Allworth Abbey

Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

AUTHOR OF “THE FATAL MARRIAGE,” “RETRIBUTION,” “THE DESERTED WIFE,” “LOST HEIRESS,” “DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” “WIFE’S VICTORY,” “VIVIA,” “LADY OF THE ISLE,” “HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” “MOTHER-IN-LAW,” “THE TWO SISTERS,” “THREE BEAUTIES,” “CURSE OF CLIFTON,” “THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY,” “LOVE’S LABOR WON,” “MISSING BRIDE,” “INDIA,” “BRIDAL EVE,” ETC.

“There is probation to decree, Many and long must the trials be; But she’ll victoriously endure, For her love is true and her faith is sure.

“Sunrise will come next! The shadow of the night will pass away! The glory and the grandeur of each dream And every prophecy shall be fulfilled.”—_Browning._

=Philadelphia:= T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 306 CHESTNUT STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

To

Mrs. Fannie M^Cdonald Mead,

Of New York,

This Work Is Dedicated,

As A Slight Testimonial Of

The Highest Esteem And Warmest Affection

Of

The Author,

E. D. E. N. Southworth.

Prospect Cottage.

_November 25th, 1865._

Contents.

Page.

Chapter I. The Fearful Warning, 25

Chapter II. Horrible Suspicions, 34

Chapter III. The Bride Of Heaven, 46

Chapter IV. The Accusation, 57

Chapter V. The Arrest, 66

Chapter VI. The Underground Passage, 81

Chapter VII. The Flight, 90

Chapter VIII. Annella, 106

Chapter IX. The Chamber Of Death, 116

Chapter X. The Stubborn Witness, 130

Chapter XI. The Young Runaway, 141

Chapter XII. The Anchorage, 152

Chapter XIII. An Apparition, 164

Chapter XIV. The Fugitive Retaken, 178

Chapter XV. In Prison, 195

Chapter XVI. The Mysteries Of Edenlawn, 207

Chapter XVII. The Strange Interview, 217

Chapter XVIII. Father And Daughter, 230

Chapter XIX. “Trust In Heaven,” 251

Chapter XX. The Fearful Secret, 263

Chapter XXI. The Trial, 279

Chapter XXII. The Conviction, 291

Chapter XXIII. The Condemned, 301

Chapter XXIV. Despair, 313

Chapter XXV. The Appeal Of Despair, 327

Chapter XXVI. The Mysterious Plan Of Escape, 340

Chapter XXVII. A Young Heroine, 349

Chapter XXVIII. The Reading Of The Death-Warrant, 362

Chapter XXIX. Preparation For Death, 375

Chapter XXX. The Burning Prison, 393

Chapter XXXI. Annella’S Return, 398

Chapter XXXII. The Wreck And The Disclosure, 400

Chapter XXXIII. The Denouement, 408

Allworth Abbey.

Chapter I. The Fearful Warning.

“She stood once more in the halls of pride, And the light of her beauty was deified, And she seemed to the eyes of men a star, Lovely but lonely—flashing but far.

“She fixed his gaze with her fearful spell, And the book from his failing fingers fell; While her low voice hissed in his shuddering ear, ‘We’ve met at last, slave! Dost thou fear?’”

A few years only have elapsed since the public mind was electrified by the discovery of a strange tissue of crimes, through which had perished within the space of twelve months every member of a noble family, and in which was implicated the honor of one of England’s haughtiest peers and the life of one of her loveliest daughters, and finally, which added a recent and thrilling domestic drama to those ancient histories and ghostly traditions that have long rendered ALLWORTH ABBEY the resort of the curious, and the terror of the ignorant and the superstitious.

The principal circumstances were made sufficiently public at the time of the discovery; some at least of the guilty parties were brought to justice, and the effigy of the chief criminal may even now be seen in a certain celebrated “Room of Horrors.” But much also remained enveloped in mystery, for, underlying the bare facts that were openly proved, there was a secret history, stranger, more atrocious and more appalling, even, than those ruthless crimes for which the convicted felons suffered.

The knowledge of this secret history came to me in a singular manner; and with the purpose of showing over what fatal pitfalls the most innocent feet may sometimes stray, I proceed to relate the story, entreating my readers to remember, amidst its strangest revelations, that “nothing is so strange as reality,” and nothing more incredible than truth:—

ALLWORTH ABBEY, the scene of these events, is one of the most ancient monuments of monastic history left standing in the United Kingdom. The precise date of its foundation is lost in the dimness of far-distant ages, and remains to this day a disputed point among learned antiquarians.

It is a vast and gloomy pile of Gothic architecture, situated at the bottom of a deep and thickly-wooded glen, surrounded by high hills, that even at noonday cast a sombre shadow over the whole scene, which is one of the wildest, loneliest, and most picturesque to be found on the northwest coast of England. The surrounding country may be called mountainous, from the imposing height of the hills, and the profound depth of the vales.

Nothing can be more secluded, solitary, and sombre than the aspect of this place. The grim old Abbey, lurking at the bottom of its deep dell, reflected dimly in its dark lake, overshadowed by its tall trees, and closely shut in by high hills, is just the object to depress and awe the beholder, even though he never may have heard the fearful stories connected with the place.

Allworth Abbey is rich in historical associations and traditional lore. Its cloisters have sheltered kings; its walls have withstood sieges; it possesses its haunted cell, its spectre monk and phantom maiden.

In the reign of Henry the Church-burner and Wife-killer, Allworth Abbey was the home of a rich fraternity of Benedictine monks. And at the time of that tremendous visitation of wrath which overswept the land, when

“The ire of an infuriate king Rode forth upon destruction’s wing,”

Allworth Abbey was besieged and sacked by a party of soldiers under Lord Leaton, a baron of ancient lineage in the North of England, and of great merit in the estimation of King Henry Bluebeard. The abbot was slain at the altar, the brethren were put to the sword, the Abbey was given to the flames, and the lands conferred by the King upon the conqueror.

Lord Leaton rebuilt the ruined portions of the Abbey, adapted it as a family residence, and constituted it the principal seat of his race, in whose possession it remained from that time until the date of those strange household mysteries that I am about to disclose.

The last male representative of the Leatons of Allworth was Henry, Lord Leaton, whose name has since become so painfully memorable. With an ancient title, an ample fortune, a handsome person, well-cultivated mind, and amiable disposition, he married, early in life, a fair woman, every way worthy of his affections. Their union was blest by one child, Agatha, “sole daughter of his house,” who, at the opening of this story, had just attained her eighteenth year.

It is scarcely possible for a human being to be happier than was Lord Leaton at this time. In the prime of his manly life, blessed with a fair wife in the maturity of her matronly beauty, and a lovely daughter, just budding into womanhood, endowed with an ancient title, an immense fortune, and a wide popularity, Lord Leaton was the most contented man in England.

It was not even a drawback to his happiness that there was no male heir to his titles and estates, for in Malcolm Montrose, the betrothed of his daughter, he had found a son after his own heart.

Malcolm Montrose, and Norham, his younger brother, were the sons of Lord Leaton’s half sister, who had married a poor but proud Scotch laird. Their parents were now both dead. From their father they had inherited little more than an ancient name, a ruined tower, and a blasted heath. It was therefore only by the assistance of Lord Leaton, that Malcolm was enabled to enter the University of Oxford, and Norham to obtain a commission in the army.

It was the high character of Malcolm Montrose that commended him so favorably to the esteem of Lord Leaton, and induced his lordship to promote the betrothal between that young gentleman and the young heiress of Allworth; for be it known that the engagement was rather of Lord Leaton’s making than of the young pair’s seeking.

They loved each other as brother and sister, nor dreamed of the possibility of a stronger affection. They had naturally and easily glided into the views of Lord and Lady Leaton, and had at length plighted their hands, in perfect good faith, if not with the passionate love of which neither young heart had as yet any experience. One of the conditions of the betrothal was, that upon his marriage with the heiress, Malcolm Montrose should assume the name and arms of Leaton. It was also hoped that, in the event of the death of Lord Leaton, his son-in-law might obtain the reversion of the title.

It was soon after this solemn betrothal, that took place in the spring of 185–, that Malcolm Montrose took leave of his friends, and left England for an extended tour of the Continent.

Up to this time the life of Lord Leaton and his family had been one of unbroken sunshine. From this time the clouds began to darken around them.

On the day succeeding the departure of Malcolm, Lord Leaton received a letter from India, informing him of the death of his younger brother, who had left England many years previous to seek his fortune under the burning sun of Hindostan. The large fortune he had apparently found was the love of a beautiful native girl, whom he had secretly married, and who, in ten months after, in the same hour, made him a widower and the father of a female infant—the little Eudora, who, under her father’s care, had managed to grow up even in that deadly climate. But now that father had fallen a victim to the fatal fever of the country, and his daughter Eudora was left destitute.

Lord Leaton had been too long separated from his brother to feel keenly his death; his fraternal affection took a more practical turn than grief; he lost no time in procuring a proper messenger to send out to India for the purpose of bringing back his niece, who, as the only child of his sole brother, was, after Agatha, the heiress-presumptive of his estates.

As soon as Lord Leaton had despatched his messenger, he set out with his family to visit Paris. They took the first floor of a handsome house in a fashionable quarter of the city; but the circumstance of their being in mourning for Lord Leaton’s brother caused them to live in great retirement.

This was about the time that the concerted revolution in the Papal States had been discovered and suppressed, and when some of the noblest Romans had fallen on the scaffold, and others had been driven into exile. Among those whose fate excited the liveliest sympathy were the Prince and Princess Pezzilini. The prince fell gloriously in the cause of civil and religious liberty, and the princess was said to have perished in the flames when the Palace Pezzilini was burned by the mob. This was the common talk of Paris when Lord Leaton and his family arrived there.

It was within a few days after their settlement in their apartments, that the attention of Lord and Lady Leaton was attracted by a lady who frequently passed them on the grand staircase. She was a tall, fine-formed, fair woman, of great beauty, clothed in mourning, and wearing the aspect of the profoundest sorrow. No one could have seen her without becoming interested—no one could have passed her without a backward glance. She was sometimes attended by a stout, dark-complexioned, middle-aged man, whose manner towards her seemed half way between that of a good uncle and a faithful and trusted domestic.

The feminine curiosity of Lady Leaton had been so much excited by this mysterious lady and her strange attendant, that she had at length inquired about her of the old portress of the house. And it was from that garrulous personage Lady Leaton learned to her astonishment that the beautiful stranger was no other than the Princess Pezzilini, who had _not_ perished in the burning Palace of Pezzilini, but who had made her escape with the assistance of a faithful servant, Antonio Mario, who, for her better security, had circulated the report of her death, while he bore her off to France. She was now living on the fourth floor of that house, in great poverty and seclusion, attended only by her faithful servant, Antonio Mario.

So much Lady Leaton learned from the portress; but she lost no time in delicately seeking the acquaintance of the beautiful and unfortunate exile.

She found the Princess Pezzilini very accessible to respectful sympathy. She learned from her some further particulars of her history—among other matters, that she had succeeded in securing from the burning palace a box of valuable family documents and a casket of costly family jewels. As, however, these jewels were heirlooms, she was unwilling to part with the least one of them until extreme want should actually compel her to do so; hence with almost boundless wealth at her command, she chose to live in poverty and privation. This was her story.

The lively imagination of Lady Leaton was affected by her beauty, sensibility and accomplishments. The good and benevolent heart of Lord Leaton was touched by her misfortunes, her courage, and her resignation. And the end of it was that they invited her to return with them to England, and make Allworth Abbey her home until the clouds that lowered over her House should be dispersed, and the sun should shine forth again.

They spent the autumn in Paris, and returned to Allworth Abbey just in time to prepare for Christmas.

And it was on Christmas-eve that the messenger to India returned, bringing with him Eudora Leaton. It was evening, and the family circle of Allworth Abbey, consisting of Lord and Lady Leaton, Miss Leaton, and the Princess Pezzilini, were assembled in the drawing-room, when Eudora was announced.

She entered, and her extreme beauty at once impressed the whole company.

It was a beauty that owed nothing to external circumstances, for she had arrived weary, sorrowful, and travel-stained; yet it was a beauty that sank at once into the very soul of the beholder, filling him with a strange delight. She was of medium height, and slender yet well-rounded form. Her graceful little head was covered with shining, jet-black ringlets, that fell around a face lovely as ever haunted the dream of poet or painter. Her features were regular; her complexion was a pure, clear olive, deepening into a rich bloom upon the oval cheeks, and a richer still upon the small full lips; her eyebrows were perfect arches of jet, tapering off to the finest points at the extremities; her eyes were large, dark and liquid, and fringed by the longest and thickest black lashes; her nose was small and straight; her mouth and chin faultlessly carved; her throat, neck and bust were rounded in the perfect contour of beauty; the whole outline of her form was ineffably beautiful. A poet would have said that her most ordinary motions might have been set to music, but to no music more melodious than the tones of her voice.

Such was the beautiful young Asiatic that stood trembling before her strange English relatives in the drawing-room of Allworth Abbey on Christmas-eve.

Lord Leaton was the first to arise and greet her.

“Welcome to England, my dearest Eudora,” he said, embracing her fondly; “think that you have come to your own home, and to your own father and mother, for after our daughter Agatha we shall love you best of all the world, as after her, you know, you are the next heiress of our name and estates.”

“Dear uncle, give me but a place in your heart next to my cousin Agatha, and—let the rest go,” said Eudora, in a voice vibrating with emotion.

Lord Leaton then formally presented his niece to her aunt and cousin, and to the Princess Pezzilini, all of whom received the beautiful young stranger with the utmost kindness and courtesy.

Agatha, in particular, seemed delighted with the acquisition of a congenial companion in her charming Indian cousin.

The evening passed delightfully; but for the sake of the weary traveller, the family party supped and separated at an unusually early hour.

It was soon after Lady Leaton had retired to her dressing-room that she heard a light tap at her door, and to her surprised exclamation of “Come in,” entered the Princess Pezzilini.

“You will pardon me for intruding upon you at this hour, but you know what great reason I have to be devoted to your service, Lady Leaton, and you know the force of my faith in presentiments. It is a presentiment that forces me to your presence to-night,” said the princess in a mournful voice.

“Madame, I thank you earnestly for the interest you deign to take in my welfare; but—I do not understand you,” said Lady Leaton, in surprise.

“And I do not understand myself; but I must speak, for the power of prophecy is upon me! Lady Leaton, _beware of that Asiatic girl_!”

“Madame!” exclaimed Lady Leaton, in extreme surprise.

“Yes, I know what you would say: she is your niece, the daughter of your husband’s brother. But I tell you that she is of the treacherous, cruel, and deadly Indian blood! I have watched her thoughts through this evening. I noted her look when Lord Leaton told her that she was the next heiress after Agatha. And I tell you that the gaze of the deadly cobra-di-capella of her native jungles is not more fatal than the glance of that Indian girl!”

“Madame, in the name of Heaven, what mean you?” exclaimed Lady Leaton, in vague alarm.

The voice of the princess sank to its deepest tones, as she answered:

“The deadly upas-tree of the Indies suffers nothing to live in its dread neighborhood. If you could transplant such a tree from an Indian plain to a fair English park, as it should grow and thrive, all beautiful life would wither under its poisonous breath, until nothing should remain but a blasted desert, and the deadly upas-tree should be all in all! Lady Leaton, beware of the young Indian sapling transplanted to your fair English park!”

“Madame, you frighten me!” exclaimed Lady Leaton.

“No; I only mean to warn you! I spoke from an irresistible impulse. And having spoken, I have no more to say but to bid you good-night,” said the Italian, lifting the hand of Lady Leaton to her lips, and then withdrawing, and leaving her ladyship plunged in deep thought.

Chapter II. Horrible Suspicions.

The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements.—_Shakspeare._

The beautiful Asiatic girl soon won her way into every heart in the household. No one could meet the soft, appealing gaze of her large, dark, Oriental eyes, or hear the plaintive tones of her low, deep, sweet voice, without feeling powerfully drawn towards her. No one could be with her long without seeing that the angel form was tenanted by an angel spirit, too.

Eudora became the darling of the household. And yet, from all events that quickly followed, it would seem that the previsions of the Princess Pezzilini had been true.

First of all the father of the family, Lord Leaton, a man in the early prime of life and the full enjoyment of the finest health, sickened with a strange disease that baffled all the skill and science of his medical attendants. The most competent nurses were engaged to take their turns day and night at his bedside.

The ladies of the family also vied with each other in their attentions to the invalid. But it was observed that in his moments of greatest suffering, he would bear no one to approach him except his niece Eudora.

This might be explained by the circumstances that Eudora’s presence was very soothing, her step was noiseless, her motions smooth, her touch soft, her voice low, and her gaze gentle; and all this had a very calming and subduing effect upon the irritable invalid. And thus Eudora became almost a fixture beside his couch. And all who loved Lord Leaton were grateful to the gentle girl, who patiently resigned her daily recreations and her nightly repose to devote herself to him.

All except the Princess Pezzilini, who was observed to shake her head and murmur to herself—

“The fascination of the cobra-di-capella!”

But no one paid attention to the murmured remarks of the lady, especially as even she herself did not escape the charms of Eudora’s presence, but frequently fell under the sweet spell that bound all hearts to the beautiful girl.

At length, one night, Eudora, worn out with fatigue, was ordered to go to her bed. She mixed the sleeping-draught for her uncle, put it in the hands of her aunt, and retired to her room. Lady Leaton was left alone to watch by the bedside of her husband.

She sat the sleeping potion down upon a stand near the head of the bed, until Lord Leaton should awake from the light doze into which he had fallen, and she went out to her dressing-room to change her dress for a warmer wrapper, in which to sit up and watch the invalid.

It was while she stood before the looking-glass which was opposite the door and reflected a portion of the adjoining room, that Lady Leaton saw the shadow of a female figure glide along the wall, and at the same moment heard the rustle of a silk dress.

She immediately turned and entered the chamber, but found no one there. Lord Leaton had just awakened and turned over.

“Has any one been here?” inquired her ladyship.

“No one at all,” he answered.

“It was fancy, then,” muttered the lady to herself, as she gave the sleeping-draught to her husband.

He drank it to the dregs; yet it did not seem to produce the usual effects. The patient could not get to sleep; on the contrary, he grew more and more restless, and soon became violently ill.

Lady Leaton, in alarm, aroused the servants, and despatched a messenger to Poolville, the adjoining village, for their medical attendant, who immediately hastened to the bedside of his patient. But the utmost skill of the physician was unavailing, for, before morning, Lord Leaton expired.

It was then that the medical attendant felt it his duty to declare to the grieving widow that her husband had died from the effects of a virulent poison, and to demand an investigation by the coroner’s jury.

This would have been a terrible blow to Lady Leaton could she have been made to receive it. But she indignantly repudiated the idea.

What, _he_ poisoned?—_he_, Lord Leaton, who was so kind-hearted that he would not have crushed a worm in his path, or killed a wasp that stung him?—_he_, who was so universally beloved and honored that he had not one enemy in the wide world?—_he_, in whose premature death no one could have a benefit, but in whose beneficent life thousands possessed the deepest interest?—_he_ taken off by foul means? The idea was too preposterous as well as too dreadful to believe.

No; the horror of such a suspicion was not added to the unspeakable sorrow of the widow.

But, as the doctor was firm in his purpose of having a _post-mortem_ examination and a coroner’s inquest, of course both had to be held. Nothing decisive, however, was elicited. No trace of poison was found either in the body of the deceased or in the glasses from which he had drank, or anywhere else.

The single suspicious circumstance of Lady Leaton’s seeing the shadow of a female on the wall, and hearing the rustle of a silk dress in her husband’s chamber, was disproved by a separate examination of each member of the household, in which it was clearly shown that every one was at that hour in bed. And Lady Leaton herself admitted that her imagination might have deceived her. The verdict of the coroner’s inquest, therefore, was that the deceased died from natural causes.

Lord Leaton had died too suddenly to have made a will, but his wishes were so well understood by Lady Leaton, that she lost no time in carrying them into effect. She wrote to Rome to Malcolm Montrose, informing him of the sudden death of his uncle, and requesting him to come immediately to England. She wrote, also, to Norham Montrose, who was absent with his regiment in Ireland, giving him the same fatal intelligence, and inviting him to join his brother at Allworth Abbey by a certain day.

Malcolm, though the farthest from the scene of action, was the first to obey the summons. He hastened to England, and, without resting a single night on his journey, hurried to Allworth Abbey.

It was near the close of a stormy day in March that he got out of the stage-coach at Abbeytown, and leaving his luggage to the care of the landlord of the “Leaton Arms,” set out to walk the short distance to the Abbey. He reached the top of the eastern range of hills that surrounded the Abbey just as the sun, setting behind the western hills, cast the whole dell into deep shadow.

Never had the aspect of that sombre place seemed so gloomy and depressing. The huge collection of buildings comprising the Abbey lurking at the bottom of the deep dell, reflected dimly in its dark lake, overshadowed by its gigantic old trees, enclosed by its lofty hills, and cast into the deepest shade by the sinking of the sun behind those hills, was well calculated to awe the traveller, even though he might not have—as Malcolm had—a personal and tragic interest in the scene.

A few moments he spent in contemplating the picture, and then rapidly descended the precipitous path leading down to the bottom of the dell. At the foot of the precipice was the gamekeeper’s lodge and the principal park gate. He passed this, and took the straightest line to the Abbey.

He passed one more gate and entered the grounds, immediately around the house. A short walk brought him to the outer banks of the shaded lake. An avenue of elms swept right and left around this lake and led up to the centre front entrance to the Abbey. He took the right-hand walk, and proceeding at a rapid pace, soon found himself before the main entrance.

Here the first object that arrested his attention was the funeral hatchment suspended over the doorway. A sigh was given to the memory of his uncle, and then he went up the broad stairs, and knocked at the great folding oak door of the main entrance. It was opened by the aged porter, who welcomed him respectfully, and ushered him at once into the library, while he went to announce the arrival to the widowed Lady Leaton.

While waiting the entrance of his hostess, Malcolm Montrose strolled to the front window and looked out upon the scene—the dark lake immediately under the walls of the Abbey, rendered darker still by the overhanging branches of its encircling trees, and the lofty sides of its surrounding hills, behind which the full moon was now rising.

While Malcolm gazed moodily upon the scene, his attention was attracted by a female form, clothed in black and gliding like a spirit among the trees, that bordered the still lake. He could not at first see her face, but the ineffable grace of her movements fascinated his eyes to follow her every motion. At length she turned, and he caught an instant’s glimpse of a dark face, which, even in that uncertain light, he fancied to be as beautiful as that of the fable houri. The beauty disappeared in the thicker foliage of the evergreens, and Malcolm Montrose turned to greet his aunt, who now entered.

Lady Leaton was a woman of commonplace, agreeable personality, middle-aged, large, fat and fair in body, conscientious, discreet, and affectionate in mind. She entered the room now, with her portly form dressed in widow’s weeds, and her fair, round face encircled by a widow’s cap. Her eyes were suffused with tears, and her voice was broken with grief, as she advanced, held out her hand, and welcomed Malcolm Montrose to Allworth Abbey.

A short and agitated conversation sufficed to put Malcolm in possession of the facts with which the reader is already acquainted; and of the result of this interview it is only necessary to say that Malcolm Montrose entirely coincided in opinion with Lady Leaton and with the verdict of the coroner’s jury, in supposing that the late Lord Leaton had died of some obscure disease, and not, as the doctor had believed, of poison. It was a great relief to Lady Leaton to find that one so clear-headed and true-hearted as Malcolm Montrose took the same views of the case with herself.

At the close of the interview she rang for a servant to show him to his room, where he might change his dress for dinner.

The chamber to which he was shown was situated immediately over the library, and its front bay window overlooked the same scene. Involuntarily Malcolm sauntered to the window and looked forth upon the night. The moon was now so high in the heavens that its face was reflected even in the shrouded mirror of the dark lake. As he looked forth he saw the same beautiful female figure emerge from the thicket and disappear in the direction of the house. She had evidently entered the building.

Malcolm turned away as though there was no longer any attraction in the moonlight on the shrouded lake, and turned to give his attention to old John, the valet of the late Lord Leaton, who stood ready to assist the young man in making his toilet.

When Malcolm Montrose had refreshed himself with a wash and a change of dress, and stood ready to descend to the drawing-room, he presented in himself one of the noblest specimens of manly beauty.

He was at this time about twenty-five years of age, tall and finely proportioned, broad-shouldered, deep-chested and strong-limbed. His head was stately, well poised, and covered with rich, dark, auburn hair that waved around a high, broad, white, forehead. His features were of the noblest Roman cast; his complexion was fair and ruddy, and his eyes of a clear, deep blue. His presence was imposing as that of one born to command; his manners were at once gracious and dignified, and his conversational powers brilliant and profound. He was one of those masterpieces of creation, one of those magnetic men who attract and control without any effort.

When Malcolm Montrose entered the crimson drawing-room he found it already brilliantly lighted up for the evening, and amid its glitter of light and glow of color three fair women were revealed. The first, who was his aunt, Lady Leaton, arose and led him up to the other two, who immediately riveted his attention.

Reclining languidly in an easy-chair sat a fair girl, with a delicate complexion, dark-grey eyes, and light brown hair confined in a net of black silk.

Standing on her right hand, and bending affectionately over her, was a large, tall, finely-formed, fair-haired woman, whose ample dress of black velvet fell around her majestic figure like the robes of a queen or the drapery of a goddess.

“Madame, permit me to present to you my nephew, Mr. Montrose, of Dun-Ellen; the Princess Pezzilini, Mr. Montrose,” said Lady Leaton, respectfully presenting Malcolm to the stranger.

Malcolm bowed deeply and reverently, and expressed himself honored in making the acquaintance of the widow of the heroic Prince Pezzilini.

The lady, on her part, raised her stately head, smiled sweetly, curtsied silently, and immediately resumed her attention to the young girl in the chair. But in that single glimpse of her full face, Malcolm saw that she was of that rarest and strangest type of Italian beauty, a perfect blonde—fair, as though she had been born under the cool, damp fogs of England, instead of the burning sun of Italy; and, indeed, if the land of her birth had given her any of its fire, it was only to be seen in the warm and glowing smile that occasionally lighted up her face and beamed from her clear blue eyes.

Malcolm took in all these impressions during the few moments that were occupied in his presentation, and then he turned to greet the young lady in the easy-chair—his cousin Agatha.

He saluted her gravely and affectionately, as befitted the serious occasion of their meeting, and then, observing for the first time the extreme delicacy of her face and form, and the languor of her attitude and manner, Malcolm looked uneasy, and expressed a fear that she had been indisposed.

“No, she is not indisposed; that is, not seriously so; but she has not seemed quite well or strong since—since our great bereavement,” answered Lady Leaton, concluding the sentence in a faltering voice.

“Not well; no, indeed!” thought Malcolm, as he gazed with concern upon the fair, wan, spiritual face and fragile form of her whom he had left but a few months before the very picture of perfect health. “Not well, yet not seriously indisposed!” Was it possible that this great change could have come over Agatha so gradually that its effects should have escaped the eyes of even her own affectionate mother? Such must have been the case, was the thought of Malcolm, as he held the thin and wasted hand of the young girl in his own, and resolved that upon the next day he would certainly call the attention of Lady Leaton to the fearful change that, though it might have escaped the notice of those in daily communion with the invalid, while their attention had been absorbed by matters of such transcendent importance as the illness and death of Lord Leaton, yet was, withal, so marked and so alarming as to have shocked him who had left her six months before in full and blooming health.

While these thoughts engaged the mind of Malcolm, a soft footstep approached, and Lady Leaton spoke, saying—

“My niece, Eudora, Mr. Malcolm.”

Malcolm raised his eyes carelessly.

Yes, there she stood! the beautiful girl whose graceful form he had followed with a delighted gaze as she glided among the trees upon the banks of the dark lake. There she stood, in the perfect loveliness of her Oriental charms, one of Mohammed’s fabled houris descended upon the earth. There she stood—her elegant little figure drawn up to its full height, her graceful head slightly bent upon her bosom, her jet-black ringlets falling around her rich, warm, olive face, with its slender, arched eyebrows, its large, dark, burning eyes, and its crimson cheeks and lips.

Only to look upon such beauty was a keen though dangerous delight. So Malcolm Montrose felt, as he took her hand, raised his eyes to hers, and met the quick and quickly-withdrawn flashing glance of those great, black, burning stars, so full of half-suppressed fire, so replete with thrilling, mysterious meaning.

“I am very happy to meet you, my dear cousin,” he said, earnestly, as he pressed and released her hand.

With the long lashes dropped lower over her dark eyes, and her rich bloom heightened, she curtsied slightly, and accepted the chair that he set for her.

Malcolm placed himself beside Agatha, and glided gradually into conversation with herself and the princess; but his eyes involuntarily wandered off to the beautiful Asiatic girl, and every furtive glance thrilled him with a deeper and a stranger delight.

Dinner was announced, and Malcolm gave his arm to the Princess Pezzilini to conduct her to the dining-room. At dinner he sat next to the princess, who was herself a woman of brilliant conversational powers; but while conversing with her his thoughts continually wandered to the lovely, dark-eyed girl on the opposite side of the table.

When dinner was over, and they returned to the drawing-room, the evening was spent in earnest conversation, until at length, when it was quite late, Lady Leaton observed that Agatha seemed fatigued, and rang for her maid to attend her to her chamber. Malcolm led Agatha to the door, where he bade her good-night, and soon after the circle broke up for the evening.

On taking leave of Eudora, Malcolm again touched her hand, and met her eyes with a thrill of delight as strange as it was incomprehensible.

When Malcolm reached his chamber, he at once dismissed the old valet, locked his door, and commenced pacing thoughtfully up and down the room. He had enough of exciting subjects occupying his mind to keep him from rest. The presence of the magnificent Pezzilini in the house; the death of his uncle; the failing health of his fair young cousin; but through all these disturbing subjects glided one image of ineffable loveliness—Eudora, the beautiful Asiatic girl; and this haunting image was so delightful to contemplate, that as often as it glided before his imagination, he paused to dwell enchanted upon it. He would not listen to the still small voice that warned him this was a dangerous vision; he meant no wrong to Agatha, his betrothed bride, to whom his hand was pledged, to whom he thought his heart was given, and he knew nothing of the insidious approaches of that master-passion which steals first through the eyes, then through the imagination, until it effects an immovable lodgment in the heart. The field of his imagination was already occupied; would the citadel of his heart be occupied? Who could tell?

It was after midnight when he retired to rest, resolving to be faithful to his affianced bride, and sank to sleep, dreaming of the beautiful Eastern houri.

Eudora occupied a small, plainly-furnished room adjoining her cousin Agatha’s spacious and sumptuous chamber, and, since Agatha had been ailing, it was a part of Eudora’s duty, whenever the invalid was restless at night, to sit by her bedside and read her to sleep. But on reaching her little room this evening, Eudora found the door communicating with her cousin’s chamber closed and locked on the other side.

“She wishes to be alone to-night,” said the gentle girl to herself, as she drew a low chair and sat down before the little coal fire to fall into one of those reveries to which her poetical temperament inclined her. She thought of the magnificent new relative to whom she had been presented that evening, for magnificent, indeed, to her he seemed in his noble, manly beauty and grace. She dwelt upon his image with a strange feeling of satisfaction and content, as upon some good long wanting in her life, and now found and appropriated. She felt again the earnest pressure of his hand in clasping hers; she saw again his eagle eyes melt into tenderness as they met her own; she heard again the earnest tones of his voice in greeting her. No one had ever before clasped her hand, or looked in her eyes, or spoken to her heart as he did. Every one was kind to the orphan; indeed it would have been impossible for any one to have been otherwise to so gentle a creature, but it was with a superficial kindness that did not seem to recognize her deeper need of sympathy. No one had seemed to remember that the stranger girl had under her black bodice a sensitive heart, to be wounded by neglect or delighted by affection—no one but him; and he, too, so handsome, so accomplished, and so distinguished, that he might have been excused for slighting her. At least, so thought Eudora.

“But the gods are ever compassionate, and he is like a god,” said the hero-worshipping young heart to itself. It was so sweet to recall and live over again that meeting in which he had been so earnestly kind.

“He will understand and love me, I feel that he will!” she murmured to herself, with a delighted smile. But the words had no sooner been breathed from her lips than she understood their full import. It stood revealed to her conscience as by a flash of spiritual light, that her imagination was occupied by a forbidden and perilous vision. And yet it was so sweet to entertain this alluring vision, and so bitter to banish it away.

She dropped her head upon her breast, and her clasped hands upon her lap, and sat, as it were, with her dark eyes gazing into vacancy after her receding dream.

Some time she sat thus, and then murmured—

“I am lonely and desolate indeed. None love me truly and deeply, as I need to be loved, as I long to love. They give me food and clothing and kind words, and with these I ought to be content, but I am not! I am not! My heart is starving for a deeper sympathy and a closer friendship, and I long for that as the famishing beggar longs for bread, but I must not hope to satisfy this hunger of the heart upon forbidden fruit, and a sure instinct warns me that even the kindred affection of my cousin is forbidden fruit to me. I will think no more of him.” And with this wise resolution Eudora offered up her evening prayers and retired to rest. But in the world of sleep the forbidden vision followed her, and her cousin Malcolm was ever by her side with looks of sympathy and words of love.

Chapter III. The Bride Of Heaven.

I will not think of him—I’ll pace This old ancestral hall, And dream of that illustrious race Whose pictures line the wall. And from their dark and haughty eyes, Though faded now and dim, A better spirit shall arise, I will not think of him.—_Mrs. Warfield._

Flight! In that one short syllable lies the only safety from a forbidden passion, and where flight is impossible, passion becomes destiny.

Malcolm Montrose had come to Allworth Abbey with the full understanding that he was to remain with the bereaved ones for three months, and at the end of that time quietly consummate his betrothal to the heiress by a marriage that, in consideration of the recent decease of the head of the family, was to be celebrated without pomp. Such had been the dying instructions of Lord Leaton to his wife, and such she had conveyed in her letter to Malcolm. To fly from his forbidden love would be to fly also from his betrothed bride. He remained, therefore, happy in the absolute obligation that compelled him to remain. Eudora had no other refuge in the world whither to fly. Flight, therefore, to her also was impossible.

And perhaps by both it was unthought of. Circumstances bound them together, and so passion became destiny. Both struggled perseveringly with the growing madness. They instinctively avoided each other as much as it was possible to do so. But in every casual touch of their hands, every meeting glance of their eyes, and every intonation of their voices, was transmitted the subtle fuel of that secret fire that was smoldering in each bosom. They never remained for a moment alone together; they never voluntarily addressed one word to each other; and yet, when they did meet, or were forced to speak, the blushing cheek of the girl, the faltering tone of the man, the averted looks of both, betrayed to themselves, if not to others, the hidden love that was burning in their breasts.

Every motive of honor, gratitude and humanity constrained them to conquer their passion, and not the least of these was their mutual sorrow in the declining health of Agatha.

Agatha was dying—though no one yet dared to say it, every one knew it. The fair girl herself felt it, and instead of preparing for her bridal, that was arranged to be celebrated on the first of May, she withdrew her thoughts more and more from the things of this world, and fixed them upon Heaven. Always of a thoughtful and serious turn of mind, she became now almost saintly in her self-renunciation, her patience, and her resignation.

Often as she sat reclining in her easy-chair, watching the mutual embarrassment of Malcolm and Eudora, and seeing, with the clear vision of the dying, the hidden struggles of their hearts, a sweet smile would break over her fair, wan, spiritual face, and she would murmur to herself—

“They are striving bravely to do right—they will not have to strive long; a few more short weeks, and their reward will be certain; their love will be innocent, and their happiness complete. And shall I, who am going hence, envy them their love and joy? Oh, no! oh no! for well I know that whither I go there is a fulness of joy and love that mortal imaginations have never conceived.”

The fair girl faded fast away. Day by day her thin form wasted thinner, her pale cheeks grew paler, and her hollow eyes hollower, while the saintly spirit within burned with a more seraphic brightness. The symptoms of her malady were the same as those that had carried off her father. The utmost skill and science of the medical faculty were taxed in vain; they could neither define the nature of her wasting illness, nor find a cure for it. The fair girl failed rapidly. Her easy-chair in the drawing-room was soon resigned for the sofa in her own dressing-room, from which she never stirred during the day. And about the first of May, when she was to have been united to Malcolm Montrose, the sofa was finally resigned for her bed, from which she never more arose.

Malcolm and Eudora reproached themselves bitterly for their unconquerable love, because it seemed to wrong Agatha. They vied with each other in the most affectionate attention to the invalid; and often as they stood each side her couch, ministering to her wants, she longed to make them happy by releasing Malcolm from his engagement to herself, and placing the hand of Eudora in his own; but instinctive delicacy withheld her from intermeddling with the love affairs of others.

Lady Leaton, heart-broken by the loss of her husband, and the approaching death of her daughter, observed the growing and ill-concealed attachment between Malcolm and Eudora with all a mother’s bitter jealousy. And struggled against as that attachment evidently was, she nevertheless resented it as a grievous wrong to her dying child.

Agatha, with the clairvoyance of a departing spirit, saw into the hearts of all around her, and judged them in justice and mercy. One day while her afflicted mother watched alone beside her bed, she said to her—

“Mamma, dear, I wish to speak with you about Malcolm and Eudora. I know that you are displeased with them, mamma; but it is without just cause. They love each other; they struggle against that love, but they cannot conquer it. It is because they were created for each other. Their marriage is already made in heaven. My marriage with Malcolm, mamma, was designed only on earth as a matter of policy and convenience. Malcolm and I loved each other only as brother and sister; we never could have loved in any other way even if I had lived to become his wife. But he and Eudora love one other as two who are destined for time and eternity to blend into one. Forgive them, mamma; forgive and be kind to them for my sake.”

“But you, Agatha!—my child!—I can think only of you!” sobbed the lady.

“Dear mamma, I know that all your ambition has been for your Agatha’s good, and happiness, and advancement. But consider, if your wildest dreams for your child had been fulfilled, and even more than that, if you could have made her a king’s bride, placed upon her brow a queen’s crown, gathered around her all the wealth, splendor, and glory of this world—could you have rendered her as happy, as blessed, and as exalted as she is now by the free mercy of God—now, when she is departing for that land the joys of which ‘eye hath not seen, ear heard, or imagination conceived,’ and where she shall wait for you in perfect bliss and perfect safety till you come? Mamma, your daughter is the bride of Heaven, and that is better than being the wife of the noblest man or the greatest monarch on this earth.”

The countenance of the young saint was glorious in its holy enthusiasm, and the human jealousy of her mother was dispelled before its heavenly light.

“You are better than I am; my child, my child, you are better than I am; you are a saint prepared for heaven!” exclaimed Lady Leaton, fervently.

“Mamma, grant Agatha one petition. She wants to see them happy before she goes. They are so conscientious and so wretched, mamma; they are afraid to speak to each other, or to look at each other, lest they should wound or wrong me. It makes me miserable to see them so because I love them both, mamma, and I know that they love me, and for my sake they struggle bravely with their passion for each other. Let me speak to Malcolm, mamma; let me tell him that I loved him only as a dear brother; let me release him from his engagement to me, and let me place Eudora’s hand in his with a sister’s frank and warm affection. Then, mamma, when the embargo is taken off their love; when they are free to look at each other and speak to each other as betrothed lovers may, then I shall be happy in their happiness—happier still to know that I have promoted it—happiest of all to feel how they both will love me for it. Dear mamma, let Agatha do this little good and have this little delight before she departs.”

“My angel child, you shall do in all things as you please. You speak and act from Heaven’s own inspiration, and it were sacrilege to hinder you,” exclaimed Lady Leaton, in deep emotion.

“Thank you, dear mamma, I shall be happy,” said Agatha, with a heavenly smile.

“And the deadly upas-tree shall be all in all,” said a low voice at the side of Lady Leaton.

She started, and turned to see the Princess Pezzilini standing there.

“Madame!” she said, in some uneasiness.

“Nay, I did but quote a line from a fable that I read you some three months ago,” said the princess, quietly seating herself beside the bed.

Agatha had been too deeply absorbed in her own benevolent plans to notice what was passing.

That evening, when all was quiet in the house, and the stillness of a deeper repose pervaded her own luxurious chamber—Agatha dismissed all her attendants, and sent for Lady Leaton, Malcolm, and Eudora to attend her. They came immediately. The chamber was illumed with a soft, moonlight sort of radiance from the shaded beams of an alabaster lamp that stood upon the mantelshelf opposite the foot of the bed.

The bed curtains were drawn away, revealing the fair face and fragile form of the dying girl as she reclined upon her bed propped up with pillows. She smiled on her relatives as they entered, and beckoned them to draw very near.

They came, and stood at the side of her bed—accidentally arranged as follows: Eudora nearest the head of the bed, Lady Leaton next, and Malcolm last.

She put out her wasted hand, took the hand of Eudora, and held it quietly within her own, while she seemed to collect her thoughts for utterance. Then, still holding Eudora’s hand she raised her dove-like eyes to Malcolm’s face, and whispered—

“Dearest Malcolm! dearest brother of my heart! you will let the dying speak out freely, I know.”

“Speak, sweet Agatha, speak your will,” murmured the young man, in a voice vibrating with emotion.

“I was your betrothed bride, Malcolm; but our betrothal was a human error, dearest; and the will of Heaven has interposed to break it. I am called hence, Malcolm, to another sphere. Not your bride, but the bride of Heaven shall I be. But before I go hence, Malcolm, I would prove to you how true is the sister’s love I bear you, and the kindred affection I feel for Eudora. I would prove these by two legacies by which I would have you remember me.”

She paused and drew from her wasted finger the keeper-ring, which its attenuated form could scarcely longer hold, and placing it firmly upon the round, plump finger of Eudora, she said—

“This, dear one, is my legacy to you!”

Then taking the same hand with the keeper-ring upon its finger, she placed it in the hand of Malcolm, saying—

“And this, dearest brother of my soul, this is my dying legacy to you!”

She sank back exhausted upon her pillow, while low, half-suppressed sobs broke from those around her. And Malcolm and Eudora each thought how willingly they would give up their mutual love, nay, life itself, to have restored this dying angel to health and joy. And Lady Leaton prayed Heaven that her own life might not outlast that of her beloved child. At length Agatha spoke again.

“When I am gone, my mother will be very desolate—a widow, and childless. Promise me this—dear Eudora, and dearest Malcolm—that you will be a son and daughter to my mother.”

In earnest tones, and amid suffocating sobs, they promised all she required.

A little while longer she held the hands of Malcolm and Eudora united and clasped within her own, and then releasing them, she said—

“Good-night, dearest Malcolm. Go to rest, beloved mother; Eudora will watch with me to-night.”

Lady Leaton stooped, and gathered Agatha for a moment to her bosom, and with a whispered prayer, laid her back upon her pillows. Malcolm bent down, and pressed a kiss upon her brow; and then both withdrew, leaving Eudora upon the watch. And still holding Eudora’s hand, Agatha sank into a peaceful sleep.

Hours passed. The room was so quiet, the sleep of the patient was so calm, and the position of the watcher so easy within her lounging-chair that Eudora, overcome with fatigue of many nights’ vigil, could scarcely keep her eyes open.

Once, indeed, she must have lost herself in a momentary slumber, for she dreamed that a women in dark raiment, with her head wrapped in a dark veil, glided across the chamber, and disappeared within her own little room; but when she aroused herself, and looked around, and walked into the adjoining room to examine it, there was no one to be seen.

“I have been dreaming—I have slept upon my watch,” said Eudora, regretfully; and to prevent a recurrence of drowsiness, she bathed her forehead and temples with aromatic vinegar, and saturated her handkerchief with the same pungent liquid, and resumed her seat beside the patient.

At this moment Agatha awoke, complained of thirst, and asked for drink.

Eudora went to a side-table, poured out a glass of tamarind-water, and brought it to the invalid.

Agatha drank eagerly, and sank back upon her pillows with a sigh of satisfaction.

Eudora silently resumed her seat and her watch; but scarcely five minutes had passed, when suddenly Agatha started up, her eyes strained outward, her features livid, and her limbs convulsed.

Eudora sprang to her in alarm.

Agatha essayed to speak, but the spasms in her throat prevented utterance.

In the extremity of terror, Eudora laid her down upon the pillows, and sprang to the bell-pull, and rang loudly for assistance.

Then hurrying back to the bedside, she found Agatha livid, rigid, with locked jaws, laboring lungs, and startling eyes.

She caught her up in her arms, rubbed her temples, and rubbed her hands, exclaiming all the while:

“Oh, my dear, dear Agatha! my dear, dear Agatha! what, what is this? Speak to me! Oh, speak to me!”

The strained eyes of the dying girl suddenly softened, and turned upon the speaker a beseeching, helpless look, and then the rigid form suddenly relaxed, and became a dead weight in the arms of Eudora.

Lady Leaton, followed by several of the female servants, now came hurrying in.

“What is the matter? Is she worse?” exclaimed the mother, hurrying to the bedside.

“Lady Leaton, she is dead!” cried Eudora, in a voice of anguish.

Let us draw a vail over the grief of that mother. In all this world of troubles, there is no sorrow like that of a widowed mother grieving for the death of her only child.

At first Lady Leaton would not believe in the extent of her affliction. She wildly insisted that her child could not, should not be dead—dead without a parting word, or look, or prayer! She sent off messengers in haste to bring their medical attendant. And not until Dr. Watkins had come and examined the patient, and pronounced life fled, could Lady Leaton be made to believe the truth, or induced to leave the chamber of death. Then she fainted in the arms of Princess Pezzilini, and was borne to her own apartment in a state of insensibility.

It was some hours after this that Dr. Watkins somewhat peremptorily demanded a private interview with Malcolm Montrose.

The young man, in deep affliction for the death of her whom he loved as a dear sister, gave audience to the doctor in the library.

The family physician entered with a grave and stern brow, and seating himself at the library-table, opposite Mr. Montrose, began—

“Sir, what I have to say to you is painful in the extreme both for me to utter and for you to hear; but the sternest duty obliges me to speak.”

Mr. Montrose withdrew his hand from his corrugated brow, raised his troubled eyes to the speaker, and awaited his further words.

“I know that what I am about to communicate must greatly augment the sorrow under which you suffer, and yet it must be communicated.”

“Speak out, I beseech you, sir,” said Mr. Montrose, with a vague but awful presentiment of what was coming.

“Three months ago I attended the death-bed of the late Lord Leaton. I gave it as my opinion then, I hold it as my opinion now, that his death was accelerated by poison. The coroner’s jury came to a different conclusion, and their verdict, taken together with the fact that the _post-mortem_ examination detected no trace of poison, I confess shook my faith in my own conviction. To-night I have been called to the bedside of his only daughter; I have looked upon her dead body, and heard an account of the manner in which she had died. And now, Mr. Malcolm Montrose, I positively assert that Agatha Leaton came to her death by poison, administered in the tamarind-water of which she drank some five or ten minutes before her death—and I stake my medical reputation upon this issue.”

“My God! it cannot be true!” exclaimed Malcolm Montrose, starting up, and gazing upon the speaker in the extremity of horror and grief.

“Mr. Montrose,” said the doctor, impressively, taking the hand of the young man, and forcing him back to his seat, “the widowed and childless head of this house is now in no condition to meet this crisis. You are her natural representative. You must summon all your firmness and take the direction of affairs. I shall remain here to assist you. I have already taken some steps in the matter; I have secured the jug and glass of tamarind-water to be analyzed. I have also telegraphed for the family solicitor to come down, and I have sent for the coroner, and for a police force to occupy the house, for no one must be permitted to escape until the coroner’s inquest has set upon the deceased and given in their verdict.”

“But, good Heaven, doctor!” exclaimed the young man in horror and amazement; “who, _who_ could aim at so harmless and innocent a life?”

“Who,” repeated the doctor; “who had the greatest interest in her death, and in the death of her father before her?”

“None! no one on earth! Who could have possibly had such an interest?” cried the young man, shuddering.

“Who is the next heiress to this vast estate after Lord Leaton and his daughter?” said the doctor, looking fixedly in the eyes of his companion.

Malcolm Montrose started up, threw his hands to his head, and then reeling back, dropped into his chair again, and remained gazing in horror upon the speaker.

“Who,” pursued the doctor, with a merciless inflexibility, “who had constant access to the bedside of the late Lord Leaton?—who prepared his food and drink?—who has been the constant attendant of his invalid daughter?—who watched by her side last night?—whose hand was it that placed at her lips the fatal draught that laid her dead?”

“My God! my God, doctor! what horrible monster of suspicion has taken possession of your mind? Give it a name!” exclaimed the young man, as great drops of sweat beaded upon his agonized brow.

“_Eudora Leaton!_ Her hand it was that prepared the death-draught for her uncle! her hand it was that gave the poisoned draught to his daughter! It is a terrible charge to make, I know; but we must not deal hesitatingly with the secret poisoner,” said the doctor, solemnly.

“Great Heaven! it cannot be—it cannot be!” groaned the young man, in mortal anguish.

The doctor arose to his feet, saying—

“I leave you, Mr. Montrose, to recover this shock, while I go to put seals upon the effects of this girl, and to prepare for the investigation that shall bring the poisoner to justice.”

Chapter IV. The Accusation.

“If she prove guilty— Farewell my faith in aught of human kind. I’ll hie me to some hermit’s cave, and there Forget my race.”

When the doctor had left the library, Malcolm Montrose threw himself back in his chair, clasped his forehead between his hands, and strove to master the consternation that seemed to threaten his very reason.

Grief, horror, and amazement, sufficient to have shaken the firmness of the strongest mind, deprived him for the moment of all power of practical and definite action. And yet, through all the terrible emotion that shook his soul to its centre, he was conscious of a profound incredulity in the truth of the doctor’s statement. But the doubt, the uncertainty, the mere suspicion of such atrocious crimes, perpetrated in the bosom of his own family, overwhelmed him with consternation.

“Dead by the hand of the secret poisoner! the baron and his daughter too! the baron whose whole life had been one long act of the noblest beneficence, and his child, whose days had been ever devoted to the happiness of all around her! their benign lives cut off by poison! Impossible! impossible! it cannot be! it is not so!

“And yet, and yet the suddenness and the strangeness of both deaths, and the unquestionable competency of the physician who attended them in their last hours, and who now makes this dreadful assertion!

“And if this is so, by whom, great Heavens? By whom has this atrocious crime been perpetrated? and for what purpose? Who could have any interest in the premature death of this noble man and lovely girl?

“No one but—oh, Heaven! but Eudora! She is their heiress; the estate is now hers, but she is innocent! my life, my honor, my soul will I stake upon her innocence. And yet, if this father and child shall be proved to have died by poison, how black the evidence may be made to appear against her, and how weak her own position! She is an orphan and friendless, and though on her father’s side of English parentage, she is of foreign birth and education, and has been in this country too short a time to establish a character. She has no good antecedents to set against this dreadful charge with the strong testimony that may be brought to support it. She was the third in succession to this estate, and, consequently, her mercenary interest in the deaths of the baron and his daughter. She was the constant attendant of the late Lord Leaton, and prepared the drink of which he died. She watched last night by the side of Agatha, and administered to her the so-called fatal draught. If they are proved to have died by poison it will ruin her indeed. She will be called a second Brinvilliers. She will be arraigned, tried, condemned—oh, Heaven of Heavens! what unspeakable horrors remain in store for her, innocent as an angel though I know her to be.”

Such were the maddening thoughts that coursed through his brain and caused the sweat of agony to start from his brow. He wiped the beaded drops from his pale forehead, and sprang up and paced the room with disordered steps, laboring in vain for the composure that he could not obtain.

The death of the noble-hearted baron in the prime of life, the death of the sweet young girl in dawn of youth, were mournful enough even though they died from natural causes, and if they perished by poison administered by treacherous hands their fate was dreadful indeed. And yet it was nothing to be compared with the unutterable horror of that train of misfortunes which threatened the orphan, stranger, the innocent Eudora. And thus other emotions of sorrow for the loss of his near relatives were swallowed up in an anguish of anxiety for the fate of the orphan girl.

And so he strove for self-command, and coolness, and clearness of mind, that he might be prepared to assist at the approaching investigation, in the hope of discovering the truth, and clearing the fame of Eudora.

He paced up and down the library floor until he had obtained the necessary state of calmness to deal with this mystery.

When the doctor had left the library he was met in the hall by a servant, hastening towards him in great agitation, and saying:

“Sir, I was just coming to see you. The Princess Pezzilini begs that you will hasten at once to my lady’s bedside, as her ladyship is in the death-throe!”

Without a word of reply the doctor turned and hurried up the stairs and along the corridor leading to Lady Leaton’s apartments.

When he entered the chamber he found Lady Leaton in violent convulsions, and restrained from throwing herself out of the bed only by the strong arms of the Italian princess, which thrown around her shoulders supported her heaving form.

But, even as the doctor stepped up to the bedside, her form relaxed and became supple as that of an infant.

The princess laid the head back upon the pillow. Her eyes closed, and the ashen hue of death overspread her features.

The doctor took up her left hand, and placed his fingers upon the pulse. But that pulse was still, and that hand was the hand of the dead. He laid it gently down, and turning, looked upon those gathered around the bed.

They were the Princess Pezzilini, Eudora Leaton, and her ladyship’s maid.

Especially he fastened his eyes upon Eudora, who knelt on the opposite side of the bed, with her face buried in the bed-clothes, in an attitude of deep grief.

“Can any one here inform me whether Lady Leaton drank of the tamarind-water which stood upon the mantleshelf of Miss Leaton’s chamber?” inquired the doctor, looking sternly around him.

“Yes, sir,” answered the lady’s-maid, looking up through her tears; “when my lady was so agitated by seeing the condition of Miss Leaton as to be near swooning, and I was obliged to support her in my arms, I called for a glass of water, and Miss Eudora quickly poured out a tumbler of tamarind-water, saying there was no other at hand, and held it to her ladyship’s lips.”

“And her ladyship drank it?”

“Yes, sir; she eagerly drank off the whole glassful, for she was so anxious to keep up for Miss Leaton’s sake, not believing that she was past all help,” replied the woman.

“That will do,” said the doctor, once bending his eyes sternly upon the kneeling form of Eudora.

But the girl, unconscious of the storm that was gathering over her head, remained absorbed in grief.

“Madame,” said the doctor, turning, to the princess, “your friend has joined her daughter. There is now no lady at the head of this afflicted house. I must, therefore, entreat you for charity to assume some necessary authority here over these dismayed female domestics; at least, until some measures can be taken for the regulation of the establishment.”

The Italian princess lifted her fine face, in which grief seemed to struggle with the habitual composure of pride, and gracefully indicating Eudora by a small wave of her arm, she said:

“You forget, sir, that we stand in the presence of the young lady of the house, who, however bowed with grief she may now be, will soon, no doubt, be found equal to her high position.”

“Madame, if your highness alludes to Miss Eudora Leaton, I must beg to say that she cannot be permitted to intermeddle with any of the affairs of the household for the present,” replied the doctor.

The mention of her name in so stern a manner aroused Eudora from her trance of sorrow, and she arose from her knees, and looked around, to see every eye bent on her in doubt, perplexity, and suspicion. While she looked beseechingly from one face to another, as if praying for some explanation of their strange regards, there came a low rap at the door.

The doctor went and softly opened it. And the voice of a servant was heard saying:

“The coroner has arrived, and begs to see you at once, if you please, sir.”

“In good time,” replied the doctor. “Have the police arrived?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send two of them up to me at once, and say to Coroner Adams, that I will be with him immediately.”

The servant withdrew, and the doctor, returning to the side of the Italian princess, said:

“Madame, will your highness be pleased to retire to your own apartments, as this chamber, with all its other occupants, must be placed in charge of the police.”

The princess, with a look of surprise, bent her stately head, and passed forth from the room.

She had scarcely withdrawn when the two policemen presented themselves.

“You will keep the door of this apartment, and let no one enter or pass out,” said the doctor, posting the two officers one at each entrance of the death-chamber.

He gave a glance at Eudora, who stood still by the bedside, the image of grief, wonder, and perplexity, and then he passed on, and went down to rejoin Mr. Montrose, and to meet the coroner.

He met Malcolm, who was just leaving the library to meet him.

“What is the matter now? What new misfortune has occurred?” inquired the young man, noticing the doctor’s severe and threatening countenance.

“Lady Leaton has just expired, a victim to the same diabolical agency that destroyed her husband and child,” said the doctor, sternly.

Montrose started back panic-stricken, and muttering,

“Horror on horror! Are we sleeping or walking—mad or sane? Lady Leaton dead?”

“We are awake and in our right senses, Mr. Montrose, and Lady Leaton is dead—dead by the hands of that same young Asiatic fiend who murdered her husband and her daughter!”

“Dr. Watkins, beware how you charge an innocent girl with so heinous a crime.”

“Mr. Montrose, I see that you are a partizan of Miss Leaton’s, but I have made no charge which I am not able to prove before the coroner’s inquest, and which their verdict will not soon confirm.”

“Does this most innocent and unhappy girl know of what she is accused?”

“She knows her crimes, and doubtless she has reason to suspect that we know them also.”

“Do not say ‘_we know them_,’ doctor. I do not know of any crime of hers; on the contrary, _I_ know in my own secret consciousness that she is most innocent of all crime, and even of all wrong; and _you_ do not know it; you only suspect it, and in that suspicion you wrong one of the most excellent young creatures that ever lived.”

“Mr. Montrose, you are blinded by partiality; but the veil will soon be torn from your eyes.”

“It is _you_ who are blinded by some prejudice when you accuse a young and lovely girl of a tissue of crimes that would make the blood of a Borgia run cold with horror!” said the young man, with a shudder.

“We shall see; a few hours will decide between us;” replied the doctor, grimly.

“Where is the unhappy girl now?” inquired Malcolm Montrose.

“Where she must remain for the present: in the death-chamber of Lady Leaton, which is now in the charge of the police. And now, Mr. Montrose; the coroner awaits us in the crimson drawing-room,” said the physician, leading the way thither.

It was broad daylight, the sun was high in the heavens, though the dismayed servants seemed only now to remember to extinguish the lights and open the windows.

Breakfast was prepared in the breakfast-parlor, but no family circle gathered around it.

The doctor, the Princess Pezzilini, and finally Malcolm Montrose, strayed separately and at intervals into the room, quaffed each a cup of coffee, and withdrew.

Meantime, the coroner formed his inquest. The investigation required some time and much caution, therefore the whole house was placed in charge of the police while the examination was in progress.

Physicians and chemists were summoned to assist in the autopsy of the dead bodies and the analysis of the water of which they had both drank immediately before death.

The autopsy and the analysis both proved successful. Traces of a virulent poison were found in the bodies of the deceased, and the presence of the same fatal agent was detected in the beverage of which they had partaken. It was so far clearly proved that both Lady Leaton and her daughter had died by poison!

But by whom had it been prepared and administered? That was the next point of inquiry.

Alas! the question seemed but too easily answered. Nevertheless, the coroner went coolly, formally, and systematically to work.

The witnesses, that had been kept jealously apart during the progress of the inquest, were called and examined separately, and their testimony carefully taken down and compared together. The coroner’s jury then deliberated long and carefully upon the evidence before them.

The inquest lasted through the whole of two long summer days, and the sun was setting on the second when they made up their verdict.

“The deceased, Matilda, Baroness Leaton, of Allworth, and her daughter, the Honorable Agatha Leaton, came to their deaths by the poison of _Ignatia_, administered in tamarind-water by the hands of Eudora Leaton.”

A warrant was made out for the arrest of Eudora Leaton, and put in the hands of an officer for immediate execution.

“There! what do you think of that? Has my charge been proved? Is my statement confirmed by the coroner’s inquest? What is your opinion now?” inquired the doctor of Malcolm Montrose, who had been a pale and agonized spectator of the scene.

“My opinion is what it ever has been and ever will be—that Eudora Leaton is innocent; innocent as one of God’s holy angels; and upon that issue I stake my every earthly and every heavenly good, my every temporal and every eternal hope, my life, honor, and soul!”

“Then you’ll lose them, my young friend, that is all. Ah, Montrose, it is hard to believe in atrocious crimes, even when we see them recorded in newspaper paragraphs as committed by strangers and at some distance; but we are appalled and utterly incredulous when they come closely home to ourselves. This self-deception is natural, for doubtless other great criminals have seemed to their own partial friends as unlikely to commit the crimes of which they have been convicted, as this beautiful young demon has seemed to us. People of notoriously bad character seldom or never commit great crimes. They seem to fritter away their natural wickedness in a succession of small felonies. It is your quiet, respectable, commonplace people that poison and assassinate just as though they hoarded all their sinfulness for one grand exploit.”

“Sir, you treat the deepest tragedies of human life, the tragedies of crime and death, with a levity unbecoming your age, your profession, and the circumstances in which we are placed,” said the young man, in bitter sorrow.

“I treat the subject with levity! I never was in more solemn earnest in my life! If you doubt my words, recall your own experience. Recollect all the greatest criminals within your own knowledge, and say whether they were not every one of them, according to their social positions, very decent, very respectable, or very genteel persons—until they were clearly convicted of capital crimes? I could name a score within my own memory, only Heaven pardon them, as they have paid the penalty of their crimes, I do not wish to vex their ghosts by calling up their names and deeds to recollection.”

Montrose did not reply. He could scarcely follow the doctor in his discourse. His thoughts were all engaged with the hapless Eudora and the train of unutterable misfortunes that lay before her.

While he stood in bitter sorrow, a constable, holding a warrant in his hand, approached, and touching his hat to the doctor and Mr. Montrose, requested that they would please accompany him to the chamber of Miss Leaton, that he might serve the warrant.

Chapter V. The Arrest.

“Why bend their brows so sternly on me, Vaughn? What have I done? Oh, tell me quickly, youth! My soul can ill endure their frowning looks.”

Through all this long, dreadful investigation, Eudora had remained in the death-chamber of Lady Leaton, bowed down with grief, but unconscious of the heavy clouds that were gathering darkly over her young head.

She had seen the body of her aunt carried away from the chamber towards the crimson drawing-room where the coroner’s inquest was held, and where the _post-mortem_ examination was made.

She had been called in her turn to give her separate testimony before the jury, and she had described the deaths of Agatha and that of Lady Leaton simply as she had witnessed them. She had not omitted to mention a circumstance that she had regarded as a dream—namely, the passage and disappearance of a dark-robed woman in Agatha’s chamber. At the close of her testimony she had been conducted back to the chamber from which she had been taken, and there she had tarried through the remainder of the investigation.

Half stunned with grief, she felt no disposition and made no attempt to leave the room. She saw the policemen guarding the doors, but did not even suspect that she was their prisoner. She had noticed in the morning the strange regards of those around her, but, absorbed in sorrow for the loss of her relatives, the circumstance had passed from her mind.

In the course of the day food and drink had been sent to her by the thoughtful attention of Malcolm Montrose, but she had partaken of nothing but a cup of tea.

And now, at the close of this long and terrible day, she remained as has been said, bowed down with grief, but totally unsuspicious of the dark storm that was gathering around her. She sat in a low chair beside the now empty bed, with her head down upon the coverlet, so dead to all external impressions, that the door was opened and the room half-filled with people before she moved. There was the Princess Pezzilini, Malcolm Montrose, Dr. Watkins, the officer who brought the warrant, the two policemen that kept the doors, and a crowd of male and female servants drawn thither by curiosity.

And still Eudora did not look up.

The Princess Pezzilini glided softly to her side and stood bending over her with looks of compassion; then raising her blue eyes swimming in tears to the faces of the doctor and Mr. Montrose, she said:

“Forgive me; I know that she is most guilty, and that I of all persons should most condemn her, for she has destroyed my benefactress; but she is so young, I cannot help pitying her, for we know that the more guilty the wretched girl may be the more needful of compassion she is.”

The voice of the princess sounding so near her ear caused Eudora to look up; and at the same moment the officer who held the warrant advanced, and laying his hand upon her shoulder, said:

“Miss Eudora Leaton, you are my prisoner.”

She did not understand. She arose quickly to her feet, and looked inquiringly into the face of the constable, and from his face into those of the persons that crowded the room and gathered around her. As her star-like eyes ranged around the circle, the eyes of those she looked upon sank to the ground, while dark frowns lowered upon every brow.

As she gazed, her perplexity gave place to a vague alarm.

“What is the matter? What is the meaning of this?” she inquired, in faltering accents.

An ominous silence followed her question, while the eyes of the crowd were once more fixed sternly upon her.

“Why do you look upon me so? What is it? Will no one speak?” she demanded, while a vague, overpowering terror took possession of her heart.

“Tell her, officer, and put an end to this,” sternly commanded the doctor.

“Miss Eudora Leaton, you are my prisoner,” repeated the constable, again laying his hand upon her.

“Your prisoner!” she exclaimed, shrinking in dismay and abhorrence from the degrading touch. “Your prisoner! what do you mean?”

“Tell her, officer, and end this,” repeated the doctor, while Eudora looked wildly from one to the other, and sank back in her chair.

“Miss Leaton,” said the constable, blandly, “the crowner’s ’quest has been and found a verdict against you, charging you with poisoning of your aunt, Matilda, Lady Leaton, and your cousin, the Honorable Agatha Leaton; and this paper in my hand is the crowner’s warrant for your arrest.”

Before he had finished, Eudora had sprung to her feet, and now she stood with her dark, starry eyes dilated and blazing with a horror that approached insanity.

At length she found her voice. Clasping her hands and raising her eyes, in a passion of self-vindication, she exclaimed:

“Great Lord of heaven! is there any one on earth capable of such heinous crimes? Is there any one here who believes me to be so?”

The doctor came to her side, saying:

“Young girl, the proof against you is too clear to leave a doubt upon the mind of any one present.”

“Proof? how can there be proof of that which never happened—which never could have happened?—a crime which my very soul abhors; at which my whole frame shudders, from which my whole nature recoils—and committed by me and upon those whom I was bound to love and respect and serve! and committed for what purpose, great Heaven! for what purpose? What object could I have had in the destruction of my own nearest kindred, dearest friends, and only protectors?” demanded the accused girl, in a tone of impassioned grief, indignation and horror.

“Your object was obvious to the dullest comprehension; it forms one of the strongest points in the evidence against you,” said the implacable doctor.

“My object, then, what was it? You, who charge me with the crime, declare the object!” exclaimed Eudora, rivetting upon his face her blazing eyes, through which her rising and indignant soul flashed repudiation at so vile a charge.

“Your object, girl, was the inheritance of their estates. Lord and Lady Leaton and their daughter being dead, you are the sole heiress of unencumbered Allworth,” replied the unflinching physician.

The fire that flashed from her eyes, the color that burned upon her cheeks, died slowly out. The pallor of unutterable horror spread like death over her face. She reeled as though she must have fallen to the floor, but recovered herself by a violent effort. Clasping her hands in the agonizing earnestness of her appeal, she exclaimed:

“Oh! does any one here believe this of me?”

Stern silence was the only reply.

“Madame Pezzilini! you have known me intimately for months—do you believe it?” she said, turning in an anguish of supplication to the Italian princess.

“Bellissima, my heart is broken—do not ask me!” said the princess, averting her face.

Eudora turned her despairing eyes to the crowd of stern, pitiless, accusing faces around her, and seeing the form of Malcolm Montrose in the background, she extended her clasped hands, in passionate prayer, towards him, and the tones of her voice arose, wild, high, and piercing in the agony of her last appeal, as she cried:

“Mr. Montrose! oh, Mr. Montrose! _you_ do not believe me to be such a fiend?”

“No, no, no!” said Malcolm, earnestly, fervently, vehemently, as he pushed his way through the crowd, and came to her side and took her hand. “No, Eudora! I do not believe it! I have never for an instant been tempted to believe it! You are innocent of the very thought of evil! and this I will uphold both in private and in public! I will stand by you like a brother; I will aid, protect and defend you to the last, so far as you have need of me, and I power to serve you—and to this I pledge my life, and soul, and honor! And as I keep this pledge to you, may Heaven deal with me at my own greatest extremity! Take comfort, sweet girl! Your innocence is a mighty, invincible stronghold, which all these atrocious charges must assail in vain.”

“Oh, thanks! thanks! thanks!” said Eudora, her fiery eyes melting into the first tears that she had shed since her arrest.

“Mr. Montrose, I would recommend you to be cautious,” said the doctor, severely; “for let me inform you, young gentleman, that you are not so far removed from suspicion as your friends could wish! Your betrothal to the late Miss Leaton, and your attachment to the present one, are both too well known already. And I assure you, the propriety of your own arrest as an accomplice to this crime was seriously discussed at the inquest.”

The cheeks of Malcolm Montrose glowed, his eyes flashed, and he made one threatening step towards his accuser, then recollecting himself, he dropped his hand, saying:

“No, no, no! you are an old friend of the family, and it is your zeal alone for them that urges you to such indecorous speech and action. And since the wisdom of the coroner’s jury was engaged with the question of my arrest, I wish to Heaven they had ordered it! Since they have found a verdict against this most innocent girl, I would to the Lord they had found one against me as her accomplice, that I might stand where she will have to stand; meet what she will have to meet; and endure what she will have to endure! Go, tell the nearest magistrate from me, that in all the felonies Eudora Leaton has committed Malcolm Montrose has been her aider and abettor—nay, her instigator! Tell him, from me, that when Eudora Leaton poisoned her kindred, Malcolm Montrose procured the bane and mixed the drink! Tell him that when Eudora Leaton is in the prison-cell, or waits in the prisoner’s dock, or stands upon the scaffold, Malcolm Montrose should be by her side as far the more guilty of the two! Tell him this from me, and get me arrested, and I will thank you!”

“You are mad, Mr. Montrose, as indeed the events of this day are well calculated to make you,” replied the doctor.

Then turning to the officer, he said:

“It is getting late; had you not better remove your prisoner?”

“It is some distance to the county gaol, sir. Is there such a thing as a chaise in the stables, that I could have the use of to carry her in? or else is there a messenger I could send to the Leaton Arms to fetch one?” inquired the constable.

“There is a chaise in the stables, I know. Go, John, and order it to be got ready,” commanded the doctor.

The old servant withdrew to obey. The constable turned to Eudora, and said:

“Miss Leaton, while the chaise is getting ready, you had better be putting on your things.”

“Oh, Heaven! is this some dreadful dream or raving madness that has taken possession of me, or is it true that I must leave the house where lie the dead bodies of my kindred, and go—to the county gaol, charged with the murder of my nearest relations? Oh, horror! horror! Oh, save me, Malcolm, save me!” she cried, covering her face with her hands as though to shut out some horrid vision, and sinking to the floor.

Montrose stooped and raised her, whispering:

“I will! I will, Eudora! if it is in human power to do it! You need not be taken from here to-night—you must not be! I will see the magistrates myself.”

Then turning to the crowd of servants that still lingered in the room, he inquired:

“Have the magistrates yet taken their departure?”

“No, sir; they are taking some refreshments in the dining-room,” answered one of the servants.

“Rest here, dear Eudora, until I return,” said Montrose, placing her in an easy-chair; and then going to the side of the Italian princess, he said:

“Madame, for Heaven’s sake, speak to her.”

And he hurried from the chamber, and went down into the dining-room, where the magistrates were sitting over their wine.

He addressed them respectfully, speaking of the approaching storm, the darkness of the night, and the badness of the mountain-roads that lay between Allworth and the county gaol; and proposed that as the accused was but a young and delicate girl, she might be permitted to remain at Allworth Abbey through the night.

Mr. Montrose, as the nearest male representative of the Leaton family, might be supposed to have considerable influence with the magistrates. The latter were, besides, pleased with their day’s work, and subdued by the genial influence of the juice of the grape; and the boon that was craved by Malcolm Montrose was not, under the circumstances, unreasonable. Therefore, after some little delay and consultation, it was agreed that the accused should remain at the Abbey through the night, securely locked up in the chamber which she now occupied, and strictly guarded by a pair of constables, one of which was to be placed on the outside of each door.

And Malcolm Montrose was authorized to bear this order to the constable.

Meanwhile Eudora had sunk back in the large chair where he had left her, and covered her face with her hands. The Princess Pezzilini had despatched a servant to the little bed-room of Eudora to fetch her bonnet and shawl. And now she stood beside the chair of the unhappy girl, urging her to arise and prepare herself to accompany the constable, and saying:

“It will all turn out for the best, Bellissima, end how it may. If you are proved innocent you will be set at liberty; if you are proved guilty you will have the privilege of expiating your crime by the death of your body and thus save your soul. So, end as it may, Bellissima, it will all be right.”

“But lawk, mum, s’posen she be innocent, and yet be found guilty, as many and many a one have been before her?” suggested Tabitha Tabs, the maid who had now returned with the bonnet and shawl, and stood with them hanging over her arm.

“In that case, my good girl, she will be a martyr, and go to bliss. So, end as it may, it will all be right. We should bow to the will of Heaven,” said the princess, piously.

“Can’t see it, mum, as it would all be right for the innocent to be conwicted, nor the will of Heaven, nyther, begging your pardon, mum, for speaking of my poor mind,” said Tabby, respectfully.

“You are a simple girl, and need instruction. Now, assist your young mistress to put on her bonnet and shawl. Eudora, stand up, my poor child, and put on your wrappings.”

“Yes, Miss, do so if you please, as the storm is rising, and it is getting late, and the roads is horrid between here and the gaol,” said the constable, showing signs of impatience.

“Ah, wait! pray wait until Mr. Montrose returns. He went to ask the magistrates if I might be confined here until morning,” pleaded Eudora.

“Do your duty, officer! Why do you stand arrested by the prayers of that evil girl? She did not fear to commit crime, she should not fear to meet its consequences. Do your duty at once, for every moment she is permitted to remain beneath this honored roof is an outrage to the memory of those whom she has hurried to their early graves,” said the doctor, sternly.

The constable still hesitated, and Eudora still stood with pale face, intense eyes, and clasped hands, silently imploring delay, when the door opened, and Malcolm Montrose entered with the order of the magistrates, commanding Eudora Leaton to be locked in the chamber, under strict guard, until the morning.

“Thank you, thank you! Oh, thank you for this short respite, dear Malcolm!” exclaimed the poor girl, bursting into tears of relief.

Malcolm pressed her hand in silence, and then whispered to her to hope.

The doctor really trembled with rage.

“Very well,” he said, “I will see at least, that her present prison is secure. Madame Pezzilini, will your highness condescend to withdraw from the room?” he added, turning respectfully to the princess.

“Good-night, Eudora; repent and pray,” said the princess, and bowing graciously to Mr. Montrose and to the doctor, she withdrew.

“Leave the room, and go about your several businesses every man and woman of you! I want this room to myself and the constable,” was the next stern order of the doctor to the assembled domestics.

All immediately departed except Tabitha Tabs, who went boldly and placed herself beside her young mistress as a tower of strength.

“Follow your fellow-servants, woman,” commenced the doctor.

“When my young lady orders me to do so, sir,” replied Tabitha, coldly.

Eudora’s left hand was clenched in that of Malcolm Montrose, and she threw out her right hand and grasped that of her humble attendant, exclaiming eagerly:

“Oh, no, no, no, do not leave me, good Tabitha!” For she felt almost safe between the two.

“Not till they tears me away piecemeal with pincers, Miss! for I reckon I’m too big to be forced away all at once,” replied Tabitha, violently, drawing up her large person, and looking defiance from her resolute eyes.

“Officers, remove that contumacious girl from the room,” said the doctor angrily.

The two constables stepped forward to obey, but Malcolm Montrose dropped the hand of Eudora and confronted them, saying:

“On your peril!”

Then turning to the enraged physician, he said:

“Doctor, nothing but my knowledge of the sincerity of your attachment to the late family enables me to endure the violence of your conduct. But you push your privileges and my patience too far. You have no right to say that this girl shall not remain in attendance upon her unhappy mistress through the night. What harm can she do? Besides, if Miss Leaton is to be guarded by constables placed on the outside of her chamber door, it is but proper that she should have a female attendant in the room with her.”

“Very well,” said the doctor, grimly, “as far as I am concerned, she may keep her waiting-woman _in_; but I shall take very good care that she herself does not get _out_.”

And so saying, he went immediately to the two high Gothic windows that lighted the vast room, closed the strong oaken shutters, placed the iron bars across them, secured the latter with padlocks, and gave the keys to the head constable, who held the warrant. He next stationed one of the officers on the other side of the door leading to the other rooms of his suite of apartments, directing him to lock the door and keep the key in his pocket. And, finally, having ascertained that all the fastenings of the chamber were well secured, he prepared to withdraw.

Malcolm Montrose pressed the hand of Eudora to his heart, saying:

“Good-night, dearest Eudora. Confide in the God who watches over to deliver innocence.” And bending lowly to her ear, he whispered:

“Hope.” Then raising his head and looking kindly toward Tabitha, he said:

“Good girl, take great care of your mistress to-night.”

“You may trust me for that, sir,” answered Miss Tabs, confidently.

And once more pressing the hand of Eudora, he resigned it and withdrew from the room.

The doctor and the head constable followed. They all paused in the hall outside until the constable had double-locked the door, and put the key in his pocket, and taken his station before the room.

“And now I think your prisoner is quite secure, even though you should sleep on your post, officer,” said the doctor, with grim satisfaction, as he walked from the spot.

Malcolm Montrose smiled strangely as he followed.

In the hall below they were met by a servant, who announced the arrival of Mr. Carter, the family solicitor, who had asked to see Mr. Montrose, and who had been shown to the library, where he now waited.

Malcolm immediately went thither, and when seated at the writing-table with the attorney, related to him all the details of the household tragedy, and the arrest of Eudora Leaton upon the awful charge of poisoning the whole family.

Even the clear-headed, case-hardened old lawyer was shocked and stupified by the dreadful story. When Malcolm had finished, and the lawyer had recovered his presence of mind, they discussed the affair as calmly as circumstances would permit. The lawyer insisted that the evidence against the accused girl was quite convicting, and that there was not in the whole wide range of human possibility a single chance of her being acquitted; while Malcolm, in agonized earnestness, persisted in upholding her perfect innocence.

“But if _she_ did not do it, who did it?” pertinently inquired the lawyer.

“Aye, WHO indeed! Conjecture is at a full stand!” answered Malcolm, wiping the drops forced out by mental anguish from his brow.

“Is no one else amenable to suspicion?”

“Not one!”

“Had the late family deeply offended any person, or casually injured any one, or made any enemy?”

“No, no, no; they never wronged or offended a human being, or had an enemy in the world.”

“Was there no one whose interest ran counter to those of the late baron and his House?”

“None on earth! Lord Leaton and his family were on the best possible terms with all their friends, acquaintances and dependants. They were widely, deeply, and sincerely beloved.”

“It comes back, then, to this; that no one would have any interest in the extinction of this whole family, except this half-Indian girl, who is their heiress, who it appears attended them in their illness, and prepared and administered the drinks of which they died, and in which the poison was detected—the poison, mark you, of the _Faber Sancta Ignatii_, a deadly product of the East, scarcely known in England, but familiar, no doubt, to this Asiatic girl. Mr. Montrose, the case is very clear,” said the lawyer, with an ominous shake of the head.

“Then you think,” said the young man, in a tone of anguish, “that if she is brought to trial——”

His voice was choked by his rising agony. He could utter no more.

“I think it as certain as any future event can be in this uncertain world that Eudora Leaton will be condemned and executed for the poisoning of her uncle’s family. Mr. Montrose! Good Heavens, sir, you are very ill! You—you have not partaken of any food or drink in this thrice-accursed house, but what you could rely upon?” exclaimed the lawyer, rising up in alarm, and going to the side of the young man, who had fallen back in his chair, his whole form convulsed, his pallid features writhing, and the drops of sweat, wrung from anguish that he vainly endeavored to subdue and control, beading upon his icy brow.

“Mr. Montrose—let me call——”

“No, no,” interrupted Malcolm, holding up his hand with an adjuring gesture, and struggling to regain his self-control, for manhood can ill brook to bend beneath the power of suffering.

“No! It is the blow!”

“Then, Malcolm, meet it like a man!” said the lawyer, who began to understand that it was a mental, and not a physical agony that convulsed the strong frame of the young man.

“But she, Eudora, so young and beautiful, so innocent and so beloved, to be hurled down to a destruction so appalling!” burst in groans of anguish from the heaving breast of Malcolm.

He dropped his arms and head upon the table, while sobs of agony convulsed his great chest.

“But I will save her!” he said to himself. “In spite of all this, I will save her. I have staked my life, my soul and honor upon her innocence; and now I will peril that same life, soul, and honor for her deliverance!”

This mental resolution gave him great strength, for at once he resumed the command of himself, arose, apologized to the lawyer for the exhibition of emotion into which he had been betrayed, and would have resumed the conversation in a calmer frame of mind, had not a servant entered and announced supper.

Malcolm begged the lawyer to excuse him for not appearing at the supper table, and also requested him to bear his excuses to the magistrates who had assisted at the coroner’s inquest, and who now remained to supper.

The lawyer readily promised to represent Mr. Montrose to the guests, and withdrew for that purpose.

Malcolm arose and paced the library floor, engaged in close thought for about half an hour, and then passed out to seek the privacy of his own chamber.

The whole house was in a painful though subdued bustle.

The members of the coroner’s jury, though at liberty to go, had not yet dispersed. The strange fascination that spell-binds men to the scene of any atrocious crime or awful calamity, kept them lingering about the halls and chambers of Allworth Abbey.

The undertaker’s people were also in the house making preliminary arrangements for the approaching double funeral. And the servants of the family were continually passing to and fro, waiting upon them.

Malcolm passed through them all and went to his own chamber, locked himself in, and threw himself upon a chair near the bay window that overlooked the Black Pool.

It was a beautiful summer night, and the stars that spangled the clear, blue-black canopy of heaven were reflected on the surface of the Black Pool like jewels upon an Ethiope’s dark bosom.

But Malcolm had no eye for the beauty of the starlight night. He was thinking of that black and endless night that had gathered over Eudora’s head. He rested his elbow upon the arms of his chair, and bowed his head upon his hand, and thus he sat for more than an hour without changing his position. Then he arose and looked forth from the window, and turned and paced the floor, stopping at intervals to listen. Thus passed another hour. And by this time the troubled household had settled to repose, and all was quiet.

Then Malcolm Montrose left his room, locking the door and taking the key with him, and passed down the long corridor leading to the central upper-hall and the grand staircase. When he entered the hall he saw the constable standing on guard before the chamber door of the imprisoned girl. The man was wide-awake, on the alert, and touched his hat as Mr. Montrose passed. Malcolm went down the great staircase and through the deserted lower hall to the main entrance, where he unbarred and unlocked the doors and let himself out.

He took his way immediately to the stables, entered them, drew forth a light chaise, led out a swift horse, put him between the shafts, and finally jumped into the driver’s seat, and drove off through the northern gate towards a thickly-wooded part of the park until he reached the ruins of an ancient nunnery. Then he jumped out and fastened his horse to a tree, and sought the cellars of the ruins, reiterating his resolution:

“I have staked my life, soul, and honor upon Eudora’s innocence, and now to peril life, soul, and honor for Eudora’s salvation!”

Chapter VI. The Underground Passage.

“’Tis sure some dream, some vision wild! What, _I_, of rank and wealth the child, Am _I_ the wretch that bears this shame, Deprived of freedom, friends and fame?”

The chamber in which Lady Leaton had died, and where Eudora was imprisoned, had, in the olden time, been the abbot’s apartment. It was a vast, dark, gloomy room, now dimly lighted by a lamp that stood upon the mantelshelf.

For a long time after Malcolm Montrose, Dr. Watkins and the constables had withdrawn from the chamber, Eudora remained, crushed back in the depths of the large chair, with her head bowed upon her bosom, her black ringlets falling forward, and half veiling her beautiful dark face, her left hand, that Malcolm had resigned, falling listlessly down by her side, and her right hand still clasped in that of Tabitha, who continued to stand by her side. No word was spoken between them as yet. Eudora was buried in profound, agonizing and bewildering thought, such as always overwhelms the sensitive victim of any sudden and crushing misfortune. The shock of the thunderbolt that had just fallen upon her, devastating her inner life, and leaving the outer so still, and black, and threatening: the vast, dark, sombre room; the dead silence around her—all combined to shake her reason to its centre. In the confusion wrought among nerves, head and brain by this inner storm of sensation, thought and suffering, she was fast losing confidence in heaven, trust in the reality of external circumstances, and even faith in her own identity.

Suddenly she threw herself forward, and tightened her clasp upon Tabitha’s hand, with convulsive tone, exclaiming:

“Wake me! wake me, Tabitha! I have the nightmare, and cannot rouse myself. Oh, wake me! wake me, for the love of Heaven!”

Tabitha, whom respect for her mistress’s sorrow had hitherto kept silent, now became alarmed for her sanity.

Bending over her with an almost reverential tenderness, she whispered:

“Dear young lady, try to be composed and collect your thoughts, and remember yourself.”

“Oh, Heaven! I remember too well! too well!” cried Eudora, in a piercing voice, dropping her face into her hands, and shuddering through her whole frame. “It is no horrible illusion! It is an awful reality! My aunt and cousin are really dead, and I am arrested upon the charge of poisoning them! Oh, horrible! most horrible! Oh, I shall go mad! I shall go mad!” she exclaimed, starting from her chair, casting up her arms, and throwing herself forward upon the floor.

For a moment Tabitha gazed in dismay upon this exhibition of violent emotion in one whom she loved and honored almost to adoration, and then kneeling down beside her, she gently put her arms around her waist to raise her up, whispering in a low, respectful voice:

“Dear young lady, try to recollect yourself, your dignity, your rank, and, above all, your innocence, and put your trust in God!”

Put your trust in God. It was the best advice the simple country-girl could give, but the Archbishop of Canterbury could not have given any better.

Eudora suffered herself to be lifted up and replaced in the deep chair, into which she sank helplessly, and where she remained, with her head propped upon her breast, and her arms fallen upon her lap, in the stupor of despair to which the violence of her anguish had yielded.

Tabitha kneeled at her feet, took her hands, and gazing pleadingly up into her face, said:

“Dear Miss Eudora, look up and hope; all is not lost that is in danger! Have faith in Him who delivered the three innocent children from the fires of the furnace seven times heated. Come, now, let me undress you and help you to bed.”

“Into that bed—into that bed whence _her_ corpse has just been removed? Oh, never, never! Besides, I could not sleep with the prospect of to-morrow before me, when I shall be taken to the common gaol. How could I sleep? I shall never sleep again! Good girl, leave me to my own thoughts,” said Eudora, with a trembling voice and quivering face.

Tabitha spoke no more, but drawing a footstool, she sat down at her mistress’s feet, and silently held one of her listless hands.

Some time they sat thus: the heavy minutes seemed drawn out to the length of hours. The house was still as death, and the mantle clock was on the stroke of eleven when the quick ears of Tabitha caught a slight, cautious, grating sound in the wainscoted wall on the left of the fire-place. She raised her head, and turned her eyes quickly in the direction of the sound, and with a half-suppressed shriek and a throbbing heart, she saw one of the oak panels slide away, and an anxious face and a warning hand appear at the opening.

The smothered cry of her woman had attracted Eudora’s attention; and with the apathy of one plunged so deeply in wretchedness as to fear no farther evil, the unhappy girl followed, with her listless glance, the frightened gaze of her attendant.

At this moment the hand at the opening was extended in an encouraging gesture, and a familiar voice murmured, quickly and softly:

“Hist! hist, Tabitha! Don’t be afraid! It is I.”

And the next instant the man came through the opening, and Malcolm Montrose stood within the room. He extended his hand in a warning manner as he approached, saying:

“Hist! hist! for Heaven’s love, control yourselves! be composed, and all will be well!”

By this time he stood before the mistress and the maid, who gazed upon him in astonishment indeed, but not in alarm.

“Let us speak in whispers, and then, thanks to the thickness of these walls and doors, we shall not be heard by the policemen on guard. Listen—there are bolts on this side of the chamber doors. Are they drawn fast?”

“No, sir,” replied Tabitha, in a hushed voice.

With a sign that they should remain silent and motionless, Malcolm glided on tip-toe, first to one door and then to the other, and cautiously slid the bolts into their sockets, making them both as fast on the inside as they were on the outside.

He then returned to the side of Eudora, and stood for a moment listening intently, and then apparently satisfied that all was well, he murmured:

“Peace be with the worthy king or bishop who built these walls so solidly! The sentinels without have heard nothing.”

Then turning to the curious, anxious, and expectant waiting-maid he whispered:

“Tabitha, my good girl, I can depend upon you to aid me in freeing your young lady?”

“Depend upon me? Oh, sir, don’t you know and doesn’t she know that I would throw myself between her and all that threatens her, and meet it in her stead, if so be I could?” said the brave and devoted girl, in a vehement whisper.

“Indeed it will be but little less than that which will be required of you, my good Tabitha.”

“Don’t doubt me, sir, but try me!” said the young woman, stoutly.

“Well, then, Tabitha, you have first to prepare your young lady for a hasty journey—thanks to the secret passage leading from the abbot’s apartments—to the ruins of the neighboring nunnery, which scandal declares to have been once put to a less worthy use. I have been able to provide the means for her escape. But you, my good girl, will have to remain here to cover her retreat, to face those who will come to seek her in the morning, and to withstand all questions as to how or with whom she left her prison. Are you firm enough for the duty, Tabitha?”

“Let ’em try me, that’s all, sir; and if they don’t find out as they’re met their match this time, I’m not a woman, but a muff. They may send me to prison, or they may hang me if they like. But I defy them to make me speak when I don’t want to speak!”

“They can do you no real harm, my girl, be sure of that. They would only threaten and frighten you at most.”

“Frighten who? Lawks, sir, you don’t know me; I aint made of frightenable stuff. But, sir, how we talk! won’t they know at once that my young lady got off through that secret passage of which you speak?”

“No; for its very existence is unknown or forgotten. It was only accident that discovered it to me some years ago, when I was delving among the ruins of the convent, and found in one of the cellars its other terminus. I entered it to thread its mazes; I should have been smothered but for the many crooked crevices in its rocky roof that let in the air. I found that it led to a steep narrow staircase; ascending it, I found myself opposite a panel, the character of which I could see by means of the narrow lines of light around its old and shrunken frame, light that evidently came from the opposite side. Curiosity got the better of discretion, and I worked away at the panel and slipped it aside, when, to my dismay, I found myself looking in upon the privacy of Lady Leaton’s sleeping-chamber, which was fortunately then empty. It was this, which was in the olden time the apartment of the Abbot. I was but a boy then, and being frightened at what I had done, I hastily replaced the panel and retreated, and never mentioned my adventure to any one. Afterwards, consulting the guidebook, I found that there was a mere tradition of a secret passage leading from the Abbey to the Convent, which scandal asserted to have been used by the master here when going to rendezvous with some fair nun; but of the precise locality of this secret passage, or even of its actual existence, the book did not pretend to speak with authority. Once I mentioned the tradition to my uncle and aunt, but they disregarded it as mere romance, and I kept my own counsel, and deferred the mention of my discovery to some future occasion. But to-night I have turned my knowledge of the secret passage to some account; to-night, once more I have threaded its mazes, and find myself in this chamber. I shall conduct Miss Leaton through this passage to the other outlet in the cellars of the ruined convent; there I have a chaise to carry her off. Farther than this, I need not tell you. And I have told you this much, first, because I believe you fully worthy of the confidence, and secondly, that being possessed of the real facts, you may be on your guard against cross-questioning as well as against threats, and so be able to baffle inquiry as well as to withstand browbeating,” said Malcolm Montrose.

“Oh, never you fear me, sir; I will never give Miss Leaton’s enemies the satisfaction of knowing as much as I know,” said Tabitha, firmly.

The young man had addressed himself first to the maid, not only to secure her immediate sympathy and co-operation, but also to afford Miss Leaton time to recover from her surprise, compose her spirits and collect her thoughts.

Now he turned to Eudora, who had been much agitated by the infusion of new hope into her despair, but who now controlling herself, sat quietly, though intently listening, and addressing her with reverential tenderness, he said:

“And now, dearest Eudora, rouse yourself; collect all your energies, and prepare for your immediate flight.”

She looked at him intently for a moment, and then in a faltering voice said:

“But oh, is it right? Ought I, who am as innocent as a child of that which they charge me with, ought I, like a guilty creature, to fly from justice? Think of it well, and then answer me, for I can rely upon your wisdom as well as upon your honor.”

“Eudora,” said the young man in a solemn voice, “it is not from _justice_ that I counsel you to fly, for you are innocent as you say, and the innocent have nothing to fear from justice; if there was a shadow of a hope that you would meet justice, my tongue should be the last to advise, my hand the last to assist your escape. No, Eudora, it is not from _justice_, but from the cruelest injustice—from murder, from martyrdom that I would snatch you!”

“Yet still think once more. You grant that I am innocent. Conscious of that innocence, ought I not to have courage enough to meet the trial, and faith enough to trust in God for deliverance?” inquired the girl gravely.

“Trust in God, by all means, through all things, and to any extent: but exercise that trust by wisely embracing the means He has provided for your escape rather than by madly remaining to meet swift and certain destruction.”

“But yet—but yet it seems weak and wrong for the innocent to fly like the guilty!” said Eudora, hesitatingly.

“Does it? Then I will give you Scripture warrant and example for the course! When Herod sent forth and slew the infants in Galilee, did the parents of the child Jesus tarry in Bethlehem because he was innocent and even Divine? No; warned by the angel, they fled into Egypt. In after years, when Jesus went about preaching and teaching through Jerusalem, and when the high priests sought Him to kill Him, did He tarry in deadly peril because He was innocent, holy, and Divine? No! He withdrew into the Mount of Olives, or entered a ship, and put off from the land, because His hour had not yet come! Oh, Eudora! it is not faith but presumption that tempts you to remain and face sure and sudden ruin,” urged the young man, in impassioned earnestness, while he gazed in an agony of anxiety upon her countenance.

Eudora shuddered through her whole frame, but remained silent.

“Oh, Heaven, Eudora!” he continued, “why do you still hesitate? Must I set the truth before you in all its ghastly realities? I must, I must, for time presses, and the danger is imminent! Listen, most unhappy girl! You are here a prisoner, charged with the most atrocious crime that ever cursed humanity; that charge is supported by a mass of evidence that would crush an archangel! To-morrow morning you will be removed from this room to the common gaol. Next week the assizes will be held; you will be brought to trial; you will be overwhelmed beneath an avalanche of evidence! and then—oh, Heaven, Eudora! but two short weeks will elapse between the sentence of the judge and the execution of the prisoner! In less than one little month from this you will be murdered—martyred!” exclaimed the young man in thrilling, vehement, impassioned whispers, while the agitation of his whole frame, and the perspiration that streamed from his flushed brow, exhibited the agony of his anxiety.

With a smothered shriek, the unhappy girl fell back in her chair, and covered her face with her hands, as though to shut out the scene of horror that had been called up before her imagination.

“Fly, Eudora! fly at once! fly with me, and I will place you in safety, where you may remain until Providence shall bring the truth to light, the guilty to justice, and your innocence to a perfect vindication! Fly! fly, Eudora! It would be madness to stay!”

“I will! I will fly!” she exclaimed, in a hurried whisper, as she started up.

Tabitha snatched up the black bonnet and shawl that had been brought in on the preceding evening for a far different purpose, and hastily assisted her mistress to put them on. She tied the little bonnet strings under her chin, and tied the black crape veil over her face. Then she wrapped the shawl carefully around her form, doubling its folds twice over her chest to protect it from the chill of the night air, for Eudora’s Asiatic temperament would ill bear exposure in this climate of cold mists, and pronounced her ready for her journey.

As Malcolm looked anxiously upon her, he saw that her simple, plain dress of deep mourning was admirably well calculated for her escape and her journey, for it revealed nothing of her social position, since the wearer of such a dress might be the daughter of a tradesman or the child of an earl.

“And now, my good girl, we must take leave of you at once. Remember that no one can harm you; therefore be firm in refusing to give any clue to the manner of Miss Leaton’s escape,” said Malcolm Montrose, shaking hands with the faithful attendant.

“Never you doubt, sir; they shall draw me apart with wild horses before they draw any information from me,” said Tabitha, firmly.

“Good-bye, dear girl; I hope, and trust, and pray that you may come to no evil through your devotion to me,” said Eudora, kissing her humble friend.

“Never you fear, Miss; if any body comes to grief in this chase, it won’t be her as is hunted, but them as hunts, which is as much as to say it won’t be Tabitha Tabs!” said the latter, valiantly.

After once more pressing the hand of her faithful maid, Eudora followed Malcolm through the secret opening, leaving the brave Tabitha alone in the chamber.

Chapter VII. The Flight.

“Fly, lady, fly before the wind! The moor is wild and waste, The hound of blood is close behind, Haste! gentle lady, haste!”

After closing the sliding panel behind him, and carefully adjusting it in its place, Malcolm took the hand of his companion to guide her down the narrow, steep and dangerous steps that led to the secret passage. This caution was the more needful, as it was so dark that only Malcolm’s previous knowledge of the passage enabled him to feel his own way and guide his companion through it.

Something like an hundred perpendicular steps brought them down to a low and narrow archway, not unlike the entrance to a rudely constructed tunnel.

Although it was still quite dark, and Malcolm, drawing his companion after him, was obliged to grope his way along this tunnel, yet occasional sharp drafts of wind proved that there existed certain irregular crevices in the rocks overhead that in the daytime admitted a little light as well as air, although their winding or crooked formation might prevent any one on the ground above seeing or suspecting the existence of the subterranean passage beneath their feet. As this tunnel took nearly a straight line to the old nunnery, a walk of about ten minutes brought Malcolm and Eudora to the other terminus that admitted them to the lower cellars under the ruins.

When they had emerged from the tunnel into these cellars, Malcolm paused and carefully collected bricks, stones, and other fallen portions of the building, with which he choked up and concealed the narrow opening.

Then taking the hand of Eudora, he led her from the cellars up into the outer air.

Here, in the ruined chapel, they found the pony-chaise fastened to a young oak-tree that grew within what had once been the grand altar of the chapel of the convent.

He led the horse out to the road, and then returned and conducted Eudora to the chaise, placed her in it, took the seat by her side, and drove rapidly off. A drive of ten minutes brought them to a rural railway station.

Up to this time no word had been spoken between them, so intense had been the anxiety of both. But now, when he had alighted and fastened his horse to a tree, and came to the chaise to hand her out, he whispered:

“Draw down your veil, Eudora, and keep it down.”

She silently obeyed, and he handed her out and led her into the office of the station.

“Two first-class tickets to London,” he said to the clerk behind the little office-windows.

They were supplied to him.

“When does the London train pass here?” he next inquired.

“In half an hour, sir.”

“That will do,” replied Mr. Montrose. Then, drawing the arm of Eudora within his own, he conducted her to the waiting-room.

It was empty.

“Remain here, dearest Eudora, until I return. I shall be back in twenty minutes. It is not likely that any one will come in here during my absence, as very few first-class lady passengers take the train at this station at this hour; nevertheless, keep your veil down,” said Malcolm, as he placed her in a chair in a dark corner of the room. He then pressed her hand, left her, and hurried out to the place where he had left the pony-chaise.

He unhitched the horse, mounted the driver’s seat, and drove madly off towards Allworth. So fiercely he drove that in ten minutes he reached the stables, and returned the horse bathed in sweat and covered with foam to his stall. He replaced the chaise in the carriage-house, and then set off in a run toward the railway station. He could not run quite so fast as a horse could gallop, and so the distance accomplished by the pony in ten minutes occupied him fifteen.

It wanted, therefore, but about five minutes to the passing of the train when he rejoined Eudora in the waiting-room.

Besides Eudora, he found two gentlemen and one lady in the same room. They seemed, also, to belong to the same party, for they walked and talked together; and the subject of their conversation was that which then formed the topic of the whole neighborhood, and which was destined soon to form the topic of the whole kingdom—the tragedy of Allworth Abbey!

“They say,” observed the lady, “that it is incontrovertibly proved that this Asiatic girl, Eudora Leaton, was the poisoner, and that her motive was the inheritance of the estate. One can scarcely believe in such depravity in one so young as this girl is represented to be.”

“Crime is of no age or sex, madam; and from all that we can hear, it seems abundantly proved that this young girl actually _did_ poison the whole family,” replied the old gentleman addressed, whom Malcolm now, with extreme anxiety, recognized as a neighbor, Admiral Brunton, of the Anchorage, near Abbeytown.

“Good Heaven, what a fiend she must be! But she is young, beautiful, high-born, and very accomplished. Do you think that if she is convicted they will really hang her?”

“Hang her? Yes; the young demon! They will hang her as surely as they did Palmer. English juries have no mercy on the secret poisoner. And the fact of this one being a young, beautiful, and high-born girl, only makes her crime the more unnatural and monstrous!”

“But, admiral, it is hard to believe that so lovely a creature could be such a monster,” said the lady.

“Bah! bah! madam; you have not read history, or you have forgotten it. Remember the Countess of Essex, Madame Brinvilliers, Lucretia Borgia, Mary Stuart, and many other young, beautiful, and high-born devils. Human nature is the same in all ages and countries. The youth, beauty, and high-birth of this young Asiatic fiend will no more save her from the gallows than the same sort of charms saved Brinvilliers or Mary Stuart from the block!” replied the old gentleman, savagely.

Shudder after shudder passed over the frame of the unfortunate subject of these severe remarks, as she sat an unsuspected hearer of the conversation.

Malcolm, standing by her side, with his back to the speakers, could only seek to sustain her courage by an earnest pressure of her hand. It was but an ordeal of five minutes, and then the shrill whistle of the advancing train warned all the passengers to hurry to the platform.

The conversing party dropped their interesting subject, and hastened away.

Malcolm, drawing Eudora’s arm within his own, hurried after them.

When they arrived upon the platform the train had stopped, and the engine was noisily puffing and blowing like a short-winded alderman out of breath after a run.

Passengers were hurrying into the various carriages.

“Can we have a _coupé_?” inquired Malcolm, slipping a crown into the hands of one of the guards.

“Oh, yes, sir,” answered that functionary, opening a door and admitting the fugitives into the desired privacy.

“Sweethearts!” he muttered to himself, as he locked the door and pocketed the crown.

The train started, and Malcolm and Eudora, finding themselves alone in the _coupé_, looked in each other’s faces wistfully.

“Oh, Malcolm,” said Eudora, “how terrible it is to be so wronged and hated, and by one’s old family friends, too! Did you hear old Admiral Brunton, how he spoke of me? Ah! little did he think how near at hand I was to hear him.”

“Yes, dear Eudora, I heard him. His remarks were valuable, only to show how right you are to fly until this storm shall pass,” replied the young man.

“But to be wronged and hated so, Malcolm, and by my uncle’s old friends! Oh! it is very, very cruel!”

“You must bear up under it bravely, dear love. The time will come when your innocence will be proved, and then those very friends who wrong you by their suspicions now will bitterly repent their injustice, and will love and esteem you more than ever before,” answered the young man, encouragingly.

The train rattled on. It was the express, and stopped at no other station between Abbeytown and London, where it was expected to arrive at five o’clock in the morning.

Malcolm and Eudora sank back in their seats, and fell into silence.

Eudora relapsed into despair, and Malcolm sank into thought. He had taken her from confinement and immediate danger, but not perhaps from quick pursuit and rearrest. In the plan of her instant deliverance his decision and his action had necessarily been so prompt and rapid, that no time had been left him to determine upon any fixed place of refuge for the fugitive. His only general idea had been to fly with her, and conceal her in the multitudinous wilderness of London, until he could arrange her escape to the Continent. He wished above all things to make her his own by marriage as soon as they should reach the city; but he knew that to do so would expose her to certain discovery. He felt therefore obliged to defer this purpose until he could escape with her to the Continent.

To attempt to take her from England immediately he knew would be to expose her to the certainty of arrest. For, according to the usual practice, as soon as her escape should be discovered, which it must inevitably be in a few hours, telegrams he knew would be despatched to the police or every seaport to anticipate her arrival and to intercept her passage.

To hide her, therefore, in the crowds of London until the first heat of the pursuit should be over, then to escape with her to some foreign country, and there unite his fate with hers for good or ill forever—and then wait patiently until Providence should bring the truth to light, by discovering the guilty and vindicating her innocence—seemed the only plan that promised any success.

“But where in London should he leave her?” It must be in a part of the town far distant from the terminus of the Great Northern Railway; it must be in a thickly-populated neighborhood, where the presence even of a remarkable stranger should not attract the slightest notice; it must be in lodgings over some small busy shop, where the people should be too much occupied with their own concerns to pry into those of others.

After much close thought, Malcolm fixed upon the Borough as the neighborhood of their destination. Lodgings of the description he wished to find for Eudora were not scarce in that locality.

Having settled this point to his satisfaction, the next thing to be considered was under what name and character, and with what pretext, he should leave her in her destined lodgings. To introduce her by her real name would be certain destruction, since, before another twenty-four hours, that name—connected with a horrible crime—would be widely blown over England. To pass her under an assumed name, though the extreme exigency of the circumstances might almost seem to justify the deception, was an idea abhorrent to his truthful, honorable and high-toned nature. The longer he thought of this difficulty the more insurmountable it seemed. Occupied with this problem, which any one of less delicate scruples would have quickly solved, Malcolm did not once speak again to his companion, even to attempt to rouse her from the fit of despondency into which she had again fallen.

Meantime the train flew over the sterile heaths of Yorkshire, and in due time entered the more cultivated country nearer the great metropolis.

At last, rousing himself desperately, he said to his companion:

“Eudora, dearest, have you any middle name?”

“Yes; I was christened Eudora Milnes; but I never use my middle name, and, indeed, never did; it is quite a dead letter,” replied the girl, in surprise at the question.

“So much the better. I cannot endure the idea of your passing under a fictitious name, and yet you must not be known as Eudora Leaton. I shall therefore call you Miss Milnes; do not forget it. And if your other name is marked upon any of your clothing, do not fail to cut it out, lest it should meet the eye of your laundress. As you bring no clothing with you, you will have to procure a small supply from some outfitter, and be sure to order them marked ‘E. Milnes.’ They will think ‘E’ stands for Emily, or Eliza, or some such common name. Dear girl, I trust these precautions will not long be needful,” said Malcolm, endeavoring to infuse into her heart a hope that he himself was far from feeling.

The train flew onward, and soon the lights of London were seen to the southward before them.

Day was dawning when the train arrived at the King’s-cross station.

“Now, my dearest Eudora, you must trust yourself entirely to me, believing that I will do all that is best for your safety,” said Malcolm, as the train stopped.

“I am sure that you will, my best and only friend; besides, who in the world have I now to trust in but yourself?” said Eudora, in deep emotion.

“You shall never regret the confidence you place in me, Eudora,” replied Malcolm, earnestly.

At this moment the guard opened the door. He was the same man who had put them into the _coupé_ at the Abbeytown Station; and in grateful remembrance of the crown-piece given him by Mr. Montrose, he now politely inquired if the gentleman wanted a cab, and offered to call one.

Malcolm perceived at once that this man would be sure to remember himself and his black-veiled companion, and would be able to describe her appearance if inquiries should be made of him, as they were nearly certain to be. He felt, therefore, the necessity of throwing the man off the scent of his own purposed course. With this design, he inquired:

“When does the next train start for Liverpool?”

“At five thirty, sir.”

“Then you may call me a cab at once,” said Mr. Montrose, handing his companion from the _coupé_, and leading her through the station.

The cab drew up.

The officious guard held the door open until Mr. Montrose had put his companion in and taken his seat beside her.

“Where shall I order the man to drive, sir?” asked the guard.

“To Euston-square Station, of course,” replied Mr. Montrose.

“A runaway match, as sure as shooting. They didn’t even stop to take their luggage,” said the guard to himself, as he closed the door.

The order was given, and the carriage started.

It was a dark, foggy morning, into which broad day seemed unable to break. The streets were at this hour half-deserted, and very dreary. The carriage rattled noisily over the stones between closed shops and darkened houses, and drew up before Euston-square Station.

Here the scene was much busier. A crowd of carriages of all descriptions were continually drawing up or driving off. A multitude of people were pouring in and out of the building, for one train had just arrived, and another was just about to start.

Mr. Montrose alighted, handed out his companion, and paid and dismissed the cab. And at the same moment a newly-arrived traveller stepped up, engaged the same cab, and ordered the man to drive to “Mivart’s.”

And Mr. Montrose, glad that this possible witness to his next proceedings was taken out of the way, led Eudora into the station. It was very much crowded, and the space before the ticket-windows was thronged. While Malcolm debated with himself whether he should carry his _ruse_ so far as actually to lead Eudora up to the first-class window and take tickets, he saw a gentleman and a young lady in deep mourning, closely veiled, go up and get two first-class tickets to Liverpool.

“That will do,” said Malcolm to himself. “Should inquiries be pushed to this extent, that party may pass very well for her they seek.”

Then drawing Eudora’s arm within his own, and joining the throng of newly-arrived passengers that were passing from the station, he went forth. Taking an opposite direction from that of the place at which they had first been set down, he called another cab, placed Eudora in, took his seat by her side, and ordered the man to drive to St. Paul’s churchyard.

It was now broad daylight, and all London was waking up and throwing open its windows. As they drove along, Mr. Montrose said to his wondering companion:

“Now, my dearest Eudora, though you ask me no questions concerning this strange proceeding, I must give you an explanation. I have acted thus in order to throw your pursuers off the scent; for if that railway-guard who attended us at Abbeytown and at the King’s-cross station, should be examined by the police, as is most likely, though he may be able to describe your person, dress, and appearance in such an accurate manner as to leave no doubt upon their minds that it was yourself who came up to London by the night train, yet, mark me, he will say that on reaching the King’s-cross terminus you took a cab to the Euston-square Station to catch the ‘five thirty’ down train to Liverpool. The cabman who took us down will support his evidence, and even the clerk of the first-class ticket-office will corroborate both testimonies by remembering a young lady in deep mourning, who took a first-class ticket for that train to Liverpool. Thus being thrown off the true scent by my ruse, they will think that you have gone down to Liverpool with the purpose of escaping by one of the outward-bound steamers, while you may repose unsuspected and securely in London.”

“But,” said Eudora, anxiously, “since I have fled, had I not better continue my flight? Had I not better escape at once to some foreign country?”

“It would be impossible for you to do so at present, Eudora. I must tell you why. In an hour or two from this time your flight will be discovered at Allworth. In the same hour telegrams will be despatched to the police of every seaport on the coast of England to intercept you if you should attempt to pass. These telegrams will reach their destinations before you could possibly arrive at any seaport, and you would be arrested immediately upon your arrival.”

“Oh, Lord of Heaven! that I, that I should be so hunted! hunted as though I were a wild beast!” exclaimed Eudora, shuddering with terror.

“Many a fair and good queen and princess has been so hunted before you, dear girl! Even in recent times your own friend, the heroic Princess Pezzilini, was obliged to fly for her life! Emulate her heroism, dear girl,” said Malcolm, earnestly pressing her hand.

“Ah! but she was not dishonored by the charge of a foul and monstrous crime. Her offence was a political one, and her very flight was honorable. There is no parallel between her case and mine,” moaned the poor girl.

“Take courage and have patience, dear Eudora, while I speak of our future plans,” said Malcolm, affectionately pressing her hand.

“Ah, I will! I will be courageous and patient! I ought not to complain of any affliction so long as Heaven has left me so true a friend!”

“Thank you, dear Eudora, for that tribute. Listen now, dearest; I will take you to some safe and honorable retreat, and leave you there for the present. When the first heat of the pursuit is over, when it will be safe to do so, I will take you down to some one of the seaports, and escape with you to America. There you will give me this dear hand in marriage. There I will work for our mutual support until the course of time and Providence shall have cleared you of this false and dreadful charge, and paved the way for our happy return! This is my plan, Eudora! How do you like it?”

“Oh, Heaven bless and reward you, Malcolm, who sacrifice yourself to save the poor lost girl, whom there is none either to pity or to succor!” exclaimed Eudora, fervently.

They had now turned into St. Paul’s churchyard, which was all alive with the commencement of the business of the day. Malcolm kept his gaze out of the window, as if in search of some particular place. At length, when they had got just opposite to a ladies’ out-fitting establishment, he stopped the cab, paid and dismissed it, and led Eudora towards the shop.

“I deem it safest, dearest, to change at every place we stop. Go in there now, and purchase things as you may require, and have them packed in a box, with your name, ‘Miss Milnes,’ written upon it. I will remain outside until you have completed your business.”

Eudora entered the shop, and was promptly served with everything that she needed.

When she appeared at the door, with a shop-girl bearing the box behind her, Malcolm hailed an empty cab that was passing by, entered it with Eudora and her purchases, and gave the brief order:

“To the White Swan Hotel, Borough.”

A rapid drive of twenty minutes brought them to the house.

Here Malcolm discharged the cab and entered the hotel, leading Eudora, and followed by a porter carrying her box.

He asked to be shown into a private sitting-room, and ordered breakfast immediately for two.

The waiter hastened to obey; and while breakfast was being prepared, Malcolm persuaded Eudora to lay off her bonnet and shawl, and repose in an easy-chair.

A comfortable meal of coffee, muffins, fresh eggs and ham was soon spread, and Malcolm led his companion to the table, saying:

“Come, eat, dear Eudora; nature must be sustained, even through the direst afflictions.”

She drank a cup of coffee, and ate an egg and a small piece of bread. When breakfast was over, Malcolm said:

“You will stop and rest here for an hour, dearest, while I take a walk in search of suitable lodgings for you. You will not be anxious or frightened to be left alone?”

“I will try not to be so,” she answered.

He pressed her hand and left the parlor.

As he passed through the coffee-room on his way out, he heard the visitors and loungers discussing the news in that morning’s _Times_. Some topic of unusual interest seemed to occupy them. Malcolm’s heart stood still as he caught some detached portions of their conversation.

“I recollect perfectly well when the baron died a few months ago. There was a suspicion of his having been poisoned; and now to think of the whole family being destroyed in that way!—and by one young girl to whom they had been so very kind, too! What a young devil she must be!” said one.

“Oh, she comes from India, it appears. And India is the native land of devils, as we have good reason to know since the revolt of the Sepoys,” said another.

“Well, it is a good thing that the unnatural young monster is in custody. If she isn’t hung the gallows might as well be put down altogether; but she is safe to be, for this beats Palmer all hollow.”

Malcolm heard no more. With a sinking heart he hurried out into the air, and took his way down the street, and began to tread the narrow lanes and alleys of the neighborhood in search of such lodgings as he desired for Eudora. At length, about half way down, between the two crossings of a narrow street, he paused before a small green-grocer’s shop bearing the name of Mrs. Corder, over which a bill in an upper window announced “Apartments.” He entered the shop, and behind the counter found the proprietress, a fat, middle-aged, motherly-looking widow, with a large number of children, who were continually toddling in and out between the little dark back parlor and the front shop.

Stepping up to the counter, he asked the woman to show him the apartments she had to let.

“Here, Charley,” said Mrs. Corder, calling her eldest hope, a red-haired lad of about ten years old, “to take her place while she showed the gentleman the rooms above.”

“The lodgers have a private entrance, sir,” she said, leading the way out of the shop to a street door on its right hand, which admitted them into a narrow passage, from which an equally narrow staircase led to the second floor.

Mr. Montrose followed the landlady up-stairs to a pair of small, plainly furnished, but clean rooms, connected by folding doors. The front one was a parlor, the back one a chamber.

“What are your terms?” inquired Mr. Montrose, when he had glanced approvingly around these rooms.

“Twenty-five shillings a week, sir, with attendance,” replied Mrs. Corder.

“Have you other lodgers?”

“No others, sir, except a poor gentleman and his daughter as have the rooms over these, and has never paid me a penny for ’em,” added the woman, in a low tone, but loud enough to be heard.

“I will engage these rooms, for a lady, who will take possession immediately; and here is four weeks’ payment in advance.”

Mrs. Corder curtsied lowly in acknowledgment of this liberality, and promised to have fires lighted immediately to air the apartments.

And Mr. Montrose hurried back to the White Swan, where he found Eudora still resting in the easy-chair, and awaiting him.

“I have found you lodgings, dearest, where I hope and believe you will be both comfortable and safe. They are over a small green-grocer’s shop kept by a stout, rosy good-humored-looking widow, with a large family of young children. And with her shop, her children, and her lodgers to attend to, she is much too busy to pry into other peoples’ private affairs. You may get ready now while I call a carriage,” said Malcolm, and without waiting to hear her warm thanks, he passed out.

In two minutes he returned, and led his companion, who was quite ready, to the carriage. Her box was put in, and the directions given to the coachman, who drove on.

A quarter of an hour’s drive brought them to the private entrance of Mrs. Corder’s house. The good-humored landlady stood at the door to receive her new lodger.

Mr. Montrose alighted, handed Eudora out, and led her into the house, followed by the coachman carrying the box, which he sat down in the passage.

“Poor girl,” murmured the landlady to herself, as she noticed the deep mourning and pale face of her guest. “Poor girl! an orphan, I dare say—some clergyman’s daughter come up to London to get her living as a daily governess or something. She do look like that. But lawk, she’ll never be able to pay twenty-five shillings a week for her lodgings, and that she’ll soon find out. Hows’ever, the gentleman has paid the first month in advance, and maybe he may——. Lawk, I wonder whatever he is to her——.”

“This is my cousin, Miss Milnes, who is to be your new lodger, Mrs. Corder. Will you please to show her at once to her rooms?” said Mr. Montrose, who, having settled with the man, now turned and presented his companion to her landlady.

“Yes, certainly, sir; the rooms are quite ready. I’m proud to see you, Miss Miller—that’s a real governessing name, is Miller,” added the landlady, _sotto voce_, as she led the way up-stairs, and threw open the door of the front parlor.

Malcolm and Eudora entered the room, and the landlady lingered to receive orders.

“You may have the box sent up, if you please, Mrs. Corder,” said Mr. Montrose, to get rid of the good woman, who dropped a curtsey and withdrew.

“Now, dearest Eudora,” said the young man, “for your own sake I must hasten to leave you. I must hurry back to Allworth Abbey, that no one may suspect that I have been so far absent from the neighborhood, or connect my absence with your disappearance. My presence is also necessary to assist at the funeral obsequies at Allworth. So you perceive, dearest, that I must immediately depart.”

“Oh, yes, I know that for every good reason you must go,” said Eudora.

“And this advice I must give in leaving you—keep yourself closely within doors! send the landlady or her son out for whatever you may require—but go not forth yourself. If time hangs heavily on your hands, send for books from Mudie’s Circulating Library, a branch of which stands near this. Do not risk writing to any one, not even to me, unless it should be positively necessary; and, if you do write, be careful neither to put address nor date at the top of your letter, nor name of any sort at the bottom; and direct your letter to Howth, a post town about twenty miles from Allworth. Do you mark me, dear Eudora?”

“Oh, yes, I mark, and I will remember and follow your directions.”

“I will write to you under your middle name of Milnes, and post my letters at Howth. Now, dearest, trust in God—trust also in me; keep up your spirits, and hope for the best. You will be quite safe here, as you know the hunt for you will be led off in an opposite direction. Your landlady is evidently a good-humored, obliging, unsuspicious creature, who will endeavor to make you comfortable. If she should betray any curiosity upon the subject of my interest in you, tell her so much of the truth as that we are betrothed, but avoid telling her my name; she will probably believe it to be the same as your own. Will you remember all these things?”

“Oh, yes, yes, dearest Malcolm!” said Eudora, endeavoring to control her emotions.

“And now, my beloved, I have not a moment more to stay, for I must catch the train. Good-bye! good-bye! I leave