Liberty Horror #6: Emily In the Cellar

Emily In the Cellar

⚘

Emily Parga woke up, like she did every day, in complete darkness. She reached over and turned on the lamp that was on a nightstand next to her bed. She turned on the radio which was always on her favorite morning show. She never deviated from the one station except occasionally to listen to NPR. She went to the bathroom, put her hair up and then poured a bowl of cereal. She ate while listening to the radio and then washed her dishes.

She turned the radio down and read for about an hour. Then she watched The Price Is Right. She liked watching it. With the audience and all the people on the stage, it made her feel less lonely. She was bad at guessing the cost of things since it had been a while since she’d been in a store. After The Price Is Right, she’d sweep and do some dusting. It got dusty where she lived. She always wore slippers because the floor was half cement and half dirt depending on which room she was in. The bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen were cemented while the closets, living room, and entryway had dirt floors. After cleaning, she’d make lunch, today was a turkey sandwich with Colby jack cheese and half a can of pineapple chunks, and sit down to watch The Young and the Restless.

During the afternoon, she tried to alternate what she did. Radio, television, reading, cross-stitching, she tried to keep things fresh since she spent all day here, by herself, and has for years. Cross-stitching was something her mother taught her. She didn’t like it at first but all that changed when she needed to figure out other things to do to fill her days. Luckily, her mother had many unstarted and unfinished project lying around.

The one she was currently working on was a simple black, white and gray one about coffee. Her mom loved coffee and was excited to get started on it and hang it in the kitchen next to the coffee maker. It remained untouched until Emily took it out of the cedar chest a week ago. Emily’s mother had died several years ago. As did her younger brother, Antonio. Since then, she had been alone. All alone, by herself.




She was fourteen. It had been a good day. Her dad always started the story out that way when he told her about that day. She didn’t remember it—a combination of the accident and her brain hiding something traumatic. They all got in the car, a maroon SUV, and drove into town to get ice cream at Dairy Queen. “How about you drive back?” her father asked her. She had just gotten her permit and had just driven around the countryside. She was ready and excited to drive back home from town.

The Pargas lived about three and a half miles south of town. About two miles from town was a fairly busy intersection that had a four-way stop. It was an odd intersection as a creek went underneath it. The intersection was essentially a four-way bridge. The family had driven over it hundreds of times. It was all familiar, there shouldn’t have been a problem but a rainstorm just before they had left lasted only fifteen minutes but the road still had puddles.

She remembers waking up in the hospital. Her father, who was amazingly unhurt in the crash, had stayed at her side throughout the two weeks she was unconscious. They had hydroplaned, where the tires kind of go out from under you when you hit water, he explained to her between sobs. He was thrown from the car. Her mother and brother, because they were in the backseat, had been killed. Emily only had a few cuts and bruises but had been knocked unconscious. After about a week, her father took her out of the hospital against doctor’s advice.

“I talked to the police,” he said to Emily as they drove back home. “They want to hold you accountable for your mom’s and Antonio’s death. They want to charge you with murder. You could get life in prison.”

“What? It was an accident. I didn’t mean to,” Emily cried. “Why do they want me in jail?”

“You know the police. But don’t worry. I’ll protect you,” he hugged her tight and kissed the top of her head. “I have just the place. They’re not taking my daughter away from me.”




Emily was making macaroni and cheese on the stovetop when there was a knock on the cellar door. The knock was just a courtesy, she heard keys jingle, a lock click, and the door open. “Hi, Daddy,” Emily greeted.

“Hey, sweetie. How are you doing today?” he asked, placing a bag on the counter and giving his daughter a kiss on the forehead. “I brought you your groceries for the next few days.”

“I’m doing fine, Daddy. Thanks.”

⚘

Vincenzo Parga ran a successful construction business. When he was able to, he bought a quarter section of land to build his family’s house on. On the land was the ruin of a stone house that had burned down in the 1970s. He took some of the stone to build the new house but left the basement ruin alone. After the crash, after his daughter’s survival, he began working on the ruin. He attached a metal roof, reinforced the walls, got electricity and water to the basement, he cemented the floors of a couple of rooms and moved furniture in. He reinforced the cellar door and the basement was ready for Emily to move in.

It took Emily some time to adjust to her new situation. She was only fourteen and the basement—the basement of an abandoned, burned-out house ruin—scared her. Vincenzo tried to make the place more homey and warmer, bringing Emily whatever she might need for her stay.

She believed that at any time, she’d be allowed to leave what she now called home. “How long do I have to stay here?” Emily asked about a month into her stay.

“Until the heat dies down, sweetie,” Vincenzo answered.

“How long do I have to stay here?” Emily asked again about two years into her stay.

Finally, Vincenzo ominously shut down any further hope of her leaving. “I don’t know, sweetie. There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” Vincenzo held his daughter’s cheek. “If they figure out that you’re here or living in the house then they could come busting through the door and take you away. Even if it’s twenty years from now. You might as well stop getting your hopes up.”

“Maybe I should just turn myself in. Maybe if they hear my side and that I didn’t mean to do it…”

“No! I said I would protect you, that I would keep you from them, and I mean it,” Vincenzo said.

She cried for nearly a week. She was angry at everything and everyone. Then, she woke up one morning and was resigned to her situation. She became a model prisoner, so to speak. She looked on the bright side of everything. No more going to school. Her own place. She’d never have to get a job. She really had no problems or cares in the world.




Emily popped herself some popcorn and sat down to watch the news. “A dangerous intersection will be getting a major upgrade in the coming months,” the reporter began. Emily looked up and stared at the television. She recognized the intersection immediately. “It’s a four-way intersection with a creek that goes underneath. It’s also very narrow, barely able to hold two cars in either direction. Some may remember almost five years ago when an accident at this intersection resulted in the deaths of 14-year-old Emily Parga, nine-year-old Antonio Parga, and their mother, 39-year-old Amelia Parga. It was these deaths that spurred a movement to widen the intersection and redirect the creek. Those people are finally getting their wish.”

Emily stared blankly at the TV. She was dead? No, they made a mistake. Or her father said she was dead. He had to explain her disappearance somehow, right? She finished watching the news then got ready for bed.

She hadn’t dreamed of the accident for a long time. Nearly a year. But tonight, she did, but it was different. The basics of the dream was the same. She was driving and her mom and brother were in the backseat. Her father was sitting next to her.

As they approached the intersection, where she hit the puddle, hydroplaned, and crashed, things changed. She noticed the ‘passenger door open’ warning light and her father’s hand reach over and grab the steering wheel. As the car swerved and left the road, she woke up, as she always did. She could usually just roll over and fall right back to sleep. Tonight, she sat up in bed, in the darkness, and thought about the dream and the differences she now remembered.

“Can you tell me again?” Emily asked her father when he came by two days later. “How it happened?”

“What?”

“The accident.”

“I just told you a few days ago.”

“They’re replacing the intersection. I saw it on the news,” Emily revealed. “They said I was dead.”

Vincenzo thought fast. “I made them think you were dead. So they wouldn’t be coming around her looking for you. You understand, right?”

“I think so. I remember something else, too. I think I can clear my name.”

“What are you talking about?” Vincenzo immediately got upset. Irritation and anger quickly boiled over inside him.

Should she tell him? “If I could just talk to the police. I think I can clear this up.”

“No. Never. Out of the question.”

“I want out of here,” Emily said, practically demanding. “I can live with the consequences of my actions. Can you?”

Flustered, Vincenzo stood up quickly and stormed over to the door. “You will never leave here. I am protecting you. You killed your mother and brother. You nearly killed me and yourself. You should be glad that I love you. I could just give you to the police. You’d be arrested, convicted of murder, and sentenced to death.”

“It was an accident,” Emily ran after her father as he began leaving the cellar. “And I didn’t even do it!” she shouted as the door slammed shut. She stood at the door, looking at it, trying to will it to open. “Dad!” she began screaming. She started knocking on the door and while it echoed inside the cellar, it couldn’t be heard on the other side.

⚘

Vincenzo didn’t go to the cellar for over a week. Emily about ran out of food and opted to go to bed early than stay up and eat dinner. He couldn’t leave her down here forever. What if she did starve? She needed to get out of the cellar but there was no way, except through the front door.

She was down to her last few cans of food—canned tamales, potatoes, and a can of pineapples. As she opened the can of pineapples with the can opener, she held the lid with her thumb and forefinger. She bent the lid back to snap it off from the can. Her finger slipped and was sliced open by the edge of the lid.

“Ow!” she yelled. She put her finger in her mouth and went to the bathroom to clean and hopefully bandage the cut. She washed the finger repeatedly but it kept bleeding. She worried that it wouldn’t stop and she’d die without getting out of here.

When it did stop bleeding, she then worried about it becoming infected. She cleaned the cut and put a bandage on it. If she were really sick or going to die, her father would take her to a doctor or the hospital, right? She was almost out of food and she hadn’t seen him since their fight.

“I have to get out of here,” she said to herself. “He’s going to kill me. If he hasn’t already.”




Vincenzo reappeared with some groceries on day nine. It was late at night, the ten o’clock news was just ending, which surprised Emily. “I figured you’d be running out of stuff by now,” he said.

Emily didn’t know how to act. Should she act nice or upset? Should she act like they didn’t have a fight? How much should she push? “Thank you,” she decided. She noticed a box of chicken in a biscuit crackers and took them out and tore into them.

“I will be bringing you a large thing of groceries in a couple days. Is there anything special you want?” Vincenzo asked.

Is he planning on abandoning me? Leaving me to die in here, she asked herself. “Froot Loops,” she answered. She glanced at the bandage on her finger. “And more canned pineapples.”

“Is that it?”

“Give me a minute to think,” Emily said. “How are you doing?”

The question surprised Vincenzo. She never asked about what he was doing or how he was doing. “I’m doing good, Emily. Thanks,” he smiled.

“Do you still build houses?” Emily asked. When she was a kid, she would brag about her Daddy building houses. She wondered if that would elicit any emotion in him.

“For the most part,” he answered. “I’ve done a few commercial properties since you’ve been here—buildings for businesses.”

“Cookie dough. Chocolate chip and sugar. I miss having homemade cookies. And more of these,” she held up the chicken in a biscuit box. “And ice cream. Cookies and cream and cookie dough.”

Vincenzo smirked and pulled out his phone. He opened the notes app and made a list of what Emily wanted. “All right. Is that it? I’ll be back in a couple days. Love you, Emily.”

He opened the door and left, slamming the door to the cellar behind him. She stared at the door for quite a while before returning to the living room to watch TV a bit longer before going to bed.

⚘

Vincenzo returned with almost three weeks’ worth of groceries and the stuff that Emily asked for. She immediately began putting the groceries away. “How was your day?” she asked sweetly.

“It was fine,” he answered. “We got a contract for an industrial building in the new technology park.”

“How does that work? Getting contracts?” Emily asked, genuinely curious.

“It’s usually whoever bids the lowest, but sometimes it’s just who can do a good job in a reasonable amount of time and money,” he explained. “That’s what happened with us. We offered better construction in quicker time for just slightly more money.”

“Cool,” Emily nodded. “Thank you for the food.”

“I brought you…” Vincenzo pulled a paper out of his back pocket “…the ingredients for cookies and made you copies of your Mom’s cookie recipes,” he handed the paper to Emily.

Emily had no pictures of her mom. It had been five years since seeing anything related to her mom. Seeing her handwriting made her tear up. “Thank you. It’s been so long since I’ve seen anything of hers.” She stared at the handwriting for several seconds before looking back up at her father. “Can I see her?”

“What?”

“Her grave. Can you take me to see her?”

“I didn’t bury her. She and Antonio were cremated. They are in an urn in the house,” Vincenzo revealed.

“Even better. I can just come into the house and…”

“No.”

“This isn’t fair. It’s not fair to take away my childhood, my teenage years, my life in general because of something I didn’t do,” Emily argued, raising her voice.

“I’ve lost my wife—your mother—and your brother. I’m not losing my daughter,” he said. He sounded like he was about to cry but she wasn’t sure if it was real and she wasn’t taking the bait.

“That’s a lie. You’ve already lost me by locking me in here. You only see me once or twice a month. If the crash and the death were an accident, I wouldn’t be sent to jail. You’re keeping me here because I was supposed to die in that crash, too. But I didn’t so you have to hide me away. Why? Why am I down here?”

“You ungrateful…” Vincenzo looked like he wanted to hit her. His fists shook was rage. “I keep you safe and this is the thanks I get.” He exhaled sharply and turned to leave.

“Don’t you dare…” Emily ran toward him. He turned quickly and pushed her away from him. She stumbled on the slightly uneven dirt floor and fell to the ground, hitting her head on the corner of the kitchen counter, knocking her out.

⚘

She was unconscious for nearly five hours. And he just left me there, she thought and thought about it constantly over the next few days. She spent most her of her days looking for a way out but there was only one window and it was unbreakable glass, could not be opened, and sealed tight. The walls were well-built and were surrounded by dirt anyway. The ceiling was a wood and steel vault-like ceiling. She couldn’t dig through the floor. And the front door was like the door on a bank vault. She spent an entire day screaming as loud as she could for ten minutes every hour but no one heard her or no one ever came close enough to hear her.

She prepared herself for the possibility that her father would never return. She made herself cookies from her mother’s recipes and enjoyed each and every one she made. She watched a lot of TV and spent a lot of time looking over every inch of the cellar trying to find a weakness that she could exploit to escape. When she would open a can, she’d secret away the lid, placing them around the cellar to use as a weapon if she needed them.

The days and nights dragged as her sleep schedule changed as did what she did to pass the time. It was three in the afternoon, almost a month since she last saw her father, when she heard the door to the cellar clang and start to open. She had rearranged what little furniture she had so she would have cover if he came in with a gun. He came in empty-handed and stopped suddenly at seeing the rearranged rooms. “Been making some changes?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Emily quickly answered. “How are you?” she asked, starting with the nice tactic but wanting to quickly move on.

“I’m good. I’m fine. Wanted to get a list from you for groceries. You’re probably running a little low,” he smiled at her.

Get away from the door. I should’ve thought of something to get him away from the door. “Yeah, a little bit. I haven’t been eating much,” her eyes widened. “I think the toilet isn’t working.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? Is it clogged or overflowing?”

“I don’t know. Just go see,” she shooed.

“I’m sure it’s fine. Is there anything you want? I have to get going,” Vincenzo clearly wasn’t going to fall for anything.

“I don’t want or need anything,” Emily walked up to him. “Because I’m coming with you.”

He chuckled a little and shook his head. “We’ve been over this. You are staying right here.”

“No, I’m not. Now get out of the way.”

“Emily, listen…”

“I’ve been listening. For five years, I’ve listened. I’m not doing this anymore. You are letting me out of here or so help me I will let myself out.”

“It’s for your own safety…”

“Get out of the way!” she screamed and charged at Vincenzo. He grabbed her arms but she kept trying to claw and kick at him. “Let me go!”

“Calm down, Emily. You don’t want to hurt yourself,” he said calmly but condescendingly.

Emily was done. She kicked at one of his legs but missed. She tried again and was able to hit his crotch. He let go and fell to one knee. She kicked at the one knee that was still holding him up and he went down to the ground. She stood over him, panting.

“That was pretty good,” Vincenzo laughed as he started getting up. “I should’ve known that at some point you’d want out of here. I should’ve just killed you when I had the chance but…”

“Enough talking,” she said.

Vincenzo watched her right arm flash in front of him. He felt a sharp zip across his throat. He held a hand up to his neck and looked down to see blood. He glanced at Emily’s hand which was holding the lid to a tin can, also with blood on it. He tried to say something, opening his mouth.

“I said ‘enough,’” and she slit his throat again. And again. And again.

The can lid and her hand was covered with blood. Vincenzo was lying motionless on the dirt floor. She was still panting as she pulled the steel cellar door all the way open and stepped out into the outside world she hadn’t seen in five years. Emily walked from the cellar to the house that she could barely remember. There had been some changes but it was still the same. She walked up the steps of the back porch to the back door that led into the kitchen. She threw open the door, it hitting the wall, startling the people in the kitchen. At the stove, was another woman. At the table, were two young boys—one, around five-years-old, was doing some kind of school worksheet, while the other, a couple years younger, was holding two action figures. They gasped at the door hitting the wall and again when they saw Emily.

The three of them, Vincenzo’s new family, stared at the girl they had only seen in pictures and only heard about. The woman then noticed Emily’s bloodied hand and gasped. ▩

Haunted Thrills

Haunted Thrills was a short-lived horror and suspense series from Ajax-Ferrell Publications. Lasting 18 issues from 1952 to 1954, Haunted Thrills mostly printed reprint material from defunct precursors to Ferrell. About two original stories appeared per issue typically written and drawn, it's assumed, by the S.M. (Jerry) Iger Studio, the successor to the Eisener-Iger Studio after Will Eisner sold his share of the company in 1939-40. In 1955, Iger shut down the studio in 1955 and became the art director for Ajax-Ferrell until 1957 when he went into commercial art.

There are two stories for you today. "Monsters For Rent" from Haunted Thrills #3 (October 1952) and "Blood In the Sky" from Haunted Thrills #11 (September 1953).

Monsters For Rent

These two own a lake? If summer is bad then how do they survive the fall and winter?

I mean, why pay to use a lake when there are thousands of them out there for free?

It's the 1950s, why is the Loch Ness Monster front page news?

Can they not use "Loch Ness"? Is it a trademark thing?

Ugly? That thing actually looks kind of cute.

You're fishing. Of course it's boring!

You're not so great either, toots.

He has a point. If people are willing to pay for entrance into your lake or to rent a boat, hoping it won't be capsized by a monster, then you let them.

It. Is. Fake. Why is she so scared of it? It's basically Gypsy from Mystery Science Theater.

Oh. Well. I stand corrected. I owe her a Coke.

I'm assuming Sam made it to shore while the monster was distracted as it was chewing on his wife.

I have to admit that when I create something, I never think to add a self-destruct switch. Very smart that he added that.

I don't know why he thinks a gun is going to do what should've been an explosion couldn't. If anything, you're just going to make it mad.

The bullets! They do nothing!

Told you.

At least Sam will be reunited with Lorna soon.

The real monster is a robosexual!

I have no idea what is going on.

I still don't know what's going on. Was there already a monster in the lake that the fake monster woke up? Did the fake monster attract a real monster? Is the fake monster now somehow alive?

Blood In the Sky

This is the dumbest intro to a dumb comic book story I have ever read. They really went hard on the gardening(?) metaphor and I don't really think they knew where they were going with it.

Lucybelle. At least they say this takes place in a southern town to explain the dumb name. The man in brown also has a dumb name.

...Lufe.

Lucybelle was going to go out with that guy? Are there not very many eligible bachelors in this town or is it a situation where it's such a small town, you're bound to date every guy you've gone to school with?

Cool. Lufe likes to drink in the cemetery.

What's with the gravestone? That's not a name. Is it supposed to be a date? Assuming it's MCIIX, that's not a valid Roman numeral. The closest it would be is 117. Maybe it's supposed to be 1909 which would be MCMIX.

I do really like the look of the cemetery. The Celtic cross is a nice touch. Usually artists just use a simple cross and the rounded stones.

Oh, I'm supposed to talk about this panel. Tim and Lucybelle only dated a few weeks before they got married? I guess it's good they rushed into marriage because...

...Lucybelle is dead.

And Tim opens a store because why not? And hires Lufe! I'm sure nothing will go wrong because of that.

I don't think people would believe that someone's heart being cut out would be the result of a botched burglary.

So Lufe lives in the attic above the store. Does Tim live in an apartment behind the store?

I think Lufe lo-o-o-o-ves Tim, which is why he can't cut his heart out. It'd be cool if that was the twist. It won't be. The twist is stupid. You'll hate it.

So the townspeople are smart enough to know a botched burglary-turned-murder isn't right so it must've been Lufe but dumb enough to think Tim, a man beloved in town, would do something so heinous as to be hanged without a trial?

"That varmint of a Tim Jackson" is a good line.

Is that a cake?

Lufe's just going to stand behind crowds of people saying "That Tim Jackson is a criminal!" and "We should hang him!" in different voices until one-by-one they start agreeing with him.

Dude, that's my tombstone!

This is why you all need to lock your doors. So your rival doesn't break in and steal the watch your dead wife gave you so they can frame you for murder and get you lynched.

Special appearance from Aunt May.

Wait. Lufe couldn't cut out the heart of his old rival who he has hated with every fiber of his being for most of his life but he can club an old lady who never did anything wrong to him or anybody else to death?

Lufe's got him. I don't see how Tim is going to wriggle his way out of this.

Sam Elliott is pissed!

I love the little "Can't we though?" speech bubble. It's almost like it's an afterthought.

I had an old computer hangman game. It had three modes you could select for the hanging. The first mode, the man just died and the game was over. The second, the man grunted and lowered a little. The third, he would make a grotesque noise and bounce after lowering. In neither one, he screamed "EEEEEEE."

You know, instead of stewing about losing Lucybelle to Tim, Lufe could put that energy into being a better person and finding his own woman.

Also, Lucybelle died young so would it really have been worth it?

Where are all the townspeople? They just hanged a person, you'd think they'd still be out talking about it.

Yes, go upstairs, closer to the bloody rain.

Geez, that's quite a leak in the attic. And Tim let Lufe live there? Maybe Tim did deserve to die.

I do the same thing when I get a song stuck in my head.

I like that Lufe thinks it's Tim getting revenge on him from the afterlife and completely ignores that he murdered an innocent old woman just eight hours ago.

Lufe, you don't have to narrate your demise...

We're back to the garden metaphor.

Aren't the townspeople going to wonder why Lufe hanged himself? This doesn't even clear Tim's name.

"I thought we only hanged one guy." "I thought we did, too. 'Course I'm so drunk anymore I don't know what's what."

Blood rain is something that can happen but it's not iron, it's an orange-colored algae.

When does this story take place? They're still lynching people but have radios and cars? But the town, despite being in the south, looks like the old west. I'd maybe go with sometime in the 1920s but I feel this story is very anachronistic.

I'm gonna get THE END tattooed on my skull.  🕱

Liberty Horror #2: The Romance of Certain Old Clothes

The Romance of Certain Old Clothes

by Henry James

I.

Toward the middle of the eighteenth century there lived in the Province of Massachusetts a widowed gentlewoman, the mother of three children. Her name is of little account: I shall take the liberty of calling her Mrs. Willoughby, a name, like her own, of a highly respectable sound. She had been left a widow after some six years of marriage, and had devoted herself to the care of her progeny. These young persons grew up in a manner to reward her zeal and to gratify her fondest hopes. The first born was a son, whom she had called Bernard, after his father. The others were daughters,—born at an interval of three years apart. Good looks were traditional in the family, and this youthful trio were not likely to allow the tradition to perish. The boy was of that fair and ruddy complexion and of that athletic mould which in those days (as in these) were the sign of genuine English blood,—a frank, affectionate young fellow, a deferential son, a patronizing brother, and a steadfast friend. Clever, however, he was not; the wit of the family had been apportioned chiefly to his sisters. Mr. Willoughby had been a great reader of Shakespeare, at a time when this pursuit implied more liberality of taste than at the present day, and in a community where it required much courage to patronize the drama even in the closet; and he had wished to record his admiration of the great poet by calling his daughters out of his favorite plays. Upon the elder he had bestowed the romantic name of Viola; and upon the younger, the more serious one of Perdita, in memory of a little girl born between them, who had lived but a few weeks.

When Bernard Willoughby came to his sixteenth year, his mother put a brave face upon it, and prepared to execute her husband's last request. This had been an earnest entreaty that, at the proper age, his son should be sent out to England, to complete his education at the University of Oxford, which had been the seat of his own studies. Mrs. Willoughby fancied that the lad's equal was not to be found in the two hemispheres, but she had the antique wifely submissiveness. She swallowed her sobs, and made up her boy's trunk and his simple provincial outfit, and sent him on his way across the seas. Bernard was entered at his father's college, and spent five years in England, without great honor, indeed, but with a vast deal of pleasure and no discredit. On leaving the University he made the journey to France. In his twenty-third year he took ship for home, prepared to find poor little New England (New England was very small in those days) an utterly intolerable place of abode. But there had been changes at home, as well as in Mr. Bernard's opinions. He found his mother's house quite habitable, and his sisters grown into two very charming young ladies, with all the accomplishments and graces of the young women of Britain, and a certain native-grown gentle brusquerie and wildness, which, if it was not an accomplishment, was certainly a grace the more. Bernard privately assured his mother that his sisters were fully a match for the most genteel young women in England; where upon poor Mrs. Willoughby, you may be sure, bade them hold up their heads. Such was Bernard's opinion, and such, in a tenfold higher degree, was the opinion of Mr. Arthur Lloyd. This gentleman, I hasten to add, was a college-mate of Mr. Bernard, a young man of reputable family, of a good person and a handsome inheritance; which latter appurtenance he proposed to invest in trade in this country. He and Bernard were warm friends; they had crossed the ocean together, and the young American had lost no time in presenting him at his mother's house, where he had made quite as good an impression as that which he had received, and of which I have just given a hint.

The two sisters were at this time in all the freshness of their youthful bloom; each wearing, of course, this natural brilliancy in the manner that became her best. They were equally dissimilar in appearance and character. Viola, the elder,—now in her twenty-second year,—was tall and fair, with calm gray eyes and auburn tresses; a very faint likeness to the Viola of Shakespeare's comedy, whom I imagine as a brunette (if you will), but a slender, airy creature, full of the softest and finest emotions. Miss Willoughby, with her candid complexion, her fine arms, her majestic height, and her slow utterance, was not cut out for adventures. She would never have put on a man's jacket and hose; and, indeed, being a very plump beauty, it is perhaps as well that she would not. Perdita, too, might very well have exchanged the sweet melancholy of her name against something more in consonance with her aspect and disposition. She was a positive brunette, short of stature, light of foot, with a vivid dark brown eye. She had been from her childhood a creature of smiles and gayety; and so far from making you wait for an answer to your speech, as her handsome sister was wont to do (while she gazed at you with her somewhat cold gray eyes), she had given you the choice of half a dozen, suggested by the successive clauses of your proposition, before you had got to the end of it.

The young girls were very glad to see their brother once more; but they found themselves quite able to maintain a reserve of good-will for their brother's friend. Among the young men their friends and neighbors, the belle jeunesse of the Colony, there were many excellent fellows, several devoted swains, and some two or three who enjoyed the reputation of universal charmers and conquerors. But the home-bred arts and the somewhat boisterous gallantry of those honest young colonists were completely eclipsed by the good looks, the fine clothes, the punctilious courtesy, the perfect elegance, the immense information, of Mr. Arthur Lloyd. He was in reality no paragon; he was an honest, resolute, intelligent young man, rich in pounds sterling, in his health and comfortable hopes, and his little capital of uninvested affections. But he was a gentleman; he had a handsome face; he had studied and travelled; he spoke French, he played on the flute, and he read verses aloud with very great taste. There were a dozen reasons why Miss Willoughby and her sister should forthwith have been rendered fastidious in the choice of their male acquaintance. The imagination of woman is especially adapted to the various small conventions and mysteries of polite society. Mr. Lloyd's talk told our little New England maidens a vast deal more of the ways and means of people of fashion in European capitals than he had any idea of doing. It was delightful to sit by and hear him and Bernard discourse upon the fine people and fine things they had seen. They would all gather round the fire after tea, in the little wainscoted parlor,—quite innocent then of any intention of being picturesque or of being anything else, indeed, than economical, and saving an outlay in stamped papers and tapestries,—and the two young men would remind each other, across the rug, of this, that, and the other adventure. Viola and Perdita would often have given their ears to know exactly what adventure it was, and where it happened, and who was there, and what the ladies had on; but in those days a well-bred young woman was not expected to break into the conversation of her own movement or to ask too many questions; and the poor girls used therefore to sit fluttering behind the more languid—or more discreet—curiosity of their mother.

II.

That they were both very fine girls Arthur Lloyd was not slow to discover; but it took him some time to satisfy himself as to the apportionment of their charms. He had a strong presentiment—an emotion of a nature entirely too cheerful to be called a foreboding—that he was destined to marry one of them; yet he was unable to arrive at a preference, and for such a consummation a preference was certainly indispensable, inasmuch as Lloyd was quite too gallant a fellow to make a choice by lot and be cheated of the heavenly delight of falling in love. He resolved to take things easily, and to let his heart speak. Meanwhile, he was on a very pleasant footing. Mrs. Willoughby showed a dignified indifference to his "intentions," equally remote from a carelessness of her daughters' honor and from that odious alacrity to make him commit himself, which, in his quality of a young man of property, he had but too often encountered in the venerable dames of his native islands. As for Bernard, all that he asked was that his friend should take his sisters as his own; and as for the poor girls themselves, however each may have secretly longed for the monopoly of Mr. Lloyd's attentions, they observed a very decent and modest and contented demeanor.

Towards each other, however, they were somewhat more on the offensive. They were good sisterly friends, betwixt whom it would take more than a day for the seeds of jealousy to sprout and bear fruit; but the young girls felt that the seeds had been sown on the day that Mr. Lloyd came into the house. Each made up her mind that, if she should be slighted, she would bear her grief in silence, and that no one should be any the wiser; for if they had a great deal of love, they had also a great deal of pride. But each prayed in secret, nevertheless, that upon her the glory might fall. They had need of a vast deal of patience, of self-control, and of dissimulation. In those days a young girl of decent breeding could make no advances whatever, and barely respond, indeed, to those that were made. She was expected to sit still in her chair with her eyes on the carpet, watching the spot where the mystic handkerchief should fall. Poor Arthur Lloyd was obliged to undertake his wooing in the little wainscoted parlor, before the eyes of Mrs. Willoughby, her son, and his prospective sister-in-law. But youth and love are so cunning that a hundred signs and tokens might travel to and fro, and not one of these three pair of eyes detect them in their passage. The young girls had but one chamber and one bed between them, and for long hours together they were under each other's direct inspection. That each knew that she was being watched, however, made not a grain of difference in those little offices which they mutually rendered, or in the various household tasks which they performed in common. Neither flinched nor fluttered beneath the silent batteries of her sister's eyes. The only apparent change in their habits was that they had less to say to each other. It was impossible to talk about Mr. Lloyd, and it was ridiculous to talk about anything else. By tacit agreement they began to wear all their choice finery, and to devise such little implements of coquetry, in the way of ribbons and topknots and furbelows as were sanctioned by indubitable modesty. They executed in the same inarticulate fashion an agreement of sincerity on these delicate matters. "Is it better so?" Viola would ask, tying a bunch of ribbons on her bosom, and turning about from her glass to her sister. Perdita would look up gravely from her work and examine the decoration. "I think you had better give it another loop," she would say, with great solemnity, looking hard at her sister with eyes that added, "upon my honor!" So they were forever stitching and trimming their petticoats, and pressing out their muslins, and contriving washes and ointments and cosmetics, like the ladies in the household of the Vicar of Wakefield. Some three or four months went by; it grew to be midwinter, and as yet Viola knew that if Perdita had nothing more to boast of than she, there was not much to be feared from her rivalry. But Perdita by this time, the charming Perdita, felt that her secret had grown to be tenfold more precious than her sister's.

One afternoon Miss Willoughby sat alone before her toilet-glass combing out her long hair. It was getting too dark to see; she lit the two candles in their sockets on the frame of her mirror, and then went to the window to draw her curtains. It was a gray December evening; the landscape was bare and bleak, and the sky heavy with snow-clouds. At the end of the long garden into which her window looked was a wall with a little postern door, opening into a lane. The door stood ajar, as she could vaguely see in the gathering darkness, and moved slowly to and fro, as if some one were swaying it from the lane without. It was doubtless a servant-maid. But as she was about to drop her curtain, Viola saw her sister step within the garden, and hurry along the path toward the house. She dropped the curtain, all save a little crevice for her eyes. As Perdita came up the path, she seemed to be examining something in her hand, holding it close to her eyes. When she reached the house she stopped a moment, looked intently at the object, and pressed it to her lips.

Poor Viola slowly came back to her chair, and sat down before her glass, where, if she had looked at it less abstractedly, she would have seen her handsome features sadly disfigured by jealousy. A moment afterwards the door opened behind her, and her sister came into the room, out of breath, and her cheeks aglow with the chilly air.

Perdita started. "Ah," said she, "I thought you were with our mother." The ladies were to go to a tea-party, and on such occasions it was the habit of one of the young girls to help their mother to dress. Instead of coming in, Perdita lingered at the door.

"Come in, come in," said Viola. "We've more than an hour yet. I should like you very much to give a few strokes to my hair." She knew that her sister wished to retreat, and that she could see in the glass all her movements in the room. "Nay, just help me with my hair," she said, "and I'll go to mamma."

Perdita came reluctantly, and took the brush. She saw her sister's eyes, in the glass, fastened hard upon her hands. She had not made three passes, when Viola clapped her own right hand upon her sister's left, and started out of her chair. "Whose ring is that?" she cried passionately, drawing her towards the light.

On the young girl's third finger glistened a little gold ring, adorned with a couple of small rubies. Perdita felt that she need no longer keep her secret, yet that she must put a bold face on her avowal. "It's mine," she said proudly.

"Who gave it to you?" cried the other.

Perdita hesitated a moment. "Mr. Lloyd."

"Mr. Lloyd is generous, all of a sudden."

"Ah no," cried Perdita, with spirit, "not all of a sudden. He offered it to me a month ago."

"And you needed a month's begging to take it?" said Viola, looking at the little trinket; which indeed was not especially elegant, although it was the best that the jeweller of the Province could furnish. "I should n't have taken it in less than two."

"It is n't the ring," said Perdita, "it's what it means!"

"It means that you 're not a modest girl," cried Viola. "Pray does your mother know of your conduct? does Bernard?"

"My mother has approved my 'conduct', as you call it. Mr. Lloyd has asked my hand, and mamma has given it. Would you have had him apply to you, sister?"

Viola gave her sister a long look, full of passionate envy and sorrow. Then she dropped her lashes on her pale cheeks and turned away. Perdita felt that it had not been a pretty scene; but it was her sister's fault. But the elder girl rapidly called back her pride, and turned herself about again. "You have my very best wishes," she said, with a low curtsey. "I wish you every happiness, and a very long life."

Perdita gave a bitter laugh. "Don't speak in that tone," she cried. "I'd rather you cursed me outright. Come, sister," she added, "he could n't marry both of us."

"I wish you very great joy," Viola repeated mechanically, sitting down to her glass again, "and a very long life, and plenty of children."

There was something in the sound of these words not at all to Perdita's taste. "Will you give me a year, at least?" she said. "In a year I can have one little boy, or one little girl at least. If you'll give me your brush again I'll do your hair."

"Thank you," said Viola. "You had better go to mamma. It is n't becoming that a young lady with a promised husband should wait on a girl with none."

"Nay," said Perdita, good-humoredly, "I have Arthur to wait upon me. You need my service more than I need yours."

But her sister motioned her away, and she left the room. When she had gone poor Viola fell on her knees before her dressing-table, buried her head in her arms, and poured out a flood of tears and sobs. She felt very much the better for this effusion of sorrow. When her sister came back, she insisted upon helping her to dress, and upon her wearing her prettiest things. She forced upon her acceptance a bit of lace of her own, and declared that now that she was to be married she should do her best to appear worthy of her lover's choice. She discharged these offices in stern silence; but, such as they were, they had to do duty as an apology and an atonement; she never made any other. Now that Lloyd was received by the family as an accepted suitor, nothing remained but to fix the wedding-day. It was appointed for the following April, and in the interval preparations were diligently made for the marriage. Lloyd, on his side, was busy with his commercial arrangements, and with establishing a correspondence with the great mercantile house to which he had attached himself in England. He was therefore not so frequent a visitor at Mrs. Willoughby's as during the months of his diffidence and irresolution, and poor Viola had less to suffer than she had feared from the sight of the mutual endearments of the young lovers. Touching his future sister-in-law, Lloyd had a perfectly clear conscience. There had not been a particle of sentiment uttered between them, and he had not the slightest suspicion that she coveted anything more than his fraternal regard. He was quite at his ease; life promised so well, both domestically and financially. The lurid clouds of revolution were as yet twenty years beneath the horizon, and that his connubial felicity should take a tragic turn it was absurd, it was blasphemous, to apprehend. Meanwhile at Mrs. Willoughby's there was a greater rustling of silks, a more rapid clicking of scissors and flying of needles, than ever. Mrs. Willoughby had determined that her daughter should carry from home the most elegant outfit that her money could buy, or that the country could furnish. All the sage women in the county were convened, and their united taste was brought to bear on Perdita's wardrobe. Viola's situation, at this moment, was assuredly not to be envied. The poor girl had an inordinate love of dress, and the very best taste in the world, as her sister perfectly well knew. Viola was tall, she was stately and sweeping, she was made to carry stiff brocade and masses of heavy lace, such as belong to the toilet of a rich man's wife. But Viola sat aloof, with her beautiful arms folded and her head averted, while her mother and sister and the venerable women aforesaid worried and wondered over their materials, oppressed by the multitude of their resources. One day there came in a beautiful piece of white silk, brocaded with celestial blue and silver, sent by the bridegroom himself,—it not being thought amiss in those days that the husband elect should contribute to the bride's trousseau. Perdita was quite at loss to imagine a fashion which should do sufficient honor to the splendor of the material.

"Blue's your color, sister, more than mine," she said, with appealing eyes. "It's a pity it's not for you. You'd know what to do with it."

Viola got up from her place and looked at the great shining fabric as it lay spread over the back of a chair. Then she took it up in her hands and felt it,—lovingly, as Perdita could see,—and turned about toward the mirror with it. She let it roll down to her feet, and flung the other end over her shoulder, gathering it in about her waist with her white arm bare to the elbow. She threw back her head, and looked at her image, and a hanging tress of her auburn hair fell upon the gorgeous surface of the silk. It made a dazzling picture. The women standing about uttered a little "Ah!" of admiration. "Yes, indeed," said Viola, quietly, "blue is my color." But Perdita could see that her fancy had been stirred, and that she would now fall to work and solve all their silken riddles. And indeed she behaved very well, as Perdita, knowing her insatiable love of millinery, was quite ready to declare. Innumerable yards of lustrous silk and satin, of muslin, velvet, and lace, passed through her cunning hands, without a word of envy coming from her lips. Thanks to her industry, when the wedding-day came Perdita was prepared to espouse more of the vanities of life than any fluttering young bride who had yet challenged the sacramental blessing of a New England divine.

It had been arranged that the young couple should go out and spend the first days of their wedded life at the country house of an English gentleman,—a man of rank and a very kind friend to Lloyd. He was an unmarried man; he professed himself delighted to withdraw and leave them for a week to their billing and cooing. After the ceremony at church,—it had been performed by an English parson,—young Mrs. Lloyd hastened back to her mother's house to change her wedding gear for a riding-dress. Viola helped her to effect the change, in the little old room in which they had been fond sisters together. Perdita then hurried off to bid farewell to her mother, leaving Viola to follow. The parting was short; the horses were at the door and Arthur impatient to start. But Viola had not followed, and Perdita hastened back to her room, opening the door abruptly. Viola, as usual, was before the glass, but in a position which caused the other to stand still, amazed. She had dressed herself in Perdita's cast-off wedding veil and wreath, and on her neck she had hung the heavy string of pearls which the young girl had received from her husband as a wedding-gift. These things had been hastily laid aside, to await their possessor's disposal on her return from the country. Bedizened in this unnatural garb, Viola stood at the mirror, plunging a long look into its depths, and reading Heaven knows what audacious visions. Perdita was horrified. It was a hideous image of their old rivalry come to life again. She made a step toward her sister, as if to pull off the veil and the flowers. But catching her eyes in the glass, she stopped.

"Farewell, Viola," she said. "You might at least have waited till I had got out of the house." And she hurried away from the room.

Mr. Lloyd had purchased in Boston a house which, in the taste of those days, was considered a marvel of elegance and comfort; and here he very soon established himself with his young wife. He was thus separated by a distance of twenty miles from the residence of his mother-in-law. Twenty miles, in that primitive era of roads and conveyances, were as serious a matter as a hundred at the present day, and Mrs. Willoughby saw but little of her daughter during the first twelvemonth of her marriage. She suffered in no small degree from her absence; and her affliction was not diminished by the fact that Viola had fallen into terribly low spirits and was not to be roused or cheered but by change of air and circumstances. The real cause of the young girl's dejection the reader will not be slow to suspect. Mrs. Willoughby and her gossips, however, deemed her complaint a purely physical one, and doubted not that she would obtain relief from the remedy just mentioned. Her mother accordingly proposed on her behalf a visit to certain relatives on the paternal side, established in New York, who had long complained that they were able to see so little of their New England cousins. Viola was despatched to these good people, under a suitable escort, and remained with them for several months. In the interval her brother Bernard, who had begun the practice of the law, made up his mind to take a wife. Viola came home to the wedding, apparently cured of her heartache, with honest roses and lilies in her face, and a proud smile on her lips. Arthur Lloyd came over from Boston to see his brother-in-law married, but without his wife, who was expecting shortly to present him with an heir. It was nearly a year since Viola had seen him. She was glad—she hardly knew why—that Perdita had stayed at home. Arthur looked happy, but he was more grave and solemn than before his marriage. She thought he looked "interesting,"—for although the word in its modern sense was not then invented, we may be sure that the idea was. The truth is, he was simply preoccupied with his wife's condition. Nevertheless, he by no means failed to observe Viola's beauty and splendor, and how she quite effaced the poor little bride. The allowance that Perdita had enjoyed for her dress had now been transferred to her sister, who turned it to prodigious account. On the morning after the wedding, he had a lady's saddle put on the horse of the servant who had come with him from town, and went out with the young girl for a ride. It was a keen, clear morning in January; the ground was bare and hard, and the horses in good condition,—to say nothing of Viola, who was charming in her hat and plume, and her dark blue riding-coat, trimmed with fur. They rode all the morning, they lost their way, and were obliged to stop for dinner at a farm-house. The early winter dusk had fallen when they got home. Mrs. Willoughby met them with a long face. A messenger had arrived at noon from Mrs. Lloyd; she was beginning to be ill, and desired her husband's immediate return. The young man, at the thought that he had lost several hours, and that by hard riding he might already have been with his wife, uttered a passionate oath. He barely consented to stop for a mouthful of supper, but mounted the messenger's horse and started off at a gallop.

He reached home at midnight. His wife had been delivered of a little girl. "Ah, why were n't you with me?" she said, as he came to her bedside.

"I was out of the house when the man came. I was with Viola," said Lloyd, innocently.

Mrs. Lloyd made a little moan, and turned about. But she continued to do very well, and for a week her improvement was uninterrupted. Finally, however, through some indiscretion in the way of diet or of exposure, it was checked, and the poor lady grew rapidly worse. Lloyd was in despair. It very soon became evident that she was breathing her last. Mrs. Lloyd came to a sense of her approaching end, and declared that she was reconciled with death. On the third evening after the change took place she told her husband that she felt she would not outlast the night. She dismissed her servants, and also requested her mother to withdraw,—Mrs. Willoughby having arrived on the preceding day. She had had her infant placed on the bed beside her, and she lay on her side, with the child against her breast, holding her husband's hands. The night-lamp was hidden behind the heavy curtains of the bed, but the room was illumined with a red glow from the immense fire of logs on the hearth.

"It seems strange to die by such a fire as that," the young woman said, feebly trying to smile. "If I had but a little of such fire in my veins! But I've given it all to this little spark of mortality." And she dropped her eyes on her child. Then raising them she looked at her husband with a long penetrating gaze. The last feeling which lingered in her heart was one of mistrust. She had not recovered from the shock which Arthur had given her by telling her that in the hour of her agony he had been with Viola. She trusted her husband very nearly as well as she loved him; but now that she was called away forever, she felt a cold horror of her sister. She felt in her soul that Viola had never ceased to envy her good fortune; and a year of happy security had not effaced the young girl's image, dressed in her wedding garments, and smiling with coveted triumph. Now that Arthur was to be alone, what might not Viola do? She was beautiful, she was engaging; what arts might she not use, what impression might she not make upon the young man's melancholy heart? Mrs. Lloyd looked at her husband in silence. It seemed hard, after all, to doubt of his constancy. His fine eyes were filled with tears; his face was convulsed with weeping; the clasp of his hands was warm and passionate. How noble he looked, how tender, how faithful and devoted! "Nay," thought Perdita, "he's not for such as Viola. He'll never forget me. Nor does Viola truly care for him; she cares only for vanities and finery and jewels." And she dropped her eyes on her white hands, which her husband's liberality had covered with rings, and on the lace ruffles which trimmed the edge of her night dress. "She covets my rings and my laces more than she covets my husband."

At this moment the thought of her sister's rapacity seemed to cast a dark shadow between her and the helpless figure of her little girl. "Arthur," she said, "you must take off my rings. I shall not be buried in them. One of these days my daughter shall wear them,—my rings and my laces and silks. I had them all brought out and shown me to-day. It's a great wardrobe,—there's not such another in the Province; I can say it without vanity now that I've done with it. It will be a great inheritance for my daughter, when she grows into a young woman. There are things there that a man never buys twice, and if they're lost you'll never again see the like. So you'll watch them well. Some dozen things I've left to Viola; I've named them to my mother. I've given her that blue and silver; it was meant for her; I wore it only once, I looked ill in it. But the rest are to be sacredly kept for this little innocent. It's such a providence that she should be my color; she can wear my gowns; she has her mother's eyes. You know the same fashions come back every twenty years. She can wear my gowns as they are. They 'll lie there quietly waiting till she grows into them,—wrapped in camphor and rose-leaves, and keeping their colors in the sweet-scented darkness. She shall have black hair, she shall wear my carnation satin. Do you promise me, Arthur?"

"Promise you what, dearest?"

"Promise me to keep your poor little wife's old gowns."

"Are you afraid I'll sell them?"

"No, but that they may get scattered. My mother will have them properly wrapped up, and you shall lay them away under a double-lock. Do you know the great chest in the attic, with the iron bands? There's no end to what it will hold. You can lay them all there. My mother and the housekeeper will do it, and give you the key. And you'll keep the key in your secretary, and never give it to any one but your child. Do you promise me?"

"Ah, yes, I promise you," said Lloyd, puzzled at the intensity with which his wife appeared to cling to this idea.

"Will you swear?" repeated Perdita.

"Yes, I swear."

"Well—I trust you—I trust you," said the poor lady, looking into his eyes with eyes in which, if he had suspected her vague apprehensions, he might have read an appeal quite as much as an assurance.

Lloyd bore his bereavement soberly and manfully. A month after his wife's death, in the course of commerce, circumstances arose which offered him an opportunity of going to England. He embraced it as a diversion from gloomy thoughts. He was absent nearly a year, during which his little girl was tenderly nursed and cherished by her grandmother. On his return he had his house again thrown open, and announced his intention of keeping the same state as during his wife's lifetime. It very soon came to be predicted that he would marry again, and there were at least a dozen young women of whom one may say that it was by no fault of theirs that, for six months after his return, the prediction did not come true. During this interval he still left his little daughter in Mrs. Willoughby's hands, the latter assuring him that a change of residence at so tender an age was perilous to her health. Finally, however, he declared that his heart longed for his daughter's presence, and that she must be brought up to town. He sent his coach and his housekeeper to fetch her home. Mrs. Willoughby was in terror lest something should befall her on the road; and, in accordance with this feeling, Viola offered to ride along with her. She could return the next day. So she went up to town with her little niece, and Mr. Lloyd met her on the threshold of his house, overcome with her kindness and with gratitude. Instead of returning the next day, Viola stayed out the week; and when at last she reappeared, she had only come for her clothes. Arthur would not hear of her coming home, nor would the baby. She cried and moaned if Viola left her; and at the sight of her grief Arthur lost his wits, and swore that she was going to die. In fine, nothing would suit them but that Viola should remain until the poor child had grown used to strange faces.

It took two months to bring this consummation about; for it was not until this period had elapsed that Viola took leave of her brother-in-law. Mrs. Willoughby had shaken her head over her daughter's absence; she had declared that it was not becoming, and that it was the talk of the town. She had reconciled herself to it only because, during the young girl's visit, the household enjoyed an unwonted term of peace. Bernard Willoughby had brought his wife home to live, between whom and her sister-in-law there existed a bitter hostility. Viola was perhaps no angel; but in the daily practice of life she was a sufficiently good-natured girl, and if she quarrelled with Mrs. Bernard, it was not without provocation. Quarrel, however, she did, to the great annoyance not only of her antagonist, but of the two spectators of these constant altercations. Her stay in the household of her brother-in-law, therefore, would have been delightful, if only because it removed her from contact with the object of her antipathy at home. It was doubly—it was ten times—delightful, in that it kept her near the object of her old passion. Mrs. Lloyd's poignant mistrust had fallen very far short of the truth. Viola's sentiment had been a passion at first, and a passion it remained,—a passion of whose radiant heat, tempered to the delicate state of his feelings, Mr. Lloyd very soon felt the influence. Lloyd, as I have hinted, was not a modern Petrarch; it was not in his nature to practise an ideal constancy. He had not been many days in the house with his sister-in-law before he began to assure himself that she was, in the language of that day, a devilish fine woman. Whether Viola really practised those insidious arts that her sister had been tempted to impute to her it is needless to inquire. It is enough to say that she found means to appear to the very best advantage. She used to seat herself every morning before the great fireplace in the dining-room, at work upon a piece of tapestry, with her little niece disporting herself on the carpet at her feet, or on the train of her dress, and playing with her woollen balls. Lloyd would have been a very stupid fellow if he had remained insensible to the rich suggestions of this charming picture. He was prodigiously fond of his little girl, and was never weary of taking her in his arms and tossing her up and down, and making her crow with delight. Very often, however, he would venture upon greater liberties than the young lady was yet prepared to allow, and she would suddenly vociferate her displeasure. Viola would then drop her tapestry, and put out her handsome hands with the serious smile of the young girl whose virgin fancy has revealed to her all a mother's healing arts. Lloyd would give up the child, their eyes would meet, their hands would touch, and Viola would extinguish the little girl's sobs upon the snowy folds of the kerchief that crossed her bosom. Her dignity was perfect, and nothing could be more discreet than the manner in which she accepted her brother-in-law's hospitality. It may be almost said, perhaps, that there was something harsh in her reserve. Lloyd had a provoking feeling that she was in the house, and yet that she was unapproachable. Half an hour after supper, at the very outset of the long winter evenings, she would light her candle, and make the young man a most respectful curtsey, and march off to bed. If these were arts, Viola was a great artist. But their effect was so gentle, so gradual, they were calculated to work upon the young widower's fancy with such a finely shaded crescendo, that, as the reader has seen, several weeks elapsed before Viola began to feel sure that her return would cover her outlay. When this became morally certain, she packed up her trunk, and returned to her mother's house. For three days she waited; on the fourth Mr. Lloyd made his appearance,—a respectful but ardent suitor. Viola heard him out with great humility, and accepted him with infinite modesty. It is hard to imagine that Mrs. Lloyd should have forgiven her husband; but if anything might have disarmed her resentment, it would have been the ceremonious continence of this interview. Viola imposed upon her lover but a short probation. They were married, as was becoming, with great privacy,—almost with secrecy,—in the hope perhaps, as was waggishly remarked at the time, that the late Mrs. Lloyd would n't hear of it.

The marriage was to all appearance a happy one, and each party obtained what each had desired— Lloyd "a devilish fine woman," and Viola—but Viola's desires, as the reader will have observed, have remained a good deal of a mystery. There were, indeed, two blots upon their felicity; but time would, perhaps, efface them. During the first three years of her marriage Mrs. Lloyd failed to become a mother, and her husband on his side suffered heavy losses of money. This latter circumstance compelled a material retrenchment in his expenditure, and Viola was perforce less of a great lady than her sister had been. She contrived, however, to sustain with unbroken consistency the part of an elegant woman, although it must be confessed that it required the exercise of more ingenuity than belongs to your real aristocratic repose. She had long since ascertained that her sister's immense wardrobe had been sequestrated for the benefit of her daughter, and that it lay languishing in thankless gloom in the dusty attic. It was a revolting thought that these exquisite fabrics should await the commands of a little girl who sat in a high chair and ate bread-and-milk with a wooden spoon. Viola had the good taste, however, to say nothing about the matter until several months had expired. Then, at last, she timidly broached it to her husband. Was it not a pity that so much finery should be lost?—for lost it would be, what with colors fading, and moths eating it up, and the change of fashions. But Lloyd gave so abrupt and peremptory a negative to her inquiry, that she saw that for the present her attempt was vain. Six months went by, however, and brought with them new needs and new fancies. Viola's thoughts hovered lovingly about her sister's relics. She went up and looked at the chest in which they lay imprisoned. There was a sullen defiance in its three great padlocks and its iron bands, which only quickened her desires. There was something exasperating in its incorruptible immobility. It was like a grim and grizzled old household servant, who locks his jaws over a family secret. And then there was a look of capacity in its vast extent, and a sound as of dense fulness, when Viola knocked its side with the toe of her little slipper, which caused her to flush with baffled longing. "It 's absurd," she cried; "it 's improper, it 's wicked"; and she forthwith resolved upon another attack upon her husband. On the following day, after dinner, when he had had his wine, she bravely began it. But he cut her short with great sternness.

"Once for all, Viola," said he, "it 's out of the question. I shall be gravely displeased if you return to the matter."

"Very good," said Viola. "I 'm glad to learn the value at which I 'm held. Great Heaven!" she cried, "I 'm a happy woman. It 's an agreeable thing to feel one's self sacrificed to a caprice!" And her eyes filled with tears of anger and disappointment.

Lloyd had a good-natured man's horror of a woman's sobs, and he attempted—I may say he condescended—to explain. "It 's not a caprice, dear, it 's a promise," he said,—"an oath."

"An oath? It 's a pretty matter for oaths! and to whom, pray?"

"To Perdita," said the young man, raising his eyes for an instant, but immediately dropping them.

"Perdita,—ah, Perdita!' and Viola's tears broke forth. Her bosom heaved with stormy sobs,—sobs which were the long-deferred counterpart of the violent fit of weeping in which she had indulged herself on the night when she discovered her sister's betrothal. She had hoped, in her better moments, that she had done with her jealousy; but her temper, on that occasion, had taken an ineffaceable fold. "And pray, what right," she cried, "had Perdita to dispose of my future? What right had she to bind you to meanness and cruelty? Ah, I occupy a dignified place, and I make a very fine figure! I 'm welcome to what Perdita has left! And what has she left? I never knew till now how little! Nothing, nothing, nothing."

This was very poor logic, but it was very good passion. Lloyd put his arm around his wife's waist and tried to kiss her, but she shook him off with magnificent scorn. Poor fellow! he had coveted a "devilish fine woman," and he had got one. Her scorn was intolerable. He walked away with his ears tingling,—irresolute, distracted. Before him was his secretary, and in it the sacred key which with his own hand he had turned in the triple lock. He marched up and opened it, and took the key from a secret drawer, wrapped in a little packet which he had sealed with his own honest bit of blazonry. Teneo, said the motto,—"I hold." But he was ashamed to put it back. He flung it upon the table beside his wife.

"Keep it!" she cried. "I want it not. I hate it!"

"I wash my hands of it," cried her husband. "God forgive me!"

Mrs. Lloyd gave an indignant shrug of her shoulders, and swept out of the room, while the young man retreated by another door. Ten minutes later Mrs. Lloyd returned, and found the room occupied by her little step-daughter and the nursery-maid. The key was not on the table. She glanced at the child. The child was perched on a chair with the packet in her hands. She had broken the seal with her own little fingers. Mrs. Lloyd hastily took possession of the key.

At the habitual supper-hour Arthur Lloyd came back from his counting-room. It was the month of June, and supper was served by daylight. The meal was placed on the table, but Mrs. Lloyd failed to make her appearance. The servant whom his master sent to call her came back with the assurance that her room was empty, and that the women informed him that she had not been seen since dinner. They had in truth observed her to have been in tears, and, supposing her to be shut up in her chamber, had not disturbed her. Her husband called her name in various parts of the house, but without response. At last it occurred to him that he might find her by taking the way to the attic. The thought gave him a strange feeling of discomfort, and he bade his servants remain behind, wishing no witness in his quest. He reached the foot of the staircase leading to the topmost flat, and stood with his hand on the banisters, pronouncing his wife's name. His voice trembled. He called again, louder and more firmly. The only sound which disturbed the absolute silence was a faint echo of his own tones, repeating his question under the great eaves. He nevertheless felt irresistibly moved to ascend the staircase. It opened upon a wide hall, lined with wooden closets, and terminating in a window which looked westward, and admitted the last rays of the sun. Before the window stood the great chest. Before the chest, on her knees, the young man saw with amazement and horror the figure of his wife. In an instant he crossed the interval between them, bereft of utterance. The lid of the chest stood open, exposing, amid their perfumed napkins, its treasure of stuffs and jewels. Viola had fallen backward from a kneeling posture, with one hand supporting her on the floor and the other pressed to her heart. On her limbs was the stiffness of death, and on her face, in the fading light of the sun, the terror of something more than death. Her lips were parted in entreaty, in dismay, in agony; and on her bloodless brow and cheeks there glowed the marks of ten hideous wounds from two vengeful ghostly hands.