CHAPTER I. "'TIS BUT THY NAME THAT IS MY ENEMY." — Shakespeare.

      "DEAR Aubrey, why did you not tell before of this feud between your father and Count Cabella? I should never have dared to ask for my step-father's consent to our marriage had I known."

      "Do you not understand, Muriel, that my father's ventures had all proved disastrous? He had lent Count Cabella twenty thousand pounds for two years, upon the mortgage of his property in Genoa; six years had elapsed, and the interest even had ceased to be paid. He was on the eve of bankruptcy, and foreclosed to save himself. Had he known that the count was a desperate gambler he would never have lent him a shilling."

      "Papa was doubtless cured by the loss of his estates; but, none the less, he attributes the sacrifice of his ancestral possessions to your father's conduct."

      "Does he know that I am the son of the man he chooses to call his enemy?" asked Aubrey Percival.

      "I don't know," answered Muriel. "He merely said that my having met you at your mother's house, where I went to spend holidays with Alice, was not sufficient reason for venturing to become your wife."

      "At any rate has no control over your choice. Your father and mine were perfectly unknown to each other, and although the Countess Cabella may be ready to adopt her second husband's quarrels, she has no right to make the daughter of her first marriage share them."

      "My mother is quite under his will. Indeed his passion is so violent that it would madness for her oppose him when he is influenced revenge."

      "Although he lives upon her income!" bitterly exclaimed Aubrey. "But you will soon be able act independently."

      "I shall not be of age for six months," answered Muriel. "It is fair to him to say that he has his old palace at Genoa and sufficient domain left to maintain him in a simple way."

      "At any rate, you promise to become wife when the law gives you the power to act upon your own will?" asked her lover.

      "Yes, Aubrey, if I cannot obtain mamma's consent to our union."

      Then they both rose from the seat where they had been resting in Kensington-gardens, and, turning westwards, they directed their steps towards the Uxbridge-road.

      They were as handsome a couple to look upon as one could see in a day's walk. She, fair and slender, with flaxen hair which set off, in all its lustre, the depth of the blue that gave expression of eloquence to her full, passionate eyes. The dark cerulean tinge of the iris, surrounded by tint of bluish-white, was aided in its effect by eyebrows of a much darker tone than the colour of the young girl's hair, the combination giving more strength to the face than the delicately-chiselled nose and chin and the small mouth would have been likely to have expressed without such adjuncts. Although the features in repose suggested that patient amiability which is the great charm of English feminine beauty, there was a certain unrest in the eyes that would have induced a doctor to counsel her friends to shield her from undue excitement. A little above the average feminine stature, lithe in form and graceful in her movements, Muriel Harcourt was a girl to be remembered by anybody who chanced to see her.

      Aubrey Percival was a true type of Englishman. A strong, muscular frame; broad forehead, crowned with crisp, curly chestnut hair; a full face, with large features that found their fitting ornament in a heavy moustache; height of five feet ten, with an easy, careless manner of moving and reposing, may serve as the outlines of his portrait.

      The two walked along until they came to some so-called "gardens," which stood in a turning out of the main road, where the lovers parted, and Muriel entered her mother's house.

      They had not seen the dark eyes that had watched them from behind one of the trees within two or three yards of their seat in Kensington-gardens. Count Cabella had for some little time been spying the going and coming of his step-daughter, and had just learnt that her lover was the son his old enemy.

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CHAPTER II. "AWAY WITH ME. I WILL NOT QUIT MY HOLD." — Byron.

"HARRIET," said Count Cabella to his wife, as they sat at dinner on the evening of the day referred to in the previous chapter, "I shall have to go to Genoa about the remnant of my estates there." Muriel thought there was a harsh tone in his voice as he uttered the last five words, but his face did not express any anger or bitterness.

      "Will you be long away?" asked the countess.

      "Well, I am not sure how long I may be detained. Perhaps you and Muriel would like to accompany me?"

      "What, now?" exclaimed Muriel.

      "Not to-night," replied Count Cabella. "There is not so much haste but I can wait until the day after to-morrow for our departure."

      "I have no particular wish to see Italy," said Muriel, as she thought that her meetings with Aubrey were going to be interrupted.

      "Muriel," remonstrated her mother, "that is hardly gracious to papa. He kindly changes his business journey into a pleasant little tour, and all the return you make is to offer an absurd objection."

      "Of course, control over Muriel has never been acknowledged by her," said Cabella, without expressing by face or voice any resentment at her asserted defiance. "But she must remember that her father's will makes me her trustee."

      "I do not see how my remaining in my own father's country can be considered a crime against him or you."

      She did not know why, but she felt an actual dread of this visit. She had never passed her holidays from school with her mother when the count happened to be at home. Some way the countess, who was absolutely governed by her second husband, did not care to have her daughter a frequent witness of her married state. All Muriel knew was that her saw her step-father was a most penurious steward of the large fortune bequeathed to her by her father, and that she would inherit it at Christmas.

      "I suppose you do not encourage Muriel in this silly caprice?" inquired the count of his wife.

      "Muriel is not refusing to go to Italy," answered the countess. "Indeed, if refuses you, I shall command her."

      "Really, there is a great fuss being made about nothing," suggested the young girl. "I only said that I had no great wish to see Italy."

      "Yes, your mother and I clearly misinterpreted your words," replied Cabella. "You quite understand that we three will leave England for Genoa the day after to-morrow."

      Muriel felt herself subdued by the cold anger of her step-father. She did not say another word to suggest her reluctance at leaving London. She knew that she would have to do as Count Cabella ordered her, and she did not wish render her defeat more humiliating by prolonging the struggle and thus increasing its apparent importance.

      The next day the ladies had to make some small purchases in connection with their journey; but the count had a leisure morning, and was quite pleased to be able to offer himself as their companion. When they returned, Muriel suggested that she and her mother should drive in the Park until it was time to dress for dinner. The countess, who was delighted to do anything which pleased other people, readily consented. When the two ladies were leaving the house, however, they found the count waiting to go with them. Count Cabella was manifestly taking Muriel into custody until she should be out of England.

      "Is he trying to prevent me from seeing Aubrey?" she asked herself. "But, then, he does not know that I and Aubrey meet each other nearly every day."

      Muriel had a sort of instinctive inclination to keep her secrets to herself until she was old enough to act as she chose; but she had been persuaded by her mother to ask the count's consent to her marriage with Mr. Percival. This permission the count cannot be said to have granted, so she hardly intended unfolding her confidences in his direction, feeling sure that he would not remain in ignorance of her secrets from neglecting any opportunity of discovering them. She had been so little at home that the servants were almost strangers to her; thus, her one desire, to let Aubrey know by letter where she was going and why she would not be in Hyde-park or Kensington-gardens for some time to come, was really a matter of difficulty. So Muriel kept her letter for Aubrey to herself, and thought it a little triumph when she contrived to post it, unstamped as it was, at the Northern of France Railway Station at Boulogne.

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CHAPTER III.

"THE PATH LIES O'ER THE SEA." — Rogers.

THE count had decided to to Genoa viâ Paris, where the little party were to remain a few days. They stayed at the Mirabeau, but it is not there that we shall find Count Cabella.

      At almost the end of the Rue Taitbout, furthest from the Boulevard, there is, or was, a small hotel used principally by Italians. In the old days, when Italy was aspiring for that unity which to-day it enjoys, a good many of the customers of the little hotel were very much observed by the police. Not by the sergents de ville in their self-asserting uniforms, but by the so-called mouches, who dressed themselves in all sorts of disguises, ragged enough and dirty enough to inspire confidence in Monsieur Untel's lodgers. The police never interfered with the place or with the proprietor; but it was said that this immunity was purchased at the expense of monsieur's patrons, who were very carefully spied by their landlord, and were most honourably betrayed, from time to time, according to compact.

      In a small private room in this somewhat unworthy house of entertainment, Count Cabella sat with a fellow-countryman some twenty years his junior.

      "How much of her fortune is gone?" asked the younger man.

      "Half, Giulio," answered Cabella. "A little might be recovered, but, without being too despondent, I may say that not much more than half Muriel's fortune will be at my disposal when she comes of age."

      "Women are easily deceived," said Giulio, sententiously.

      "I never knew a woman who could be persuaded that she had a claim for less money than belonged to her," remarked the count. "Besides, she has a lover."

      "Well," replied Giulio, "promise him give your leave for the union at once if he will undertake to hand an indemnity signed by himself and the girl upon her coming of age."

      "And own myself a defaulter!" exclaimed Cabella, angrily. "Giulio, the man who wishes to marry Muriel is the son of my one enemy Wilfred Percival. You can understand my ——" He hesitated for a word.

      "Your fear," suggested Giulio.

      "Fear!" shrieked Cabella in a fury. "Is that all you know of my character? If she had chanced to have fallen in love with someone else, I might have tried to make terms with him, but with Percival's son — never!"

      "Then what is your plan?" asked the other.

      "She will have to marry you."

      "Me!" exclaimed Giulio, "and I have never seen her. Oh, I don't object, if she be agreeable. You can leave a woman if you tire of her, or make life so wretched that she is glad to leave you. How will you induce her to accept me for her husband?"

      "Simply by compulsion, and by working on her fears physically," said Cabella.

      "What, in Paris?" ejaculated Giulio, contemptuously. "Thank you for such forced nuptials. I must ask you to find another bridegroom."

      "What man have I so much under my thumb as I have you? I only suspect the poisoning business ——"

      "It is a lie!" interrupted Giulio.

      "I have not taken the trouble to investigate it yet. But the forgery I have in my possession, with the proofs of its perpetrator."

      "You know, Cabella, I am willing to do what I can to please you, but when it comes to this sort of conspiracy in a city overrun by secret police ——"

      "I shall do nothing in Paris," explained the count, "that can endanger your liberty or mine. I shall introduce you to her to-morrow, so that you may be a little acquainted before get to Genoa."

      "But if this Percival fellow should turn up while we are in Paris?" asked Giulio, nervously.

      "My dear fellow, I wish he would. Muriel once told her mother that he always lodges at an hotel in the Rue de Seine, kept by an old friend," said Cabella.

      "And what of that?" asked the other.

      "Well, he would be easily tempted to stay late at the Mirabeau. He would have to cross one of the bridges to go home. What are the chances that, instead of reaching the Sabot d'Or that night, he would be picked out of the Seine and taken to the morgue in the morning?"

      "You would not wish me to do that?" said Giulio.

      "No, it would be my revenge, and I should keep it for myself. But there no hope of that," sighed the count. "For the rest, let us attend to one thing at a time. Make yourself as agreeable to Muriel as you can. You have a flashy pleasantness for women; try and fascinate my step-daughter; it would save more violent measures at the palace."

      How little do the despisers of women know of them.

      Giulio Barroni was introduced to the countess and her daughter as a man of wealth, who had suffered in the cause of Italian liberty. His battles were told by Cabella over déjeuner when the hero was not present; his losses were alluded to by himself with an airy disregard for money when the interest of his country was in question. But some way there was a false ring in the count's praises and in his own patriotism which never seemed to have a tone of reality to Muriel. So when they started away for the south, Giulio Barroni had not advanced one step towards saving his friend the necessity of resorting to "more violent measures."

      The young Italian had only made one success in the week. He had escaped from the little hotel in the Rue Taitbout without paying his bill.

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CHAPTER IV.

"I COME NOT HERE TO ARGUE, BUT TO DIE." — Golden Legend.

COUNT CABELLA, who had really loitered in Paris, no sooner found himself travelling south than his native impatience returned.

      "Marco," objected his wife, "your energy is too terrible. We do not stop anywhere."

      "We can stop as we return. There is a steamboat leaves Nice for Genoa to-morrow, and we must be in time for that."

      They reached Genoa on Saturday, which happened to be one of the festive days that are pretty frequent in that city.

      Here the countess declared herself too tired to go any further, a suggestion which her husband heard without complaint.

      "We will leave you at an hotel," said Cabella, "and can return in time for dinner."

      Then the three started (Barroni having joined them), but a minute afterwards the count stopped the carriage and walked back to the hotel, where his wife was resting.

      "It will be better not to expect us back to-night," he said.

      "Not expect you back! What, will you leave me here alone?" asked the countess.

      "No, no! I mean, do not be surprised if we should be detained," he answered. "As to being alone, the landlord's wife is an excellent woman, and is really educated. You will find her a pleasant companion."

      Then he walked hurriedly back to where the carriage was waiting for him. For a moment Muriel regretted that she had not stayed with her mother, but the novelty of the scene made her forget her disinclination, and she found herself enjoying the drive.

      "We must alight here," said Cabella as the carriage stopped at the entrance of narrow lane over-arched by trees. Then he gave some directions to the driver, and the travellers walked along until they came to a high wall, pierced by a small wooden door.

      "Where are we going to?" asked Muriel, as she saw her step-father ringing the bell. A proceeding which had to be continued some time before it induced any answer.

      "Did I not tell you that we were to visit my poor deserted palace?"

      He had told no one this. He had dismissed the hackney carriage, so that there was not a trace by which they could be followed.

      The little door was at last opened by as ugly an old woman as ever had the care of a deserted palace. She dropped a low curtsey as her aged eyes recognised her master, and making room for Cabella, Barroni, and Muriel to pass into the courtyard, she locked the door, and then went on in front, talking volubly to the count in a patois that was perfectly unintelligible to the young girl.

      Built in the form of an irregular quadrangle, the palace did not give the least sign of being occupied. The rooms which the caretaker inhabited were in a sort of porter's lodge, although they were built on to the main edifice. A coarse ivy overgrew the walls and choked the light that tried, almost in vain, to penetrate the small casements, which were coated with dust. Lizards were sunning themselves upon the one wall which enjoyed any sunshine, but the reptiles ran away beneath the ivy as the count and his companions crossed the quadrangle. The peasant woman had given Cabella the keys of his palace and had retired to her rooms. The springs and bolts of the locks grated and shrieked as the count turned their keys in them; but, like the hinges of the doors, they were strong and massive.

      Passing some dull passages, the darkness of which was augmented by the mud-stained, ivy-covered state of the windows, the party at last reached a room that had evidently been recently prepared for occupation.

      "I do not think the condition of the palace is such as to make our visit worth the trouble," said Muriel, looking round uneasily.

      "I am sorry you spurn my poor place," answered her step-father. "I may plead, in mitigation of your contempt, that the degradation of my ancestor's palace is the work of a stranger. Giulio, leave us for a few minutes. I think you will some chairs in the room opposite this one."

      He spoke the words bitterly, as if the scantiness of the furniture was also the work of the unnamed stranger. Barroni made no reply, but quitted the room immediately.

      "I have brought you here," said Cabella, as his accomplice closed the door, "to show you the ruin wrought Aubrey Percival's father."

      "You know ——" began Muriel.

      "Yes, I know that your great wish is to marry the man against whom I bear the most worthy and righteous hatred."

      "He has not injured you," said Muriel, "and still less can I be in any way associated with something done by his father."

      "I quite appreciate your utter carelessness of my wrongs," replied the count. "I am sure that you would wait for the six months to pass, when you will come of age, and marry Percival then if I prevented your doing so now."

      "Then you do not mean to prevent my becoming Aubrey's wife?" asked Muriel.

      "Not so that you can marry him six months hence," he answered. "Giulio Barroni loves you. He is an impetuous fellow, and does not creep into an attachment as most Englishmen do."

      "Signor Barroni!" exclaimed the girl: "a gentleman I have not known a fortnight."

      "You are young; there will be plenty of time to improve his acquaintance after you are his wife. I have prepared this promise, which you shall sign with your name, and swear by all you hold reverence to observe."

      He produced a written paper as he spoke.

      "I will not sign it!" she said; "I will die first!"

      "Death is not always the alternative," he remarked.

      "Whatever be my punishment, I will not be the dupe of your malice."

      "Will you not?"

      The early shades of evening were descending. The sombre light of the room already assumed a deeper gloom. Cabella walked to the door.

      "The concierge has put some food for you — very coarse, I am afraid. I have explained to her that you are mad. To-morrow I shall come here again, to learn if you have changed your mind."

      Muriel gave one scream of alarm as she heard that she was doomed to pass a night in that dreadful place; but the heavy oak door closed upon her cry, and the brutal adventurer turned the key upon his unhappy victim.

      Barroni crossed the passage as Cabella came from Muriel's prison.

      "Are we going to leave her there?" he inquired.

      "We are not — I am," answered the other. "In fact, Giulio, I wish you out the way, at present, and I have nowhere else to put you. Do not be alarmed; it is as difficult for anyone to get into this palace against my will as it would be for you to quit it."

      Then he went back to the hotel where his wife was, and told her that Muriel and Barroni had eloped. He affected the greatest concern, and even sent for the police, whom he instructed in the countess's presence; attempting to console his wife, when the official had left, by speaking of Barroni's family being good.

      Meanwhile Muriel had given way to despair, and had finally fallen upon a mattress placed on the floor, and passed the night in paroxysms of hysteric fear and horror.

      Next day Cabella sent telegrams, north, south, east, and west, describing the imaginary fugitives; later on in the afternoon he returned to his palace, going by a roundabout way that his visit might not be noticed.

      "I say, Cabella," said Giulio, when his tyrant came to him, "I won't have anything more to do with this business. If your step-daughter should die, I shall be implicated her murder."

      "You won't have, Giulio!" exclaimed Cabella. "How can you use such language to me?" Then he turned and left his unwilling accomplice still as much a prisoner as was the unhappy Muriel.

      "If she should die!" repeated the count to himself. He had not thought of that. If Muriel were dead he could bribe Barroni, or perhaps dispose of him, and thus there would be no one to call him to give an account of his stewardship.

      He had seen the wretched girl that evening, and he felt sure that neither mind nor body could hold out long against such a strain. Let him get rid of Giulio and it would be thought that the two had eloped, and there would be an end of the matter. He would not return to the palace for three days; by then, he felt sure, Muriel would be dead.

      How could that appalling interval of wretchedness be borne by the doomed Muriel? — the agony of her blighted love, the terrors of those nights passed in blackness and silence, or, far worse, with that silence startled by weird and unaccountable noises, the horrors conjured up by her excited and disordered imagination; day and night, night and day, alone, or worse than alone, frightened by the overgrown insects, the denizens of that palace of poverty, neglect, and dirt which claimed the place as theirs.

      The third day Cabella rang at the mural door. "By this time the girl must be dead."

      The old concierge half made sign to him; then stopped as if she were afraid to do so.

      "Scene has been a bad one, I suppose," he thought, as he took the keys from his pocket and selected that one which opened Muriel's prison.

      As he prepared to adjust the key in its place he found that the lock had been forced. With an oath he pushed open the door, and was confronted by Aubrey Percival, whilst at the same moment two officers of police entered the room, and in a minute more had made him their prisoner.

CABELLA GAVE A YELL OF RAGE AS HE SAW HIMSELF THUS BAFFLED BY THE MAN WHO HAD INHERITED HIS HATE.

      Cabella gave a yell of rage as he saw himself thus baffled by the man who had inherited his hate.

      "So you ally yourself with a scoundrel like Barroni," said the count.

      "On the contrary; in tracking one scoundrel I have discovered two," answered Aubrey. "Barroni's landlord of the Rue Taitbout, whom your accomplice had forgotten to pay, has facilities for listening to conversations that are not intended for him; thus he heard your conspiracy against your step-daughter, and, being told by you where I generally stayed when in Paris, he went to the Sabot d'Or just I had arrived there. Muriel had warned me of her departure from London, and luckily I followed in time."

      "And listened to an innkeepker's lies," said the count.

      "The lies which, with the assistance of French and Italian police, have enabled me to rescue a helpless girl from the machinations of a wretch."

      The police thought it was now time to march off with the count as well as with Barroni, who was in confinement in the room in which Cabella had left him.

      Two days before, Aubrey had been able to come to the rescue of Muriel, but the police had not allowed him to remove her, as they were waiting for Cabella to make his appearance. The concierge had been warned by the police against betraying to her master the fact of their being in his palace.

      Now Aubrey was able to restore his beloved Muriel to her mother, who, in her horror at her husband's cruelty, and her joy at once again embracing her daughter, certainly bore with philosophical resignation the widowhood that was once more to be her state.

      The night after his arrest, Cabella strangled himself in gaol. His accomplice, who was evidently only a tool in the other's hands, got off with a year's imprisonment.

THE END.