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(For The Sunny South.)
VICTIMS OF HATE;
—OR,—
The MysteriousWill.
BY GEO. H. POWERS,
Author of “The Purchased Bridegroom,” “False,’’
“The Poor Student,” “Which will we Marry,”
“The Bigamist,” “The Mysterious
Stranger,” etc., etc.
CHAPTER XXIY.
More than a week had now elapsed, and yet Dr.
Campbell had not yet arrived, although expected
every day.
Since leaving Ron\e, Norman had received no
tidings from him; but he was certain that Je
rome had not delayed his journey many days
after his return from Florence.
Candice said nothing concerning the pro
longed absence of the man she feared, but her
secret wish was that he might never return to
America, for she felt a certain mistrust that his
presence would bring nothing but grief and
misfortune.
In what manner he would continue to render
them wretched she could not say, but felt a
shuddering fear that such would be his purpose,
and having the will, the way would not be want
ing, however dark and criminal it might be.
But as time passed and he came not, forebod
ings ceased to trouble her, and she enjoyed to
the utmost the life of love and happiness that
opened to her.
But how could she suspect that the sweet
calm of these days was the calm that precedes
the storm ?
Meantime Norman was saddened by fears
that some disaster had overtaken his beloved
friend. It was rumored that the Queen Vic
toria, which had sailed from Liverpool on the
tenth of May, a few days later than the time
they had sailed from the same port, was now
over-due a considerable number of days.
The newspapers teemed with rumors of this
nature, yet Norman hoped that they were un
founded; and, even if true, that Jerome had not
taken passage upon the delayed ship.
In political circles it was all the talk, for sev
eral Englishmen of high repute—messengers
from her Majesty’s Government to the Govern
ment of the United States—had embarked on
the missing vessel; and while those nigh in pub
lic station anxiously watched for the coming
of the ship, in England the announcement of
her arrival was as eagerly looked for by that Gov
ernment and the friends of the doomed pas
sengers.
The.latest account that could be obtained con
cerning the ill-fated ship was from a vessel that
had met her, five days out of Liverpool.
Nothing further could be learned, except that ! her
in that latitude a severe storm had prevailed on
or about the sixth day.
Other vessels, in passing the same latitude on
the seventh day, observed portions of a wrecked
steamer being driven over the great deep by the
rolling waves.
As the'days wore on there could be no doubt
that the Queen Victoria was lost, with officers,
seamen and passengers. Norman, who had tel
egraphed to Mr. Chauncy, and learned by his
answer that his friend had really taken passage
on the doomed vessel, was overcome with grief.
The Tribune, of June 110, contained the follow
ing: “ There is now no longer an3- hope that the
Queen Victoria, which sailed from Liverpool on
the 10th ultimo, will ever reach the port of New
York. Over one month has elapsed since she
was due, and nothing has been heard of her J
since the fifth day she put to sea. The most j
hopeful are now without hope. She doubtless i
succumbed in mid-ocean to the recent storm,
and went dow'n with all on board. Among her
passengers were several English noblemen, who
were coming to our Government as commission
ers to sit in judgment upon certain grave ques
tions of international law. There w’ere also on
the ill-starred vessel, several distinguished Ame
ricans; among them Dr. Jerome Campbell, a
graduate of our own Harvard, but more recently
of Heidelberg, where he distinguished himself
by his remarkable aptitude in chemistry, in
which science he has since made several import
ant discoveries.”
The effect of this melancholy intelligence
upon Joseph Wheeler, at this particular time,
was quite serious.
Since his young brother’s return to America,
the health of this erratic individual had de
clined very rapidl3 T .
It was evident that he could not last many
months more, unless some unexpected change
should take place, or new medical treatment be
devised for his special case.
If Joseph should have confessed to the truth,
he would have admitted that he had faith to be
lieve that Dr. Campbell might effect a cure of
his malad3 r . The news of Jerome’s death was
carried to him by his son, Oakley Wheeler. He
received the intelligence calmly, so far as could
be judged from outward appearance. But Oak
ley knew that it was otherwise. He turned his
face to the wall, and lay as quiet as death for a
long time. But for the occasional quivering of
his body, Oakley would have said that his father
slumbered. Then he knew that a fierce and
protracted struggle was taking place in his
breast—a struggle in which plans long cherish
ed and self-interest were at stake. He awaited
the result of his father’s self-communion with
an anxiety but too apparent, the wily son know
ing that millions of dollars might possibly de
pend upon the decision of his parent. He knew
that his silent and protracted stud}* was not
solely the melancholy contemplation of one who
mourns for the departed.
After a time, the invalid changed his position
in bed and faced his son. His features were
haggard and pale. The last half hour seemed
to have added five years to his feebleness.
"Well, what shall we do now?” demanded
the impatient son.
"A question that I have been considering,”
answered Joseph AVheeler.
“With what conclusion?” inquired Oakley,
gazing into the face of his father as though he
would read his answer before it was expressed
in words.
"None,” replied Joseph AVheeler, thought
fully. "Since my brother’s return to America,
I have formed somewhat a different feeling for
him. As I inherited the bulk of my father's
estate, my income has been quite comfortable.
Now Norman makes me a very fair offer. He
proposes to give me enough of his estate to
make mine equal to his. It is very liberal in
my brother, but he forgets the terms of the AVill.
AVhen he comes to consult a lawyer, he will dis
cover that he cannot do it. You know how the
AVill reads ?”
"Yes,” responded Oakley, "but why need
he consult a lawyer. Let him do as he proposes
to. AVhen once the deeds are in our hands we
can take advantage of so stubborn and idiotic a
document.”
“It is a plan that would not turn out well,
Joseph AVheeler replied. “ The transfer of estate
would be put in the hands of his attorney, who
would straightway point out to him the result
of making such deeds. Unless Norman would
consent to have the deeds made out by some one
unacquainted with the terms of the AVill, we
should fail, which we cannot afford to do.”
"Then, must we abandon the hope?” asked
ilakley, "or shall we go on with Dr. Campbell’s
laD you cannot, with safety,” said his father.
Pshaw 1” was the answer. " For small cost
secure help.”
“ A'ery true; but I am not certain that I desire
it. Sometimes I think I would not have a hair
of your uncle Norman’s head harmed for three
times his wealth. Again, I can scarcely restrain
the hatred I bear him. Often, when alone with
him, I feel like plunging a knife into bis breast.
But to-day I feel calmer, and less like a devil
incarnate.”
Surely you have no intention of relenting?”
exclaimed Oakley.
“I <R> not know. I have given the subject
much consideration, and it seems to me we can
accomplish our ends in a different way. I be
lieve that your uncle has conceived an affection
for you. It is possible that he may never have
any children of his own; in such a case, he will
regard you as his heir.”
“But who wants to wait till one is old to
enjoy a fortune, and on uncertainty at that? I
don't.”
"But I am confident,” urged Joseph A\ 7 heeler,
“that my brother will not live to be older than
I am. Besides, if he takes the fancy to you
that I think he has, you can enjoy the advan
tages of his fortune from this day; just as he
enjoyed the benefit of my uncle’s wealth while
he lived.”
“All gammon, father!” exclaimed Oakley. “ I
am not going to get chicken-hearted, if you
are.”
“Oakley, Oakley!” cried Joseph AVheeler, in
grieved tones.
“ It is true, father,” answered Oakley. “ You
have always taught me to regard the estate as
justly belonging to us; you made me believe
that we were wronged out of it; you caused me
to hate my uncle when I was a mere child, and
have fed that hatred from day to day, until now
it is so bitter that you need not ask me to forget
it. You made me a dissembler and a hypocrite
to gain certain ends; you instructed me in
schemes concocted by yourself and Jerome
Campbell. You may forget and forgive; but I
cannot and will not.”
The vehemence with which these words were
uttered astonished Joseph AVheeler, and gave him
an insight into his son’s character that had here
tofore escaped his observation. He now saw that
Oakley was fully determined to accomplish the
purposes for which he had been so carefully
trained, without regard to what his opinion
might be, and he felt that he had not the power
to resist. Turning to his son, he said:
"Oakley, I do not feel equal to the task of
discussing this matter more to-day. AA’e will do
so at some future time, when I shall have made
up my 7 mind fully. Of course, ray boy, your
will is your own, and as you usually do as you
please, I presume that you will in this in
stance.”
"Of course I shall,” was the prompt answer,
and the evil-natured youth left the room.
Never was woman happier than beautiful and
beloved Candice. Fear had been stricken from
path, and her heart, lightened of its
■ onlj' burden, basked in the light of love and
happiness. Alas! that it could not always have
remained thus. Toward the last of June, Mr.
and Mrs. Chauncy arrived from Europe, and
visited their beloved daughter and her husband.
There accompanied them upon their journey
an Italian by the name of Beppo, a middle-aged,
gray-haired and gray-bearded man, who, having
rendered some important service to Mr. Chanucy,
had been taken at his urgent request as a kind
of valet or body-servant. He had been at the
home of Norman AA’heeler but a few days when
he begged to be transferred to Norman’s service,
and as Air. Chauncy had but little need of him
and Norman thought he could employ 7 him bet
ter, the former was quite willing that Beppo
should become one of his son-in-laws’s house
hold. He seemed steady 7 and efficient, and
though he appeared to speak English brokenly,
he was so quietly watchful that he understood
all orders, and betrayed a thorough, if not a
quick intelligence in all that pertained to his
sphere. Mr. Chauncy opened negotiations for
the purchase of an estate adjoining Norman’s,
being unwilling that his daughter should be
separated from him.
In the meantime, Joseph AVheeler had grown
worse instead of better, and was now unable to
sit in his bed. He felt that his time was very
close at hand; yet he had not made his peace
with his brother. At times, his heart softened;
but the hate and the purposes of a lifetime were
difficult things to overcome. Besides, he was
constantly urged bv his son to stick to his hatred
and revenge, and the man in his weakness had
not the will to contend against the energy and
determination of Oakley. It was now the first
of September. In the evening of the first day
of that month, Norman sought Candice in great
haste with a copy of the Daily Tribune in his
hands, from which he read the following:
“ AVondebfi'l Escape.—AVhile passingagronp
of small islands in the Atlantic last week, the
captuin of the good steamship Few Orleans
beheld a signal of distress floating from the
tree-top of the island nearest his vessel. He
‘hove to,’and found the island tenanted by a
single man, the sole survivor of all the passen
gers who sailed in the Queen Victoria. His name
is Dr. Jerome Campbell. During his passage
on the Few Orleans to this city, he was taken
with a fever, and is now lying at the Astor House.
The story of his escape from the doomed ship,
and the privations he endured on the island, is
very interesting. Our reporter, who visited Dr.
Camphell last evening, gives us, in another col
umn, a thrilling and faithful account of the
same.”
"I must go to him directly, Candice !” cried
Norman, joyfully. “ Will you bear me com
pany, darling, or are you too feeble?”
“ I cannot go,” she answered, faintly, the chill
of that vague fear striking once more to her
heart. The cloud had risen upon her fair sky,
though as yet it was no larger than a man’s hand.
Oakley bore the news, so unwelcome to Can-
dice, to his father. It aroused the dying man,
and he exclaimed:
"I must live till he comes. The Nemesis is
again on the path of Norman AVheeler !”
The son cried:
" Be firm, father ! Do not waver; our day has
come!"
CHAPTER XXV.
A week passed before Norman returned from
New York City with his bosom friend.
AVhen he arrived at the Astor, Dr. Campbell
was much better. The fever had been broken,
but owing to weakness attendant upon illness
and exposure, he was unable to stand the fatigue
of travel without another week’s repose.
As soon as his strength would permit, Norman
commenced his homeward journey.
Upon their arrival, Jerome was considerably
exhausted; yet he insisted upon seeing his
friends before retiring to his room for rest.
They were all there.
Joseph AVheeler and his son had come from a
feeling of curiosity, although the former should
ha ve remained at home and kept his bed. Since
he had learned that Jerome lived, his health hnd
improved slightly.
Jerome greeted them with affectionate tender
ness, and seemed utterly overcome by the joy of
seeing them, and by gratitude for his deliver
ance. A great change was apparent in his looks
and tones. Had his nearness to the confines of
the immortal world softened his heart so that
good was more to him than evil, and friends
more than enemies?
Joseph AVheeler thought so, and on being
borne back to his carriage by his son and de
posited on the soft cushions, he said:
" Yon need not look for him to help you, Oak
ley. Like me, he has been so near death that he
has repented of his enmity and revenge.”
Soon after the departure of Josepn AVheeler
to seek rest from the fatigue of travel, promis
ing to come down in the evening and relate his
adventures.
Mr. Chauncy was delighted, and informed
Jerome that he and his wife would remain to
hear his story. Even Candice was fascinated by
the words and manner of this wily man, and ac
cused herself of unjust prejudice.
She followed Norman to the invalid’s room, to
ask if she could perform any service that would
tend to his ease and comfort.
She did not see how his hollow eyes burned
with smothered passion as she bent over him,
more beautiful and captivating now than when
he had last seen her in Rome.
As she smoothed his pillows with gentle care,
her perfumed breath touched his cheek, and a
loose tress of her hair brushed his forehead. A
shudder passed over him, and he breathed quick
and hard.
She thought him ill, and gently brushing the
dark locks from his forehead, she sat down by
him, while Norman went to get a glass of cordial.
"How glad I am to see you happy !” murmured
the arch dissembler. “You cannot tell how
miserable my suspense was till I knew that you
had so providentially been restored to the arms
of your husband. The feverish anxiety of that
journey to Florence is something I will never
forget. But that is all over. You are at home—
your own beautiful home; you are loving, be
loved and happy. Heaven grant it may always
be thus. Yes, I say this now from the depths of
a true heart, dear Candice, though once I could
not. Once I envied my friend his happiness, and
spoke words of bitterness I am afraid you have
never forgotten, but yon must forgive them,
sweet friend, and forget they were ever uttered.
I am a changed man utterly. I believe my
health is hopelessly broken, and I desire the
remnant of my life shall be devoted to doing
what good I may.”
He spoke feelingly, with a musical, tremulous
intonation, and his large, melancholy eyes looked
into hers earnestly while he talked. Candice
fell under his influence and said to herself:
"I have done wrong. I have suspected my
husband’s best friend. I will make amends for
my injustice.”
And then she kissed her husband, who had
just come in, and with a lightened heart went to
her room, to look at her treasures—a drawer-full
of tiny, daintily laced and embroidered little
garments, that were meant for an expected vis
itor, a small but all-important addition to the
household.
It was a happy group that gathered in the par
lor of the AA’keeler mansion that evening. Je
rome was its centre, sitting in a large easy-chair,
and looking pale but animated. He conversed
with ease and grace, and threw into his story a
depth of interest and pathos, and a variety that
charmed his hearers.
He gave them a brief acconnt of the shipwreck
and of his own escape.
" I and my Italian servant,” he said, “ escaped
from the wreck on a spar, just as the furious
waves closed over the vessel forever. AVhile the
storm prevailed, I thought that we should cer
tainly perish. The waves swept over us, taking
our breath and benumbing our bodies with cold.
But we clung to the spar desperately, believing
that while there was life we might hope.
“On the next day the winds went down, and
we were in mid-ocean with death staring us in
the face. No land could we see, or passing ves
sel. Above was the cloudless sky, from which
the hot sunshine came down, parching our flesh
and driving us mad with heat and thirst. Be
low was the still-heaving ocean. AVe were al
most famished. AVe cried for a morsel to eat, a
drop of water to cool our longues; our sufferings
drove us furious; we became madmen, or wild
beasts, with carniverous instincts. I could see
that my servant was looking at me greedily, and
savage instincts woke in my own breast. I saw
him take his gleaming stiletto from his breast
and eye me steadily and savagely. I drew my
revolver from my pocket—the necessity of self-
preservation was upon me. He placed his sti
letto in his mouth and folded his hands upon
his breast, and never removed his blood-shot
eyes from mine for a second. There we sat, star
ing at each other like fiends, drifting on at sea.
“To-ward night of the fourth day I said to
myself: * This cannot last much longer. I must
shoot Ticino, and then—I can eat him.’ He read
my thoughts and hissed at me. ‘Cne of us
must die; we are both starving; I shall kill you,
eat your flesh and drink your blood !’
“ He moved slowly toward me, the stiletto
flashing in his uplifted hand. I saw that it was
life or death to me. I raised my revolver, and
taking quick aim, fired at him. AA’hen the
smoke cleared away he was gone from sight.
He had tumbled from the spar into the ocean,
and sank from view instantly. I had simply
prolonged my 7 own wretched existence; I had
accomplished nothing else. I had lost my com
panion, and had gained neither food nor drink.
In the despair of the moment, I glanced around
to see if he had not risen to the surface; but I
had floated so far from the place of the tragedy
that I could not have seen anything of him had
he been floating on the surface of the water.
“Hours passed on, hunger and thirst con
suming me; and to render my condition more
desperate, sleep besieged me, and numbness
assailed my body. Believing that my death was
at hand, I still clung to life tenaciously. I lay
down upon the spar and wrajiped my arms around
it with the strength of despair, and then my
senses left me.
“AA’hen I recovered consciousness, the morn
ing sun was staring me in the face. I found
that the tide had cast me upon a small island.
I arose with difficulty, for I was stiffened in
every joint and weakened with hunger. My
first thought was to procure food and drink.
AVith great difficulty I crawled away, and soon
found a spring from which pure cold water bub
bled. I slaked my thirst with the delicious bev
erage, and then found some berries, of which I
ate plentifully. I soon discovered that the
island had game upon it, and that in a small
stream that traversed it there were multitudes of
fish.
“ I had a hook and line in my pocket, and
soon caught enough for a meal. AVith flint I
kindled a fire, and cooked my fish. I then
constructed a trap in which to catch fowls. Con
cluding that I might have to remain upon the
island, perhaps for years, I began to collect ma
terial for a hut; but in my ramblings over my
little territory, I discovered a cave, w 7 hich saved
the labor of constructing a house, and which I
appropriated for my shelter.
“ I now had opportunity to think over my
past career, and 1 saw that it was evil and not
good. So I promised God that if he would save
my life, and restore me to my friends, the bal
ance of my days should be passed in his service.
“He heard my prayer.
“After the lapse of weeks of suffering and pri
vation, a vessel approached the island one day.
I raised my signal, and it was seen from the
ship. The captuin sent a boat to shore for me
and I went aboard the vessel.
“I tell you if there ever lived a man with a
truly glad and thankful heart, I was that man.
My health was, I feared, hopelessly undermined,
for every storm of wind and rain had beat into
the cave upon me; but I was returning once
more to my kind. I should hear the voice of
sympathy and friendship.
The vessel was bound for New York—a journey
of five or six days’ sailing. AVhen I told the
captain my story, he showed me every care and
attention; yet I was seized with a fever before
many hours, and I began to think that I had
been spared death on the island to die on the
portunity to communicate my fate to my anxious , “Have you never heard of the man who stole
friends | tb ® “ ver y of Heaven to serve the devil in ?”
“But God was good. He spared my life; he , “Yes.
has permitted me to meet with you to-night | “lam he. In other words, I have assumed a
I ask no greater blessedness, and am content. new role. Before I left Home, some of mv
He held out his hand to his assembled friends, ; friends suspected me.”
and they each pressed it in silence, while their | “AVho?”
eyes were wet with tears of sympathy. j “ Mrs. AVheeler. You see I was fool enough to
“The one drop needed to brim my cup of, love the lady; I proposed and she rejected me
T h ®7® ! serve ? m , e . ri g ht ? it has taught me how to
happiness is now added,” said Norman; “I
you with me, old fellow, and Candfce and I will \ hate with adde<f interest.’
soon nurse you back to health. You shall never “I should be glad to hear,” said Josenh
AVheeler, " “ 7, ' < “ ’ ^
leave us.”
“ Thanks, best and most generous of friends,
but I must not impose upon your kind heart.
It is not my inteution to be an idle drone in the
world. If I live I will go to New 7 York, get me
an office, and diligently practice my profession.
I have been already offered a partnership with
Dr. Doyle, whose son was, you remember, an
old schoolmate of mine.” |
“ AVe shall not like to give you up,” said Can- 1
dice, and she really meant it. She was charmed were thwarted so persistently.
with his fascinating talk, his tender gratitude
to Norman, and the sweet sadness there was in
his look when it rested upon her.
“I am playing my role of pious and interest
ing invalid to perfection,” said Jerome to him
self when he laid his head on his pillow.
CHAPTER XXVI.
AVheeler, “ what measures yon took to carry out
the plans we arranged. You received mv dis
patch ?
“Yes.” And thereupon the Doctor related to
his companion in crime the various attempts
that he had made to ruin Norman, and how
every effort had failed, in some unaccountable
manner.
Joseph AVheeler was surprised and said:
“I cannot see how it came that your plans
ire thwarted so persistently.”
“Nor I,” answered the plotter.
“It discourages me,” added Joseph; “I am
half in mind to abandon the scheme entirely,
and let my 7 brother go in peace.”
“You are!” cried Jerome, fiercely. “lam
not. I beg you to remember that there is acom-
pact between us, involving the small sum of
fifty thousand dollars. Besides, if there was not
A few weeks later, Jerome Campbell, M. D. j a cent, I would never relent. The years that
hung out his shingle in the city, and engaged ^ lave gone since that night when we met in the
boarding at the Girard House. j forest have but added fuel to the flame of my
His health was almost restored, and he entered i hatred. Then the fact that my enemy won the
upon the duties of his profession, despite the ! heart of the woman I loved makes me furious,
persuasions of Norman and Candice, who would ! though I manage to disguise it well. No, Joseph
fain have had him remain with them. ! AVheeler, you shall not go back on our contract.
Jerome thanked them warmly, but declared ! I hold you to it. Back out at your peril; you
that henceforth he would live independently, 1 know 7 tfiat 1 shall not, although yon do not know
and no longer be a burden on the generosity of j the first cause of my hatred.”
his friends. Dr. Campbell’s vehemence terrified the sick
During his invalidism, his society had been nian, and he cried out:
very charming to the youthful pair, and they | “Do not talk so, Jerome, y r ou frighten me; I
missed his engaging conversation, his pleasant | am with you still, and to the last. Remove my
ways and his line voice in their evening concerts j brother Norman, so that Oakley 7 gets my uncle s
at home. j riches, and y r ou shall have the amount of money
The second day after Jerome’s removal to an ! that I promised you.”
office of his own, Norman called upon him. “Good! you talk sense now. But do you
“I have just made a deposit of a thousand , know 7 that you have another besides Norman to
dollars to your credit, in the banking house of ; contend against?”
Mitchell and Lynde,” said he; “'when you need ; “Yes, his wife.”
more, you know, Jerome, that it is yours at any “Another still.”
time, just for the asking.” 1 “ What do you .mean?”
“Thank you, my noble friend,” replied Je- “Norman’s heir. Do you not know that a
rome, “but I do not feel that I am deserving of I child will soon be born to them? In that case,
this money. Besides, I have no use for it. the simple removal of Norman would avail little.
j and his son, Dr. Campbell retired to his room, j ocean. Even that was preferable, for I had op-
Flease, do not urge me to accept it.”
“But yon must, Jerome. If you do not re
ceive it as a gift from your best friend, I shall
be offended.”
“Then I shall accept, of course, but still I
must protest that I am not deserving. I do not
wish to wound your feelings, and therefore I
will accept, and I am very grateful to you and to
your excellent wife. How is her health this
morning?”
“Rather delicate,” Norman answ 7 ered blush
ing, "but you know the nature of her ailment.
She is as well as could be expected.”
“Ah-h!” whistled Jerome; “I understand.
Allow me to congratulate you, my friend; may
your future heir be handsome and healthy, and
grow up to manhood w 7 ith the graces of manner
and the ennobling goodness of heart which so
eminently distinguish the father. God bless
you and Candice!”
These kind words quite melted Norman’s
heart, and he shook hands with his friend in a
glow of happy feeling.
“If I can be of service to your Candice in a
medical capacity,” said Jerome, “ let me know
it.”
“You can !” cried Norman. “Come over and
see her often. You can tell w 7 hether she needs
any strengthening medicine or change of air.
Come whenever you can spare the time.”
Jerome declared that, so far, time had hung
heavily upon his hands, and that Candice might
expects visits from him frequently.
AVith this understanding, Norman left his
friend, his heart brimming over with love and
happiness.
“So ! so ! a child !” hissed Jerome, as the door
closed upon the retreating form of his friend.
“I must see Joseph AVheeler; but I think that
I shall wait until he sends for me. By the way,
it seems to me that both he and his son are rather
distant. I wonder if they dread to part with the
fifty thousand. AVell, their offishness cannot
last very long, for they need me as badly 7 as I
need the fifty 7 thousand Joseph promised me,
so many years ago.”
A few evenings later, and Oakley AA’heeler
dropped into Dr. Campbell’s office, and said that
his father desired to see him.
Jerome immediately prepared to accompany
the young man.
As they passed down the street, a figure en
veloped in a long cloak stole from the hall
which led into Dr. Campbell’s office, and fol
lowed them with short, cat-like strides.
Passing under the gaslight which burned in
the street, an observer would have noted that a
terrible scar furrowed the side of his swarthy
cheek, and that his eyes were fixed upon Jerome
Campbell with a look of ferocious hatred.
Beyond this, there was nothing unnatural
about the stranger, except the stealthiness and
caution of his gait.
A walk of a quarter of an hour brought the
young physician and his companion to their
destination.
Jerome found his old comrade in evil propped
up in bed, and gasping for breath.
Had Norman AA’heeler seen their greeting of
each other, he would have been somewhat sur
prised.
Although barely in the prime of life, Joseph
presented the appearance of a man in his six
tieth year. Jerome was shocked at his altered
appearance and premature age. In their brief
interview at Norman’s residence, on the day of
his arrival, he had failed to observe him so
closely. He took the withered hand in his with
a feeling of pity and said:
“lam sorry to see you so low.”
“Yes,” answered Joseph, “ I am going rapid
ly. I feared that I should be gone before morn
ing. I wanted to talk with you once more be
fore I go hence, and so I sent Oakley for you; I
am very glad that you have come.”
“ You should have sent for megsooner,” said
Jerome. “If I had known that you were so
feeble, I should have visited you before now. I
was not aware of it, and I thought it strange that
you did not come to me.”
“I could not, and I did not send for you ear
lier, because I was afraid of you. You are an
altered man, Jerome.
"Oakley,” said he, turning to his son, "leave
us alone for a short time; I will rap when yon
may return.”
“Had I not better remain, father?” asked
Oakley, hesitating before obeying the command.
“No, my son; whatever pusses between us
you shall know. Retire until I call you.”
Oakley went out, leaving the door ajar, so
that his father might have the benefit of all the
cool air circulating through the hall.
No sooner had he passed from view than the
dark-robed figure that had followed Jerome from
his office slid through the open door, and hid be
hind the curtains which hung around the bed,
remaining listless, but watchful, while the two
talked and plotted.
“ AVhat has led yon to imagine that I am a
changed man ?” asked Dr. Campbell.
"Your actions; your penitent way of talking;
your hearty, sincere address. You know, Je
rome, that you are not as you used to be.”
Jerome laughed slily and asked:
the AA'heeler estate would descend to the child.”
“That is true; I had not dreamed of such a
calamity. But now I think of it, would it under
the old will?”
“Calamity !” ejaculated Jerome, unmindful of
Joseph's words. “Do you call it a calamity
which Norman terms a blessedness?”
“Did he say that?”
“Yes, he has no desire to see his wealth go to
your son; and now if he should yield up the
ghost, he knows that he will have an heir of his
own flesh and blood to inherit his estate; of
course he calls it blessedness.”
“Youare sure there is no mistake?” queried
Joseph; “who informed you?”
“ Norman. Besides, your humble servant is
Mrs. AA’heeler’s physician.”
“Ah! ah!” cried Joseph, “I remember; my
uncle had a family physician. He was of my
father’s choice, and a pile of gold made him his
slave. Do you understand? Go on, Jerome
Campbell! I know you, and you may depend on
me. There shall be no faltering on my part
hereafter. Do you now promise me that my
son shall soon be in possession of all that be
longs to Norman AVheeler?”
"I do.”
“How will you bring it about?” demanded
Joseph, excitement giving him strength to sit
erect in his bed.
“ AVith these,” hissed Dr. Campbell, producing
the tin-box which we have before seen, and
which was filled with the poisons he had so care
fully compounded. “I shall even do more than
I promised. But that is nothing to you. It is
my revenge. I am determined to destroy 7 both
him and her, slowly and surely, so as to make
life a miserable burden long before they shall
lay it down. ” All that I now need is a faithful
assistant. One started with me to America, but
he was lost at sea. He was an Italian, and his
name was Ticino.”
"Ticino here,” cried a low voice; and a tall,
dark figure is emerged from behind the curtains.
Dr. Campbell shrieked, for there surely stood
Ticino, or his ghost, smiling grimly at the dis
may his appearance created.
“Ticino is here,” he repeated, “and ready to
aid the signor in those plans for which we left
Italy. Give me your hand, and let us rejoice
because I am saved from death, to be of service
to you. Ah ! signor, Heaven favors us and will
be with us in our vengeance.”
Jerome looked again at Ticino, though he
still trembled in every limb.
“It cannot be his ghost,” ho cried faintly.
(to be continued.)
LOVE MARRIAGES.
A correspondent in the Missouri Farmer says
most truthfully: “A marriage should only be
consummated when both of the parties are mor
ally certain that they are necessary to each other’s
existence ; that life would be a dreary waste with
out the oasis of the loved ; that the intended one
posseses all you admire and esteem, and that the
journey through life in his or her companionship
will be one of serenity and happiness. The union
will then, by the endeavors of both, be attended
with all the joy, contentment and happiness that
it is in the power of mortals to obtain here below 7 .
Marriages are usually contracted to satisfy desires,
as love, fortune and position. The results are most
truthfully stated by an eminent divine in the fol
lowing passages :
AVho marries for love takes a wife; who marries
for fortune takes a mistress; who marries for posi
tion takes a lady. You are loved by your wife, and
regarded by your mistress, and tolerated by your
lady. A’ou have a wife for yourself, a mistress for
your house and friends, a lady for the world and so
ciety. Your wife will agree with you, your mistress
will rule you, your lady will manage you. Your wife
will take care of your household, your mistress of
your house, your lady of your appearances. If
you are sick your wife will nurse you, your mis
tress will visit you, your lady will inquire after
your health. You take a walk with your wife, a
ride with your mistress, and go to a party with
your lady. Your wife shares your grief, your
mistress your money, and your lady your debts.
If you die your wife will weep, your mistress la
ment, and your lady wear mourning. Now, which
will you have?
To man there is but one choice that he can ration
ally make—a marriage ol love. My female readers
will also decide rather to wed a husband than the
master or the elegant gentleman.’’
Drama.
The drama is a department of art; and, like all
art, is for the pleasure and benefit of mankind.
Its literature comprises not a little of the purest
and most elevating composition in the Engligh
language. Here may be exercised the patriotism
of the orator, the melting fervor of the preacher,
the love of justice of the jurist, the pure purpose
of the moralist, the warmest love that the philan
thropist may feel for suffering humanity. AVhat
other field can offer a larger and more varied scope
to genius and talent directed by the worthiest
motives ?