as the weather grew warmer, he might rally somewhat.

He greeted the young man warmly, and made many inquiries regarding his
trip and the success which he and his party had met with in their sport.

"Very good," Mr. Heath told him, adding, "And now my friends have gone to
Salt Lake City, while I have retraced my steps hither to talk with you
about that claim of yours."

Virgie looked up quickly at this, a lovely flush rising to her cheek. If
only he would become its purchaser.

The eyes of the two young people met, and held each other in a glance that
sent the blood coursing more rapidly than usual through their veins.

Mr. Abbot's face, brightened.

"Then you still think that you know some one who will purchase it?" he
said, eagerly.

"Yes, sir—if—if it proves all that you have described it, I think I may
like to buy it myself," Mr. Heath answered quietly, but with rising color.

"You! you don't look like a person who would care to take to mining for a
living," returned his host, in a surprised tone.

"I might say the same of you, sir," said the young man, smiling.

Mr. Abbot flushed, and for a moment appeared considerably agitated and
unable to speak.

Then he said, with something of hauteur in his manner:

"Sometimes a person is compelled by circumstances, over which he has no
control, to adopt a pursuit, which under other conditions he would shun as
both unfitting and obnoxious."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Abbot," Mr. Heath hastened to say, in a
deprecatory tone. "I had no intention of calling to mind anything of an
unpleasant nature; my reply was lightly and thoughtlessly given. However,
I have always had a desire to see something of mining, and although I may
not attempt to work at it myself, I think I should like to own a claim."

"Very well; then to-morrow I will show you over the premises; and explain
all that you may wish to know; perhaps, though you may not be quite so
much in favor of a miner's life when you come to realize the difficulties
attending it."

Chi Lu now interrupted with the information that tea was ready, and Mr.
Abbot repeated the invitation that Virgie had already given to their new
friend, insisting further, that he should remain their guest until he
should decide regarding the purchase of the claim.

Upon being assured that it would inconvenience the household in no way, he
consented, nothing loath at the prospect of being allowed to bask in
Virgie's presence, and to have an opportunity to study her character more
fully.

After tea, which was really a dainty meal, far better and more acceptably
served than any the young traveler had eaten since leaving San Francisco
three weeks previous, Mr. Heath, seeing that Mr. Abbot was weary and more
inclined to rest upon the lounge than to converse, asked Virgie if she
would allow him to be her escort and go out for a ramble.

The young girl flushed with pleasure at the request, and cordially
assented.

She wrapped her fleecy shawl once more about her shoulders, and tying a
dainty hat—which Chi Lu's skillful fingers had woven from mountain
grasses, and her own fair hands had trimmed—upon her pretty brown head,
they sauntered forth.

The sun had gone down, but the western sky was all ablaze with crimson and
orange, which gradually faded into soft purple and deeper blue in the
upper sky. There were mountains all about them, some darkly green with
fir, spruce, and pine, others of brighter and tenderer tints in their
dress of oak, maple, and birch, while here and there arose one bald and
gray, all of solid rock, with now and then a patch of moss clinging to its
time worn sides, but giving variety to the scene and enhancing by contrast
the whole picture.

"Where would you like to go?" Virgie asked, as they passed out of the
little gate into the rough road.

"Wherever you will take me," Mr. Heath replied, as he looked smilingly
down into the beautiful face upraised to his.

"Then I will take you up to the Bare Ledge; the finest view can be
obtained from there," the girl replied as she moved on to hide the blush
which his look had called to her face.

It moved her strangely whenever she met the gaze of the grand man, for
grand her soul told her he was, with that magnificent head, that
intelligent face, and that quiet, yet high-bred dignity of manner which
she had never seen in any other save her father.

"The Bear Ledge?" repeated Mr. Heath. "Why is it called that? Is it
haunted by wild beasts? If it is, I shall certainly object to your going
there."

"Oh, no; it is not that kind of a bear at all," laughed Virgie, the
silver ripple of amusement breaking like music upon the evening air. "It
is called so because it is a mass of rock entirely barren; nothing will
grow upon it; it seems to be the one spot in all this region that is
absolutely desolate, and yet from it you may view a world of beauty."

On they went up the mountain, conversing now upon one topic, now upon
another, yet both conscious of but one prominent fact—that they were
together, and supremely happy in each other's society.

At last, however, their climb was over, and following a rough path that
led along the side of the mountain for some distance, they at length came
out upon a broad ledge or table rock, which was indeed barren to
desolation.

But the vista that opened out before them was beautiful beyond
description.

Mountains everywhere—above, below, and on either hand; but between them
were fertile little valleys, with here and there glittering lakes with
tiny streamlets trickling into them, that seemed like silver brooches and
chains garnishing nature's emerald vestments.

The youthful couple stood wrapt in silence for several minutes, viewing
the varied landscape. To Virgie the scene was familiar as an oft-repeated
tale, and yet she was never weary of it. To her companion it was one of
the loveliest views that he had ever gazed upon, even though he had
visited many lands and climbed many a mountain.

"It is grand!" said Mr. Heath, at last.

"It is grand!" echoed Virgie, drawing in a deep breath of pure air, and
sweeping a delighted glance over all the fair scene.

"I thank you very much for bringing me here," her companion continued. "I
would hardly have believed there could be such an exquisite view in this
region; my disagreeable ride, when I came here before, rather prejudiced
me against the locality. Do you come here often?"

"I used to, before papa's health failed him," Virgie answered, with a
regretful sigh, as she remembered how little her father had been able to
go about of late. "We used to come here almost every Sabbath in fine
weather, with our books and papers, and spend half the day—it is all the
church we have had—and I shall always love the spot."

"No doubt you do, and yet——"

Virgie looked up inquiringly as he paused abruptly.

"I was thinking," he continued, in reply to her glance, "that this
mountain must be a wild and lonely place for one like you to spend your
life in."

"Yes, it is lonely," the young girl responded, with a wistful gleam in her
violent eyes.

"Have you lived here long, Miss Abbot?"

"Five years—a little more."

"So long? Surely you cannot have had much congenial society," Mr. Heath
remarked, as he contemplated with no favoring eye the rude hamlet far
below them on their right.

"None, save my father."

"And have you never been lonely, and yearned for youthful companionship?"

"Oh, yes, often," and the bright tears sprang quickly into Virgie's blue
eyes, as she thought of the nights she had wept herself to sleep from
sheer homesickness and a feeling of utter desolation. "But," she continued
more brightly, and winking rapidly to keep the tell-tale drops from
falling. "I can bear loneliness, or almost anything else, for my father's
sake."

"Poor child! brave little woman!" thought the man by her side, "it must
have been very much like being buried alive, and she has borne it like a
heroine; but she will not have to endure it much longer 'for her father.'
I wonder what will become of her when he is gone."

"Mr. Abbot seems very feeble," he said aloud, "do you not think a change
would be beneficial to him?"

"I—do not know," Virgie began wistfully; then added, more to herself than
to him, "Where could we go?"

"I would advise the sea-shore. I should think the salt air would do him
good. Santa Cruz, Monterey, or any of those places on the California
coast, would be both pleasant and healthful."

A startled look came into Virgie's eyes, and her face grew pale.

She had often been to Santa Cruz and Monterey, in the old delightful days
when her mother was living, where she had reigned like a little queen, and
they had all been so happy, with no suspicion of the black shadow that was
creeping upon them so surely.

"No, no, we could not go there; I—I do not believe that papa could be
persuaded to leave home," she faltered with evident nervousness and
embarrassment.

"There is a sad history and a secret here," said Mr. Heath to himself, and
he wondered more than ever what cruel misfortune could have driven these
people thus into exile.

"Has Mr. Abbot ever consulted a physician?" he asked.

"No; there is no physician near us. But papa understands something of
medicine himself," Virgie answered, sighing, for her heart was very heavy
whenever she thought of her father's condition, and it was evident to her
that Mr. Heath considered him to be in a very critical state.

He saw that it troubled her to talk about it, and resolved that he would
not refer to the subject again.

As they stood there the gorgeous tints faded out of the western sky, a
purplish haze settled over mountain and valley, like a gauzy vail
softening all their outlines, and a mist was beginning to rise from the
depths below.

"The dew is falling, Miss Abbot. I fear you will take cold in this
dampness. Shall I take you back now?" Mr. Heath asked.

"Yes. I think it will be hardly safe for us to linger longer," she
replied. "But, Mr. Heath, be careful as you go down; the path is not
altogether safe."

The young man laughed lightly.

"I have scaled greater heights, climbed steeper and more rugged paths than
these, Miss Abbot," he said. "The Alps, the Pyrenees, the Caucasus, are
all familiar ground, and this is but child's play compared with them."

"Oh, then you have been in Europe?" Virgie cried, with animation.

"Yes, in almost every portion of it," he answered, watching her kindly
face with admiration.

"How favored you are," she sighed wistfully. "I have longed with a mighty
longing to visit foreign lands."

"Have you? Perhaps some time your wish may be gratified. I hope it may
be," he returned, in an earnest tone. "Now give me your hand, and let me
assist you down this slippery path."

"No, no. Please care for yourself, Mr. Heath, and let me follow you," the
young girl pleaded. "I know every step of the way, and it is all strange
to you."

But he stood still in the way, with his hand outstretched to her, resolute
yet smiling. He would not yield his point, and without another word she
laid her own within his, and together they went down the mountain path, he
guiding her steps as carefully as if she had never been over the ground
before, and she finding it very pleasant to be so shielded and attended.

When they reached more level ground he drew the hand he held within his
arm, and they slowly wended their way back in the gloaming to the cottage,
Virgie feeling strangely light-hearted and happy, and almost as if a new
and beautiful life was about opening before her, while William Heath, with
a twinkle of amusement in his fine eyes, wondered what his aristocratic
mother and sister would say; what another brilliantly beautiful woman
would think to see him thus playing the devoted cavalier to this simple
and unpretending mountain maiden whom he thought so lovely.

He had at that moment in his pocket, letters from two of them, begging him
to "quit his wanderings," to "come home and settle down to the real
business of life. The property needed his care, and—Sadie had not been
like herself since his departure."

These words came to him now, but they did not change in the least the
purposes that were taking root in his mind—the determination to remain in
that isolated hamlet as long as <i>Virginia Abbot's father should live</i>.




Chapter V.
"Who Is He, and Why Is He Here?"


The next morning Mr. Abbot and his young guest visited the mine, and,
after a thorough examination of the former's claim, and instituting some
inquiries, more for form's sake than anything else, regarding the wealth
of the mine generally, Mr. Heath became the purchaser of Mr. Abbot's
property, and at once set about hiring competent miners to work it for
him.

"It may prove but a foolish, quixotic undertaking after all," he told
himself, when his negotiations were completed, "but I must have some
excuse for remaining here. That girl is the most beautiful being I ever
met. She has power to move me as I was never moved before. I simply
<i>cannot</i> go away and leave her. I am sure her father can live but a little
while, and then—"

What was to happen after Mr. Abbot should be taken away remained unsaid,
and Mr. Heath walked on for a while with bent head and thoughtful brow.

He was looking about him a little to find a place in which to live while
he should remain on the mountain, for he was resolved that he would
trespass upon Mr. Abbot's hospitality no longer than he was obliged to,
although every hour in Virgie's presence was perfect delight to him.

"I would give a good deal to know their history," he resumed, after a
little. "It is the greatest mystery—their being here. The man shows
culture and familiarity with men and things; he is unusually keen and
shrewd in business matters, while the way he has managed his daughter's
education betrays the scholar and a mind of no ordinary power and ability;
and to be <i>here</i>, working with the common herd in a <i>mine!</i> I do not
understand it!"

While he was speculating thus regarding his new friends, Mr. Abbot and
Virgie were engaged in the same manner with reference to him.

"Well, Virgie, I have sold my claim, and for a generous sum, too. Mr.
Heath is no haggler, and gave me my price without a demur; but I think
that it is very queer that a young man of his stamp should care to engage
in any such business."

"It is rather strange," Virgie admitted, absently.

"He is far above the people with whom he will come in contact," continued
her father. "He has evidently been accustomed to the very best of society,
is well educated and fine appearing, and seems to have an abundance of
means. What do you make of him, dear?"

"I should say that he is very much of a gentleman, papa," replied the
young girl, flushing, as she remembered their walk of the previous
evening, the care and attention which he had bestowed upon her, and the
delight which she had experienced in his presence.

"Yes, that goes without saying; but, does he seem like an American to
you?"

"I had not given a thought to his nationality," Virgie answered, looking
up curiously.

"Well, it strikes me that he may be English, although there is nothing in
his speech or manner to betray it. He is built like an Englishman, and
somehow the idea has taken possession of me that he belongs over the
water, and so, his desire to settle here seems all the more
incomprehensible."

"It may be a whim—a romantic desire to learn something of a miner's
life," observed Virgie; "or," with more animation, "he may be an author,
papa, and is taking this way to study certain phases of character with
reference to writing a book."

"Well, Virgie," said Mr. Abbot, smiling, "I must confess that is the most
reasonable explanation that could suggest itself, and possibly, with your
woman's intuition, you have hit upon the right solution of the mystery.
Yes," after a thoughtful pause, "I shouldn't wonder if you were right. His
saying that he did not intend to work the mine himself goes to show that
it is a secondary object, and he does not care particularly about the
profit of it. He is very pleasant company. I believe his coming has done
me good."

"I am sure it has," Virgie answered, brightly; "and papa, now that your
mind is relieved of all pecuniary care, don't you think you will continue
to improve?"

"No, Virgie," her father returned, gravely; "do not allow my temporary
improvement to deceive you. A fatal disease has fastened itself upon me,
and I know that I have not long to live."

"Oh, papa!" exclaimed the lovely girl, sharply. "I will not believe it.
Pray, <i>pray</i> try what medical advice will do for you."

"Hush, my child," Mr. Abbot returned, deeply moved. "I did not mean to
refer to this again, but you force me to do so; nothing short of a miracle
could give me a sound pair of lungs again."

"Then let us try change of air—anything so that I may keep you with me,"
Virgie pleaded, yet knowing, as she did so, that there was no place on
earth that held so much attraction for her now as the humble home which
heretofore had seemed so lonely and isolated.

A subtle charm seemed suddenly to have fallen upon it; everything looked
brighter; all things surrounding it had become dearer.

"No, dear; no air will be so good for me as this pure, bracing mountain
atmosphere," her father replied, gently. "I would shrink from going to any
place where we should be likely to find familiar faces—nothing would
break me down so quickly. Be patient, Virgie for a little longer, and then
<i>you</i> shall go back to the world, where you ought long ago to have been
with people of your own age."

"Oh, papa! I care nothing for the world nor for society without you," she
sobbed, realizing more fully than she ever had done, that she would soon
be fatherless.

"But it is not right that you should spend your life in such a place as
this," responded Mr. Abbot. "I have written to Mr. Bancroft, and if
anything happens to me suddenly you will find the letter in my desk, and
must send it to him immediately. I would mail it now, only—I cannot feel
reconciled to having any one learn of our hiding-place while I live. One
thing more I must speak of. I should have done so the other night if we
had not been interrupted. When I am gone I want you to lay my body here,
under the shadow of the old pine tree."

"Papa, papa! you will break my heart! Surely you would wish to lie beside
my mother!" Virgie cried, the tears raining over her cheeks.

Mr. Abbot's face was almost convulsed with pain for a moment.

"Yes, if that were possible," he said, at length, "but no one must ever
know the fate of Abbot Al—Ha! Virgie, I had nearly uttered the dishonored
name!" he panted.

"Papa, you shall not talk so," the girl cried, wiping her tears and
turning on him almost indignantly.

"I would not pain you, my darling," he answered, gently; "but if there
were no cloud hanging over us, I should be only too glad to go back to our
old home to die and be laid beside my loved ones. It cannot be, however,"
he concluded, sighing wearily.

"But, dear papa, the dreadful past was caused by no fault of your own, and
it is not right that you should suffer as if it had been," Virgie said,
passionately.

A cynical smile curled the lips of the sick man.

"The world would tell a far different story if it should ferret out my
grave and see my name blazoned above it; and as long as its poisonous
tongues continue to speak slightingly of me, it must never know aught
about me. So do as I bid you; promise that you will obey me, Virgie."

And the almost broken-hearted girl promised, but feeling as if it would be
almost more than she could bear, to go back to the gay world, where she
would be kindly cared for and sheltered, and leave her dear father lying
in his lonely grave upon that desolate mountain.

William Heath entered with great apparent interest upon his mining
operations, and although he frankly acknowledged his entire ignorance of
the business, exhibited a goodly amount of judgment and common sense which
warned the workmen whom he had hired that it would not be well for them to
attempt to take advantage of him.

He was unable to find any place in which he was willing to live, so he
caused a small cabin to be erected just opposite Mr. Abbot's dwelling,
furnished it simply but comfortably from the nearest supply station, and
with Mr. Abbot's permission, contracted with Chi Lu to keep his table
supplied with all needful provisions.

No one would have supposed from his humble surroundings from the
industrious and energetic life which he led, and the total absence of
anything like arrogance or assumption, that he belonged to an almost royal
family, and had been for years the petted darling of fashionable circles
and drawing rooms, the catch of many seasons, and the prize for which fond
mammas and beautiful, aspiring maidens had long angled in vain.

But such was the fact, and William Heath had thus isolated himself from
his home and all that he held most dear simply because, while on a
pleasure trip, he had accidentally met a beautiful girl who had chanced to
touch a chord in his heart that had never vibrated before.

These two young people were now thrown almost daily into each other's
society.

Mr. Heath was quite literary in his tastes, and after the duties of the
day were over he invariably sought the companionship of Virgie, sometimes
reading to her while she worked, and often with her as she still
persisted in reviewing certain studies and authors which she loved.

The failing invalid, too, received much of his care and attention, while
many delicacies, which he had never taken pains to procure for himself,
found their way to his table to help sustain his waning strength.

It is easy to see whither all this tended.

Virgie soon learned to look for Heath's coming, to listen for his
footsteps and the sound of his voice, as she had never looked for or
listened to anything else in the world before. She began to rely upon him,
to experience a sense of restfulness and content in his care that
sometimes made her wonder how she had ever been able to live without him.

There came new beauty, and light, and earnestness into her face, a
tenderer smile to her red lips, a more musical cadence into her voice. The
hours dragged heavily without him, and they took to themselves wings when
he came.

Before she realized the fact she had learned to love him with all the
strength of her nature, and her destiny was sealed.

Thus weeks and months went by.

For a time the warm, genial summer weather seemed to hold Mr. Abbot's
disease somewhat in check, and, as he was cheerful, and enjoyed the
novelty of having two young and charming people about him, there was a
little season during which that small household was very happy.

He studied the young stranger attentively, and was more and more
prepossessed in his favor. They conversed frequently upon topics which Mr.
Abbot had long been in the habit of scoffing at, but there was an element
of reverence in Mr. Heath's nature that commanded his respect in spite of
preconceived ideas and a tendency to skepticism. His arguments were always
reasonable and convincing. He could not fail to feel this influence; and
it was not long before Virgie could see that a great change had taken
place in her father's feelings regarding his relations to an overruling
power and the future, which hitherto had seemed so vague and uncertain.

Yet, notwithstanding all this, he often experienced a feeling of
uneasiness.

He could not fail to perceive that Virgie was learning to care a great
deal for their new friend, and that Mr. Heath was deeply interested in his
daughter.

This was all well enough if Mr. Heath was what he appeared to be, and his
intentions were honorable.

But he could never quite divest himself of the feeling that there was
something rather mysterious in his desire to remain in that remote region,
and it would be terrible if any harm should result from it to his one ewe
lamb.

He had always guarded her so tenderly and carefully no breath of evil,
scarce a sorrow, save their one great sorrow, had ever touched her. Once
or twice the thought had come to him, prompted, no doubt, by the
circumstances which had driven him to that place, that the man might have
become entangled in some wrong or crime, and was hiding, like himself,
from the world and justice; and yet it was difficult to fancy that he was
not all that was honorable and upright, for his life and conduct from day
to day were beyond reproach.

"If they love each other, and he is all he seems, I could give her to
him, and feel more content than I ever thought to be," he said to himself,
while brooding upon the subject one afternoon while Virgie and her lover
were out on a ramble. "She would be far better off under the care and
protection of a kind husband, than she would be to send her to New York.
Her future would be settled, and there would be no fear on account of the
snares and temptations of society in the gay city.

"Still I really know nothing about him. He says nothing about himself, his
home, or his family. If it should turn out that he has a suspicion that
she will have money, and he is seeking her for that, it would be a fearful
blow. I could not bear that her young life should be ruined."

He sat in troubled thought for a long time, considering the subject from
every point, sometimes reproaching himself for not having foreseen the
danger of allowing the two young people to come together, and refused to
sell his claim to Mr. Heath; then again feeling a sense of shame for his
unworthy suspicions of one who bore the stamp of true nobility upon his
very face.

At length he was aroused from his reverie by the sound of the voice he
knew and loved so well; and, sitting suddenly erect and speaking with
resolution, he said:

"I am her father. I have a right to know. He shall tell me who he is, and
why he is here."




Chapter VI.
"Will You Give Me Your Daughter?"


"Papa," said Virgie, putting a flushed, beautiful face inside the room
where her father was sitting, and all unconscious of the very serious
considerations that were agitating his mind: "I have invited Mr. Heath to
take tea with us. A basket of the loveliest peaches came to us this
afternoon from some mysterious source, which, however, I am inclined to
think, he could tell us something about if he chose. So, if you entertain
him for a little while, I will go and prepare a dish of them for him to
share with us."

"Yes, yes. Come in, Mr. Heath. I was waiting to see you. Run away, Virgie,
and attend to your peaches, and I will see that our friend is properly
entertained until tea is ready," the invalid responded, with unusual
animation.

Virgie tripped lightly up to her chamber, where she removed her hat, and
stopped a moment before her glass to rearrange the locks that lay lightly
upon her forehead, and blushed a conscious rosy red as she looked into her
eyes and read the strangely happy expression that lay in their clear
depths. Then she tied a long white apron around her slim waist, and went
down to pare her peaches, never suspecting the vital questions that were
being discussed in the little parlor so near her.

"Mr. Heath," Mr. Abbot began, as the young man had seated himself, "I was
thinking of you just as you entered, and had resolved to ask you a couple
of very plain, and to me, important questions."

"Which, no doubt, I shall be very glad to answer if I can do so," his
companion responded, smiling, yet flushing lightly as he began to suspect
what the nature of the invalid's inquiries might be.

"Thank you," responded Mr. Abbot, courteously, and then added, gravely: "I
do not need to remind you, I am sure, that as a father I am often anxious
regarding my daughter's future, and for this reason I feel compelled to
ask you that which, under other circumstances I should not feel at liberty
to ask. Will you tell me who you are?"

"My name, Mr. Abbot, is—William Heath," the young man began, looking
thoughtful; then seemed to hesitate to go on.

"Is that all that you have to tell me about yourself?" the invalid
inquired, with some dignity, and attentively studying the face opposite
him. "I knew that before," he went on, a suspicion of sarcasm in his tone,
"but I have long felt that there was something of mystery connected with
the circumstances of your being here. It is rather extraordinary that a
young man of your talent and culture should desire to locate in a rough
place like this. It has been evident to me for some time that your mining
operations were of secondary importance to you, for you cannot reap much
if any profit. It must take nearly all you realize to pay the two men you
hire to work your claim, while you lead, comparatively, a life of leisure.
My second question was regarding this—why are you here?"

William Heath lifted his frank, dark eyes, and looked straight into the
face of his host, and said, in a low tone, but with an earnestness which
betrayed that he felt he had much at stake:

"Mr. Abbot, I will answer your last question first, as frankly as you have
asked it, though, no doubt, you will be greatly surprised, and perhaps
startled, by my reply. I am here simply and solely to try and win Virginia
Abbot for my wife."

Mr. Abbot sat erect, looking astonished indeed at this astounding
statement, and a spot of deep red settled in each hollow cheek.

"What can you mean? You never saw her until three months ago!" he said,
excitedly.

"True, I never saw her until that wild, stormy night when I came to you a
weary, dripping traveler and you so kindly extended to me your
hospitality. But I began to love your daughter that very evening. I do not
need to tell you that she is beautiful, for you know it; but to me she
seemed the fairest woman that I had ever seen; her presence moved me as I
had never been moved before, and I felt as if I could hardly go on to join
my friends and leave her. But I suddenly found a pretext for returning
when you mentioned that you desired to dispose of your claim. I resolved
that I would become the purchaser. I would come here and remain to study
the character of your daughter, and if she proved all that I fancied her,
I would strive to win her for my wife. This, my dear sir, is why I am
here; and now—will you give her to me?"

"Have you said anything to Virgie about this?" Mr. Abbot asked, looking
very grave.

"No, sir; I have not breathed a word of my intentions to her; but I
accepted her invitation to tea this evening with the determination to tell
you this, if I could make the opportunity, and ask your sanction to my
suit before speaking to her."

Mr. Abbot looked gratified.

"That was honorable of you," he said. "It meets my estimate of your
character."

"Thank you, sir," Mr. Heath returned, flushing slightly, then continued:
"I am not given much to rhapsody or extravagances of language, but I know
that I can never be a happy man unless I win Virgie, and if you will give
her to me, I promise most solemnly to devote my life to her happiness."

"Is William Heath your true name?" Mr. Abbot questioned, determined to
know all about him before committing himself.

"Yes, sir. I hope you do not think I have been masquerading under a false
name," returned the young man, a quick flush mantling his cheek.

"Pardon me; but you must remember that I could not account for your being
here, and—and I was a little suspicious, I own, that you were not quite
what you pretended to be," said the invalid, apologetically, and yet
regarding him keenly.

The flush on William Heath's face deepened. He looked very thoughtful for
a moment, then said:

"Mr. Abbot, you have read between the lines better than I thought. I would
have preferred to remain plain William Heath to every one until after I
had won my love; but perhaps I had better be perfectly frank with you. I
am not an American."

"I thought so," returned his companion, quietly.

"Did you?" asked the young man, looking surprised. "I compliment you upon
your penetration then, for I have passed for one of your countrymen almost
everywhere since coming to this country."

"I think you are an Englishman," said Mr. Abbot.

"I am, sir. I have an estate called Heathdale in the county of Hampshire,
England. I own another in Surrey. Mr. Abbot, I am an English baronet, and
I have simply been a visitor and traveler in this country during the last
year."

"You, an English baronet!" exclaimed Mr. Abbot, excitedly, a vivid flush
suffusing his face, then quickly receding, leaving him deadly pale.

"Yes, sir; but, pray believe me, I had no intention of boasting of either
my wealth or title," observed the young man modestly.

"Oh!" sighed the sick man. "I am afraid then that you can never marry
Virgie."

"Sir! Why not? What is there in what I have told you to debar me from
making your daughter my wife? I should suppose you would feel that I have
it in my power to make her all the happier on account of it."

"But you do not know, you cannot understand, you English are so proud, so
tenacious of honor and caste. Ah, my poor child!" Mr. Abbot cried,
incoherently, and appearing greatly agitated and distressed.

"I am sure, my friend, I cannot comprehend this excessive emotion," Sir
William—as we shall call him henceforth—remarked.

"Would you be willing to marry a woman whose name is irretrievably linked
with disgrace?" Mr. Abbot asked, while cold perspiration started out upon
his forehead, and his face was almost convulsed with his anguish of mind.

He knew that Virgie had grown to love this man. He was conscious of the
pride and prejudices of the English aristocracy, and he believed that when
he should tell the story of his life, as he knew it was only right he
should do, Sir William Heath would no longer care to make his daughter his
wife, and her heart would be broken.

Sir William looked up, startled at this question, his own face paling
suddenly.

"Surely, Mr. Abbot, you cannot mean anything so bad as that," he replied,
in a low, pained tone.

"I will tell you all about it," said the sick man, "and then you must
decide for yourself whether you are still willing to wed the daughter of a
dishonored man. Of course you have seen from the beginning of your
acquaintance with us that no pleasure or profit that might accrue to us
from this kind of a life could ever reconcile us to it; that only some
terrible misfortune could have driven me and my beautiful darling into
such a wild and desolate region as this."

"Yes; I have felt that there was something mysterious in your being
here—some secret reason why you should have shut yourselves away from all
comfort and civilization," Sir William admitted, as his companion paused
for strength to go on. "But I have never attributed it to any willful
wrong on your part."

"Thank you for your faith in me," returned Mr. Abbot, gratefully. "I only
wish the world at large was as charitable; if it had been, I need not have
been here now, on the verge of the grave, nor been obliged to doom my
lonely child to a life of exile, when everything should be at the
brightest for her; neither should we have been obliged to disown a name
which, until recently had always been an honored and respected one".

"Then your name is not Abbot," said Sir William.

"Yes, but that is not the whole of it; I will, however, confide that to
you later. But of course I tell you this in strictest confidence; whatever
your decision may be after you hear my story, I charge you not to betray
me to any one."

"You may trust me," said the young man, quietly.

"Then draw your chair closer, for not even Virgie knows the very worst,
and I would not make her burden any heavier when there is no need."

The young baronet did as he was requested, but he looked both troubled and
pale, for he knew not how this story might affect his future prospects. He
was not different from his kind in some points; he belonged to an old and
honored family; no shadow had ever tarnished their fair fame; he was proud
and tenacious of honor, and his heart was heavy with apprehension as he
thought that he might be about to hear some story of crime or wrong that
would forever separate him from the woman whom he had learned to idolize.

Mr. Abbot leaned nearer his companion, and in a low voice gave him a brief
and rapid account of his life and the adverse fate that had served to
banish him to the sparsely populated mountains of Nevada. It was a
strange, sad story of sin, and wrong, and shame, in which a complication
of evidence and circumstances had permitted the real offender to escape
justice and another to suffer the consequences of his crime.

Sir William Heath never once moved or spoke during its recital, but his
fine face expressed pain, and sorrow, and sympathy throughout, and when at
length it was finished he still sat for several minutes in his chair,
exhausted and panting from weariness and excitement.

At last the young man turned to his companion, a great pity and tenderness
shining in his fine, clear eyes.

"Mr. Abbot," he said, "you have told me one of the saddest stories that I
have ever known, and I can find nothing but sympathy and regret for you in
my heart. You have been but the victim of an atrocious wrong—no stain
rests upon your character, if there appears to be upon your name, and so I
ask you again, will you give me your daughter, if I find that I have been
so fortunate as to have won her love? What you have related to me can
never make any difference in my feelings toward her, and since I shall
take her to another country, where nothing of this will ever be known or
cast a shadow upon her future, as Lady Heath she will be honored and
respected, and I trust, happy."

Tears welled up into the eyes of the invalid as he listened to the words
of this true, earnest lover.

"God bless you for a noble, royal hearted man!" he exclaimed, reaching
forward and clasping the young baronet's hand. "Yes, I can say God bless
you now—for you have taught me to believe there is an Infinite Father and
I can reverently invoke His benediction upon you. Of course I will give
you Virgie and feel that she is richly blessed in having won such a
husband and thus I can die with not a care upon my heart."

"You have given me the richest boon that it is in my power to crave,"
returned Sir William, his face kindling with happiness. "But you need not
speak of dying. A sea voyage would prolong your life. Come with me at once
to England and to Heathdale where you shall have every comfort and
attention, and the change will do you good."

A sad smile flitted over Mr. Abbot's wan features.

"It is too late," he said, sorrowfully. "I shall not live through another
month; but my mind is at ease and it will be a restful season—the little
time that I am spared. No, I shall never leave this place, but I have a
request to make of you."

"Tell me, and it shall be granted if it is in the power of man," returned
Sir William, eagerly.

"I should like, if you can win Virgie's consent, to see her your wife
before I die. It will be better for you both; then, after I am gone, you
can take her away as soon as you choose, and perhaps among new scenes and
with new ties she will not grieve so bitterly for me."

Sir William Heath's heart leaped with joy at this proposition, though
there was an expression of sadness on his handsome face as he looked upon
the wreck before him, and realized how truly he had spoken. He knew that
he had very little time to live.

"If I can win her, nothing would make me happier than to accede to your
wish," he said, in a low, earnest tone.

At this time, a light step was heard in the hall, and the next moment the
door was opened, while a sweet young voice called:

"Come, papa and Mr. Heath—tea is ready; the peaches are delicious, and
Chi Lu has obtained, from some mysterious source, real cream to eat with
them."




Chapter VII.
"Will You Be My Wife?"


In spite of the exciting conversation of the last half-hour Mr. Abbot
appeared more than usually cheerful during tea. He was indeed more like
the brilliant, entertaining host that he used to be in their former
beautiful home in San Francisco, than Virgie had seen him since their
troubles had come upon them.

At the same, time the young girl wondered what could have occurred to make
their guest so silent and preoccupied. It was evidently an effort for him
to converse at all, while two or three times he was addressed more than
once before he responded, but his glance whenever it met hers thrilled her
strangely, and kept a beautiful flush upon her cheeks throughout the meal.

When it was concluded the two young people went out upon the porch to view
the sunset, while Mr. Abbot retired to his room where he began looking
over and rearranging the papers in his desk.

There was no need now to send that written history with its request for
fatherly care for Virgie, to Lawrence Bancroft. He had not a doubt as to
the result of Sir William Heath's wooing. He was sure that Virgie loved
him, and he was filled with a blessed content and fervent gratitude that
so bright a future was opening before his darling.

She would go to another country where none of the old troubles could touch
her, where no one would be able to point the finger of scorn at her and
whisper that her name had been branded with dishonor, and where,
surrounded by her noble husband's love and care, occupying a high social
position with every good thing that wealth could secure, her life would be
one long summer of peace and happiness.

Meantime an awkward pause had fallen between Virgie and her lover standing
outside upon the porch.

It was broken at last by the baronet with a very trite remark:

"What a warm evening."

"Yes, it has been a very warm day," answered Virgie, feeling very much
inclined to laugh, for never before had they been forced to talk of the
weather in order to keep up a conversation.

"Let us go to our seat under the old pine tree," said Sir William, and
without waiting for her consent, he stepped down to lead the way.

Virgie glanced at him questioningly.

The unusual gravity which she had observed during tea still rested upon
his face and vibrated in his tones.

She wondered at it, and yet, although she could not have told why, her
heart began to beat with quickened throbs on account of it.

Reaching their favorite nook, Sir William gently seated his companion, and
then stood looking down upon her a moment without speaking.

Then he spoke, and there was a tenderer note in his voice than she had
ever heard before.

"Virgie," he said, "have you ever wondered why I came here and turned
miner?"

She looked up quickly as he spoke her name thus for the first time, then
her eyes suddenly drooped beneath the look in his.

"Yes, I have thought it a little singular that you should choose just this
work and this locality," she answered, in a low tone.

"May I tell you why I came?" seating himself at her side.

"Certainly, if you like."

"It was because I found here the only woman whom I could ever love.
Virgie, you are that woman, and my heart told me on that first evening
when I came to you, cold, wet, and hungry, that I must win your love or my
future would be void and desolate. So I seized upon the first reasonable
pretext I could find for remaining, and that, you know, your father
offered me in disposing of his claim. Sometimes I have hoped that you were
learning to love me in return; sometimes I have feared that I should not
succeed in this, the dearest object of my life. My darling, I resolved
to-night that I would put my fate to the test. Will you give yourself to
me for all time, my beautiful mountain queen? Do you love me well enough,
dear, to put your hand in mine and tell me that you will go with me
wherever I will, as my loved and cherished wife?"

Virginia Abbot sat there, her perfect form outlined against the dark,
moss-grown rock that arose, rugged and grand, behind her. The softened
light, as it fell upon her through the boughs of the tree above her, made
her seem like some exquisite picture painted by a master-hand. Her hands,
white as Parian marble, were quietly folded in her lap, but her heart was
in a tumult of joy, and her color came and went in fitful flushes.

She knew that she deeply loved this grand man, who had come to her
mountain home in the early summer time, and she felt that earth could hold
no higher happiness for her than to become his wife and go with him
whithersoever he willed. But she knew, too, that her first duty lay with
her father; that she must have no interests that would interfere with the
care and attention which she owed to him in his failing condition.

"Virgie, you will not crush the sweet hope that has been taking root in my
heart during these months that I have spent with you," Sir William
pleaded, his face paling as she did not answer, and a fear smiting him
that he might have been nourishing a delusion. "I have fancied that I have
seen the love-light dawning in your eyes—oh, do not tell me that I have
been deceiving myself. My darling, I will try to make your life very
bright if you will give yourself to me."

Virgie looked up now with a steady, unwavering glance into his eager eyes,
although her face was dyed with blushes.

"Mr. Heath," she faltered, "you know I cannot leave my father."

"Of course I know it," he returned, his face lighting "I do not ask it,
darling; I only ask that you will give yourself into my keeping, and then
we will devote ourselves to him as long as he lives. Oh, my dearest"—as
he saw an answering gleam in her eyes—"you do love me!"

"Yes, I love you," Virgie breathed, with a downcast but happy face; and
then she was gathered close to her lover's manly breast in a fond embrace.

"My love! my love! I would serve twice seven years, as Jacob did, in this
wild region for the sake of winning that coveted confession from your dear
lips. My mountain queen! and you will soon be my wife?"

But Virgie sat up suddenly at this and pushed him from her with gentle
force, a frightened look in her eyes. Oh, "what have I done? I am afraid I
have done wrong!" she cried.

"Wrong, dearest, in confessing that you love me!" Sir William whispered,
as he tried to draw her again into his arms.

"But you do not know—I have no right to tell you; no—no, I am afraid I
ought not to be your wife," she said, remembering, with a sense of shame
and misery, the stigma resting upon her name.

The young man regarded her anxiously for a moment; then he understood it
all.

"Virgie," he said, "you need not fear to promise all that I ask, for I
know what troubles you. I asked your father's sanction to my suit before I
came to you, and he told me all his sad story. But it need be no barrier
to our happiness. I told him so, and he gave you to me—providing I could
win you—with his blessing."

Virgie lifted her face, all radiant with a sweet new joy, a sense of
exultation in her heart.

"And you were willing——" she began, wondering at the great love that
could thus level what she had had feared would be an insurmountable
barrier.

"Willing, love, to make myself the happiest man on earth," he
interrupted, in a voice that actually trembled with joy. "What Mr. Abbot
told me does not affect your worth or character, nor his either, and some
time I believe the wrong will be made all right. Even were the facts more
serious than they are, they need not trouble us, for I could take you far
away from every breath of evil, and as my wife it could never touch you.
So you will give yourself to me, Virgie?"

"Yes," she answered, with grave sweetness; "if papa thinks it is right, I
cannot put my cup of happiness away untasted."

Sir William Heath bent and touched the beautiful girl's lips with his
first lover's kiss.

"My beloved," he said, "life looks to me now like one long vista of
happiness—may it prove so to both of us."

They sat there beneath the shadow of the great pine for more than an hour,
wearing bright plans for the future, while the twilight gathered around
them. But as yet Sir William had not told his bethrothed who he was, nor
of the title awaiting her when she should become his wife. Somehow, he
felt strangely reluctant to do so.

Once he had spoken of his home, and Virgie looked up with sudden interest,
and asked:

"Where is your home, Mr. Heath?"

An amused smile played about his lips at her question

"My friends—that is those who love me—-call me 'Will,' there," he said,
significantly; "and surely, darling you need not treat me with so much
formality. Do not call me Mr. Heath any more, Virgie."

"Please tell me where our home is to be—Will," she said, looking up at
him with a shy smile, and blushing as the newly spoken name left her lips.

He bent and touched them fondly with his own.

"In England, love," he returned.

"England!"

"Yes. Shall you regret leaving your own country?"

"No; I think I shall be glad," Virgie answered, with a little sigh of
content and relief.

Sir William looked gratified.

"Shall I describe our home to you?" he asked, thinking that perhaps now
would be as good a time as any to tell more about himself and what her
future position would be.

"Yes, do, please."

"Well, then, imagine a large, old mansion, with many turrets and gables,
its time-worn stones grown with ivy and moss, and set in the midst of
extensive grounds, with grand, beautiful trees scattered all about. There
is a great hall in the center of the house, with spacious rooms on either
hand. At the end of this hall is the library, with two large bay-windows
overlooking a winding river, which is the pride and glory of the place,
and where we sail, and bathe, and fish during the summer months. Over the
library there is a lovely suite of rooms, commanding a wide expanse of
meadow and upland—a scene that is like a picture all the time—which will
henceforth be devoted to the use of the future lady—of Heathdale."

"Heathdale! What a pretty name!" Virgie cried, but still unsuspicious of
the title which would become hers when she should go with him as his wife
to England although he had almost given utterance to it, then hesitated,
and substituted those last two words.

"Yes, it is a pretty name, and, Virgie, the place is the pride of my
heart. At some distance from the mansion there are the stables and
kennels, where the horses and dogs abide."

"Why, Mr.——Why, Will, what an extensive establishment! You must
have——"

Virgie began in a tone of surprise, then stopped in confusion.

"Well, I must have what?" he asked.

"A great deal of money to support such a place," she replied, flushing.

"And is there anything very alarming about that?" he questioned, with a
quiet smile.

"No; but—I thought——"

"You thought that I could not have very much of this world's goods since I
had come here to work a mine," Sir William said, completing her sentence.
"But, darling, all that was only a ruse; I have been working more for my
wife than for gold."

"Will!"

"Darling, it is true; that was my only reason for becoming the purchaser
of your father's interest here. I saw you; I loved you; I must have some
good excuse for tarrying near you to try to win you, and now that I have
attained my object, the mine will have to be disposed of, as I have no
further use for it."

Virgie regarded him with astonishment. She had never suspected anything
like this.

"How strange," she said, with a beautiful flush. "I have thought it almost
unaccountable that a man like you should come here to remain. I have
imagined that you were an author or a student, and might be investigating
the formation of the mountains or studying character in order to write a
book, but I never dreamed of anything like this."

Sir William laughed heartily.

"You were making me out to be quite a lofty character truly," he said;
"and now you find your hero only a very human being after all—one who,
for the sake of a beautiful woman, has been almost willing to barter his
birthright. Have I fallen very low in your estimation, Virgie, because I
am not to become a distinguished public benefactor on account of my
research and investigation? Has my confession shocked you very much?"

"Your confession has made me a very, very happy woman." Virgie whispered,
slipping her hand confidingly into his, her heart thrilling with a tender
pride and love that this grand man should have sacrificed so much to win
her.

"And I am exceedingly proud of this happy woman," returned Sir William,
fondly. "I shall take the loveliest bride in the world back with me when
we go home to Heathdale."

"Where you will be Lady Heath my Virgie. Ah, I am very thankful that my
child will occupy so proud a position in life," said the voice of Mr.
Abbot, just behind them.

He had come out to seek them, and had approached just as Sir William
uttered those last words.

"Lady Heath!" exclaimed Virgie, starting up and turning a very astonished
face first upon one and then the other. "What do you mean? I do not
understand."

"Haven't you told her?" Mr. Abbot asked of the young man.

Sir William shook his head, with a smile.

"Told me what, papa?"

"That our friend here is Sir William Heath, of Heathdale, and an English
baronet."

Virgie stood in wondering silence for a moment, her face flushed and
drooping, while a hundred thoughts flashed through her mind.

Her lover a titled peer of England! This noble man, who might have chosen
his wife from the nobility of his own country, had concealed his identity,
had buried himself in the wilds of Nevada, and lived like a common miner
simply to win her, an humble mountain maiden. He who belonged to an
honored race, and possessed both title and wealth, had overlooked the fact
that a heavy cloud enshrouded her own and her father's name, and was
willing to lift her to the proud position of his wife and the mistress of
his beautiful home. These and many other thoughts held her speechless, and
made her tremble with something of fear that in the future he might regret
it all, and wish that he had never seen her.

"I am afraid I am not fitted—" she at length faltered.

"In point of education, Virgie, you are fitted for the proudest position
that could be offered you," her father returned, with some spirit. "All
that you need is a trifle more worldly polish, which you will readily gain
as Sir William takes you into society, and I am proud to give you to him.
God bless you both, my children."

His voice broke.

He would have been glad to go with her to the scenes of her new life, to
watch her develop in a higher atmosphere and see her happiness in her
proud position. But he knew it could not be; and overcome, for the
moment, with the thought of the separation which must soon come, he turned
abruptly away and went feebly back to the cottage.




Chapter VIII.
Mr. Abbot Desires an Immediate Marriage.


Whether it was owing to the excitement of the previous evening, or to a
feeling of relief from care and anxiety upon Virgie's account which made
Mr. Abbot feel that at last he might safely lay down his burdens, it would
be impossible to say, but he was alarmingly ill the morning after the
betrothal, and unable to rise from his bed.

His strength seemed to have left him, and he lay weak as a child, panting
with every breath, a deadly faintness and sinking sensation frequently
seizing him and making him feel as if the world was rapidly slipping from
his grasp.

Virgie was in an agony of fear.

She had never seen her father so ill before, and it seemed to her that he
must die if he did not soon have relief.

"What shall I do?" she asked, in a helpless, appealing way, of Sir
William.

He had been summoned as soon as Mr. Abbot's condition had been discovered,
and he, too, feared that the end was very near, while, being wholly
unaccustomed to sickness of any kind, he felt very useless and
inefficient.

He bent and kissed his darling's pale, upturned face, and then went
swiftly out of the house.

Presently, however, he returned with a foreign looking flask or bottle in
his hand.

"Here is some brandy," he said, giving it to Virgie. "Mix some of it with
two-thirds as much water, and feed your father a teaspoonful at a time
every few minutes until he begins to rally, and call all your courage to
your aid, dear. Meantime, I will go to the nearest telegraph station and
send a message to Virginia City for a skillful physician."

Virgie looked up at him with quivering lips.

"Oh, what a comfort it is to have you to help me at this time!" she said.

He drew her into his arms and held her for a moment while she laid her
lips, softly and gracefully, to his cheek, in the first voluntary caress
that she had ever given him.

The act touched him, and told him how trustfully she relied upon him.

"My darling, I wish I could save you from every pang," he said, tenderly.
"But I must not linger—we must have help for your father as soon as
possible. Good-by, my love, for a little while, and be sure that I will
come back just as quickly as I can."

He went quickly out, and Virgie stole softly into her father's chamber, to
do what she could for him, and her heart began to gather something of hope
and courage when a few minutes later she heard the clatter of a horse's
hoofs outside, and knew that her lover was on the way for help.

Sir William did not spare his horse until he reached the station.

A telegram was sent and before long a reply was received saying that a
physician would leave Virginia City upon the next train coming that way.

But several hours must elapse before he could arrive, and Sir William was
brought up to the highest pitch of anxiety and impatience during the
interval, while to Virgie, anxiously watching and waiting by the bedside
of her father, they were the longest that she had ever known.

But she followed Sir William's directions regarding administering the
brandy, and she could see that after a few potions the invalid began to
rally somewhat.

Just as the sun was going down Sir William and the doctor arrived, and
then the young girl felt as if a mountain had rolled from her shoulders.

They remained all night watching with the patient, insisting that Virgie
should go to her rest, and worn out with her day of watching and anxiety,
she crept away to bed and slept the sleep of exhaustion.

In the morning Mr. Abbot seemed considerably stronger and better, and
Virgie's loving heart began to take courage again and to hope that he was
not really so very ill after all.

But these feelings received a sudden shock, when, after breakfast, her
lover drew her into the little parlor, his face very grave, yet full of
tenderness for her.

"I have something that I wish to say to you, Virgie—something to ask
you," he said; "but, remember, that you are to answer me frankly and
truly. You are not to be unduly influenced by my—by any one's wishes—to
consent to what might seem premature, and thus repugnant to you."

Virgie looked up at him questioningly, growing pale, and a thrill of fear
shooting through her heart.

"Your father feels," Sir William went on, answering her look, "as if he
would like to—to have your future settled before—his strength fails him
any further."

"Oh!" cried the young girl, clinging to her lover, a wild look in her
eyes, "papa is not going to—die! Do not tell me that. He is better
to-day, and he will—he must grow yet stronger."

"My darling," said Sir William, holding her close to him, and speaking
with sorrowful tenderness, "I am not going to deceive you. It would not be
right for me to do so. But Dr. Waters thinks that he cannot stay with us
much longer. He believes that he will rally for a while, but the state of
his system warns him that it will be but a very little while. And, Virgie,
your father wants us to be married at once. Darling, shall it be as he
wishes?"

But Virgie hardly heard these latter sentences.

She threw herself upon that manly breast in a wild burst of grief.

It was a dreadful blow to be told that the die was cast, that her father's
doom was very near.

In an indefinite way she had been dreading it ever since he himself had
talked so plainly about it to her, but with the buoyancy of youth she had
kept hoping against hope, and refusing to believe the fearful truth.

Sir William held her in her fond embrace, and allowed her to weep until
her tears were spent.

He knew that it was better to let her grief have its way. She would be
calmer and stronger afterward, though every sob and tear was bitter pain
to his loving heart.

She grew more quiet after a time, and at length he felt that he might
again speak of the subject so near his heart.

"Will you be my wife, Virgie? I would not have forced this upon you just
now but for your father's desire, and because Dr. Waters, who must return
to-day to his own duties, can make all necessary arrangements for us upon
his arrival in Virginia City.

"A clergyman must be sent to us, and there are some other matters which I
wish attended to, so we must decide now. Still, my darling, if you shrink
from this step, if the thought of it shocks you, I will not urge it, I
will wait until you are quite ready for it."

"Did papa propose it?" Virgie asked, hiding her flushed face from those
eager, loving eyes looking down upon her.

"Yes. I should not have presumed to suggest anything of the kind at such a
time," returned the young baronet, gravely. "But he thinks that his mind
would be easier if he could see you my wife. He wishes to give you away
irrevocably while he is able. Then, dear, I could be with you all the time
to help you in your care of him, to relieve you of much that would
encroach upon your strength. Tell me freely, Virgie, shall it or shall it
not be?"

"Do you really wish it? or—are you only yielding to his desire?" she
asked, in a low voice.

He gathered her closer to his breast until she could feel the eager
throbbing of his great heart.

"The day that makes you my wife will be the most blessed of all my life;
though, for your sake. I could wish our bridal to be celebrated under less
sorrowful circumstances Still it must not be as I wish. You must decide
the question," he said, gravely.

There was a long pause. Then Virgie said, quietly:

"I am willing."

"Is that all, love? Are you simply willing to do as your father requests?
Shall you not be glad to be my wife?" Sin William questioned, with a
slight accent of pain.

"Yes, Will, I shall be glad; but, oh, my father! my father!" she cried,
with a fresh burst of grief, as she realized all that this hurried
marriage meant.

He kissed her forehead softly, and breathed:

"Heaven bless you, my beloved, and help me to make your future as happy
as you have made me to-day."

He made her lie down upon the lounge, for she was nearly exhausted with
her grief. He arranged her pillow, drew down the curtains to soften the
light, and then went quietly out of the room.

When he came back an hour later he found her calm, though with a saddened
gravity upon her that made his heart ache.

He told her that Dr. Waters had gone back to Virginia City, but that they
had arranged for a clergyman to come to them to spend the following
Sabbath, when Mr. Abbot desired the marriage to take place.

Virgie was strangely thrilled by this intelligence. It was Tuesday, and in
five days more she would be Sir William Heath's wife! It all seemed like a
dream to her.

On Saturday afternoon an elderly and venerable-appearing gentleman made
his appearance before Mr. Abbots door.

He came in a strong mountain wagon drawn by a pair of handsome horses, and
with him there was a large trunk—which Sir William ordered carried up
stairs into Virgie's room—and two or three hampers, that were given to
Chi Lu to be taken care of.

Virgie turned a wondering, inquiring look upon her lover at these
proceedings, but he only answered by a quiet smile, and then introduced
her to the Rev. Dr. Thornton.

The young bride-elect received him with the charming ease and
self-possession that was natural to her, at which the stranger could not
refrain from regarding her with a look of mingled wonder and admiration.

When told of the errand upon which he was to go, he had consented for the
sake of the dying man; but he had expected to find a very rustic couple
in this rough region, and he was wholly taken aback to meet a polished
gentleman like Mr. Heath—as he was still known except to Virgie and her
father—and such an interesting and lovely woman as his young hostess
appeared to be.

The clergyman spent an hour with the invalid after tea, and he was no less
mystified and astonished regarding him. He realized that he was in a
household of more than ordinary culture and refinement, and he was sure
that there must be some strange history connected with their lives.

When Virgie went to bid her father good-night before going to her rest, he
drew her down to him and looked tenderly and wistfully into her face.

"My daughter," he questioned, "you have no shrinking no misgivings
regarding the step that you are about to take?"

"None, papa," she said, softly.

"And are you happy in the prospect of becoming Sir William's wife? Tell me
truly, my child."

"As happy as I can be while you are so ill, papa," Virgie answered, with
starting tears.

"Then I am at peace. God bless you, my darling, and may your life have
much of sunshine in it. I give you without fear into Will's care, for I
believe him to be one of nature's noblemen. And now," taking a package
from beneath his pillow, here is your marriage dowry; it is all yours,
Virgie, to do with as you will, and Sir William has promised to settle as
much more upon you, which he will tell you about later. You have been a
dear, good daughter to me, and I am very happy regarding your future; I
could not ask or wish anything better for you."

"Oh, papa, if I could only have you well again!" Virgie whispered, hiding
her tearful eyes upon his pillow.

An expression of pain flitted over the sick man's face.

"We will not think of that now," he said, gently; "and you must not give
way to grief, for it will unnerve us both, and I do not wish to see a pale
or sorrowful bride to-morrow. Now good-night, love, and try to get all the
rest that you can."

He kissed her again, and was about to let her go, when he caught her hand,
saying, with something of eagerness:

"But, by the way, Virgie, what will you wear to be married in?"

The young girl flushed, and her lips trembled.

"Oh papa, I have hardly given a thought to that, my heart has been so
heavy for you," she murmured, brokenly. Then she added, after a moment of
thought: "I have my pretty silk that you sent to San Francisco for in the
spring, and I wondered when I should ever wear it here, you know. It will
do, will it not?"

Mr. Abbot sighed.

"I suppose it will have to, since it is the best you have. I should like
to have you married in something white, dear; but make yourself look as
nicely as you can," he said in an unsteady voice.

Virgie dropped a light kiss upon his forehead, and then went out, her
heart heavy in spite of the great love which she bore the man whose wife
she was to become on the morrow, and the bright hopes which the future
held for her in spite of the shadow of death which was every moment
drawing nearer.




Chapter IX.
Virgie's Wedding-Day


As Virgie passed out of her father's room, Sir William captured her.

"I am not going to keep you from your rest," he said, after caressing her
fondly, "but I wanted to tell you that I have been feeling a trifle
jealous regarding the appearance of the future Lady Heath upon her
wedding-day, and you will find everything that you will need for to-morrow
in a trunk, which I have had carried up into your room."

Virgie lifted her head from his breast, and regarded him questioningly.

"I sent an order by Dr. Waters," he explained, "to the best dressmaker
that he could find in Virginia City, to provide a simple yet appropriate
outfit for a bride, and you will find the best that could be obtained at
so short a notice, awaiting your approval up stairs."

"How kind, how thoughtful you are!" Virgie murmured gratefully, and with a
flush of pleasure. "Papa will be so pleased. He was just lamenting that I
was not properly provided for."

"Then it will be a gratifying surprise when he sees you to-morrow," Sir
William returned.

"Indeed it will. How can I think you? Perhaps I have been very remiss,
but, truly, I had not given a thought to my dress," Virgie confessed, with
some confusion.

"How could you, dear, with your heart so full of other things?" Sir
William replied, tenderly; "and I want no thanks other than to see you
looking like a bride," he concluded, smiling. "I did this chiefly to
gratify my own pride in my love."

He led her to the foot of the stairs, and then, with a lingering clasp,
let her go.

It was quite late, and Virgie thought that she would only allow herself a
peep into the mysterious trunk that night; but she resolved that she would
rise very early in the morning and lay out everything in readiness for the
wedding.

She wondered how Sir William could have managed it all, and was somewhat
anxious regarding the fit of her bridal dress; but she was set at rest
upon that point when she lifted the lid of the trunk and found a waist of
one of her own dresses lying upon the top of various packages, and she
knew that he had sent it as a measure and guide.

Everything else was wrapped in fine packing paper, and she concluded not
to open anything until morning, although her curiosity was greatly
excited.

She knelt and prayed long and fervently, for she felt very solemn in view
of the important event that was to occur on the morrow.

Then she retired, and was soon sleeping peacefully and restfully, as only
the pure and innocent can sleep.

But when the first rays of the sun streamed in at her window in the
morning, she arose, and, after putting her room in perfect order, she
opened the precious trunk and began to remove and undo the packages stored
therein.

First, there was a long, flat box.

Opening it, she found a misty and ample veil of finest tulle, simply
hemmed with a heavy thread of silk.

Then there was another smaller but deeper box, which contained a lovely
wreath of pure white heath, with bouquets of the same mingled with lilies
of the valley, for the corsage of her dress.

Still another, in which there was a pair of shining white satin boots,
silken hose, and kid gloves, with a dainty handkerchief, fine and sheer as
a cobweb.

Last, but not least, incased in several wrappings of soft white paper was
the wedding-dress.

Virgie's face paled and flushed many times while she was undoing this, for
many hopes were centered in it, and tears rose unbidden to her eyes when
at last it was laid out on the bed before her.

She had seen nothing one-half so lovely for years—not since she used to
watch her mother dress for gay receptions and parties in the happy days so
long ago.

It was of the finest India mull, very simply yet beautifully made, over an
underskirt of plain white silk—an airy, gauzy thing, just suited for a
youthful bride.

"How kind! how thoughtful!" the young girl breathed, as her glance ran
over the different articles comprising her toilet. "He has not forgotten a
single thing, and it is all so delicate and beautiful. This wreath of
heath—how suggestive! and nothing could be prettier.

"Oh papa! I am glad you will have your wish, for it may be the very last
one that can be gratified," she concluded, with a long sigh.

Had it not been for her father's condition, she would have been supremely
happy on that bright morning. Even as it was, her heart was overflowing
with love and gratitude toward her devoted lover for his kind
consideration and generosity.

She went below at her usual hour to attend to her regular duties, which
she performed in her customary quiet way, helping her father to rise and
dress, arranging the rooms in the nicest order, and then serving breakfast
to the invalid and their reverend guest.

Sir William was nowhere visible. He had spent the night with Mr. Abbot,
and when morning broke he went away to his own cabin, where he remained
until the hour for the ceremony.

The house was very quiet; there was no excitment, no bustle. Chi Lu alone
betrayed any consciousness that an unusual event was to take place, and
this only by a slight nervousness of manner and the restless flash of his
dusky eyes.

After breakfast Virgie saw that her father was made comfortable in his
reclining-chair in the parlor, and then giving him one last, lingering
kiss, she turned to go up to her chamber to dress for her bridal.

Just then there came a knock on the outer door. Chi Lu was called to
answer it, and he brought to Virgie a huge basket laden with the loveliest
of mountain ferns and flowers, the dew still glistening upon them.

They were the offering of some of the miners "for Miss Abbot's wedding,"
the boy who brought them said.

It had become known in some way that Mr. Abbot was failing rapidly, and
had requested that his daughter might be married before his death.

He was much respected in the hamlet, for he had always been the courteous
gentleman, while Virgie was regarded almost in the light of a young
princess, and thus these humble people were prompted to show their
sympathy and good will in this delicate manner.

The young bride-elect was touched to the heart by this tribute, and with
her own hands arranged the lovely flowers to furnish the room where she
was to be married.

Then she went up stairs, and was seen no more until the hour set for the
ceremony, which was eleven o'clock.

Meanwhile Chi Lu and an elderly woman, who had once been very kind to
Virgie when she was ill, and had been asked to "come and help for the
day," were very busily engaged in the small kitchen, arranging a repast
which was to be served later in the day.

Sir William was determined that the occasion should be made as cheerful as
circumstances would allow, and had ordered from the city every delicacy
which his fertile brain could suggest, and thus a "wedding breakfast,"
such as had never been known in that region before, was in process of
preparation.

At eleven o'clock the happy groom made his appearance and sent Margery
Follet, the woman before mentioned, to Virgie's door to say that he was
ready and awaiting her.

To her tap Virgie gently responded "come in," and a low cry of delight
escaped the humble woman's lips as she opened the door, and then stood
transfixed upon the threshold.

Virgie turned a smiling face to her. "Why, Margery, how came you here?"
she asked.

"The gent sent for me to come and help."

"That was thoughtful in him, and it was kind of you to come," Virgie
returned, graciously.

"It's a boon to me, miss. You look like an angel, and I shall never
forget this day," said the woman, regarding her almost with reverence.

Virgie felt all the happier for being able to contribute this pleasure to
one so unused to pleasure of any kind, and she increased it tenfold by
asking her to assist her in fastening the last button of one of her
gloves.

"Yes, I'm ready," Virgie replied, as, with a vivid, conscious flush, she
turned away, after one last look in her mirror, and truly she was a vision
to cheer the heart of the fondest bridegroom.

Her dress proved to be a perfect fit, and the delicate fabric fell in
soft, graceful folds over the lustrous white of her silken skirt, while
she was covered from head to foot by the mist-like veil.

The wreath of heath lay lightly upon her brown head, and, with the
beautiful bouquet upon her breast, made a pleasing contrast with the
otherwise spotless costume.

Her figure looked almost regal in her trailing robe, and she was simply
perfect from crown to sole.

"Yes," she repeated, as the woman seemed unable to take her eyes from her,
"you may tell Mr. Heath that I am ready," and as Margery went out, she
bowed her head in prayer for a blessing on her new life.

The next moment she heard Sir William's step on the stairs, and she went
out to meet him.

How his face lighted as he looked upon her! How his heart throbbed with
exultation as he thought:

"This peerless girl is mine! Heathdale has never known a mistress so
fair!"

He was clad, as became a gentleman, in a dress suit of simple black, fine
and rich, a single diamond of purest water gleaming just beneath his
white satin tie, and his hands were incased in spotless gloves.

"My darling," he whispered, as he took Virgie's right hand and laid it on
his arm, "how beautiful you are!"

She could not make him any reply—the moment was too solemn for words—but
she lifted her eyes to his for an instant, and they were filled with love
and trust.

Then they went below.

Very quietly they took their places in the little parlor, where the
clergyman awaited them, and where Mr. Abbot, after one surprised,
delighted glance at his daughter, lay back in his chair, with a smile of
supreme content upon his lips.

He understood at once who had so delicately and so fittingly arranged
everything for the fair bride, and it was such a comfort to him to have
Virgie properly arrayed for her marriage.

Chi Lu and Margery stood one on either side of the door, just inside the
room, according to Sir William's desire, for there must be witnesses, and
thus the group was complete.

Rev. Dr. Thornton approached the young couple, and in an easy and
impressive, yet graceful manner, performed the marriage service, and those
few moments were very solemn ones to three at least of those present. But
the ceremony was soon over, and the maiden was now a wife—Virgie Abbot
had become Virginia, Lady Heath.

Sir William had not, however, allowed his title to be used, as he shrank
from the notoriety which the knowledge of his position and wealth would
create among the settlers of that region. He had come there in an
unpretentious way, and he wished to leave as quietly. There would be time
enough, he thought, to resume his honors when he and his bride should go
out into the world.

When the benediction had been pronounced over the clasped hands of the
husband and wife, Dr. Thornton offered his congratulations, and then Sir
William led Virgie directly to her father.

She sank upon her knees beside his chair, and putting her arms around his
neck, gave and received a tender caress.

"God bless you always, my daughter!" the sick man murmured, in trembling
tones. "I believe I am guilty of no irreverence in invoking His blessing,"
he added, "for I have learned to feel my need of faith in Him, and,
Virgie, your husband has taught me how to seek it."

The young bride could only press her lips again to his in reply. She was
very grateful for this confession, for her father's previous skepticism
and bitterness had often caused her much sorrow.

Chi Lu and Margery came forward to congratulate the bride and groom, and
then went about their duties in the other room.

Soon after, Dr. Thornton slipped quietly away, thus leaving the invalid
and his children by themselves.

"Virgie, how beautiful you are to-day! How did it happen?" Mr. Abbot
asked, when he found they were alone, and glancing admiringly over her
costume.

"It was all Mr.—all Will's doing," she answered, with a charming blush,
and glancing shyly up into her husband's face.

"I suspected as much, and I thank you, Sir William, more than I can
express, for giving me this unexpected pleasure," said the sick man,
gratefully.

"It was to gratify myself as well. I could not be satisfied unless Lady
Heath was arrayed as became a bride of the house," the young baronet
returned, with a fond smile, as he noticed how the color came and went on
Virgie's cheek at the sound of her new name. "But," he added, putting his
arm around her, and raising her to her feet, while with one sweep of his
hand he threw back the veil, "I have not yet had the privilege of saluting
my wife. Virgie, I have the right to the first kiss from your sweet lips."

The beautiful bride lifted her face to him, flushed with a new, almost
holy, happiness.

"My husband!" she whispered, as he held her close for a moment, and he
felt that henceforth his life would be complete, since she loved him, and
was his.

Alas, for the weary years that were to follow!

Was there no one to warn?

For a little while they fell into a quiet chat, and then Chi Lu came to
bid them to the other room, where a really elegant feast awaited them, and
where Sir William exerted himself to make the occasion as merry as
possible, and all through the day nothing occurred to mar its peace and
joy.

The next morning Dr. Thornton returned to Virginia City, carrying in his
pocket a much larger fee than he was accustomed to receive; and after
that, life at the mountain cottage resumed its usual quiet routine.




Chapter X.
A Separation and a Little Stranger.


Mr. Abbot appeared to gather new strength after the events related in the
previous chapter, in spite of his own predictions and the fears of others
that he was dying.

The mild September weather and the quiet happiness which pervaded his home
seemed to have a beneficial effect upon him. But as the weather grew
colder, as the chill October winds began to sweep over the mountains, a
decided change came. Just as daylight was fading one evening, and the dull
gray of a coming storm began to settle down upon the mountains, he
breathed his last, peacefully, quietly and willingly, and thus all earthly
sorrow was at an end for him; he had gone where all wrongs would be
righted, where mystery or shame would no longer envelop him.

They buried him, as he desired, beneath the great plumy pine tree that
grew near their cottage, and where Virgie's great happiness had come to
her, and then Sir William felt that he had a right to take his wife away
to a more congenial atmosphere.

He had disposed of his claim some time before, for since he had no longer
any need of an excuse for remaining there, he had given up all pretense of
business and devoted himself exclusively to the care of the invalid and to
making Virgie's duties as light as possible.

The cottage and its furniture were sold; Chi Lu was presented with Sir
William's own neat little cabin with all its contents, besides being
otherwise handsomely remunerated for all his kindness and faithfulness and
then the baronet took his bride directly to San Francisco, which they
decided to make their headquarters for the winter, intending early in the
spring to sail for England.

Sir William had written home long before this of his marriage. But the
news had not been cordially received by the members of his household.

His stately mother had replied in a brief, dignified manner, which did not
fail to convey her displeasure at the step he had taken, while his widowed
sister, who, with her two children, were greatly dependent on her brother,
did not hesitate to express her indignation at his rashness and
inconsideration of their feelings, at least, in marrying so "out of his
own element."

The young baronet, of course, kept all this to himself. He had known well
enough that his marriage would be displeasing to his family, who had long
had other views for him, but he trusted that, when he should present his
bride to them, every objection would disappear like dew before the sun,
and she would be received with open arms and be loved for her own sweet
sake.

At all events he was his own master, and he was not a man to tamely submit
to unreasonable prejudices; and if his mother and sister refused to
receive his wife with becoming courtesy and respect, as the mistress of
Heathdale, it would only be the worse for them.

He did not begin to suspect, however, the bitterness which they
experienced when they received the startling information that he had
married a girl from the wilds of the far West. His union had followed so
closely upon his betrothal that he had no opportunity to communicate plans
beforehand, and thus the news had fallen like a thunderbolt upon them.

"He has ruined his life!" cried Lady Linton, his sister, in a white rage,
after reading the letter. "To think of it!—he has married a perfect
savage from the wilds of America! A pretty mistress for dear old
Heathdale, truly. I will never receive her, <i>never!</i>"

"You know what William is, Miriam, and it will not be wise for you to
offend him. He will never tolerate any display of arrogance or discourtesy
to his wife," returned the dowager Lady Heath, more quietly, yet looking
the picture of despair over the <i>mesalliance</i>.

"I cannot help it; it is an abominable insult to all his friends, and
never to tell us anything about it until the die was cast!"

"But he explains why he could not; the marriage was hastened on account of
the father's critical condition replied Lady Heath.

"Oh, I believe it was all a cunning plan to entrap him and secure the girl
a title and position," groaned Lady Linton. "How will Sadie feel; what
<i>will</i> she say?"

"I do not know as she has any right to say anything," answered the dowager,
with some dignity, for she loved her son and could not bear to have any
one assail him, no matter how much she might blame him herself. "William
has never committed himself to her in any way; that plan has been more
ours than his."

She was fully as unreconciled as her daughter; still she was capable of
looking at matters as they really were.

"Oh, I cannot have it so, mamma; do not let us say anything about the
affair at present," pleaded her daughter. "William says it will be some
time before he returns, as he wishes to show his wife something of the
world first. Doubtless," she continued, with increasing bitterness, "he
desires to polish off some of the rough edges before he presents her to
us; so let us suppress the fact of his marriage until the time is set for
their coming; it will be hard enough even then to acknowledge the plebeian
union."

Lady Heath demurred at first at this proposal, but she finally yielded the
point, and nothing was said regarding the baronet's sudden marriage, and
this was the beginning of a plot to ruin the life of a beautiful young
wife, and to bring years of misery upon a noble man.

       *       *       *       *       *

Virgie found it very pleasant in some respects, though sad in others, to
return to San Francisco, her former home.

She had left the city nearly six years ago, when she was an undeveloped
girl; she returned to it in the full glory of beautiful womanhood, and
owing to her many changes which had occurred there, as well as in her own
personal appearance and position, no one appeared to recognize her as the
daughter of the unfortunate man who had figured so conspicuously in a
terrible scandal there, and then suddenly disappeared covering his tracks
so successfully that no one, either friend or foe, knew whither he had
gone.

The young wife was very happy in spite of her recent bereavement; her
husband was kindness and nobility personified, and left nothing undone
that could contribute in any degree to her pleasure, or prevent her from
brooding upon her father's death.

They had a cozy and elegant suite of rooms at the Baldwin Hotel, which Sir
William had engaged for the winter, and from this point they made many
excursions sometimes being away several weeks at a time, traveling, then
returning to rest, after which they would start afresh again.

The fond husband was determined that Virgie should see everything that was
worth seeing in her own country before he took her to their home in
England.

They frequented the opera and theater, attended concerts and lectures, and
Sir William was both surprised and delighted to notice how readily Virgie
adapted herself to the requirements of society and etiquette,
notwithstanding the seclusion of the last half-dozen years.

About the middle of March they started for the East, intending to take the
trip leisurely and visit points of interest along their route.

They arrived in New York early in May, and were intending to sail for
England the last of the month.

But Virgie, although not really ill, was far from well when they reached
the great metropolis, and her husband insisted that she must have medical
advice.

He called in a skillful physician, who, upon being told what their plans
were, immediately and emphatically vetoed further travel for the present.

"It will be simply impossible for Mrs. Heath to undertake a sea voyage at
present," he asserted.

"But the trip occupies eight days—" Sir William began.

"If it occupied only three it would make no difference it will not be safe
for her to attempt to cross the ocean under three months," Dr. Knox said,
with an air of decision which admitted of no further argument.

Sir William was disappointed, yet he was too fond and careful of his
beautiful wife to rebel against this verdict.

A week or two passed and Virgie appeared to be improving, when, one
morning, there came a cablegram from Heathdale, announcing that the
dowager Lady Heath was alarmingly ill, and imploring the baronet's
immediate return if he desired to see her alive.

The message threw the young husband into a distressing state of mind.

It seemed like harshest cruelty to obey the summons and leave his wife
alone in that strange city. And yet the alternative of remaining and
allowing his mother to die without seeing him once more, seemed almost
equally unkind.

He sought Dr. Knox again in his extremity and explained his desperate
situation.

"I could not answer for the consequences if you take your wife; it will be
a fearful risk for Mrs. Heath to go. She <i>might</i> endure the voyage safely,
but the probabilities are that she would not," the physician gravely told
him. "But," he added, kindly, "I sympathize with you—I appreciate your
dilemma, and, if <i>you</i> must go, I advise you to leave her in my charge and
I promise faithfully to give her every attention during your enforced
absence."

This seemed the only thing to be done and Sir William finally decided to
return to his home alone.

Virgie herself urged him to go, though her heart was almost breaking at
the thought of the separation, for it <i>might</i> be that she would never see
him again.

Still she was brave—she put aside her own feelings out of regard for the
duty which he owed his mother, and there was a possibility that he could
return to her in the course of two or three weeks.

"Do not feel unduly anxious for me, Will," she said to him, on the evening
before he was to sail, "I know that Dr. Knox will do all for me that you
can wish. I will either write or send some message to you by every
steamer, and I am going to trust that everything will be well."

"But it is agony to me to leave you—oh! my darling, if your heart fails
you in the least, if you say you prefer to have me stay, I will not go
even now," he said, his own courage failing him and having more than half
a mind to renounce his intended voyage even at that late hour.

"No, dear, I know that it is your duty to go," Virgie answered, gently. "I
should never forgive myself, if your mother should die, for keeping you
from her at such a time."

"But if—I should lose you, too," he was going to say, but checked himself
and concluded, "but if you should be neglected and unhappy?"

"I shall not be, Will; you have provided against the former contingency
most generously, and the latter I can regulate myself. I will not be
unhappy, for I know that you are doing right and that you will return to
me the moment that you are at liberty to do so."

"Indeed I shall," he answered, as he gathered her close to his breast and
rained passionate kisses upon her lovely face.

But his heart was very heavy notwithstanding her apparent cheerfulness.

A superstitious dread seemed to have seized him, warning him that some
fearful calamity would follow this separation. He was not given to such
unreasonable imaginings, and he reproached himself for indulging in them;
but he could not shake them off nevertheless.

Morning came and with it the hour of departure and the last farewells.

Virgie wore a brave and even smiling face through all. She had resolved
that she would not unman him at the last moment.

She watched at her window until he drove away, waving her handkerchief and
throwing him a kiss as he passed from sight, then the pent-up grief of her
heart found vent in a wild burst of tears such as she had not shed since
the hour of her father's death.

But she would not indulge it long.

She had every comfort. Her rooms were cheerful and elegant; a motherly,
middle-aged woman had been engaged to remain with her as companion and
nurse during her husband's absence; she had an abundance of money at her
command, and Dr. Knox had promised to look in upon her every day. Surely
she had nothing to complain of, save the enforced separation from her dear
one, and that would not be for long, she trusted.

The ninth day after the departure of Sir William there came a cablegram,
telling of his safe arrival at Liverpool, and this, at his request, she
immediately responded to, telling him that all was well with her.

The next steamer, she knew, would bring her a letter and after that she
would hear from him every few days.

Sir William found his mother alive, but in a very low state; "she might
rally, she might not," they told him; and, with a sigh of resignation, he
could only wait and try to patiently adapt himself to circumstances.

Thus four weeks went by, and then, early one June morning, a message went
flying through the depths of the ocean, telling that a tiny little maiden,
with eyes and hair like her father's, but bidding fair to become the
counterpart of her mother in form and features had come to Virgie the
morning previous, and "all was well."

The fervent "thank God!" accompanied with something very like a sob, which
burst from Sir William Heath's lips as he read this message, told how
intense had been his anxiety during the weeks of his absence from his
darling, and how great his relief at those favorable tidings.

He returned a message of love and congratulation, and when, a little
later, there came a letter to the happy young mother, it begged that their
little one should be called "Virgie May," the latter name being that of a
dear sister of whom Sir Will had been very fond, and who had died several
years previous.

And thus the little heiress of Heathdale was christened by her mother.




Chapter XI.
"You Have Overstepped All Bounds."


Sir William Heath could hardly control his impatience to fly to his dear
ones across the water.

His fond heart yearned mightily to behold his child and to clasp once more
the beautiful wife who had now become dearer than ever to him.

But his mother's condition did not improve; she still lay hovering between
life and death, and he knew that he must not leave her until there was
some change either for the better or worse.

Her disease was partial paralysis, which, however, had not affected her
brain, and her son's return and presence appeared to be of the greatest
comfort to her.

Still she was liable, at any hour, to have another shock, which would
doubtless prove fatal, and Sir Herbert Randal—an eminent London
physician—commanded perfect quiet and freedom from all excitement, since
the least anxiety or disturbance of any kind would bring the dread
messenger which they all feared so much.

Thus it seemed as if the young baronet was hopelessly bound to Heathdale
for the present.

Not a word had passed between him and his mother regarding his marriage.
Knowing how displeased she had been at the time of it, and fearing to
excite her if he recalled the event to her mind, he had thought it best to
say nothing, but leave her to broach the subject whenever she should feel
inclined, although he wondered that she did not make some inquiry
regarding his young wife whom the family had expected he would bring with
him to Heathdale.

The meeting with his sister had been somewhat cold and formal, for he
could not forget how harshly she had expressed herself regarding his
choice, while she could not and would not forgive him for disappointing
all her ambitious hopes for him.

Like his mother, she ignored the subject of his marriage not deigning to
make the slightest inquiry regarding his wife, although she had been
greatly astonished at the non-appearance of Virgie, and was burning with
curiosity to know why he had returned alone.

This negligence and obstinacy on her part made Sir William very indignant,
and after the first excitement consequent upon his arrival had subsided,
he determined to assert himself, and have it distinctly understood that
his wife was henceforth to be recognized as a member of and a power in his
household.

Therefore, the morning following his return he had drawn Lady Linton into
the library, and after conducting her, with something of formal
politeness, to a seat, remarked:

"Miriam, you have not yet done me the honor to inquire after Lady Heath."

Lady Linton bowed coldly, and lifted her fine eyebrows questioningly.

Sir William flushed angrily.

"It is evident that you are still very angry with me, and intend to annoy
me upon this point," he continued, sternly, "and we may as well understand
each other at the outset. I shall demand and expect that my wife when I
bring her home, will be received with all the honor and courtesy which has
ever been accorded to the mistress of Heathdale in the past."

Again Lady Linton bowed; but she did not deign to open her lips in
response, although a spot of vivid red settled in either cheek.

"She is worthy of it in every respect," her brother resumed a gleam of
fire in his eye, "and will grace the position which I have given her as
well as the most noted London belle could do. I have pictures of her
here—perhaps you will do me the favor to look at them."

He laid two or three fine photographs of Virgie, taken in different
attitudes, before her, as he concluded, and then leaned back in his chair
watching her attentively to see what effect that beautiful face would have
upon her.

Her ladyship adjusted her eyeglasses with English precision, and taking up
one of the pictures regarded it with all the indifference which she could
muster. She was not, however, quite prepared for what she saw; and the
quick, curious, half-admiring gleam which shot into her eye told that she
had not failed to acknowledge the exceeding loveliness of that fair face,
and the natural grace and dignity displayed in the young wife's attitude.

She took up each picture separately, and her brother could see her
indifference gradually melting away, a keen and critical look taking its
place.

"Who was she?" she at length condescended to ask, though somewhat curtly.

"The daughter of a California gentleman," Sir William answered, quietly.

"A California <i>gentleman!</i>" with a scornful accent upon the last word.
"You speak of him as of an equal."

"Certainly," returned the baronet, a smile of amusement slightly curling
his lips, "Mr. Abbot was my equal, if not my superior, in point of
intellect, and all that goes to make a gentleman, while his daughter is
in no wise my inferior."

"How can you make such an absurd statement, William?" demanded his sister,
impatiently. "The idea of an American plebeian being the equal of a Heath
of Heathdale!"

Sir William laughed outright; then he said:

"Your loyalty to your family does you credit, Miriam, but I imagine, if
you should ever visit America—which I trust for your own sake, you will
do some time—that you will return much wiser than you went. Your ideas
regarding people and things, in that grand republic are very crude and
incorrect. But how do you like the face that I have shown you?"

"The face is well enough," Lady Linton was forced to admit.

There is nothing weak about it?"

"N-o."

"It is not lacking in intelligence or character?"

"Not so far as I am able to judge from a simple picture", the woman
confessed, rather reluctantly.

"And yet it does not flatter her; you do not often see a face like that
even among the noble families of England, and she is as lovely in mind as
in person," said Sir William, fondly, as he took up one of the photographs
and gazed upon it with his heart in his eyes.

"Humph! if you are so proud of your American bride, why did you not bring
her home with you?" Lady Linton inquired, in a mocking tone, and then
could have bitten her tongue through for having allowed herself to betray
her curiosity so far.

Sir William flushed hotly. It was evident that his sister was no more
reconciled since seeing Virgie's pictures than before. Her pride of birth
had received a shock which she could neither overlook nor forgive.

"Lady Heath was not able to travel. Her physician told me that if she
crossed the ocean it would be at the risk of her life. Miriam, Virgie will
soon become a mother, God willing."

Lady Linton started and shot a swift look of astonishment at her brother
upon this unexpected announcement.

This information was disagreeable in the extreme, for it made certain
plans, which her fertile brain had begun to weave as soon as she had
learned that her brother had returned without his wife, all the more
complicated, if not well-nigh impossible.

"It was a great trial for me to return without her," Sir William went on,
with a regretful sigh, "but your summons was so very imperative that I
felt obliged to do so. My darling bore it very bravely, however; she
regarded it as my duty to hasten to my mother, even though she would be
left alone, a stranger in a great city, and at such a critical time."

"Of course it was your duty to return to our mother," Lady Linton
responded emphatically, as if the young wife away upon the other side of
the Atlantic was not worthy of consideration. "And," she added, flashing a
look of defiance at her companion, "I am free to confess to a feeling of
relief that you had to come alone—"

"Miriam, I—"

"Hear me out, if you please," she interposed. "Mamma's heart has been
nearly broken at the thought of this ill-assorted marriage, and I believe
the excitement and grief would have killed her outright, if you had
brought her," with a withering glance at Virgie's picture, "to Heathdale
to reign as mistress."

Sir William was tried almost beyond endurance. It was more than a minute
before he could control himself sufficiently to speak, after his sister's
insulting remarks regarding his marriage.

"Miriam," he at length said, in a voice that made her quail in spite of
her effrontery, "you will please never speak like this again; it is, both
to my wife and me, an insult which I will not tolerate. Virgie is a lady
in every sense of the word; even my critical mother could pick no flaw in
her were she to see her, and the moment that I am at liberty to do so I
shall return to the United States and bring my darling back with me. And
let me here repeat what I said a while ago—I expect and demand that she
be received with all proper respect by the entire household."

"The household knows nothing of your marriage."

"What!" cried the young baronet, astonished.

"No one, save mamma and I, knows anything of this—this alliance."

"By whose authority have you kept such a matter secret?" Sir William
demanded, in great wrath.

"We—we thought it best," faltered his sister, shrinking beneath his
anger—she had never seen him so aroused before. "Mamma was so unhappy,
and I was so—so unreconciled, that we determined to wait until you wrote
definitely regarding your coming."

"You have overstepped all bounds, you have presumed beyond excuse,"
retorted her brother, in a voice of thunder. "I know that you are my
senior by fifteen years, and as a boy I was taught to look up to you, and
to render you the respect due an elder. But I am a child no longer. I am a
man, and you forget that I am not only my own master, but the master of
Heathdale as well. I have a right to choose for myself in all matters, and
you are not to consider that I am in leading strings, as I was before
your marriage, when you exercised, to a certain extent, authority over
me. And now if—I abhor thrifts, but I wish you to distinctly understand
me—if you cannot bring yourself to regard my marriage in a proper and
sensible light, and make up your mind to receive my wife as becomes a
sister of the house, the doors of Heathdale will henceforth be closed to
you."

Lady Linton was astounded at this outburst.

Her brother, heretofore, had always been a pattern of amiability and
gentleness, and had allowed her to have her own way mostly in the house.
In minor matters she had always ruled him, and she had never imagined that
he could rise to such a height as this.

She saw that she had gone too far, that she must change her tactics, or
forever lose all influence with him, and make an enemy of him.

She could ill afford to do this for several reasons.

She was the widow of Lord Percival Linton, who had married her chiefly for
her large dowry.

He had been a fast, unprincipled man, who had run through his own property
and most of hers before death put an end to his mad career.

They had one son, Percy, and a daughter, Lillian, and Lady Linton, with
her two children, had been largely dependent upon the generosity of her
brother ever since her husband's death, and he was even now bearing all
the expense of the education of his nephew and niece.

They had made their home chiefly at Heathdale, because Lady Linton's pride
could not tolerate life at Linton Grange when they had no means to keep it
up in proper style, and it was very pleasant and comfortable to be in her
brother's home, where there was abundance of everything, and where she had
been allowed to manage the household in her own way.

It would therefore be very mortifying to have its hospitable doors closed
against her, and, finding herself liable to be ignominiously checkmated if
she persisted in her present course, she resolved to "right about face"
with the greatest grace possible, at least until she was obliged to yield
her position to the future mistress of Heathdale.

"Fie, William, don't allow yourself to get in such a passion," she said,
in a conciliatory tone. "Perhaps I have expressed myself more freely than
I ought, but you ought to make allowance for our great disappointment.
Remember that you are the pride of an old and honored family, and it is
but natural that we should wish you to marry in your own station. But do
not fear. When Lady Heath comes to take her place as mistress here she
shall be received in a becoming manner."

Her ladyship arose as she ceased speaking, her eye falling as she did so
upon the lovely upturned face upon the table, and she vowed in her heart
that if she could prevent it, the girl should never set her foot over the
threshold of Heathdale.

How she was to carry out this vow she had as yet no idea; but all the
malice and enmity of her heart had been aroused against her, and it should
go hard with her if she could not find some way to vent it upon her.

"Thank you, Miriam," Sir William responded, as he opened the door for his
sister to pass out, but he spoke somewhat coldly.

He could not lightly forgive and overlook the scorn that had been heaped
upon the darling of his heart, while the fact that his marriage had been
kept a secret angered him exceedingly, and placed him in a very unpleasant
position.

He resolved that as soon as his mother should be better, he would have a
plain talk with her, also, and insist upon an announcement of Lady Heath's
existence and her expected arrival. But until the invalid was out of
danger he deemed it advisable not to create any excitement on the subject.




Chapter XII.
"I Will Join You Heart and Hand."


Later in the day, while Sir William was engaged with the Stewart looking
over accounts and inquiring into the condition of Heathdale generally,
Lady Linton went quietly up to her brother's rooms to attend to the
unpacking of his trunks and putting his wardrobe in order.

While thus engaged she came across a worn portfolio filled with papers of
various kinds.

She knew at once that it was nothing that belonged to her brother, and
surmised that its contents might contain much of interest regarding the
despised girl whom he had married in the far West of America.

The key was attached by a ribbon to the portfolio, and was tucked into a
fold of the leather, and no sense of either delicacy or honor prevented
her making use of her opportunity for gratifying her curiosity regarding
the young wife, without the necessity of asking questions.

Accordingly, she boldly and unhesitatingly unlocked the portfolio, and
began examining its contents.

These proved to be mostly business papers and legal documents, with some
letters directed to a name that she had never heard before. She would have
liked to read them, but she feared being interrupted while doing so, and
she of course had no wish to have her brother know she was prying thus
into his affairs so she laid them back in their place, resolving at some
future time to examine them more thoroughly. But there was one envelope
among them of much fresher appearance than the others, and with no address
upon it, although it contained a document of some kind.

Lady Linton slipped it out, and, unfolding it, found it to be the marriage
certificate of her brother and his wife.

She was astonished to find that the ceremony had occurred in some place in
Nevada, remote from any city or town—a little settlement of which she had
never heard—and as she read further, her eyes grew wide with astonishment
and her face dark with anger.

"He wrote us that her name was Virginia Abbot," she cried, indignantly, a
crimson flush mounting to her brow, "and here it is given as Virginia—"

A step sounded outside the door in the hall just then, and her ladyship
paused, affrighted, to listen, that last name unspoken on her lips.

But it proved to be only a servant passing on some duty, and she went on
with her investigations.

"There is some inexplicable mystery about this thing," she murmured. "The
name is the same as that on those letters, and I am sure he has deceived
us shamefully. He said that she was the daughter of a once wealthy
Californian, but it seems that they were not in California at all. There
must have been some reason for their burying themselves in that isolated
place, and—<i>I will yet find out what it was</i>!"

She returned the certificate to the envelope, and put back the papers in
their proper places.

All at once her face lighted.

"Sara was going directly to San Francisco. I will write her to look this
thing up. I will have that girl's secret before she is a month older, and
then we will <i>see</i> whether she comes here to Heathdale to queen it over
us."

She resumed her work, but there was a sullen, resolute expression on her
face which told of some purpose that she was determining to carry out at
all hazards.

When Sir William's trunks were at length emptied, she rang for a servant
to take them to a storeroom, after which she repaired to her own
apartment, where she wrote steadily and rapidly for more than an hour.

At the end of that time she folded and sealed her letter, and directed it
to "Mrs. Sara Farnum, Palace Hotel, San Francisco, Cal.," and the very
next post from Heathdale carried on its way the missive that was destined
to help accomplish one of the greatest wrongs that had ever been
perpetrated.

The reader will doubtless remember that when the dowager Lady Heath and
Lady Linton were discussing Sir William's sudden marriage the name "Sadie"
was mentioned in connection with the baronet.

Sadie was a beautiful English girl of two or three-and-twenty and the
youngest child and only daughter of Mrs. Sara Farnum, to whom Lady Linton
had just written.

Sadie Farnum had said and thought a great deal upon learning of Sir
William's union with the American maiden, for the news had been a terrible
death-blow to her own hopes and ambitions.

She had long entertained the desire and intention of one day becoming the
mistress of Heathdale; it had been the dearest wish of her heart, and for
years she had used every art in which she was skilled to bring the man
she loved to her feet, and thus accomplish her purpose.

Mrs. Farnum and Lady Linton had been intimate friends from girlhood, and
it had also been a darling scheme of theirs to marry the daughter of the
one to the brother of the other, thus securing a fine position and title
to Sadie, and adding to the already well-filled coffers of Heathdale the
handsome fortune which the young girl would bring to her husband.

But Sir William had never appeared to be particularly fond of the society
of ladies, at least he was not what would be termed a ladies' man,
although he went frequently into company, and did not fall in with those
plans for his future happiness as readily as their projectors desired.

He liked Sadie well enough as a friend, and had been in the way of seeing
a great deal of her, as Lady Linton frequently invited her to spend
several weeks with her. He even promised to correspond with her when he
left England to travel in America, and at the time of his first meeting
with Virgie, he had in his pocket a voluminous letter indited by her.

But she had never touched his heart; she was bright, beautiful, and
accomplished, yet there was something lacking in her nature which his own
demanded and which he recognized at once in the lovely mountain maiden the
moment that he met her that wild night when he came a stranger to her
home.

But Sadie was so broken-hearted over the blighting of all her fond hopes,
and grieved so sorely that her health began to suffer in consequence, and
when Sir William's return began to be talked of, Mrs. Farnum decided to
take her daughter traveling and thus avoid any unpleasant meeting and
fresh grief when the young Lady Heath should come to take possession of
her new home.

Accordingly they sailed for America, and knowing that the baronet was in
New York, went directly to the Pacific coast about a fortnight previous to
Sir William's return to Heathdale.

The letter which Lady Linton sent her friend was written, as we know, the
morning following her brother's return, and five weeks later, upon the
very day of little Virgie May Heath's birth, there came to her an
exceedingly gratifying reply.

A portion of it read thus:

"Regarding the important questions which you have asked about the ——'s.
I will not write the name for fear this letter might sometime chance to
meet other eyes. I find that such a family resided here a number of years
ago. They occupied a high position in society appeared to have unlimited
means at their command and were much respected, but they were suddenly
overtaken by terrible misfortunes which cut them instantly down from their
high estate and they were obliged to flee from the city in disgrace. It is
quite a complicated story, and I have not been able to learn all the
details. I can do so, however, if you wish.

"But what is your object? What do you know about the family? Has it
anything to do with that girl whom your brother so rashly married in such
a romantic manner? If it has, let me know, and I will gladly search the
continent over for material to make her bitterly repent for striking such
a blow to my Sadie's, and indeed to all our hopes. Answer immediately and
whatever instructions you may give me, I will follow most faithfully. I
am ready to join you heart and hand in any vendetta against the disturber
of our peace."

Lady Linton smiled curiously after reading this epistle.

"I imagined as much," she muttered, "and they presumed to aspire to an
alliance with a Heath of Heathdale, when their own name was so hopelessly
disgraced that they did not dare to own it or be known by it, and were
forced to hide their guilty heads in that low mining district. No, sir; my
Lord of Heath, your shameless bride shall never enter this sacred
ancestral house if there are any means, lawful or otherwise to prevent
it."

After the examination of the portfolio which she had found in her
brother's trunk, Lady Linton's curiosity had been insatiable, and
simulating an air of friendliness and resignation which she was far from
feeling, she had encouraged him to talk of his wife, hoping thus to learn
more of her history, and trap him into acknowledging something of the
mystery which surrounded her.

But though Sir William was never loth to talk of his darling, and always
spoke of her in the fondest terms, he would never commit himself regarding
her past; that was to be a sealed book in England, and not even to his
mother and sister would he ever breathe one word of that sad story, that
Mr. Abbot had told him when he pleaded for his daughter's hand, or aught
that would cast a shadow upon any member of her family.

"She was the daughter of a once wealthy Californian whom reverses had
impoverished," he invariably told them. "She was finely educated and
fitted, both by nature and culture, to shine in any circle."

"By whom were you married, William?" his mother asked, having at last
deigned to show some interest in the circumstance.

"By the Rev. Dr. Thornton, an Episcopalian clergyman

"Of San Francisco?"

"No, of Virginia City;" and Sir William smiled that she was not familiar
enough with the geographical location of the place to know that it was not
in California at all.

"Oh, then you were not married in San Francisco?" interrupted Lady Linton,
looking up eagerly, and hoping now to get something definite regarding
that outlandish place in Nevada.

"No," he replied, not thinking it necessary to enter into particulars, and
leaving them to infer what they chose.

Her ladyship was baffled again, not daring to press him further lest he
should suspect that she had been tampering with his papers.

But she tried to console herself with the thought that she would soon know
all there was to be known; then what use she might make of her knowledge
remained to be seen.

Lady Heath was improving, but still far from being out of danger, and
could not endure the least confusion.

Sir William was very restless, and anxious to get back to his dear ones in
America; but Sir Herbert Randall was opposed to his going.

"It would be fatal, my dear sir," he asserted; "the excitement of your
departure and the separation would undoubtedly bring on another shock from
which her ladyship could not possibly rally, even if it did not kill her
outright. Haven't you done roving enough yet?" the physician concluded,
regarding the young man with some surprise.

"But I've left——" Sir William began, when he was interrupted by a
startled cry from Lady Linton, who was in the room, as she carelessly
upset a vase of flowers on the table beside her.

"How awkward of me!" she exclaimed, flushing a deep crimson; "won't you
please ring the bell, William for some one to come and clean up this
mess?"

He went to the opposite side of the room to do her bidding, and she took
the occasion to inform Sir Herbert in a low tone, that her brother had
left some unfinished business in America, which he was anxious to have
settled.

"I'm sorry," replied the physician, "but it will have to remain unsettled
for a while longer, if he has a proper regard for his mother's health."

Of course the great doctor's verdict was decisive, and Sir William was
forced to curb his impatience as best he could. He would not allow himself
to do anything that would endanger his mother's life, and yet his heart
was yearning for his wife and for the little one whom he had never seen.

"Have patience a little longer, my darling," he wrote Virgie that evening;
I will come just as soon as it will do for me to leave home. My heart
longs for you every hour in the day; life seems almost a blank without
you, and I find it difficult to employ myself about anything. If you were
stronger, and our little one was older, I would send some trusty messenger
for you, and another eight days would find you in our beautiful home. But
I fear such a proceeding would be hardly wise at present.

"Write to me often, my Virgie, and be very careful in directing your
letters; I am afraid that I have missed one or two of your last. Oh, happy
day when there will be no longer any need to communicate with each other
in this slow way."

Sir William had indeed missed his wife's last letters and this was the
only one that she ever received from him after that date.

How was it?

Ask Lady Linton, or go seek in the little brazier, which stood at night in
the dressing-room of her mother for the purpose of heating the nourishment
she was accustomed to take at twelve, for the ashes of the loving epistles
which the fond husband and wife believed no other save themselves would
peruse.




Chapter XIII.
Becoming Acquainted.


Little Virginia May Heath was just six weeks old, and becoming most
interesting to her fond mamma, who was getting stronger every day, and
able to take a little exercise in the corridor outside her rooms, when one
morning as she was pacing slowly back and forth, thinking of her absent
husband, and wishing, oh, so yearningly, that he could come to her, she
encountered two ladies who had just ascended the stairs, and passed on to
their apartments which were just beyond hers.

One was a finely formed, majestic woman, evidently somewhat over fifty
years, having the air and bearing of one accustomed to society and the
ways of the world. She was tastefully and elegantly dressed, every article
of her apparel denoting wealth and a careful regard for fashion.

The other was a young lady, perhaps a year or two older than Virgie, a
perfect blonde, with a tall, beautifully developed form, and with a face
such as poets and artists rave about. It was a pure oval, faultless in
feature and coloring, and yet withal, if closely studied, there was a
suspicion of shallowness and insincerity in the full, sapphire eyes, and
the perfectly formed but rather weak mouth.

Still Virgie, as she lifted her own lovely eyes and beheld this young
lady, thought she had never seen any one more beautiful, while she colored
slightly, and wondered why the strangers should observe her so closely
and with such evident interest.

It was a very warm day, and she was clad in a fine white robe, richly
embroidered and garnished with pale lavender ribbon. If she had but
realized it, she was exquisitely beautiful herself, with her glossy, brown
hair carelessly yet gracefully coiled at the back of her head, the color
beginning to tinge her cheeks, that smile of happiness upon her sweet
lips, and the holy mother-light shining in her violet eyes.

"Mamma, that must be she; that must be Lady Heath," whispered the younger
of the two strangers, when they had passed beyond hearing.

"Lady Heath!" was the scornful repetition, accompanied by a flash of anger
from the dark eyes of the elder woman.

"Well, mamma, you know of course who I mean. She must be the girl whom
Lady Linton wrote about."

"I imagine so. She answers the description that Miriam gave of her
photograph. Yes, hark! she has just opened her door, and surely that was a
baby's cry."

"Well, at last we have seen her," returned the girl, "and I must confess,
I think she is perfectly lovely. She has such beautiful eyes, such a fair,
delicate complexion, and is so peculiarly dainty every way. I do not blame
Sir William for falling in love with her."

"Mercy, Sadie, how you do chatter! no one would believe, to hear you, that
you had been almost heart-broken because this very girl, over whom you are
so enthusiastic, had ruined your prospects," returned her mother,
impatiently.

The young girl flushed crimson at this shaft.

"Thank you, mamma, for reminding me of the fact," she said, bitterly. "It
is true that through her all my fondest hopes have been blighted, and I
suppose I ought to bitterly hate her for it; but truly her exceeding
beauty and sweetness half disarm me."

The elder woman made no reply to this, but her manner betrayed both
contempt and irritation, her brow was clouded with a wrathful expression,
and her lips were drawn into a straight, rigid line, denoting some cruel
and inflexible purpose.

It will readily be surmised that these two ladies were none other than
Mrs. Farnum and her daughter, who, as we learned in the previous chapter,
were traveling in the United States, in the hope of improving the health
and spirits of the latter.

Mrs. Farnum had married while very young, and was the mother of three
children—two sons and one daughter.

She had herself been very attractive as a girl, and had many suitors; but
with an eye to the comforts of life, she had said "no" to all the titled
and impecunious lovers, and given her hand to a man of wealth, who, with
his million of pounds, bade fair to add another million to them in the
course of time.

Miriam Heath, on the contrary, had been rather a plain-looking girl,
somewhat cold and repelling in manner, and was almost an old maid before
she was married; thus she was often an inmate of her friend's palatial
home, and became much interested in her children, and little Sadie Farnum
had scarcely reached her teens before the two women began to plan a union
between the young heir of Heathdale and the heiress to half a million
pounds.

It had been the cherished dream of years, while almost from childhood
Sadie had been foolishly taught to regard Heathdale as her future home,
and to look upon Sir William as her promised husband; thus the
disappointment had been a terrible one to them all when they learned that
the baronet had married a "nobody" from the hated and disloyal country
that had rebelled against its rightful sovereign.

Lady Linton might be said to have become almost a monomaniac upon this
point, and so bitter was her ire at thus being balked in her plans, so
keen her hatred of the innocent girl who had been the cause of it, that
she abandoned herself to the wildest schemes, casting all honor and
womanliness to the winds, and bending all her energies toward the
destruction of the happiness of the newly wedded couple. She resolved to
begin operations by making an ally of her friend, Mrs. Farnum.

Fortunately she was at that moment in California, the former home of
Virgie, and could perhaps ascertain what mystery overshadowed her former
life that had made it necessary to conceal her true name. This would
perhaps give a clew how to proceed further, and, as we know, her letter
was written at once, and brought an immediate reply. Further
correspondence elicited information which only tended to strengthen Lady
Linton in her evil designs, and Mrs. Farnum was advised to proceed
directly to New York and take up her abode in the same hotel where Virgie
was located, where she could successfully aid and abet her superior in her
malicious operations.

Thus we find Mrs. Farnum and her daughter not only in the same house, but
on the same floor with the young wife and her child, and only waiting for
a favorable opportunity to strike a fatal blow to her happiness.

Virgie had of late experienced a good deal of anxiety regarding her
husband, for his letters, which at first had come with every steamer, had
suddenly ceased entirely.

For a while this had only filled her with hope, for she had told herself
that doubtless he was coming for her; he might even be on the way to give
her a joyful surprise. But as time went on and not a word came from him,
she was haunted with a sickening dread. He might be ill, she reasoned; but
surely in that case he would send some message by another, or, if he could
not do that, some member of his family would certainly let her know.

She wrote faithfully, notwithstanding, giving all details regarding
herself and their little one, never dreaming that her fond letters, having
first been devoured by evil, greedy eyes, were ruthlessly consigned to the
flames.

Every day after the arrival of Mrs. Farnum and her daughter, one or both
of the ladies managed to come upon her whenever she walked in the
corridor, and soon they began to nod in a friendly manner when they passed
her; then a smile and a look of interest was added, until finally it came
to be the regular custom to bid her a pleasant good-morning.

But Virgie was retiring by nature, and the acquaintance did not progress
rapidly enough to suit Mrs. Farnum, and she was meditating a bold move,
when one day Sadie came suddenly upon the nurse, who was promenading the
long hall, with her little charge in her arms.

"Oh!" she cried, stopping before her, "I am sure this must be our little
neighbor who serenades us once in a while. I dote on babies. May I have a
look at the darling?"

"I hope, miss, she doesn't disturb you," the nurse replied respectfully,
but looking greatly pleased to have the little one noticed.

"No, indeed; the house is so frightfully still that it is real music to
hear its little voice once in a while. What a little beauty it is, to be
sure!" Miss Farnum returned, volubly, as she pulled away the lace frill
from the small face to get a better view of the young heiress of
Heathdale.

"What is its name?" she asked, after contemplating her in silence for a
moment.

"Virginia May Heath," the woman replied, thinking the young lady very
gracious.

"Oh, how pretty! I suppose she will be called 'May.' She looks just like a
little May blossom."

"No, miss; they call her Virgie. Madam would have preferred the other
name, but her husband wanted her called for his wife, of whom he is very
fond."

Sadie Farnum's face clouded at this.

"I presume that delicate lady whom I see occasionally walking here in the
corridor is La—is Mrs. Heath?" she said, more to make the nurse talk than
because she desired information on this point.

"Yes, miss; the streets are so rough she does not care much for driving,
and she must have some exercise."

Virgie herself appeared in the doorway of her parlor at this moment, and
smiled as she noticed the young lady admiring her baby.

Miss Farnum colored slightly, then said boldly, with a light laugh:

"Pray do not think me very bold, Mrs. Heath, but I have been seeking an
introduction to your little daughter. She is very lovely, and I am <i>so</i>
fond of babies."

While she spoke her eyes had been fixed upon Virgie's face, and she
thought she had never looked upon any one more beautiful than this woman
who was her rival—for so she regarded her.

She wore a delicate blue lawn, trimmed profusely with filmy white lace;
there was a dainty cap upon her head, while she had a few blush-roses
fastened in her belt. Every day she was growing stronger and better, and
her beauty seemed to increase in proportion.

She bowed to Sadie, and smiled again as she remarked that it was rather
unusual for young ladies to be so fond of children of that tender age.

"Then I am an exception to the rule, Mrs. Heath," Miss Farnum answered;
"but since I have made your daughter's acquaintance, allow me to introduce
myself to you also. I am Sadie Farnum, and mamma and I are your nearest
left-hand neighbors."

"I am very glad to know you, Miss Farnum," Virgie returned, graciously,
and thinking her delightfully frank and pleasant.

She was really very glad to meet her in a less formal way than usual, and
hoped they should be friends.

She had been feeling rather lonely of late, besides being depressed on
account of her husband's long silence; she had no acquaintances, and saw
scarcely any one save the physician and her nurse.

"I am afraid mamma will think I have committed a shocking breach of
etiquette," Sadie went on; "but we are strangers in the city, and I have
been longing to know you ever since our first meeting here in the
corridor. May I come in to see you occasionally, and this little darling?"

She concluded with such a winning air, as she stooped and lightly kissed
the tiny pink face lying upon the nurse's arm, that Virgie's heart was
entirely won.

"Yes, indeed, Miss Farnum; I should be delighted to have you. I am alone
most of the time, and it would be very pleasant to have some young
company."

"Thank you. Then, if you do not object, I will waive all ceremony, and
come to see you in a friendly way. May I bring mamma, too, and introduce
her to you?"

"I shall be very glad to meet Mrs. Farnum," Virgie responded, and then
instantly asked herself if she had spoken the exact truth, for she stood
somewhat in awe of that aristocratic and imposing looking woman, whose
curious, piercing glance, in spite of her assumption of friendliness, gave
her an unpleasant sensation.

"Mamma, the ice is broken at last!" Sadie Farnum cried, rushing in upon
her mother, with a glowing face, after the above interview, and she
proceeded to give her a detailed account of her meeting with Virgie.

"She is as lovely as a dream, mamma," she said, "and as sweet and gracious
as any lady need to be. If she were not Sir William Heath's wife I should
be ready to do homage at her shrine with all my heart."

"Nonsense! Has she any education? Can she converse respectably?" demanded
Mrs. Farnum, with a frown at her daughter's enthusiasm.

"She is a perfect lady, and her language is beyond criticism—she is fit
to be the wife of any peer."

"Gracious! Sadie, how you annoy me!" ejaculated Mrs. Farnum, angrily.
"Just think of her antecedents."

"Well, the girl is not to blame if her father was a scamp, and should not
be made to suffer for his sins," responded her daughter, who was not
naturally bad, and but for her mother's influence, would even now have
been won to a better disposition by Virgie's sweetness.

"What rank folly you are talking!" retorted her mother. "No girl has a
right to marry a respectable man with such a stain on her name."

"Perhaps she does not know anything about her father's crime."

"Pshaw! She was fifteen years old when they had to flee from San
Francisco; she could not help knowing that something was wrong, and as she
grew older she could not fail to understand it. From the way you talk it
is evident that you yourself have fallen in love with the woman who has
cheated you out of your husband."

"Perhaps I have, mamma," Sadie answered, with a spice of defiance and
wickedly taking pleasure in working her mother up to a certain pitch. "She
looked so pretty just now—she has the loveliest complexion, just clear
red and white, with such dark blue eyes that they seem almost black when
she is animated, and such pretty waving brown hair, while her features are
pure and delicate Her taste, too, is exquisite—her dress was just the
right shade to set off her clear skin; she had the daintiest little
matron's cap on her head—real thread, too—while a handful of blush-roses
in her belt made her look too lovely for anything."

"Do hush, Sadie; you irritate me beyond endurance; one would think that
you were only too ready to renounce all your hopes to this plebeian who
has stolen your lover," and Mrs. Farnum turned upon her daughter as if
ready to shake her for her folly.

"Mamma!" she cried, passionately, and bursting into tears, for she had
been working herself up as well, "when I am away from her I hate her for
having won him from me, and I am almost ready to do anything desperate;
but when I am with her she disarms me; there is something about the girl
that almost makes me love her. If you could have seen her this morning,
she looked so proud and happy when I praised the baby."

"Sadie Farnum, I do believe you are becoming demented! Here is poor Lady
Linton almost heart-broken over her brother's <i>mesalliance</i>, his mother
lies at death's door on account of the excitement caused by it, while you,
who ought to be the most interested party of all, are about to turn
traitress and go over to the enemy just because of a foolish
sentimentality for this doll-faced girl. I declare, I have no patience
with you."

"I think you have said enough, mamma," replied Miss Farnum, coldly, and
wiping away her tears, "but there may come a time when you will regret
your present attitude—when you will be sorry that you strove to inculcate
such a bitter spirit into the mind of your only daughter. Lady Linton for
some strange reason wanted us to come here and see for ourselves what this
girl is like; we have seen her. Let us go our way now and not revive old
hopes and ambitions, which, to say the least, are not pleasant to remember
under the circumstances. Yes, let us end this disagreeable business, and
leave Sir William Heath's wife alone."

"I am not ready to leave New York yet, and we will stay where we are for
the present," responded Mrs. Farnum, flushing a deep red, for she had
never told her daughter of the plot which she was helping Lady Linton to
carry out, and she saw now that it would not be wise to do so, since Sadie
might flatly refuse to have anything to do with it, and in her present
state of mind, might do something to upset their well-laid schemes.




Chapter XIV.
The Plot Begins to Work.


The acquaintance between the Farnums and Virgie progressed rapidly after
the meeting between Sadie and the young wife. Mrs. Farnum was duly
introduced, and did not prove to be nearly so formidable a personage as
Virgie had imagined her to be; for although she was not drawn toward her
as she had been to her daughter, yet she was so gracious and exerted
herself to be so agreeable, that Virgie could but acknowledge to herself
that she was a very pleasant and entertaining person.

Visits were exchanged almost every day between them; the baby was praised
and admired, and Virgie was petted and made much of, until her heart and
confidence were entirely won.

They insisted upon her driving with them; "the fresh air would do her
good," Mrs. Farnum declared, "for she had noticed during the last week
that she was losing color;" and thus she made many excursions with the two
ladies, and visited many points of interest. They even proposed that they
should go into the country together, as it was getting so oppressively
warm in the city; but Virgie would not listen to this proposition, because
of her anxiety for letters, and the hope that Sir William might be coming
for her.

Poor child! she was, indeed, losing color, and was almost heart-sick with
the terrible suspense, although she tried to be very brave and to conceal
her trouble from every eye.

She wrote again and again to her husband, begging for one line, one word
even, pleading that he would let her come to him if he was ill and needed
her. She would gladly brave the dangers of the ocean alone, she told him,
if he would but give her his consent to do so.

But still that terrible silence remained unbroken.

She was almost tempted to set out alone in spite of everything, and
nothing but the fear of passing her husband on the way prevented her doing
so.

She had learned that the Farnums were English, but upon discovering that
their home was a long distance from Heathdale—Mr. Farnum owned a large
estate in Bedford County—she reasoned that they could not know anything
of Sir William's family; and being extremely sensitive regarding his
recent apparent neglect of her, she did not once hint that she expected
her own future home would also be in England.

Meantime Lady Linton's plans were ripening. Events were occurring at
Heathdale which she trusted would serve her purpose well; and now Mrs.
Farnum was only waiting for a favorable opportunity to commence aggressive
operations.

The opportunity soon came. Sadie had been invited by some friends to spend
a week or two at Coney Island, and her mother, fearing if she should be
there to witness Virgie's grief when she began to work out her plot, that
she might do something to upset her plans, willingly gave her consent for
her to go.

On the afternoon after her departure, Mrs. Farnum with a basket of fancy
work in hand, went to pay Virgie a little visit, saying she was lonely
without Sadie, and had come in for a cozy chat.

The young wife had evidently been weeping, for her cheeks were flushed and
her eyes heavy, but she received her guest cordially, and exerted herself
to be entertaining.

Mrs. Farnum appeared unconscious of anything unusual although she watched
the young wife keenly, and readily surmised what had caused her
unhappiness.

She chatted socially for a while on various topics, but after a time laid
down her work, and taking up a book from a table near which she was
sitting, began carelessly turning over its pages.

"Jean Ingelow," she remarked, with a smile. "Are you fond of her poetry,
Mrs. Heath?"

"Yes," Virgie answered, "I think some of her poems are very sweet."

Mrs. Farnum glanced absently at two or three, then turned to the fly leaf
of the book, while Virgie's eyes mechanically followed her movements.

The name of William Heath was written there.

Mrs. Farnum looked up surprised, then smiled.

"Your husband's name is William?" she said, inquiringly

"Yes," Virgie returned, with a slight flush, while a pang shot through her
heart at the sound of the dear name.

"You must be very lonely to be separated from him for so long a time,"
said the woman, in a sympathetic tone.

"Indeed I am," said the young wife, with a long-drawn sigh which did not
escape her companion's notice, "but our separation is compulsory."

"Ah, he was away at the time of our arrival, was he not?"

"Yes, he was called to his home nearly three months ago by the illness of
his mother."

Mrs. Farnum assumed a look of surprise.

"And could not you accompany him?" she asked, as if she thought it very
strange that Virgie should not have done so.

"No, my physician would not allow me to travel; the summons came only a
short time before the birth of my baby, and he said a sea voyage could not
be thought of for me, so my husband was obliged to go without me."

"A sea voyage!" repeated Mrs. Farnum, with a start.

"Yes. My husband's home is in England," Virgie answered, flushing vividly.

A blank look came over Mrs. Farnum's face, then she assumed a grieved
expression.

"In England! and you never told us that you were our countrywoman, Mrs.
Heath!" she said, reproachfully.

"I am not. I am a native of California," Virgie explained with some
confusion; but I seldom speak of myself to strangers."

"With good reason, my pert young woman!" mentally retorted Mrs, Farnum,
for her companion's last words had been rather coldly uttered. Then she
said aloud, in a pitying tone:

"It must have been very trying for you to let your husband go on such a
journey without you?"

"Yes, indeed, it was," Virgie replied, with lips that quivered painfully;
"but, of course, I could not keep him from his dying mother."

"Was her condition so critical as that?"

"Certainly, or my husband would not have consented to leave me. Mrs. Heath
was suddenly stricken with paralysis."

Again Mrs. Farnum started, and bent a long, searching look upon her
companion—a look that made Virgie feel very uncomfortable and wonder what
it meant.

"Is—is she still living?" the woman asked, still regarding Virgie
searchingly.

"Yes—at least, she was the last I heard; but her condition was still
considered so critical that she could not bear the least excitement."

"Then it is some time since you have heard from her?" remarked Mrs.
Farnum, pointedly.

Virgie bridled a trifle at being so closely questioned. She thought her
guest was trespassing beyond the bounds of good breeding. But, after a
moment, feeling as if she must share her burden with some one, she said,
in an unsteady voice:

"No, I have not, and—I am afraid that my husband's letters have
miscarried, and the suspense has been very trying."

"Ahem! Mrs. Heath, there is something very strange—very inexplicable
about what you have told me," Mrs. Farnum said, in a grave tone.

Virgie looked up, astonished both at the words and tone.

"I do not understand you," she returned.

"You know, of course, that we are English people," began her companion.

"Yes. Miss Sadie mentioned the fact to me during the first of our
acquaintance."

"Did she ever tell you that we know people in England by the name of
Heath?"

"No. Do you?" Virgie cried, eagerly, her face lighting as she thought
perhaps she might learn something regarding her long silent husband.

"Yes, and they are a very fine family. They belong in Hampshire, and I may
as well tell you that they are a very proud and aristocratic family,
laying great stress upon their unimpeachable honor and untarnished name."

Virgie flushed a painful crimson at this, which her companion noticed
with a thrill of exultation, and then resumed:

"The oldest daughter, who married a peer of the realm, has been my most
intimate friend for many years. Sir William, also——"

"Sir William!" Virgie interrupted, catching her breath, face growing
radiant.

"Yes, that's the name of the son and heir. I was about to remark that he
is a baronet and that it is a singular coincidence that he should also
have been here in America while his mother was stricken with paralysis. It
is strange, too, that his first name should be the same as your husband's;
but——"

"Oh, Mrs. Farnum," cried Virgie, leaning forward and seizing the woman's
hands in a transport of joy, as she believed she was about to hear some
definite news regarding her loved one, "Sir William Heath is my
husband—can you tell me anything about him? I have not heard a word from
him for more than a month, and I am nearly distracted from anxiety and
suspense."

Mrs. Farnum drew back in well-feigned astonishment.

"Child! are you mad? Sir William Heath your husband? It is simply
impossible."

Virgie straightened herself, and yet it seemed as if somebody had suddenly
struck her a cruel blow upon her naked heart.

Mrs. Farnum had just told her that for years she had been the most
intimate friend of Lady Linton and yet to all appearances she had been
literally astounded to learn that Sir William was married.

Could it be possible that her husband had never acknowledged her as his
wife to his family?

The thought almost paralyzed her for a moment; then she put it indignantly
away from her.

No, he had written letter after letter to his mother and sister—at least
he had spoken of so doing, though she had never read them—telling of
their marriage, and speaking of their return to Heathdale. Of course his
friends must have been apprised of all that had occurred during his
absence; still it was very strange that the "most intimate acquaintance of
Lady Linton" had not been made acquainted with the fact.

All at once, however, she brightened. Mrs. Farnum had been traveling in
America also, for how long she did not know, and perhaps that accounted
for it. If she did not correspond with Lady Linton she had no means of
knowing of the baronet's marriage.

She even smiled to think how foolish she had been to allow such thoughts
to have even for a moment a place in her mind, as she looked up and said:

"No, indeed, Mrs. Farnum, I am not mad, and it is not impossible that I am
Sir William Heath's wife. We were married last September, and after the
death of my father, who was very ill at the time, we traveled for several
months and then came to New York, intending to sail for England the last
of May, but were forbidden to do so by my physician, as I have already
told you."

"Still I say it is impossible. The Sir William Heath whom I mean is the
master of a large estate called Heathdale in Hampshire County, England,"
reiterated Mrs. Farnum, decisively.

"And my husband is the master of Heathdale, in Hampshire County, England,"
Virgie said, a trifle proudly.

She resented the woman's incredulity, while she could not forget what she
had said about the "unimpeachable honor and untarnished name" of the
family. It had stung her keenly, though she did not suspect that it had
been an intentional slur upon the shadow resting on her own.

Mrs. Farnum's only reply was a look of increased astonishment, mingled
with something of horror.

A crimson flush dyed Virgie's face.

"May I ask, Mrs. Farnum, how long you have been in America?" she said.

"We sailed from Liverpool the sixth of May."

Virgie's heart sank a trifle.

"And had you seen your friend, Lady Linton, within a few months previous
to that time?"

"Lady Linton came to London only three weeks before, to make me a farewell
visit. She was with me ten days."

The young wife grew pale.

"And did she not mention the fact of her brother's marriage?" she inquired
in a faint voice.

"No such event in connection with him has ever been announced," returned
the woman, ruthlessly. "His friends know nothing of it. Sir William Heath
is believed by his friends to be a single man. More than this——"

Virgie stopped her with a gesture, but she was as white as new fallen snow
as she arose, and going to her writing-desk, brought a letter, which she
laid upon Mrs. Farnum's lap.

"There is his last letter to me," she said, but her lips were almost rigid
as she spoke. "It will prove my statements."

Mrs. Farnum took it, and examined the envelope. It was directed to "Mrs.
William Heath,——Hotel, New York City, U.S.A." It was post-marked at
Heathdale. The handwriting was familiar, and she knew well enough that
Sir William Heath had penned it.

"Mrs. William Heath!" she said, reading the name aloud. "He does not
address you as Lady Heath, which is your proper title if you are his
wife."

"Oh!" cried Virgie, with a shiver of pain, for those last words, implying
a doubt of her position, hurt her like a knife. "Neither of us cared to be
conspicuous while we were traveling, so my husband dropped his title," she
explained.

"Ahem! that was a very strange proceeding. But does—does he say anything
about coming for you, in this letter?" inquired her companion, who was
burning with curiosity to know what it contained.

"You may read it if you like, Mrs. Farnum. I see that you are still in
doubt about my being what I represent myself," Virgie returned, with some
hauteur.

Mrs. Farnum flushed at this.

"You must excuse me, my dear," she said, with hypocritical blandness,
"but—but—it is simply unaccountable to me, knowing what I do about the
family and their future plans for Sir William. I'm afraid——"

She did not finish what she was going to say, but coolly drew the letter
from the envelope, unfolded, and began to read it, never once stopping to
consider how she was outraging the delicacy and affection of the young
wife by this act, notwithstanding that she had received permission to do
so—She could not doubt, as she read, that the young baronet's heart had
all been given to this fair, beautiful woman, for though written in his
own dignified way, the letter was full of devotion and loyalty to her. And
yet not once in all those eight pages had he called her by the sacred name
of "wife." There were all manner of pet names and expressions of
endearment, but not a single time was written that word which would have
proved so much.

The arch plotter as she read, was quick to observe this omission, and she
gloated over it; it would materially help to further her designs in the
future she thought, if this letter was a sample of all others which he had
written her. She would have given a great deal to be able to have that
pretty writing-desk at her command for an hour or two.

Her face took on a sterner and graver look than she had ever yet worn as
she read on, and when at length she finished the epistle, she appeared the
horrified prude to perfection.




Chapter XV.
The Lawful Wife.


"Have you a picture of your—of Sir William, madam?" Mrs. Farnum inquired,
as she folded the letter and returned it to the envelope.

Virgie arose without a word, and taking a velvet album from the table,
opened it to certain picture and laid it before her companion.

Mrs. Farnum uttered a cry of despair as her glance fell upon the handsome,
upturned face.

"Yes, that is a picture of Sir William Heath, of Heathdale; there can be
no mistake," she confessed, with a perfectly rigid face. "But, Mrs.—oh,
madam—I am simply stunned!"

"What <i>do</i> you mean?" Virgie demanded, standing straight and tall before
her, and meeting her eyes with a blazing look which warned Mrs. Farnum to
be careful how she dealt with that spirit.

"Pray, be calm, my child," she returned, with a pitiful accent. "Sit down
beside me here, and I will explain why I am so disturbed. Good heavens! we
have always supposed that Sir William was a man of unblemished honor."

"Madam, be careful how you speak of my husband!" Virgie interrupted,
haughtily, yet with a note of agony in her voice. "Sir William is an
honorable man, and I will not allow you to say one word against him in my
presence."

"Poor child! poor child! I fear you have been terribly deceived. How can
I ever tell you!" murmured Mrs. Farnum, in a shuddering voice, and with
every appearance of distress.

"You <i>shall</i> tell me instantly. I will not stand here and listen to such
paralyzing insinuations. <i>If</i> you have any thing to tell me, say it at
once, and do not keep me in this maddening suspense!" Virgie commanded
grasping the woman by the wrist, and transfixing her with her blazing
eyes.

If Sir William Heath could have seen her at that moment he would have been
very proud of her, for she had never been so beautiful, although a
terrible agony was stamped upon her white, imperious face.

"I can only repeat what I have already said. It is impossible. You will
never be mistress of Heathdale!" reiterated Mrs. Farnum, in an inflexible
voice, as she disengaged her wrist from Virgie's grasp, which had left the
imprint of every finger upon it.

"Go on!" commanded the young wife, authoritatively "You have simply made a
statement. You must confirm it."

"Because," proceeded the relentless woman, "in the first place, if you are
his wife, he would long before this have acknowledged you as such to his
friends."

"He has done so, I tell you. He wrote immediately after our marriage,
announcing it."

"Did you see him <i>post</i> his letter?" inquired Mrs. Farnum, quietly, but in
a tone that keenly stung the sensitive girl before her.

"No," she replied, a hot flush mounting to her brow; "but I know he did.
He is too honorable to dissemble."

"Did you ever see any reply to his communication in which his friends
recognized the fact of your marriage?"

"No. I—I never questioned him," Virgie answered, with white lips. "My
father was very ill, dying, at that time, and I scarcely thought of
anything else."

"But of course you have your marriage certificate. That would prove
everything," observed Mrs. Farnum, insinuatingly, although she well knew
that she had not.

"My husband has it."

"Ah!" and a pitiful smile wreathed the woman's lips as she uttered this
interpection with significant emphasis.

"Madam, can you not see that you are driving me mad?" cried Virgie, in an
agonized voice. "You have heard something; you are concealing something
from me. For mercy's sake, make an end of this suspense!"

"Answer me one question more. Were there witnesses at your marriage?"

"Yes, four."

"Four! Who were they?"

Mrs. Farnum asked this question in a somewhat disappointed tone, for if
the young wife could bring four witnesses to prove her marriage, Lady
Linton might well tremble for the success of her plots, though Nevada was
a long distance from England, and there might be some difficulty in
producing them.

"My father"—a sob checked Virgie's utterance as she mentioned him, and
realized how forlorn her condition would be if the horrible suspicions
which were being sown in her mind should prove true—"the clergyman who
performed the ceremony, a woman who lived near us, and our own servant."

"Then, since you have no tangible proof in your own hands that you are Sir
William Heath's lawful wife, I advise you to communicate with those
witnesses without delay, since their testimony alone will serve to
establish your rights and—those of your child," Mrs. Farnum said, with a
solemnity that struck a fearful chill to Virgie's heart.

"My child!"

It was a startled, anguished cry, and all the mother-love and anxiety was
instantly aroused for her little one.

Was it possible that anything was threatening the honor and future
happiness of her child, who, next to its father, was at once her pride and
idol?

"Oh!" she cried, pressing her hands to her throbbing temples, "why will
you talk so in riddles? If you have anything to tell me, in pity speak out
before I lose my reason!"

"Wait one moment, and I will bring you a letter which I have recently
received, and when I have read it to you, you will understand why I have
been so skeptical regarding what you hav

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