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Had Hermione been allowed time to think, she might have drawn back from such a sudden marriage. But Frank, who recognized this possibility, urged her with gentle speed down the street, and never ceased his persuasions till they stood at the minister's door. Mrs. Lothrop, who had a heart for romance, opened it, and seeing the blushing face and somewhat dishevelled appearance of Hermione, she cast one comprehending look at Frank, and drew them in joyfully.
"You are to be married, are you not?" she asked, welcoming the whole four with the gayest of bows. "I congratulate you, dear, and will take you right away to my best room, where you will find your box and everything else you may need. I am so glad you decided to come here instead of having us go to you. It is so pleasant and so friendly and the Doctor does so dread to go out evenings now."
Small chatter is ofttimes our salvation. Under this little lady's fire of bright talk Hermione lost the tragic feelings of months and seemed to awake to the genialities of life. Turning her grand head towards the smiling little woman she let her own happiness shine from the corners of her mouth, and then following the other's lead, allowed herself to be taken to a cosy chintz-furnished room whose home-like aspect struck warm upon her heart and completed the work of her rejuvenation.
Emma, who was close behind her, laughed merrily.
"Such a chrysalis of a bride," cried she. "Where are the wings with which to turn her into a butterfly?"
Mrs. Lothrop showed them a great box, and then left them. Emma, lifting the lid, glanced shyly at Hermione, who blushed scarlet. Such a lovely array of satin, lace, and flowers! To these girls, who had denied themselves everything and been denied everything, it was a glimpse of Paradise. As one beautiful garment after another was taken out, Hermione's head drooped lower in her delight and the love it inspired, till at last the tears came and she wept for a few minutes unconstrainedly. When this mood had passed, she gave herself up to Emma's eager fingers, and was dressed in her bridal garments.
The clock was striking ten when Frank's impatience was rewarded by the first glimpse of his bride. She came into the room with Emma and Mrs. Lothrop, and her beauty, heightened by her feelings to the utmost, was such as to fill him with triumph and delight.
To Edgar it was a revelation, for always before, he had seen the scar before he did her; but now he was compelled to see her first, for the scar was hidden under fold upon fold of lace.
"No wonder Frank is daft over her," thought he, "if she always looks like this to him."
As for Frank, he bowed with all his soul to the radiant vision, and then, leading her up to Mr. Lothrop, awaited the sacred words which were to make them one. As they were being uttered, strange noises broke out in the street, and the cry of "Fire! fire!" rang out; but if the bride and bridegroom heard the ominous word they did not betray the fact, and the ceremony proceeded. It was soon over, and Frank turned to kiss his wife; but just as Emma advanced with her congratulations, the front door burst open and a neighbor's voice was heard to cry in great excitement:
"The Cavanagh house is burning, and we are all afraid that the girls have perished in the flames."
It was Emma who gave the one shriek that responded to these words. Hermione seemed like one frozen. Edgar, dashing to the door, looked out, and came slowly back.
"Yes, it is burning," said he. "Emma will have to go with you to New York."
"It is a judgment," moaned Hermione, clinging to Frank, who perhaps felt a touch of superstitious awe himself. "It is a judgment upon me for forgetting; for being happy; for accepting a deliverance I should not have desired."
But at these words Frank regained his composure.
"No," corrected he, "it is your deliverance made complete. Without it you might have had compunctions and ideas of returning to a place to which you felt yourself condemned. Now you never can. It is a merciful Providence."
"Let us go and see the old house burn," she whispered. "If it is a funeral pyre of the past, let us watch the dying embers. Perhaps my fears will vanish with them."
He did not refuse her; so Emma relieved her of her veil and threw about her a long cloak, and together they stepped into the street. The glare that struck their faces made them shrink, but they soon overcame the first shock and hastened on.
The town was in a tumult, but they saw nothing save the flaming skeleton of their home, with the gaunt outlines of the poplars shining vividly in the scarlet glow.
As they drew near to it the front of the house fell in, and Hermione, with a shriek, pointed to the corner where the laboratory had been.
"My father! my father! See! see! he is there! He is denouncing me! Look at his lifted arms! It is a judgment, it is——"
Her words trailed off in choking horror. They all looked, and they all saw the figure of an old man writhing against a background of flame. Was it a spectre? Was it the restless ghost of the old professor showing itself for the last time in the place of his greatest sin and suffering? Even Edgar was silent, and Frank refused to say, while the girls, sinking upon their knees with inarticulate moans and prayers, seemed to beg for mercy and cry against this retribution, when suddenly Hermione felt herself clasped in two vigorous arms, and a voice exclaimed in the husky accents of great joy:
"You are here! You are here! You are not burned! O my dear young mistresses, my dear, dear young mistresses!"
Hermione, pushing the weeping Doris back, pointed again towards the toppling structure, and cried:
"Do you see who is there? My father, Doris, my father! See how he beckons and waves, see——"
Doris, startled, gave a cry in her turn:
"It is Mr. Huckins! O save——"
But the words were lost in the sudden crash of falling walls. The scene of woe was gone, and the dayspring of hope had risen for the two girls.
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THE LEAVENWORTH CASE. A Lawyer's Story.
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Who?
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A more thrilling detective story than "Who?" has seldom appeared. Not only does it deal with the story of a crime such as the ablest detective would find it difficult to solve, but there is an added mystery concerning the identity of one of the principal suspects, regarding which the reader's opinion will change a dozen times before arriving at the truth. Every page teems with incidents, forming a succession of dramatic scenes that will keep the reader's interest at white heat throughout.
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The Adventures of Miss Gregory
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The rousing volume of dare-devil enterprise that Perceval Gibbon has written is a book full of freshness and surprise. Miss Gregory knocks about the world, and wherever she goes she is in the thick of things. At one time it is a Nihilist plot which fascinates her; at another time, a plague-stricken community that calls her. She is in Africa when the slaver is secretly plying his trade, and again, in wicked Beíra, at the opportune moment she interposes her calm, forceful personality between an aggressive ruffian and his friendless victim. Wherever she goes she attracts adventure to her. The book which recounts her extraordinary experiences is full of graphic pictures of men and women in widely separated parts of the globe, and the characterization of these is as forceful and impressive as the narrative in which they play their parts is swift in movement and enthralling in theme.
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