The Missing Bride. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

assured him that she had not been heroic at all—that the preservation of Luckenough had been due rather to the timely succor of the college boys than to her own imprudent resolution. It did no good—the old man was determined to look upon his niece as a heroine worthy to stand by the side of Joan of Arc.

      "For," said he, "was it not the soul of a heroine that enabled her to stay and guard the house; and would the college company ever have come to the rescue of these old walls if they had not heard that she had resolutely remained to guard them and was almost alone in the house? Don't tell me! Edith is the star maiden of old St. Mary's, and I'm proud of her! She is worthy to be my niece and heiress! A true descendant of Marie Zelenski, is she! And I'll tell you what I'll do, Edith!" he said, turning to her, "I'll reward you, my dear! I will. I'll marry you to Professor Grimshaw! That's what I'll do, my dear! And you both shall have Luckenough; that you shall!"

      Months passed—the war was over—peace was proclaimed, and still the young ensign, an invalid, unable to travel, lingered at Luckenough. Regularly he received his pay; twice he received an extension of leave of absence; and all through the instrumentality of—Thorg. Yet all this filled Edith with the greatest uneasiness and foreboding—ungrateful, incomprehensible, yet impossible to be delivered from.

CHAPTER IV.

       Table of Contents

      EDITH'S TROUBLES.

      Late in the spring Ensign Michael Shields received orders to join his regiment in Canada, and upon their reception he had an explanation with Edith, and with her permission, had requested her hand of her uncle, Commodore Waugh. This threw the veteran into a towering passion, and nearly drove him from his proprieties as host. The young ensign was unacceptable to him upon every account. First and foremost, he wasn't "Grim," Then he was an Israelite. And, lastly! horror of horrors! he was a British officer, and dared to aspire to the hand of Edith. It was in vain that his wife, the good Henrietta, tried to mollify him; the storm raged for several days—raged, till it had expended all its strength, and subsided from exhaustion. Then he called Edith and tried to talk the matter over calmly with her.

      "Now all I have to say to you, Edith, is this," he concluded, "that if you will have the good sense to marry Mr. Grimshaw, these intentions shall be more than fulfilled—they shall be anticipated. Upon your marriage with Grimshaw, I will give you a conveyance of Luckenough—only reserving to myself and Old Hen a house, and a life-support in the place; but if you will persist in your foolish preference for that young scamp, I will give you—nothing. That is all, Edith."

      During the speech Edith remained standing, with her eyes fixed upon the floor. Now, she spoke in a tremulous voice:

      "That is all—is it not, uncle? You will not deprive me of any portion of your love; will you, uncle?"

      "I do not know, Edith! I cannot tell; when you have deliberately chosen one of your own fancy, in preference to one of mine—the man I care most for in the world, and whom I chose especially for you; why, you've speared me right through a very tender part; however, as I said before, what you do, do quickly! I cannot bear to be kept upon the tenter hooks!"

      "I will talk with Michael, uncle," said Edith, meekly.

      She went out, and found him pacing the lawn at the back of the house.

      He turned toward her with a glad smile, took her hand as she approached him, and pressed it to his lips.

      "Dearest Edith, where have you been so long?"

      "With my uncle, Michael. I have my uncle's 'ultimatum,' as he calls it."

      "What is it, Edith?"

      "Ah! how shall I tell you without offense? But, dearest Michael you will not mind—you will forgive an old man's childish prejudices, especially when you know they are not personal—but circumstantial, national, bigoted."

      "Well, Edith! well?"

      "Michael, he says—he says that I may give you my hand—"

      "Said he so! Bless that fair hand, and bless him who bestows it!" he exclaimed, clasping her fingers and pressing them to his lips.

      "Yes, Michael, but—"

      "But what! there is no but; he permits you to give me your hand; there is then no but—'a jailer to bring forth some monstrous malefactor.'"

      "Yet listen! You know I was to have been his heiress!"

      "No, indeed I did not know it! never heard it! never suspected it! never even thought of it! How did I know but that he had sons and daughters, or nephews away at school!"

      "Well, I was to have been his heiress. Now he disinherits me, unless I consent to be married to his friend and favorite, Dr. Grimshaw."

      "You put the case gently and delicately, dear Edith, but the hard truth is this—is it not—that he will disinherit you, if you consent to be mine? You need not answer me, dearest Edith, if you do not wish to; but listen—I have nothing but my sword, and beyond my boundless love nothing to offer you but the wayward fate of a soldier's wife. Your eyes are full of tears. Speak, Edith Lance! Can you share the soldier's wandering life? Speak, Edith, or lay your hand in mine. Yet, no! no! no! I am selfish and unjust. Take time, love, to think of all you abandon, all that you may encounter in joining your fate to mine. God knows what it has cost me to say it—but—take time, Edith," and he pressed and dropped her hand.

      "I do not need to do so. My answer to-day, to-morrow, and forever, must be the same," she answered, in a very low voice; and her eyes sought the ground, and the blush deepened on her cheek, as she laid her hand in his. How he pressed that white hand, to his lips, to his heart! How he clasped her to his breast! How he vowed to love and cherish her as the dearest treasure of his life need not here be told.

      Edith said:

      "Now take me in to uncle, and tell him, for he asked me not to keep him in suspense."

      Michael led her into the hall, where the commodore strode up and down, making the old rafters tremble and quake with every tread—puffing—blowing over his fallen hopes, like a nor'-wester over the dead leaves.

      Michael advanced, holding the hand of his affianced, and modestly announced their engagement.

      "Humph! So the precious business is concluded, is it?"

      "Yes, sir," said Michael, with a bow.

      "Well, I hope you may be as happy as you deserve! When is the proceeding to come off?"

      "What, sir?"

      "The marriage, young gentleman?"

      "When shall I say, dearest Edith?" asked Michael, stooping to her ear.

      "When uncle pleases," murmured the girl.

      "Uncle pleases nothing, and will have nothing to do with it, except to advise as early a day as possible," he blurted out; "what says the bride?"

      "Answer, dearest Edith," entreated Michael Shields.

      "Then let it be at New Year," said Edith, falteringly.

      "Whew!—six months ahead! Entirely too far off!" exclaimed the commodore.

      "And so it really is, beloved," whispered Michael.

      "Let it be next week," abruptly broke in the commodore. "What's the use of putting it off? Tuesdays and Thursdays are the marrying days, I believe; let it then be Tuesday or Thursday."

      "Tuesday," pleaded Michael.

      "Thursday," murmured Edith.

      "The deuce!—if you can't decide, I must decide for you," growled Old

       Nick, storming down toward the extremity of the hall, and roaring—"Old

       Hen! Old Hen! These fools are to be spliced on Sunday!