The Golden Key; Or, A Heart's Silent Worship

CHAPTER XVI. CHAPTER XVI. DO YOUR WORST. “Daughter!” gasped Allison, a feeling of utter despair at her heart, as John Hubbard gave utterance, in a tone of fiendish triumph, to that last word. “Do you mean to tell me that papa has an own daughter living?” “Yes—Miss Anna Brewster, who is a young lady a few years your senior. A fine-looking girl she is, too—a brilliant brunette, resembling her mother, who must also have been a handsome woman when she was young,” John Hubbard responded, as he covertly watched his companion. Allison sat silently thinking for several moments, but at last she looked up at the man, meeting his eyes with a steadfast look. “In spite of all you say, I do not believe it,” she said, with a quiet positiveness. “If that woman was his wife, there might have been some good reason for his repudiation of her; but he never would have denied the child that was his own flesh and blood. He was too honorable not to wish to do what was right and honest, and he would certainly have made generous provision for her. No, I will not credit such a story.” “Suppose I should show you the certificate of his marriage to this woman, also some letters which he wrote to her before their marriage?” questioned her companion, a light of evil triumph in his eyes. “If you have such proofs, of course you will show them to me,” Allison haughtily returned. “You cannot suppose that I am going to take all that you have told me for granted, and yield my position and fortune without a struggle. Produce your evidence, if you have it; it is my right to demand it.” “Very well; I will produce it,” said the man, with an ugly frown upon his brow; and, slipping his hand inside the breast pocket of his coat, he drew forth a large envelope and a small package of time-yellowed letters that were tied together with a faded blue ribbon. Drawing a paper from the envelope, he unfolded and spread it out upon the table before Allison. It was a marriage-certificate, dated more than twenty-four years previous. It certified that on the 10th of April, of 18—, Adam Brewster had been united in marriage to Louisa M. Simpson, of New Haven, Connecticut, by the Reverend Albert Ackerman. The document was faded and creased with time, and it had every appearance of being a genuine certificate. Allison read it carefully, then pushed it one side, and held out her hand for the letters. As she untied the narrow ribbon that bound them, and the various missives dropped apart, a low cry of pain escaped her, for she instantly recognized her father’s handwriting upon their envelopes. Opening several of these, she saw that they were affectionately addressed to “My Dearest,” “Sweetheart ,” “ Ma Belle ,” etc., and signed “Ever yours,” or “Your own Ad.” There could not be the slightest doubt that those letters had been written by Adam Brewster, although Allison did not have the heart to read any of them, and gradually the conviction was forced upon her that the story which John Hubbard had told her must be true. What then, was to be her fate? Mrs. Brewster’s confession of her secret adoption had, at first, cut her to the heart, for it had seemed to alienate her from the dear ones whom, all her life, she had regarded as her parents; but, in the light of this later revelation, she now felt a thrill of thankfulness in knowing that she had not been their child, since such a birth would seem to entail disgrace upon her; and, like a drowning person clutching at a straw of hope, she now clung to that assurance contained in the young mother’s note that the child whom she had been forced to desert was “well and honorably born.” And yet she knew that Adam Brewster had loved her as he loved no other being on earth; that all his hopes had been centered in her; that he had constantly toiled and accumulated for her alone, and gloried in the fact that she would be his sole heiress. She could not understand why, if he really had an own child, he should have repudiated her; why he had not made handsome provision for her. Possibly he had done so, unknown to any one save this woman and her daughter; and they, now becoming greedy for more, were taking this way to get possession of the heritage willed to her. “Yes,” she sighed, at last, as she gathered up and retied the letters together, “I am afraid it is all true.” A sinister, avaricious light sprang into the eyes of her companion as she made this admission. “Still,” she thoughtfully resumed, “I do not see how it can very materially affect my position. I was reared as my father’s own child; all the world knows it; and the will which he made, naming me as his heiress, must stand.” “Mrs. Brewster and her daughter will contest that will,” briefly observed John Hubbard. “How can they? Was it not legally drawn? If it was not, then you are responsible for its invalidity,” sharply retorted Allison. “Certainly it was legally drawn; there is no flaw in it,” was the dignified response, although the man flushed guiltily as he recalled that Sunday morning which he had spent in the bank the previous winter. “But, according to certain laws, a man has no right to make a will ignoring any of his heirs, and if, either by oversight or design, he does so, the will can be broken. Consequently, Mrs. Brewster has informed me that she should bring a suit against her late husband’s estate, and demand recognition of her position and rights.” “And, in view of that threat, have not you, as my guardian, done anything to protect my interests?” demanded Allison, with some warmth. “Certainly, Miss Brewster; I have done a great deal. I have staved off proceedings, for one thing, hoping that we might compromise matters, and so settle everything quietly, without a trial and a scandal. This could have been done if—if my plans had worked,” said the crafty man, with a reproachful look and sigh. “But now I think Mrs. Brewster will press her claims. She will try to break the will, asserting that you have no right to anything, while she, being the legal wife, and her child, the only legitimate heir, are justly entitled to everything.” “Oh, will poor, dear mama’s name have to be dragged before the public? Will this claimant try to prove that mama was never legally married to papa?” exclaimed Allison, in deep distress, her face crimsoning with shame at the thought of having that lovely and sainted woman’s reputation so trailed in the dust. “Yes, I fear she does not intend to spare her rival, unless we can hit upon some plan of settling the matter quietly,” said the crafty villain. “Can it be quietly settled?” eagerly questioned the distressed girl. “Possibly it might be,” the man admitted, with averted eyes. “How?” “Well, I suppose if you would resign everything——” “Everything! Do you tell me that I am expected to relinquish all right and title to everything that my dear father left me?” cried Allison, the hot color mounting to her forehead in indignant protest against such wholesale robbery. “Ahem!” said John Hubbard, moving uneasily upon his chair. “I think that will be the only way to get out of it quietly. You see, you are not really entitled to a penny, since there is no Brewster blood in your veins.” “But do not the love and wishes of my father, as expressed in his will, count for anything?” “From a sentimental point of view, they might count for a great deal; but there is no sentiment in law, Miss Brewster,” sneered the attorney. “No, nor any other principle but greed!” sharply retorted Allison, a ring of keen pain in her tones. It seemed as if she was an entirely different being from what she had been two hours previous, as if some terrible metamorphosis had taken place in her, destroying her identity and making her a stranger to even herself. She was no longer Allison Brewster, the heiress to a vast fortune; she had no longer any right to the position she had always occupied. She did not know who she was, or—if this strange woman, who called herself Adam Brewster’s widow, demanded the uttermost farthing—how she was to live in the future, or find a home to shelter her. “Oh, it is all a cruel mystery, and I do not know how to meet it!” the perplexed girl sighed, almost unconsciously voicing her thoughts. “Yes, the events connected with your association with the Brewster family are mysterious, and it is doubtful if they will ever be solved,” responded her companion, a gleam of cruel satisfaction in his eyes in view of the evident suffering of his victim. “And,” he added, pressing the thorn yet more deeply into the wound, “it must seem hard to one reared as luxuriously as you have been to be reduced from affluence to abject poverty by a single blow.” His cruelty stung her to the quick. “It shall not be! I will not be so robbed!” she exclaimed excitedly. “I will claim that I have a right to at least some portion of the fortune which my father willed me. Surely no judge or jury would ever decree that that woman and her daughter are entitled to the whole. And I cannot quite understand your attitude in connection with their claims, Mr. Hubbard,” she added, with sudden thought. “Considering your position as my guardian, one would naturally suppose you would make a brave fight for me, rather than advocate their cause so earnestly.” “I have already fought to the finish for you. I have spared no effort to win,” the man retorted significantly: “but, as I have already told you, you have sealed your own doom. I could have braved everything for my wife, and I would have won the victory; but when a girl tells a man that she loves a fellow he hates, and that she would rather be a beggar or a street-sweeper than marry him, her scorn has a tendency to produce a strong revulsion in his feelings. And now, my proud little beggar—for such you will be—you may go and starve, for all I care!” he concluded, with intense bitterness. “I will not starve! I will defy you to the very end,” Allison cried spiritedly, as she again sprang to her feet and confronted her sworn foe with flashing eyes. “Oh, I am almost inclined to believe that this is some deep-laid plot to ruin me—some vile scheme of your own to drive me into a hateful marriage with you, or into poverty and obscurity as my only alternative. I have never trusted you, Mr. John Hubbard, and have wondered how papa could have put faith in you. I have long believed you to be tricky and capable of double-dealing. I have always felt that you had a hand in bringing that trouble upon Gerald. But truth and the right triumphed in his case, and you will be foiled in this. I am only a lonely girl. I know nothing about the quirks and quibbles of law; but I am inclined to doubt this story of yours regarding the woman whom you call Mrs. Brewster, in spite of the ‘proofs’ which you have shown me; and now I am going to prove to you that, even though I may have no Brewster blood in my veins, I have a spirit of which Adam Brewster need not be ashamed in the girl whom he reared as his daughter. Now, do your worst, Mr. Hubbard, and I will seek the best counsel in New York to fight against you!” She was gloriously beautiful as she stood proudly facing her enemy. Her pose was proud and fearless, her cheeks were scarlet, and her beautiful eyes blazed with a fire which bespoke dauntless courage. She seemed to have suddenly developed from a quiet, clinging, dependent schoolgirl into a strong, self-reliant woman, who was determined to do and dare all things to maintain her rights and preserve her heritage. John Hubbard gazed upon her wonderingly. He had not dreamed of arousing such a sleeping lioness; he had believed that she would be so overwhelmed by the proofs and the power which he held in his hands that she would tamely submit to the inevitable, and relinquish all right or title to the Brewster estate, whereupon he would come without an effort into possession of her fortune, which he had so long coveted. “And whom will you choose as your attorney to contest this case, Miss Brewster?” he inquired, in a harsh, rasping voice, after recovering a little from his surprise at the stand she had taken. “I do not know yet, and I should not tell you if I did,” she coldly responded. Then she added thoughtlessly: “Gerald will advise me. Perhaps Mr. Lyttleton——” A vicious, sibilant oath here interrupted her as she uttered these names. “Neither is in New York. They sailed again for Europe a week ago to-day,” John Hubbard added, in a tone of vindictive triumph. Allison started violently, then flushed a wounded crimson. This explained why she had not heard from Gerald, she thought. Doubtless his employer had been suddenly recalled to England upon some business connected with “the complicated case” that he was conducting there. And yet she felt, with a terrible sense of loss and pain, that Gerald might at least have found time to drop her a line, telling her of his unexpected flitting. It was very strange, and she was deeply wounded, but she did not once suspect foul play—that John Hubbard might have been tampering with her correspondence. Such was the case, however. No letter of hers had been allowed to reach Gerald; while, at that very moment, two tender epistles from her lover, one of them telling her that he and his employer had been summoned abroad again, and giving her his London address, were tucked snugly away in the villain’s wallet. “Very well,” she proudly returned, on recovering herself a little; “there are other talented lawyers. I shall find some one to help me.” “But where will you get the money necessary to conduct your case, Miss Brewster?” sneeringly demanded Mr. Hubbard. “Litigation is expensive business, and, in view of your present attitude, I shall feel it my duty to cut off your allowance from this time on.” Allison’s heart sank within her, for she saw that she was powerless in his hands; he had control of her property, and she could not compel him to give her a single dollar if he chose to withhold it. “Well, at least I have my mother’s jewels. I can pledge them as security for my counsel’s fee,” she wearily replied. “I beg leave to differ with you, my dear young lady,” was the sarcastic retort. “Those jewels, as you are aware, are in my safe; and since it has been proved that you are not Adam Brewster’s daughter, they will be regarded as belonging to his estate, and so retained for the true heirs, as the court shall decide.” “Mr. Hubbard, you know that they rightly belong to me,” Allison indignantly exclaimed. “You know that papa intended them for me. He told Mr. Winchester so when he sent him to get them, and I demand them from you.” “Excuse me, but I shall be obliged to ignore your demand,” returned the man, with a cruel smile. “Having been purchased with Mr. Brewster’s money, they henceforth properly belong to Mr. Brewster’s own daughter, and they will probably become the property of Miss Anna Brewster.” Allison stood silently and gravely regarding him for a moment. “Have you no heart?” she at length inquired. “Have you no principle, that you thus prove recreant to the trust my father reposed in you?” “I was appointed guardian to Mr. Brewster’s daughter, and I fully intend to see that the lady has her rights,” John Hubbard replied. “You know that you are not in the least carrying out the spirit of my father’s will,” said Allison solemnly. “You, as well as I, know that he would never have left his property as he did if he had supposed there was any one living who would contest his wishes. You are guilty of a great wrong.” “Miss Brewster, I am fulfilling the ‘letter of the law’. Ah, Allison, you should never have made an enemy of me,” the villain concluded mockingly. “Oh!” cried Allison passionately, and with a shiver of repugnance; “I believe I would rather have your enmity than your friendship, if it would free me forever from your hateful presence! From this moment I repudiate you utterly, and all your authority over me. Now, do your worst; but I warn you I will make a hot battle for you!” John Hubbard felt a strange heart-sinking as he looked upon the beautiful girl, read the scorn in her great blue eyes, and realized how utterly despicable he was in her sight. Then he laughed out mockingly. “I am afraid you have undertaken more than you realize, Allison,” he said, all his ghastly teeth gleaming at her from the shadow of his inky mustache; “for let me tell you another precious little secret.” And now he bent so that his own evil eyes came just on a level with hers. “You have scornfully rejected the hand and fortune which I offered you, but Miss Anna Brewster stands ready to become Mrs. John Hubbard any day I choose to name for the wedding. So, you perceive, you will have the united interests of Hubbard and Brewster against you; and do you think I will let such a fortune slip out of my hands?” CHAPTER XVII. WRECK OF THE LIMITED. As the man recklessly threw that last poisoned lance at Allison, he turned and abruptly left the room, without waiting to note what effect his words would have upon her. She was almost paralyzed for a moment, in view of the fiendish plan which she now saw he was contemplating. Then she nervously sank into her chair again, too weak to stand—too wretched to care much whether she lived or died. “Oh, I believe it is all a plot of his own making!” she sighed. “I feel as if I had become entangled in some net, from which there is no hope of escape, and I am sure I do not know to whom I can look for help in this terrible emergency. Gerald has gone—how strange! I cannot understand why he should not have confided the fact to me.” A bitter sob interrupted her at this point, for she was deeply wounded by her lover’s apparent neglect of her. She was indeed in a trying position. She did not know what to do or to whom to turn. Her cousin, Mrs. Manning, was, as she supposed, still abroad; she could not tell her troubles to mere acquaintances, and she felt utterly alone. “Can it be possible that I am no longer I—Allison Brewster? Am I indeed only a poor little waif who was deserted almost at my birth?” she sighed wearily, as she drew the box again toward her, and examined, once more, the little garments it contained and the golden key with the tiny diamond set in the heart of the pansy. “What does it unlock I wonder?” she murmured thoughtfully; “or is it only an ornament? If so, it is a queer device, for it certainly is a perfect key.” Then she reread the note supposed to have been penned by the hand of her real mother, and after that the letter written by Mrs. Brewster. “Poor, dear mama! How she must have suffered to have had such a secret upon her mind! But both she and papa loved me as if I had been their very own,” she mused, as she touched the closely written pages to her lips. After that she sat a long time, thinking, and trying to decide what she should do to wrest her heritage from the greedy clutch of John Hubbard and his accomplices, as she regarded them. “I have no money, except what I have saved from my allowance, and that, I fear, would not be a tempting retaining fee for any reliable lawyer. Then I wonder if papa would want all that past experience of his life raked over, to become subjects of discussion for a scandal-loving public? If that woman’s story is true, it proves that mama was never a lawful wife, even though papa may have believed he was free when he married her. Ah! he was so fond of her; it would certainly have deeply wounded him to have the truth known, and I would not wish to do anything to bring reproach upon the memory of either of them.” It was a trying position for the tender-hearted, conscientious girl, and she was sorely perplexed. On the one hand, if she made no effort to recover the fortune which her father had willed to her, she would be reduced to abject poverty; on the other hand, it seemed as if she would only be turning to sting the hearts that had nourished her by entailing opprobrium upon their names. Finally she returned the clothing and letters to the box, carefully locking it, and putting the key in her purse. Then she went wearily up-stairs to her room. The next morning Allison purposely delayed going down to breakfast until after John Hubbard had left the house for his usual trip to New York. Thus she was alone at the table, and, while she went through the form of breaking her fast, she took up the morning paper, which her guardian had left lying beside her plate and began to glance over its columns. Suddenly she started and uttered a joyful cry as her eye caught the following paragraph: “We learn from a Boston correspondent that the talented artist, Mr. Charles Manning, has recently returned from his long sojourn in Rome, where he has been pursuing his chosen profession under most favorable auspices, and established himself with his charming family in Boston, where he has some important commissions—one of which is the decoration of the ceiling of the elegant banquet hall of the —— House, a magnificent hotel which has recently been erected in that city. It is probable that, later, he will return to and locate in New York, where he will be warmly welcomed back to the circle from which both he and his cultivated wife have so long been missed. They are now stopping at the Vendome.” “Oh, could! anything have happened more opportunely?” Allison breathed, with a sob of thankfulness, as she laid down the paper to wipe the blinding tears from her eyes. “Cousin Charlie will be just the one to help me out of this dreadful trouble, and Annie will gladly take me under the friendly shelter of her wing until I can free myself from this hateful bondage to John Hubbard.” She sat absorbed in thought for some time; then, with an air of decision, continued: “Yes, I believe I will go at once to Boston, without saying a word to any one, and put myself under their protection. Ah, I feel like a new creature, now that I know that friends and help are near!” Her appetite seemed to return to her, in view of this solution of her difficulties, and, after eating a hearty meal, she was almost gay as she arose from the table and ran up-stairs to prepare for her journey. She thought it would hardly be kind to leave the house without some explanation to Mrs. Hubbard, who had invariably been very good to her; therefore, she would tell her that she was going to New York, and might not be back that day. This would give her time to get well on her way to Boston without the fear of being detained by the authority of her guardian. She knew, of course, that considerable excitement would ensue upon the discovery of her disappearance, but this did not trouble her, for, once she was safe under Mr. Manning’s protection, she intended to utterly repudiate Mr. Hubbard’s guardianship and appeal to the court to appoint her cousin’s husband in his place. She packed her valuables and some necessary clothing in a portmanteau, thinking that she could easily have her trunks expressed to her later. She was careful, however, to take along with her the box which contained the proofs that she was not Adam Brewster’s child; for, although it had brought her only sorrow, it might become important to her in the future. But a sudden thought came to her as she was about to pack it with her other things; and, reopening it, she took out the little golden key which had so excited her curiosity when she had previously examined it. “I will always wear it, after this. I will play that it is my mascot, and perhaps it will bring me good luck,” she said to herself, with a queer little smile. She had a pretty gold chain among her jewelry, and, attaching the key to this, she clasped it around her neck and concealed it beneath her dress. Then, rapidly completing her packing, she rang for a servant to order the carriage around to take her to the station, after which she dressed herself in a plain dark-gray traveling-suit, and then went to tell Mrs. Hubbard that she was going to run down to New York for a day or so. This announcement did not trouble or surprise the old lady, for Allison often made the trip alone to do shopping for herself, or keep an appointment with her dressmaker. But she did look a trifle startled when tears sprang into the eyes of the beautiful girl, as she kissed her good-by, giving her a spasmodic little embrace, and then hurriedly left the room. “I—I wonder what is the matter?” she mused, as she wiped one of Allison’s tears from her cheek. “I’m afraid the dear child isn’t quite happy with only John and me in the house. I’ll tell him that we must ask some young folks here to make it more lively for her.” But the kind-hearted old lady never saw the fair girl again, for two months later she “slept with her fathers.” It was a mercy, too, that she did not live to have her heart broken by learning later, as she must have learned, that her only son was an unmitigated scoundrel. Meantime, Allison was speeding on her way to New York, where she arrived just in season to purchase her ticket, recheck her baggage, and board a fast express bound for Boston. The day was very warm, and the girl was almost worn out with the grief and mental excitement of the last twenty-four hours, and it was with a deep sigh of relief that she settled herself in her section and knew that she would have a long rest. At New Haven she alighted and procured a light lunch, then returned to her seat, where, after the conductor had made his rounds, she lay back and soon fell into a heavy sleep. She did not waken once until the train stopped at Worcester, and then only long enough to show her ticket again, a profound slumber that was almost lethargy once more overpowering her senses. It was a blessed sleep for her—a merciful unconsciousness; for thus she escaped the realization, even for a moment, of the fearful fate toward which she was fast hastening. The train rushed on at lightning speed—it was the limited express—forests, rivers, and towns, like swift-flitting visions of dreamland appearing, then vanishing in rapid succession, until a misplaced switch sent it swerving off upon another track, when it went dashing and crashing into a heavy, slow-going freight with a terrible shock, demolishing the engine, throwing two cars from the track, and sending the one in which Allison was a passenger rolling down an embankment, and making a complete wreck of it. It was full of people, many of them bound for summer-resorts along the New England coast or among the mountains. Many were severely injured, several killed outright, five or six taken from the wreck for dead; and Allison was among these—the ghastly wound on top of her lovely golden head telling but too plainly how she had come to such a fate. She was drawn out from under the débris of the shattered car by an elderly gentleman, who had occupied the section opposite the one she had taken, and who had been irresistibly attracted by the fair, delicate girl who seemed to be traveling alone, and was so overcome by excessive weariness. For hours he had watched her, strangely fascinated by her beauty and the exquisite picture she made, with her refined face outlined against, and her golden hair contrasting so effectively with, the dark-blue cushion of her seat. His first thought was of her when, after the first terrible shock of the accident, he recovered from his own half-stunned condition to find that, except for some severe bruises and one or two cuts, he was unharmed—a fact which seemed almost a miracle, in view of the demolished condition of that portion of the car. He drew her from under the seat—which had fallen over and partially protected her—as carefully and tenderly as he was able, and he felt sure, as he observed the peaceful expression on the colorless face, that that cruel blow on her head had come so suddenly that she had not even been aroused from her slumber. “She was too young and beautiful to die like this,” the man muttered, with something very like a sob, as he gently deposited his burden upon a plot of grass, straightened the graceful figure, and clasped the slender hands upon the pulseless breast, covering the lovely face with a spotless handkerchief of his own. Then he remembered that he had seen a hand-bag on the seat with her, and he went back to the car to search for it. He finally found it under the forward end of the wreck, which had been driven backward several rods by the fatal shock that had demolished it before it left the track. The receptacle was crushed, and the articles it had contained were scattered about. He gathered up what he could find—a purse, a little package of dainty handkerchiefs wrapped in tissue-paper, a golden vinaigrette, and a comb of tortoise-shell. He then went back and sat down beside his charge, and opened the purse, in the hope of finding some name or address by which he could identify her. He found a roll of bills amounting to quite a generous sum, some pieces of silver, a key, a gold glove-buttoner, and a baggage-check, but there was no card, not even a scrap of paper, to give him the slightest clue to the unfortunate girl’s identity. “The check may throw some light upon the subject, however,” he told himself; and, with this thought in his mind, he made his way into the baggage-car, where, he soon found Allison’s portmanteau, but which, alas! had no name upon it. When the débris was removed from the track, the uninjured cars were transferred to their proper pathway, where they were attached to another ingoing train, while the injured were made as comfortable as circumstances would permit, the dead being placed in a baggage-car. All save Allison, the old gentleman who had constituted himself the guardian of her lifeless form refusing to allow any one else to touch her. He carried her in his arms to a stateroom of one of the parlor-cars, where he laid her upon a berth and then sat down beside her to keep guard over her until they should arrive in the city, when he knew he would be obliged to yield the body up to the proper authorities, to be retained for identification. As we already know, Allison had informed no one of her intention of going to Boston to put herself under the protection of the Mannings. She had simply told Mrs. Hubbard that she was going to New York, and might not return that day. As she had sometimes remained overnight with one of her up-town friends, John Hubbard did not experience any uneasiness when she failed to make her appearance that evening. He knew that she was bitterly angry with him, and it was not surprising that she should wish to get away from his presence for a time. Possibly she had even gone to consult some lawyer with reference to her affairs, but he only smiled viciously at this thought, for he believed that his plans had been so cleverly devised that there was not the ghost of a chance of their being overthrown. But when the second day passed and his ward was still absent, he began to be considerably exercised over her mysterious flitting, for a mystery always angered him. He did not see a Boston paper that day, and the New York papers only briefly described the accident that had occurred to the limited express, without giving any names of the victims. But on the third morning after the strange disappearance of Allison he was terribly shocked, after reading a full account of the accident, to find the name of “Miss Brewster” among the list of those who had been killed. CHAPTER XVIII. A CRUSHING TROUBLE. John Hubbard sat like one stunned, upon realizing the full import of what he had read of Allison’s probable fate, and at once he seemed to comprehend her object in going to Boston. He also had heard of the Mannings’ return from Rome, and, knowing how fond of her cousins Allison had always been, he had not a doubt that she had fled to them for protection and assistance. But the shock which he had at first experienced was almost immediately followed by a thrill of exultation. “That settles everything,” he muttered; “I shall now have no fear of her contesting Mrs. Adam Brewster’s claims, on the ground that a will was made in her favor, and thus, perhaps, securing a division of the property. Everything will now naturally go to the new claimants, and the Brewster fortune is mine. I will marry the girl, Anna, thus making their interests identical with mine, take her abroad for a year or two, to polish her off, then I can come back to take my place with the other millionaires of the city. There need be no more scheming or plodding for you, John; your future is an assured success; henceforth, you can rest upon your oars and have a jolly good time,” he concluded, with a sigh of infinite content. His once boasted affection for Allison—what had become of it? He had been momentarily shocked, but he did not appear to experience the slightest grief in view of her untimely end. “The high-spirited little minx” had dared to defy him, thus arousing his anger and malice, and since his greed for gold now bade fair to be fully gratified, she was apparently no more to him than a worm that had been crushed in his path. Still, there were certain duties devolving upon him, certain observances to which he must conform, and he had no intention of being criticized for neglect of them. Consequently, he started directly for Boston, for the purpose of identifying his ward and properly attending to everything that might be necessary. But when he went to the morgue, and made inquiries, he was appalled upon being told that the body of the young lady had already been identified and removed. “It cannot be possible,” he exclaimed. “Are you sure it was Miss Brewster’s body which was taken away?” “Certainly,” the official replied; “a Russia-leather card-case, containing cards bearing the name of Miss Brewster, had been found upon the person of the young lady, thus proving her to be the person the gentleman was inquiring for.” Mr. Hubbard thought possibly the Mannings might have identified Allison and cared for her, and, with this idea in mind, he sought Mr. Manning at the Vendome. But Mr. Manning was horrified upon being interviewed upon the subject. He had read an account of the accident, and had seen the name of Brewster among the list of killed, but had not once thought of Allison in connection with the event, supposing the person to belong to some other family of the same name. Mr. Hubbard found it somewhat embarrassing to explain how his ward happened to be traveling to Boston alone; but, thinking that the truth might as well come out first as last, he related something of the circumstances connected with the appearance of Mrs. Adam Brewster and her daughter; said that Allison had become very angry upon learning the truth, and thus, he supposed, she had taken it into her head to come to her cousins in Boston. A diligent search was instituted, and many inquiries made for the body of the missing girl; but all to no purpose—some one had taken care of it—every victim had been identified by friends and taken away. The Mannings were overwhelmed with grief, and Mr. Hubbard was finally forced to return to New York, also very much disturbed by the mystery which seemed to shroud the fate of his late ward. Two months passed, during which the plans of the wily schemer—the chief obstacles having been removed—progressed to his entire satisfaction. His application to the courts for the recognition of Mrs. Adam Brewster and Miss Anna Brewster, as the only lawful heirs of the late banker, had been granted, and their claims established, notwithstanding the fact that Mr. Charles Manning had come forward to contest them, on behalf of his wife, who, he asserted, was the niece of Mr. Brewster, and his only living relative. He utterly repudiated the story regarding that gentleman’s early marriage and subsequent separation from the woman in question. But his claim was overruled, in view of the preponderance of evidence upon the other side. The old love-letters, the marriage-certificate, the certified copy of the record of the transaction, together with quite a sensational story regarding the early married life of the couple, their occasional disputes, which finally ended in a violent quarrel and separation, all having been very cleverly arranged and sustained, were considered proof positive that the widow and her daughter were the only legal heirs, and the case was very shortly decided in their favor. Of course, it created a great deal of sensation and gossip, but, like all other affairs of a similar nature, it had its “nine days’” run, and was then forgotten in the excitement pertaining to some newer scandal. A few days after the decision of the court was rendered, Miss Anna Brewster became Mrs. John Hubbard. Mrs. Adam Brewster was handsomely pensioned off, and luxuriously settled in an up-town apartment, where she was to live at her ease, while the newly wedded couple were traveling in Europe, and the “Brewster Case” was supposed to be finally settled. Of all these happenings, however, Gerald, as yet, knew nothing, for, shortly after Allison’s departure for Newport, Mr. Lyttleton had been again suddenly summoned abroad, by his sister, to discuss some new feature which had unexpectedly arisen in connection with the lawsuit which he was conducting for her. Gerald and Allison had agreed to continue their correspondence as heretofore, but he did not hear from her once before he left. This, although a disappointment to him, did not trouble him, especially as he attributed it to the confusion and many cares incident upon opening the villa and getting settled for the summer. He had written to her once or twice, and, upon learning of his plans, wrote again, telling her the date of his sailing, giving, also, his London address, and begging her to write him immediately. But John Hubbard had already intercepted all letters written by the lovers, and this shared the same fate as the others; and thus Allison did not know of Gerald’s departure until her guardian informed her of the fact. Thus as weeks passed, after his arrival in London, and Gerald received no word from his betrothed, he began to grow very unhappy and anxious about her. He sent letter after letter to her, only to have them fall into the hands of that arch-plotter, who did not hesitate to open and read them, then chuckle exultantly over the success of his scheme and the misery of his hated rival. Finally, becoming almost distracted over this mysterious silence, our hero began to suspect that his correspondence was intercepted, and he realized that he must find some other way of communicating with Allison. Accordingly, he wrote to one of the clerks in the New York office, telling him something of his trouble, and asking him to find some means of conveying the enclosed letter to Miss Brewster, and secure a reply to it, if possible. But before he could get a response to this appeal, Mr. Lyttleton was obliged to make a trip to Berlin, to obtain some important data, and here they were detained two or three weeks. Thus Gerald’s wild grief may be imagined when, upon his return to London, he found awaiting him a letter containing the announcement of Allison’s tragic death, and which, together with accompanying New York papers, gave a full account of the sad event, and of the subsequent litigation in connection with the Brewster estate, the result of which was the transfer of everything into the hands of the acknowledged widow and daughter of the late banker. The latest paper announcing the marriage of John Hubbard to “the beautiful Miss Anna Brewster,” had not been forwarded; thus Gerald could not know that his old enemy was now virtually the possessor of the great fortune that had been willed to Allison. Gerald was so prostrated by the terrible shock consequent upon this blighting news that he lay ill for nearly a fortnight at his hotel, and narrowly escaped having brain fever. When he was finally able to resume his business, he looked like the ghost of his former self; he seemed to be bereft of all courage and desire for life, and it was only by the persistent exercise of all the will-power he possessed that he was enabled to fulfill his duty to his employer. Mr. Lyttleton, to whom he freely confided his trouble, sympathized deeply with him, and tried to induce him to take a rest—to go to Paris, or even to Rome, for a change. But Gerald only shuddered at this proposal. “Oh, I do not want to rest. I do not want a chance to think. I shall lose my mind if I am left to myself!” he responded in a tone of despair that keenly smote the kind heart of his friend. “Give me work—piles of work,” he added nervously; “I do not care how hard you crowd me, if it will serve to occupy my thoughts and keep me from dwelling upon that railway horror and upon that knave who, I firmly believe, drove my darling to her death.” So Mr. Lyttleton made work for him, realizing his need of employment, but the white, drawn face of the bereaved lover haunted him continually, until he began to feel as if he also had been personally afflicted. Had it not been for the deep and absorbing interest which, previous to this, Gerald had begun to take in the wonderful case upon which his employer was engaged, it is doubtful if he would have been able to bear up during these first dark days of his crushing trouble. Mr. Lyttleton’s sister had, when very young, married an Englishman, and under very peculiar circumstances. The home of the lawyer, during his youth, had been in a small town in Illinois; and, educational advantages being at that time very meager in their vicinity, Mabel Lyttleton had been sent East to pursue her studies, at a noted seminary in one of the suburbs of Boston. While there she had become acquainted with Charles Bromley, an Englishman, who was making a tour of this country, and just at that time visiting some relatives who resided in the vicinity of the above-mentioned seminary. The young man proceeded at once, upon their introduction, to fall violently in love with pretty Miss Lyttleton. His affection was most fervently reciprocated, and ere long both grew to feel that life apart from the other would be unendurable. Mr. Bromley intended to remain in the United States some six months longer, but, just on the eve of the holiday recess of the seminary, he was suddenly recalled to England by the peremptory order of his father. He was somewhat puzzled by this command, but, while discussing it with his betrothed, and arranging to return to her by the time her school-days were over, it suddenly struck him that it might have some connection with an old project of his father to consummate a union with a distant cousin, whose rent-roll amounted to some thousands of pounds per annum. “I will fix things,” said this young man to himself; “I will marry my little ‘prairie flower’ here and now, and then all the fathers in creation cannot compel me to marry anybody else.” Whereupon, he broached the subject to Miss Mabel, who—though she shrank from a secret marriage, as any pure-minded, conscientious girl would do—found that her affection for her handsome lover was stronger than her sense of filial duty, and she reluctantly yielded to young Bromley’s persuasions. They were very quietly married on Christmas eve, and young Bromley sailed for Europe the first day of January, but promised faithfully that he would return in season to accompany his wife to her home, upon her graduation from school, the following summer, when he would bear all the responsibility of their union, and boldly claim her of her father; her mother was not living. Letters passed between them every week, and they continued to be very happy in the knowledge of the secret tie that united them. Young Bromley found that ill health had prompted his father to summon him home, for the cares pertaining to Sir Charles Bromley’s estate had become too heavy for him, and he needed help. The marriage with the distant cousin was broached, for the baronet earnestly wished to see his son settled in life, while, too, he had an eye to the welding of two fortunes, which would result from the union; but when he discovered his son’s opposition to such an alliance, he did not urge it, for he was no tyrant, and believed a man had the right to choose his own wife. The old gentleman became so much better as the summer drew on apace, he consented to allow the young man to complete his interrupted tour in America, and the little wife so patiently awaiting him was finally made supremely happy by having the day fixed for his sailing. But, alas! just the week previous to her graduation, there came a letter stating that Sir Charles had been prostrated by a stroke of paralysis, and the young husband could not leave until his father was declared out of danger. This was a terrible blow, and at first it seemed as if she could not bear it; but her friend and confidante, Helen Atwood, wrote to Mr. Lyttleton, begging that Mabel might be allowed to remain with her during the remainder of the summer, as her parents were going abroad for three or four months, and she would be very lonely during their absence. This petition was granted, greatly to the delight of the two friends, who retired to Mr. Atwood’s country home, a few miles out of the city, to rusticate and enjoy each other’s companionship, and most earnestly hoping that Mr. Bromley would put in an appearance before the visit should come to an end. The latter part of August there came a letter from Bromley Court, announcing the death of the baronet, after a second attack of paralysis; the next week the waiting wife received another letter, saying that, at last, her husband was free to come to her, and would sail five days later, and would be with her in a little more than a week afterward. But the steamer on which he sailed was the ill-fated Catalonia , which was wrecked the sixth day out, its few survivors being picked up the following morning by another vessel. But, alas! among the names of the passengers who were lost was that of Sir Charles Bromley. The news of this terrible tragedy, coming, as it did, just at the moment when her cup of joy seemed full, was more than the waiting wife could bear. As her horrified glance fell upon the name of her idolized husband in the list of the dead, a shriek of agony burst from her lips, and she sank to the floor in strong convulsions, the fatal paper clutched in her rigid hands. For several days she lay at the point of death, but mercifully unconscious of her own suffering, and her apparently blighted life. Then she slowly began to rally, coming back to life and consciousness, but so broken-hearted that it was painful to be in her presence. But, three weeks afterward, her mourning was turned into joy by the sudden appearance of her husband, who, after various thrilling experiences, had been rescued, with two or three others, by a sailing-vessel which had arrived in port only that morning, when he immediately hastened to his wife. CHAPTER XIX. GERALD MEETS HUBBARD. The fair invalid’s convalescence was very rapid after that, and as soon as she was able to travel, the happy couple started for the home of the Lyttletons, in Illinois, where, upon their arrival, the family were astounded to learn that Mabel had been a wife for nearly a year, and would soon leave them again, to reside permanently in England. The brothers, who worshiped their only sister—the baby and pet of the household—at once accorded their new brother-in-law a hearty welcome, and rather enjoyed the romance that had attended Mabel’s marriage; but their father, a reserved, austere man, was inclined to be very harsh with his daughter for having played them such a trick. It was not, however, in the power of any one to long resist the frank, manly young husband, who boldly asserted that he might have been wrong in enticing his wife into a secret marriage, but that “he would do it over again if it were necessary, rather than run the risk of losing her.” Such a spirit rather staggered the old gentleman, but, on the whole, he secretly admired the handsome sinner; while the fact of being father-in-law to an English Baronet, to have one’s daughter addressed as Lady Bromley, proved to be a salve to his wounded dignity and love of authority; therefore, the erring little lady’s indiscretion was finally condoned, and all was well. After a few weeks spent in her home, she departed for England with her husband, where, with the exception of occasional visits to this country, she had resided ever since, and led a very happy life. Her husband had died the year previous to Gerald’s connection with Mr. Lyttleton, and the “complicated case,” which this gentleman was conducting for his sister, was the settlement of the Bromley estate, a distant relative having laid claim to it, upon the ground of being nearest of kin, since Sir Charles had left no heir. The property had been largely augmented by the fortune of the distant cousin, whom the elder baronet had wished his son to marry. The lady had always cherished a secret affection for the young man, and her love proving stronger and more enduring than her resentment against him for choosing a younger and fairer bride, she had bequeathed everything to him upon her death, which occurred some ten years after the present Lady Bromley had come to Bromley Court, and of whom also she became very fond. Thus the Bromley fortune was a magnificent inheritance, and Richard Lyttleton was doing his utmost to save it for his sister. Nevertheless, a court of chancery was an almost hopeless labyrinth in which to become involved, and it might be years before the case would be settled. Lady Bromley was a fair, sweet-faced woman of about thirty-eight or forty years, and, from the moment of their meeting, Gerald had been strongly attracted to her, and she to him. Therefore, upon learning of the terrible shock and sorrow that had recently come to him, her sympathies were instantly enlisted in his behalf, and she went to him often during his illness, to be sure he had proper care and to cheer him as well as she could. When he was able to leave his room, she conceived a plan by which she hoped to be of real benefit to him. She made him come to lunch with her one day, and, after she had induced him to speak freely of his bereavement and his love for the beautiful girl whom he had hoped to marry, she confided to him something of her own story, as related above. “Come and stay here with me for a while,” she pleaded during this exchange of confidence; “I am almost alone in this great, silent house”—glancing around the spacious, luxurious room with a sigh—“and I should be glad to have some young life about me. Richard, you know, is always so busy he can never spare me much of his time, and my evenings are especially lonely. I want you to tell me more of this lovely Allison Brewster; it will do you good to talk of her, even though the story is so sad. Ah! I shall never forget the dreadful day when I read that tragic account in the newspaper and believed my husband to be lying in the depths of the sea!” So, with her sweet sympathy and her plea for companionship, she won her point, and almost every day after that, when his work was done, Gerald might have been seen driving about or visiting some place of interest with her. There was a gentle graciousness about her—a sort of elder-sisterly manner toward him, that made her very charming, and he soon grew to feel as if he must always have known her, and he became devoted to her. This pleased Mr. Lyttleton, who was intensely relieved to see that the face of his confidential clerk was beginning to lose its tense look of pain, and that, when he came to his work in the morning, he no longer appeared jaded and haggard, as if he had spent the whole night in grieving. Thus time passed, and it was nearly the first of October when, one day, Mr. Lyttleton announced that, for the fourth time, the long-contested case had been put off until another term; and accordingly they would return to New York at the end of another week. “Then, Richard, I am going with you,” suddenly exclaimed Lady Bromley, as she shot a wistful look at Gerald, who had grown very pale at the thought of going home, where the loss of Allison would seem like a fresh grief to him. “I will leave all business matters in the hands of Mr. Cram, the steward, and make a little visit to my native land, where I will stay until this dreadful lawsuit is called again. I am almost ready to give up the battle. I am tired out with it, and begin to think that the whole Bromley fortune is not worth the wear and tear of all this worry.” “Nonsense, Mabel!” impatiently returned her brother, a dogged expression settling over his face; “that is just what the other side is working for—they want to tire you out, and I’m not going to give up the fight, by any means. I know that Sir Charles wanted you to be sole mistress of everything. I have often heard him say that you were to have all, in case anything happened to him; and how he ever allowed himself to be so negligent, and leave no will, I cannot understand. I sometimes think he may have made one, and it has slipped away somewhere.” “I’m afraid not, Richard; I have hunted the house over and over, as you know, and I am sure no such document exists,” said her ladyship, with a sigh. “However, I am going to run away from the whole business, and try to forget it for a while. I’m going home with you and Gerald,” she concluded, smiling. “Come, and welcome, dear,” said her brother cordially. The very next morning, as Gerald was walking down the Strand, intent upon a matter of business for Mr. Lyttleton, he was suddenly confronted by a man the sight of whom caused him to grow deathly pale, and his heart to throb suffocatingly, from various emotions. This man was none other than John Hubbard. The expert, upon recognizing Gerald, lifted his upper lip, and showed his gleaming teeth in a vicious grin. Then he attempted to pass on without any other sign of recognition. But the young man resolutely placed himself in his path. “Mr. Hubbard,” he remarked, with cold constraint, “you must excuse me for delaying you, but I want to ask you a few questions. I wish to inquire if any light has been thrown upon Miss Brewster’s fate during the last few weeks?” “Not that I am aware of,” the man stiffly replied. “It was all true, then—the story of that railway accident, and her—her burial by some parties unknown?” questioned Gerald, with quivering lips. “I suppose it was, since every possible effort was made to find her, but without avail,” the man returned, with a frown of annoyance, for his own pillow was, by no means, free from thorns in view of his agency in driving Allison from her home and to her death. Often, during the night, he would start from his sleep, the perspiration standing in cold beads all over him, his heart beating wildly with fear, as if some demon had seemed to shout in his ear the word “murderer!” and warn him that the wrongs which he had perpetrated against her would yet be avenged. “It was a mysterious affair,” he continued, after a moment of hesitation, and impelled almost against his will to make the explanation. “I went to Boston as soon as I learned of the accident, and saw her name in the paper, and made diligent inquiry for the—the body.” Gerald gave utterance to a shuddering exclamation. “It seems strange to me,” he said, “that, since her cards were found with her—at least, the paper so stated—any one should claim her unless there happened to be another Miss Brewster upon the train.” “It was strange.” “What can you tell me about this woman who claims to be Mrs. Adam Brewster?” Gerald asked, and abruptly leaving the other subject. “Where did she come from? Where has she been hiding all these years?” “She has lived in various places in New York City during the last few years,” responded the man, flushing hotly, for Gerald was now probing a sensitive spot; but he seemed helpless to get away from his inquiries. “She’s rather a fine-looking woman, though not particularly well educated, or what one would have expected a man like Mr. Brewster to choose for a wife. Her daughter, however, has had far better advantages. She made her claims known to me not so very long after her husband’s death; but I tried to stave them off, for Allison’s sake, hoping that the matter could be quietly settled. But after her—the accident, there was nothing to be done but let the case come to trial.”

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