THE MYSTERY OF CEDAR BAY. CHAPTER I. BY MRS. MARY E. BRYAN. AT the depot of the small seaport town, Marian found her sister's carriage waiting for her. It had been there an hour, so she was assured by the sable servitor, who had mounted the platform, inquiring for Miss Orme before the cars had fairly ceased to move. She followed him to the carriage, expecting to find Adrienne there, but hers was not the little, girlish figure that advanced to meet her, eagerly, yet with an air of timidity and a blush upon her delicate oval cheeks. "Can this be my little Alice," cried Marian, as the girl threw herself in her arms, murmuring, “ dear sister, I am so glad you have come!" "Can this be the little fairy that left me in short frocks and flaxen ringlets? I can hardly believe it." "She is the same in her love for you, dear sister, if in nothing else. And she is little Alice, still, you see, while the curls are only tucked up because your coming made it a state occasion." "Then I shall insist on having them down in future. But tell me of Adrienne; is she well?" "She is well-as well as usual, but there were visitors at the Cedars, and she could not leave them to accompany me as she wished." "Shall I find her much changed?" "I can hardly say. You have not seen her for seven years, and I can scarcely remember how she looked so long ago. But to me, she seems to have greatly changed in the last year." "Maturity has given her more dignity and self-control," she said. Alice shook her head doubtfully, and made no reply. Marian looked at her keenly. "Tell me, what then is this change?" she said. "What do you think it indicates, Alice?" "You will see and judge for yourself, sister. Adrienne always said you had such quick insight. There is something about it 1 cannot fathom." She sighed softly, and taking up a maga zine with engravings that lay upon Marian's lap, she turned the leaves, as if wishing to change the conversation. Marian leaned back in the carriage and looked thoughtfully out of the window. But her thoughts were not of the rich grove of cedars through which they were passing. The words of Alice had sent them back across the years that had intervened since she parted from her two half-sisters at the door of the old-fashioned stage coach, that bore them, with their father, away from the quiet country village, where they had passed so many years of a childhood, never embit tered until by the death of the mother they so dearly loved. Since their separation, the destinies of the half-sisters had been widely different. Marian, the orphan, was left to the guardianship of a maiden aunt of her father's-a sensible but staid and puritanical person. Here she had lived in retirement, with no congenial companionship, save that of her books. An artist in soul, she saw no pictures, save a few choice engravings in an old album, that had been her mother's; learn "She has grown graver and more matron-ed no music save the accompaniments (playly, now that she is married, I fancy." “It is not that exactly. Do you remember how warm-hearted and impulsive she used to be-how sparkling and gay? She is so no longer. She is far more cold and calm." Marian remembered well. Her heart held a picture of that bright, beautiful, impassioned being her half-sister-which seven years of separation had not faded. ed on her aunt's ancient spinnet) of a few old haunting songs of her childhood. But she learned such lessons as women greatly need-patience, and the habit of self-con trol. She matured early into a sweet, grave womanhood, hardly suspecting herself the deep feelings that lay beneath her calm exterior, or the fountain of poetry, of chivalrous ro mance, that freshened her nature, and gave to her face and manner a charm perceptible even to the commonplace eyes that beheld her. Her half-sisters, Adrienne and Alice, were carried to a Northern city by their father, and placed there at a fashionable seminary. When duly accomplished, Adrienne was brought out into society by a cousin of her father, in a manner befitting the station of Mr. Somerville, whose family,no less than his political talents, entitled him to a high social position. The sisters had not met since that tearful parting before the gate of the village homestead, but the correspondence of Adrienne and Marian had been constant, and (until within the last year) unconstrained. Marian, whose nature was capable of unselfish devotion, was tenderly attached to her beautiful sister. Young as she had been when they separated, she comprehended in some degree Adrienne's peculiar disposition, and her solicitude was awakened when she heard of her as a belle, admired not only by the superficial exquisites, who are in ecstacies over every pretty face that chances to be new, but sought and praised by those choice spirits of real taste and refinement, who compose the inner circle of the beau monde, and whose applause at once confers social distinction. "Your sister is charming," said a lady whom Marian chanced to meet, “tres charmante, and her admirers are legion; but I am afraid she will not marry soon-if at all." "That would be a misfortune truly," said Marian, with a slight sarcasm in her tones. "But why? Is Adrienne a coquette?" "Oh! no; she is too proud for that. But she is too difficult to satisfy—too fastidious. She asks for perfection, or nearly that. L can detect a shade of contempt in her manner, to most of her admirers, but she worships genius." "Not fashionable literary pets?" "No, but genius of the high and original kind is rarely lionized, you know. Don't be surprised to hear that she has married a poet." But Marian was surprised when, two weeks afterwards, she received from Adrienne the announcement of her anticipated marriage. The name of the favored suitor was not unknown to Marian. She had heard of him before, as a successful, but eccentric lecturer. He is brilliant," wrote Adrienne.. "He is more than that; he is gifted. His eloquence is enthralling. You can gain no conception of it by reading, the printed lecture. As well might you hope to feel the beauty of a musical composition, by merely reading the notes. It is necessary to see and hear him-to hear his flexile voice interpret the meaning and music of his thoughts and his eyes darken and deepen, or light up with almost supernatural brilliancy. It was very gratifying to picture her sister as the center of an admiring circle, appreciated as her grace and loveliness deserved, but the picture was shaded with deep anxie-words-to see his lips quiver and grow pale, ty as she looked forward into Adrienne's probable future. She would marry-would it be happily? Marian knew her peculiar nature--so proud and sensitive, and yet so ardent and confiding to those in whom she thoroughly believed, so quickly cooling into indifference when she found her confidence misplaced or freezing into contempt where she detected any lurking meanness of character. She knew her high-placed ideals of love and marriage, her fine, almost fastidious notions of honor and truth; and her heart was filled with misgivings, as she thought what a risk marriage must be to such a woman-how true and firm must be the hand chosen to sweep the chords of an instrument so delicately attuned, and what discord would be the consequence if it were entrusted to careless or unskillful fingers. "You smile at this, as an extravagant rhapsody, but you shall see for yourself; and you too will acknowledge the singular power Mr. DeForest exerts over those that come within the sphere of his influence. Marian, my darling, you must come to me immediately. I shall wait for your coming before giving my solemn promise to marry Mr. DeForest.. I want you to know him-to look at him, and listen to him with those clear, calm senses of yours, that were wont to be so composed and so keen. may be dazzled by his brilliancy, and blind to uncongenialities, that may render me miserable hereafter. Now, I confess, I see no defects that do not fade into nothingness in the light of his genius." Perhaps I Not a word of his domestic qualities-not one glimpse into the heart that Marian felt to be more important than intellect in the close association-the life-long partnership of marriage. Marian was anxious and troubled. She longed inexpressibly to go to her sister, but an imperative duty held her back. Her aunt was now an invalid-a bedridden hypochondriac, who fancied that no one but Marian could nurse her rightly, and wept if she left her an hour. She did what she could. She wrote Adrienne a long and earnest letter—the out-pouring of a heart filled with love and solicitude that was almost maternal in its character; for solitude and self-communion had given this girl a wisdom beyond her years or her experience. It was some weeks before the answer to her letter came. She opened it with trembling fingers, and turned momentarily pale as she read the changed name"Adrienne DeForest." Though Marian quietly turned from the perusal of these letters to the uncongenial work before her, and though she folded them away with mechanical calmness, yet all her old habit of self-restraint was needed to stifle the feeling of bitter discontent with which she looked out upon her own commonplace surroundings-the dingy roofs, the narrow dirty streets, the plain, plodding people, the flat homely landscape-all containing so little to gratify an artistic passion for beauty—an imagination pining to feed itself upon those shapes and sounds of ideal loveliness, that loosen the clay fetters of thought and bring it a swift revelation of its immortal origin and destiny. But Adrienne's letters were the source of other and deeper disquietude. To the quick eye of Marian, they soon furnished indications of a change in the writer. Though ever affectionate, they became gradually more constrained. They were more guarded in their tone, containing few personal allusions, and affording rarer glimpses into the heart of the writer. There was sometimes, too, a slight tone of bitterness and misanthropy, so at variance with Adrienne's former nature that Marian was as much startled at perceiving it as if she had seen a serpent rear its head from the box of rose ger The bridal party were on the eve of sailing for Europe, accompanied by an uncle of Mr. DeForest, whom Adrienne had not yet seen-the only near relative of her husband, and one to whom he owed the affection and gratitude due to a father and a benefactorone, to whom he was indebted for education | and competency. Alice remained at school, and Mr. Somerville (whose health necessita-anium in her window. ted a warmer climate) had accepted an appointment to the West Indies. Months passed. Marian continued her round of wearying duties—the monotony of her life only broken by the letters of Adrienne. These were always received with a thrill of pleasure, although their perusal would sometimes call up the smothered spirit of discontent and repining. For, to please her sister, Adrienne sketched graphic pictures of the glories of art and nature that were opened to her view, as their tour extended on through the most interesting portions of Italy, Germany and Switzerland. She pictured for her the gray towers, the mouldering, ivy-mantled ruins, the blue, bright rivers, shadowed by castle-crowned cliffs, the gorgeous churches-marvels of architecture-flooded with colored light and thrilling with divinest music, the pictures, the statues-marble shapes of beauty, that had haunted Marian's dreams from her child. hood. The allusions to Mr. DeForest, she noticed, grew less and less frequent, until he was only mentioned incidentally, when it was necessary in the course of narration. Yet, when she refered to Aubrey DeForest-his uncle, with whom they were traveling-her words were colored with the warmth of her old enthusiasm. "He, too, is gifted," she wrote. "Genius seems to be an inheritance in this family, yet in him it is not disfigured by the strange inconsistences, the unhappy deficiences that so frequently startle and pain us in those dowered with the fatal fairy gift.' Gradually, as I came to know him well, I found that he was not only passionately fond of music, but was himself a musician of a high order; not only a critic of art, but an artist of no mean ability, and a poet without seeming to suspect his own beautiful gift, or ever revealing it to others, unless it were unconsciously, or by merest accident. “And yet this man, so rarely endowed, has a spirit almost childlike in its reverence for goodness-in its love for and trust in its fellow beings There is a quaintness about him too-a sweet, rare humor-a peculiar way of saying and doing things, which cannot be described. But in every revelation of his varied nature, there is apparent an undertone of sadness-of melancholy, gentle but profound. I felt this from the first, but not until of late have I held the key to the mystery. But the letter ended abruptly with this sentence. There was no description of the mountain excursion-nothing but Adrienne's initials written almost illegibly at the bottom of the page. After the reception of this letter, came a long interval of silence, full of anxiety and foreboding to Marian. Then, after months of suspense, came a letter from Adrienne, announcing that she had been very ill—ill to the verge of dissolution, that a little babe, "Oh! Marian, if you knew his history, you prematurely born, lay in its grave in the would not wonder at this. You would not shadow of Mont Blanc,and that she was then marvel that there are times when he cannot at Baden, slowly gathering strength again, bear the presence even of his dearest friends; but longing to return to her native land— when he must shut himself up in solitude and yearning inexpressibly to be clasped to the wrestle alone with the memories of a strange true heart of her sister-her "sister-mother," and fateful past. But the darkness of these she said tenderly, and then added, with an hours is for him alone. He comes out from unwonted outburst of feeling: "Oh Marian, his solitary struggle, pale but calm, and gen- how often I think of our mother's quiet tler and kinder than ever to those around-grave under the old oaks of the green churcheven to such as are far beneath him in sta- yard, where I know you go to pray. Pray tion." for me my sister, that I may be able to bear this burden of life; for sometimes I long to lay it down forever-long to find at my mother's side, under the cool, green shadows, the place that life can never give to me again." Marian mused painfully over what seemed to her an outburst of passionate despair, but, it was the last she was to see from the pen of Adrienne. Her succeeding letters, though still pervaded by the same undefinable constraint, were cheerful and pleasant as before, though it is true they were more brief, and to Marian's quick apprehension, they seemed written with an effort. Adrienne remained some months longer in Europe, and on her return, was taken immediately by her husband to the old family seat of the DeForest's, situated upon the coast-on the shore of a beautiful little inlet, called the Bay of Cedars. Here they were joined by Alice, and again Such was Adrienne's sketch of her husband's uncle, but in her after letters there was frequent mention of him in connection with music and art. It was he, who taught her to feel the subtle, intricate beauty of the picture, the statue or the musical composition, that she had before admired without knowing why. It was he who sketched for her the views she thought most beautiful -prepared to her such pleasant surprises as a rustic banquet spread upon green rocks under the shadow of vines burdened with purple clusters a banquet served by roundhatted peasant girls, who brought the luscious freight of grapes in their willow panniers, and graced the entertainment with dancing and songs. Such a fete, among the vineyards around the Lake of Geneva, was described in the last letter in which Adrienne ever mentioned her husband's uncle. That letter was dated from Chamouni-at | Adrienne wro e, entreating her older sister the foot of the "monarch of mountains," and written on the eve of a contemplated excursion up the mountain-" as far as the grand Mutels perhaps," wrote Adrienne. "I leave my letter unfinished that I may append an account of our adventures and 'hair-breadth 'scapes,' and enclose a blossom of the gentiana nivalis, plucked blue and dazzling from some frightful precipice or cleft in the desolate glaciers." to come to her at once. "I need you," she wrote, appealing to that sister's unselfish devotion; "I need you, Marian, my soul cries out for your sustaining presence." And the death of Marian's aunt, having now released her from the bond of duty that had detained her so long, Marian hastened to her sister. The sound of an approaching vehicle broke upon Marian's retrospect. She looked up, coming to meet them down the white, and saw an open carriage, containing two ladies-one elderly, the other young-who smiled affectionately at Alice and spoke to her as they passed. "It is Mrs. Naires," said Alice," Adrienne's guests have left her, all but Dr. Naires, who accompanied them on horseback, and has probably stayed to tea." "No; her son-her only child. They are almost our only intimate vistors, though our house is sometimes frequented by gay company from Belleport—which is a summer resort, you know. So you think Mrs. Naires is handsome. She seems beautiful to me." "But haughty looking," returned Marian, recalling the fine, patrician face, the square chin, the steady eyes, and firm thin lips." "It is pride of birth, then, for, though wealthy, she does not value herself or others because of money. That young girl, you saw beside her is the music teacher in the Belleport academy, though she is the orphan daughter of Gen. Bayford-one of the best families of the place. But, look! Marian, you can see the bay!" The growth of pine and cedar had become less dense, giving place to open spaces covered with short coarse grass, and starred with tufts of delicate pink flowers, or dotted with patches of grey moss, stiff and bristling | and of a kind unknown to Marian. There were occasionally heaps of gray limestone rock, spotted with this peculiar moss, and crowned with a clump of palmettos, or a solitary pine or cedar. The salt sea air blew freshly upon Marian's face, and she caught, through the trees, glimpses of the blue expanse beyond. In a few moments the view had cleared perfectly, and the beautiful little bay, with its green islets, lay before her, burnished by the radiance of a magnificent sunset. Marian clasped her hands in passionate enjoyment. Her swift perception took in at once the beauty of the picture its lights and shadows, its colors and contrasts-losing not one of its details, from the snowy sail, glittering in the distance, to the white sea birds that swooped and circled near her as though chasing their shadows in the blue mirror beneath. As she leaned forward, enjoying the scene with flushing cheek and dilating eye, she caught sight of two figures-a lady accompanied by a gentleman gravel road that wound along the shore. She saw the gentleman stop, and remain standing under a large pine by the road, playing with his dog, while the lady advanc ed rapidly towards the carriage, and signaled for it to stop. The inimitable grace of the gesture, the slender figure, the nobly poised head, the swift, gliding walk- Marian recognized them instantly. "Adrienne" she cried, and springing from the carriage, was clasped in her sister's arms. For a moment Marian felt the violent beating of the heart that was pressed to hers; she felt the slight frame shiver in her arms, and looked for an outburst of emotion. Bat Adrienne was first to recover her composure. She drew herself gently from her sister's embrace, and resting her hand upon Marian's arm, stood looking earnestly into her face. "You are the same" she said at last. "Seven years have not changed you Marian. They have closed your mouth a little more firmly, with an expression that means patience and resolution, but the eyes-the clear gray eyes are still the same-frank and affectionate, as when you used to listen so gravely to my Saturday evening's acknowledgement of the faults and follies of the week. You were always my father confessor, Marian." Marian smiled, but she did not reply. She was trying to decipher the puzzling page be fore her-the face, lovely but baffling as those that rise up before us from the depths of that mysterious realm which lies between sleep and wakefulness. She was beautiful-more beautiful than ever in her assured womanhood; and yet there was a change-a change, which maturity alone could not have wrought. It was a change that Marian felt, without being able to define to her own satisfaction. Indeed, it was just now veiled by the tender, playful smile, with which her sister regarded her; yet to Marian, this smile seemed almost as sad as Adrienne's tears had formerly been, and the lip that wore it looked as though it had learned to curl in bitterness. And the eyes, they were bright, but no longer clear. Behind the gleam of the smile, beyond the golden-blue vista of light and color, Marian saw, or fancied that she saw, the lurking |