"No, Lucian; I was such a mere babe when she died, I have often wondered what it would be like to have a mother. Auntie Hagar was always very kind to me, however; so kind, in fact, that my step-father, fearing, he said, that I would grow up self-willed and disobedient, sent her away, and procured the services of the ugly old woman you saw in the garden. Poor Auntie Hagar," sighed the girl, "she was sorely grieved at our parting and, that she might be near me, bought the little cottage in the field yonder."

"Oh!" ejaculated the man, more as if he felt that he was expected to say something, than as if really interested in the subject under discussion. "Ah – er – was – a – was the old lady a property holder, then? Most discharged servants go up and down on the earth, seeking what they may devour – in another situation."

"That is the strangest part of the affair, Lucian; she had money. Where it came from, I never could guess, nor would she ever give me any information on the subject. It was a legacy – that was all I was to know, it seemed.

"I remember," she continued, musingly, "how very much astonished I was to receive, from my step-father, a lecture on this head. He took the ground that my childish curiosity was unpardonably rude, and angrily forbade me to ask further questions. And I am sure that since that one instance of wonderful regard for the feelings of Aunt Hagar, he has not deigned to consider the comfort and happiness of any, save and always himself."

As the girl's voice took on a tone of scornful sarcasm; as her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashed while memory recalled the many instances of unfeeling cruelty and neglect, that had brought tears to her childish eyes and pain to her lonely heart – the eyes of Lucian Davlin became bright with admiration, and something more; something that might have caused her honest eyes to wonder and question, if she had but intercepted the glance. But her thoughts had taken a backward turn. Without looking up, perceiving by his silence that he had no desire to interrupt her, she proceeded, half addressing herself:

"I used to ask him about my mother, and was always informed that he 'didn't care to converse of dead folks.' Finally, he assured me that he was 'tired of seeing my sickly, ugly face,' and that, as I would have to look after myself when he was dead and gone, I must be educated. Therefore, I was sent to the dreary Convent school at M – . And there I studied hard, looking forward to the time when, having learned all they could teach me, I might breathe again outside the four stone walls; for, by my step-papa's commands, I was not permitted to roam outside the sisters' domains until my studies should reach an end. Then they brought me back, and my polite step-papa called me an 'educated idiot;' and my good old Hagar cried over me; and I made friends with the birds, and the trees. Ever since, always avoiding my worthy ancestor-in-law, I have been wondering what it would be like to be happy among true friends, in a bright spot somewhere, far away from this place, where I never have been happy for a day at a time, even as a child."

"Never, little girl?" The eyes were very reproachful, and the man's hand was held out entreatingly. "Never, darling?"

She looked up in his face shyly, yet trustfully, and then putting her hand in his, said: "Never, until I knew you, Lucian; and always since, I think, except – "

She hesitated, and the color fled out of her face.

"Except when I think that the day draws near when you will leave me. And when the great world has swallowed you up, you will forget the 'little girl' you found in the woods, perhaps."

A smile flitted across the face of the listener, and he turned away for a moment to conceal the lurking devil gleaming out of his eyes. Then, flinging away his half finished cigar, he took both her hands in his, and looking down into her clear eyes, said:

"Then don't let me go away from you, beauty. Don't stay here to make dismal meditations among the gloomy trees. Don't pass all the weary Winter with Curmudgeon, who will marry you to an old bag of gold. Come with me; come to the city and be happy. You shall see all the glories and beauties of the gay, bright world. You shall put dull care far behind you. You shall be my little Queen of Hearts, to love and care for always. Sweetheart, will you come?"

He was folding her close now, and she nestled in his arms with perfect trustfulness, with untold happiness shining in her bright eyes. She was in no haste to answer his eager question, and he smiled again; and once more the lurking devil laughed out of his eyes. But he held her tenderly to him, in silence for a time, and then lifted the blushing face to meet his own.

"Look up, Aileen, my own! Is it to be as I wish? Will you leave this place with me to-morrow night?"

The girl drew back with a start of surprise. "You – you surely are not going to-morrow, Lucian," and the gentle voice trembled.

"I must, little one – have just received a letter calling me back to the city. Your sweet face has already kept me here too long. But I shall take it back with me, shall I not, love; and never lose it more?"

The girl was silent. She loved him only too well, and yet this peremptory wooing and sudden departure struck upon her naturally sensitive nerves as something harsh and unpleasant. She would not leave behind much love, would be missed by few friends, and yet – to leave her home once was to leave it forever, and it was home, after all. She looked at the man before her, and a something, her good angel perhaps, seemed, almost against herself, to move her to rebel.

"Why must I go like a runaway, Lucian? I can't bear to bid you go, and yet, if you must, why not leave me for a little time? My father will never consent, I well know, but let me tell him, and then go openly, after he has had time to become familiar with the idea."

"After he has had time to lock you up! Recollect, you are not of age, Aileen. After he has had time to force you into a marriage with your broken-backed old lover. After he has had time to poison your mind against me – "

"Lucian! as if he could do that; he, indeed!" The girl laughed scornfully.

It is not difficult to guess how this affair would have terminated. The man was handsome and persuasive; the girl trustful, loving, and, save for him, so she thought, almost friendless.

But an unexpected event interrupted the eloquence flowing from the lips of Lucian Davlin, and set the mind of the girl free to think one moment, unbiased by the mesmeric power of his mind, eye, and touch.

They were standing in a little grove, near which ran the footpath leading into the village of Bellair. Suddenly, as if he had dropped from one of the wide spreading trees, a very fat boy, with a shining face and a general air of "knowingness," appeared before them.

"I beg pardin, sir," proclaimed he, "but as you told me if a tellergram come for you, to fetch it here, so I did."

And staring at Madeline the while, he produced a yellow envelope from some interior region, and presented it to Lucian Davlin, who tore open the cover, and took in the purport of the message at one glance. His face wore a variety of expressions: Annoyance, satisfaction, surprise, all found place as he read. He stood in a thoughtful attitude for a brief time, and then, as if he had settled the matter in his own mind, said:

"All right, Mike. Go back now, and tell Bowers to prepare to leave to-night. I'll come down and send the required answer immediately. Here, take this."

Tossing him a piece of money, Lucian turned to Madeline, over whose face a look of sorrowful wonder was creeping.

"'Man proposes,' my dear! Well, I am 'disposed of' for a time. It is only one night sooner, and, after all, what matter? Will you decide for me at once, Maidie? Nay, I see you hesitate still, and time just now is precious. Think till to-night, then; think of the lonely days here without me; think of me, alone in the big world, wishing and longing for you. I could not even write you in safety. Think fast, little woman; and when evening comes, meet me here with your answer. If it must be separation for a time, dear, tell me when I shall come back for you."

The girl drew a breath of relief. He would come back – that would be better. But seeing his anxiety to be gone, she only said: "Very well, Lucian, I will be here."

"Then, good-by till evening."

A swift kiss, and a strong hand clasp, and he strode away.

Trampling down the wayside daisies and tender Spring grasses; insensible to the beauties of earth and sky; smiling still that same queer, meaning smile, he took the path leading back to the village. Reaching the site, where the woody path terminated in the highway, he turned. Yes, she was looking after him; she would be, he knew. He kissed his hand, lifted his hat with a courtly gesture, and passed out of her sight.

"Gad!" he ejaculated, half aloud, "she is a little beauty; and half inclined to rebel, too. She won't go with me to-night, I think; but a few weeks of this solitude without me, and my Lady Bird will capitulate. The old Turk, her step-father, won't raise much of a hue and cry at her flight, I fancy. Wonder what is the secret of his antipathy to Miss Payne."

He paced on, wrinkling his brow in thought a moment, and then whistling softly as his fancies shaped themselves to his liking. Suddenly he stopped, turned, and looked sharply about him.

"I'll do it!" he exclaimed. "Strange if I can't extract from a broken down old woman any items of family history that might serve my purpose. I'll call on the nurse – what's her name – to-night."

He glanced across the meadow to where stood the cottage of Nurse Hagar, and, as if satisfied with himself and his brilliant last idea, resumed his walk. Presently his pace slackened again, and he looked at the crumpled paper which he still retained in his hand, saying:

"It's queer what sent Cora to the city for this flying visit. I must keep my Madeline out of her way. If they should meet – whew!"

Evidently, direful things might ensue from a meeting between Madeline Payne and this unknown Cora, for after a prolonged whistle, a brief moment of silence, and then a short laugh, Davlin said:

"I should wear a wig, at least," and he laughed again. "I wonder, by Jove! I wonder if old Arthur's money bags are heavy enough to make a card for Cora. Well, I'll find that out, too."

CHAPTER II.

THE OLD TREE'S REVELATIONS

Meanwhile, strange feelings filled the heart, and troublesome thoughts the head, of Madeline Payne.

She looked about her sorrowfully. The leafy wood seemed one of her oldest, truest friends. Since her mother's death, she had lived, save for the faithful regard of old Hagar, an unloved life. In the only home she knew, she felt herself an object of dislike, and met only cold neglect, or rude repulsion. So she had made a friend of the shady wood, and welcomed back the birds, in early Springtime, with joyful anticipation of Summer rest under green branches, lulled and soothed by their songs.

Wandering here, the acquaintance between herself and Lucian Davlin had begun. Here six long, bright weeks of the Springtime had passed, each day finding them lingering longer among the leafy shadows, and drawing closer about them both the cords of a destiny sad for one, fatal for each.

Standing with hands clasped loosely before her, eyes down dropped, and foot tapping the mossy turf, Madeline presented a picture of youth and loveliness such as is rarely seen even in a beauty-abounding land. A form of medium height which would, in later years, develop much of stately grace; a complexion of lily-like fairness; and eyes as deep and brown, as tender and childlike, as if their owner were gazing, ever and always, as infants gaze who see only great, grand wonders, and never a woe or fear.

With a wee, small mouth, matching the eyes in expression, the face was one to strike a casual observer as lovely – as childishly sweet, perhaps. Yet there was something more than childishness in the broad brow, and firm chin. The little white hands were shapely and strong, and the dainty feet pressed down the daisies softly yet firmly, with quiet but steady movement.

Many a man has been mistaken in baby mouth, and sweetly-smiling eyes. And whoso should mistake Madeline Payne, in the time to come, for "just a child and nothing more," would reckon unwisely, and mayhap learn this truth too late.

Madeline sat down upon a fallen tree, where she had so often talked with her lover. She looked up into the wide spreading branches overhead. There was the crooked bough where she had, often and often, in past days, sought refuge when troubled by her father's harshness, or haunted by dreams of the mother she had hardly known. It looked cool and inviting, as if she could think to better purpose shrouded by the whispering leaves. She stepped upon the fallen trunk, and springing upward, caught a bending limb, and was soon seated cosily aloft, smiling at the thought of what Lucian would say could he see her there. Long she pondered, silent, motionless. Finally, stirring herself and shaking lightly an overhanging friendly branch she exclaimed:

"That will be best! I'll stay here for the present. I'll tell step-papa that I love Lucian, and will never marry his friend, Amos Adams, the old fright! I'll try and be very calm, and as dutiful as maybe. Then, if he turns me out, very well. If he shuts me up – " Her eyes flashed and she laughed; but there was little of mirth in the laughter – "Why, then, I would lead him a life, I think! Yes, I'll bid Lucian good-by, for a little while, and I'll try and not miss him too much, for – Oh!"

She had been very busy with her own half-spoken thoughts, else she must have sooner discovered their approach, for now they were almost underneath her, and they were no less personages than her step-father, John Arthur, and her would-be suitor, Amos Adams.

Madeline was about to make known her presence, but her ear caught the fragment of a sentence in which her name held prominent place. Acting upon impulse, she remained a silent, unsuspected listener.

And so began in her heart and life that drama of pain and passion, sin and mystery, that should close round, and harden and blight, the darkening future of Madeline Payne.

A more marked contrast than the two men presented could scarcely be imagined.

John Arthur might have been, evidently had been, a handsome man, years ago. But it did not seem possible that, even in his palmiest days, Amos Adams could have been called anything save a fright. He was much below the medium height. His head was sunken between his shoulders, and thrust forward, and each feature of his ugly face seemed at war with every other; while the glance of his greenish gray eye was such as would cause a right-minded person involuntarily to cross himself and utter, with perfect propriety, the Pharisee's prayer.

"The mischief fly away with you, man," said Mr. Arthur, seating himself upon the fallen tree, and striking at the ground fiercely with his cane; "what is my dead wife to you? Madeline makes my life a burden by these same queries. It's none of your business why the departed Mrs. Arthur left her property to me during my life, and tied it up so as to make me only nominal master – mine to use but not sell, not one acre, not a tree or stone; all must go intact to Miss Madeline, curse her, at my death."

"Um-m, yes. Does the girl know anything of this?"

"If she did, your chances would be slim," said the other, scornfully. "No; I have taken good care that she should not. She has a vixenish temper, if she should get waked up to imagine herself 'wronged,' or any such school-girl nonsense. I shall not live many years – this heart disease is gaining on me fast; and if the girl is your wife, in case of my death the fortune is as good as yours, you know. I want to have peace while I do live; and for this reason, I say, I will give you my step-daughter in marriage, and you shall give me the note you hold against me for that old debt, the payment of which would compel me to live like a beggar for the remainder of my days, and the sum of ten thousand dollars."

"It's making a wife a rather expensive luxury," quoth old Amos, seating himself; "but the girl's a beauty – no disputing that point; and – "

"Of course she is," broke in Arthur, impatiently; "worth that, and more, to whoever wants her, which, fortunately for you, I don't; she is only a kill-joy to me. If you want the girl, take her, and be blessed – I'll give away the bride with all the pleasure in the world – and 'live happy ever after.'"

There was not much room for argument between these two. It was simply a question of exchange, and when old Amos had decided that he was not paying too dearly for so fair a piece of flesh and blood, they came to terms without more ado, and being agreed that "it's always best to strike while the iron is hot," Mr. Arthur suggested that his friend return with him, accept a seat at his hospitable board, and hear himself announced formally to Miss Madeline, as her future lord and master. John Arthur had ever exacted and received passive obedience from his step-daughter. He had little fear of rebellion now. How could she rebel? Was she not dependent upon his bounty for her daily bread, even?

Old Amos troubled his ugly head little if any on this point. He recognized no higher potentate than gold. He had bought him a wife; he had but to pay the price and take possession of the property.

Madeline Payne sat long on her leafy perch, thinking fast and hard, the expressions of her face changing rapidly as she revolved, in her mind, different phases of the situation. Surprise gave place to contempt, as she eyed the departing plotters from her green hiding-place. Contempt merged into amusement, as she thought of the wonderful contrast between the two wooers who had proffered their respective suits, in a manner so very different, beneath that self-same tree. A look of fixed resolve settled down upon her countenance at last, and uncurling herself, she dropped lightly upon the ground.

Madeline had made up her mind. That it would be useless to say aught of Lucian, she now knew too well. That she could never defy her father's commands, and still dwell beneath her father's roof, she also knew. She hesitated no longer. Fate, stronger than she, had decided for her, she reasoned. Her mind once made up, she gave in it no place to fears or misgivings. The strength of will and the spirit of rebellion, that were dormant in her nature, began to stir into life, roused by the injustice that would rob her of her own. She not only had a way of escape, but that way her own inclinations lured her. With never a fear, never a thought of the days to come, she turned from her mockery of a home, from her parent, unnatural, unloving, and unloved, to an unknown, untried world, which was all embodied in one word – Lucian.

The past held for her many dark shadows; the future held all that she craved of joy and love – Lucian.

In her outraged heart there was no room for grief. She had heard her dead mother scorned, and by him who, more than all others, should have cherished her memory and honored her name. She had heard herself bartered away, as a parcel of goods, and her very life weighed in the balance as a most objectionable thing. Her happiness was scoffed at; her wishes ignored as if without existence, and contrary to all nature; even her liberty was menaced.

Slowly she turned away, and very thoughtful was her face as she went, but fixed in its purpose as fate itself: and fearless still as if life had no dark places, no storm clouds, no despair.

Oh! they were lovely, innocent eyes; and oh! it was a sweet, sweet mouth! But the eyes never wavered, and the mouth had no trace of weakness in its dainty curves. You have reckoned without your host, John Arthur. It is no commonplace school-girl with whom you have to deal. Madeline Payne possesses a nature all untried, yet strong for good or evil. Intense in love or hate, fearless to do and dare, she will meet the fate you bring upon her – but woe to those who have compassed her downfall! If your hand has shaped the destiny of her life, she will no less overrule your future and, from afar – perhaps unrecognized, unseen – mete out to you measure for measure!

The grand old tree is sighing out a farewell. The sunlight is casting fantastic shadows where her foot, but a moment since, rested. The leaves glisten and whisper strange things. The golden buttercups laugh up in the sun's face, as if there were no drama of loving and hating, sin and atonement, daily enacted on their green, motherly bosom. And Madeline Payne has put her childhood behind her, and turned her face to the darkness beyond.

CHAPTER III.

THE STORY OF A CRIME

Nurse Hagar was displeased. She plied her knitting-needles fiercely, and seemed to rejoice in their sharp clicking. She rocked furiously backwards and forwards, and sharply admonished the cat to "take himself away," or she "would certainly rock on his tail." She "wanted to do something to somebody, she did!" She looked across the fields in the direction of Oakley, and dropping her knitting and bringing her chair to a tranquil state, soliloquized:

"It's always the way with young folks; they don't never remember that old uns have feelings. They run away after a new face, and if it's a young one and a handsome one, they turn everybody out of their thoughts; everybody else. Not that I think that city fellow's a handsome chap; by no means," she grumbled; "but Maidie does; that's certain sure. And she won't let me say a word about him – oh, no; I'm a poor old woman, and my advice is not wanted!"

Hagar resumed her knitting and her rocking with fresh vigor. But her face relaxed a measure of its grimness as, looking up, her eye rested on a dainty nosegay, tossed in at the window only that morning, by this same neglectful young girl.

"She don't mean to forget me, to be sure," she resumed. "She is always kind and gentle to her old nurse. She is lonesome, of course, and should have young company, like other girls, but – " here the needles slacked again – "drat that city chap! I wish he had stayed away from Bellair."

"Goodness, auntie, what a face! I am almost afraid to come in."

Madeline laughed, despite her anxiety, as Aunt Hagar permitted her opinion of the "city feller" to manifest itself in every feature.

"Get that awfully defiant look out of your countenance, auntie," continued Madeline; "for I'm coming in to have a long talk with you, and I must not be frightened in the beginning."

The lovely face disappeared from the open window, and in a moment reappeared in the doorway.

To permit herself to be propitiated in a moment, however, was not in the nature of Dame Hagar.

"I s'pose you think it's very respectful to pop your saucy head in at an old woman's window, and set her all of a tremble and then tell her, because she is not grinning for her own amusement, that she looks awfully cross, and that you are afraid she will bite you. You are a nice one to talk of being afraid; you, who never showed an atom of fear of anything from your cradle up. If you were a bit afraid, when you were out in the woods, for instance, and meet a long-legged animal with a smooth tongue, and eyes that ought to make you nervous, 'twouldn't be to your discredit, I think. Of course, I don't mean to say that you don't meet him quite by accident; oh, no! And I don't say that he ain't a very nice, respectable sort of chap, whatever I may think. You are just like your poor mother, and if this fellow with a name that might as well be Devil, and done with it – "

"There, now, auntie – " Madeline's face flushed, and she put the cat down with sudden emphasis; "I won't let you say bad things of Mr. Davlin, for I think you would be sorry for it afterward."

She drew a low seat to the side of the old lady, and looking her full in the face, spoke in a voice low, intense, full of purpose.

"Auntie, it is time you told me more about my mother. You have evaded, my step-father has forbidden, my questioning, but if I am ever to know aught of my dead mother's history, I intend to hear it from your lips to-day."

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