Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 12) (1884 08 12)
The text was read from the page scans by machine (OCR), so it has mistakes and its columns may run together. See the pages · About this title · At the Internet Archive
Page 1
PHENO Fi $2,50 a Year. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, No. 9% William Street, New York. (.,a8 Second Class Mail Matter.§ Auguat | 3 Price, Five Cents. No. be bi A® Bix i tay “UNHAPPY MAN! WHO ART THOU THAT THOU SHOULDST COME HERE TO TROUBLE THE INNOCENT? WAS IT DESTINY THAT LED THEE TO THE WELL AT THAT FATAL MOMENT, TO BLIGHT THE FORTUNES OF THE FAIREST OF THE PERCYS?” A PAIR OF GRAY BYES ; Or, THE EMERALD NECKLACE. BY ROSH KENNEDY. CHAPTER I. MRS. BUTTERBY’S BOARDER. A youne man, with an artist’s kit swung lightly over his shoulder, went slowly along a valley road, admiring the afternoon of summer gilding the hill-tops, and wondering where he should sleep that night, if he kept wandering on at this rate, further and further away from the country village whose one hotel held watch and ward over his trunk and box of painting ma- terials, ‘T will rest at some farm-house to-night,” he said, or thought, ‘‘and get up early for a sun- rise view.” ; Lingering along the rustic, seldom-traveled,
Page 2
2 road, he came soon to just such a spot as he would have coveted in which to spend a night in the val- = A stone house, a story and a half in hight, with a Steep roof running down over a side, stood in a little wilderness of shrubs and trees. A large yard in front had numberless rose-bushes in yrofusest bloom, and two round beds of verbenas ly- the bright grass. At the side of the house, the porch, an orc stretched away to heat. ffelds Mhontng. between that, and hills, size of the sturdy apple-trees, as well as the r upon the roof of the dwelling, and the sedate and tranquil air of all around, proclaimed the an- tiquity of the place. Pennon stood a moment to mire the scene, with his hand upon the latch of the gate. Around by the porch the grass was worn with the trpnpune, of feet, and an old-fashioned well-sweep, with an “‘old oaken bucket”’ attached, and smooth stones about the well-curb, looked not the least antique and peaceful of the accessories, The thirsty traveler longed to drink from the” buck- -et’s brim, especially when he saw a young girl trip tly fofth, and swing it down into the cool depths orch at one the well. He could not see her face, and she did } po observe him, Quickly and gracefully she drew ures waves. Suddenly, while he by the gate, she uttered a low scream, the ained stationary in her -hands, and she transfixed y some unaccountable sight of . terror. — Paiion ung open the gate, and hurried througn Geyer ie side. Just as he reached her she jurst into a light, silvery laugh. She was holding st the warm light of the descending sun a e richest emeralds, which glowed and bhey hung tremulous from her hand. t it was yt ew peg rpete I are eer d, apologetically. © stranger, whom nt Soreaty “and I am soatraid of n’t have screamed if it had not have ‘ished “up they come in can not tell,” answered the girl. ‘Tam sure “Tt is quite wonderful,” he said, scanning them ~ She remarked his artist's kit, and the air which he paayid you. 2 father?” she inquired. “Thave been wandering about the country, en- ying the lovely scenery, and have strayed far from @ vil ip akapeiekonn ite said, “I houg p p iD e dwellers in. ¢ : g place > me pee Imay b o ske is in d purple ws.0 i: all - you all’ the way tre enville “A0) oan not feel like re bu rning th ere : eae Mar, Bhother is ieee ee vill soon be here; I presume they will ‘be glad to welcome you. Walk in, sir.” ’ She spoke with as much ease as simplicity. Hoe was charmed with her manner and with her beauty. Both were peculiar, and not of the strictly fashiona- ble mold, but refined, and, he thought, much more exquisite. They had the fresimess and sweetness of nature, as if all the quiet and yet glorious loveliness of the scenery about her had made their impression upon mind and expression, She stooped to lift the bucket to its place; and as she did so her dark brown hair swept in heavy curls down her vermilion cheeks, and floated upon the breeze.. Pennon ough of Rachel, and wished mentally that he was aco Then he blushed slightly to think that he | that innocent | had already dreamed of . kissin l mouth, and reproved himself for his guilt, “Jacob was sent by his father to claim Rachel and, being a relative, 45 had a right to kiss her, t ‘suppose. But-this maiden’s lips I will not profane | by athought Poa p H 4, “ r? ‘4 * 4 . je Jt a Pe ¥}7 LAA or} , OW TREY Vaud bucket up, Fens down asif at her own feat~ ath Nita bY K . i, § i “My mother is weiting for the water.” He took the bucket Bs contents into the tm p brought, and car- ried it for her into the house. There he met a fine- looking woman, fair, not quite as delicate as her daughter, but with the dignity and cordiality of an old-fashioned lady. made his apolozies for so handsomely, and his ht. And here we will vouch for the truth of his state- ments by giving the reader a giiranse at our hero, as he sat in his city boarding- y’s best, for which he paid ten dollars a week, compared they adorn in their summer dreams t jotherwise dreary waste, the country. ‘To-morrow be the of June,” he said to himself. “It is time to be thinking of a re- treat for the summer. This room served me dressing-room, library, and atelier; yet there was a "eSSiI br) eM ‘pleasure and vou ; ‘whose protection he slept sweet sleeps, dreamed fair dreams, which he had led with the crea- which he was about to bid farewell; while the sun, throwing the full force of his bean at the win- dows, made the light and heat | rable. Not a breath of cool air could he woo from amid the fierce brick battlements w his Madonnas, Roses and Hebes 0 7a nvas blushing in the broad day, of the soiled bed-cover, of the worn-out slippers and faded carpet. 6 paints upon his palette smelled dis: oat ot seem- Sarres ne ed.so senseless as the lines he had written an hour before for the azine, an torn bits upon the floor. Allt monplace expression which Pennon to say to himself decidedly: “To-morrow I will go away from here.” Leaning back in his armi-chiis he wander in thought to all the retreats | heard of—Newport, Greenland, Saratoga, R eB, Source of. the Nie, the Mountain House, Brighton, the North Pole, the Cape, the Sault Ste fare, Many other fashionable and unfashionable places he viewed in his reverie, as it was not until after the sun had set; and he had reposed in his -chair an hour and @ half, that-he chose from much a variety an abode to his liking. + sane ’ It would scarcely be proper to say that Pennon | chose an abode, cone fact he had only resolved to ! go journeying in a certain way, and allow his’ stop- or pt to be am of chance, to be decided by ikings or events. ma of a turn of | mind like his, and_especially accompanied by the taste for sketching, hethought of making a ramblin expedition, ‘partly on foot, down into a beautifu art of his native Stabe, making some, drawings for uture paintings, and amusing himself with any ad- ventures which might befall. ae r fond ae
Page 3
A PAIR OF GRAY EYER: Planning out some of the particulars of such an excursion, he relapsed into a deep reverie, from which he was aroused by a tap at the door, when the la thrust her -natured face into the room, begging the young gentleman to come to “The bell has rung and rung,” said she; “the other boarders have all supped and gone away. I should ’a’ thought you was not in, if it was not so often that Ihave known you not to hear the bell. I pappose ou have been thinking up another of those u though, law sake! I don’t get any time to read, for efforts to make my boarders comfortable.” Thus she rattled on as they descended the stairs sogether, for Pennon was her favorite,.and the Only one whom she would not have. got out of pp al with ‘for keeping her table waiting. “Yes, Mrs. Butterby,” returned her guest, “I have been thinking up an excellent .story this time. It will take summer to complete, but Re come back and tell it to you next Novem- ef : “Come back! You don’t mean to say you have intentions of leaying us, sir?’ and the laugh died out of the dimples in the landlady’s rosy face, es ge seated herself at the board to pour out the “Tt is getting too warm to stay in the city, Mrs. Butterby. Iam going into the country to-morrow, but soe will see me again in the Providence permi 2 “Dear, dear! It’ll be lonesome without your bright face at the table. Howsomever, people will take notions that they must go to the country in the sum- mer, J never thought the country was much of a place—but every one to taste. Don’t forget where we live when you come back, Mr. Pennon.’ He promised her that he certainly would not forget. . is tea was very sweet—he liked it so; and he could not help fee a little flattered and grateful for the preference of the good woman who dispensed to him, he was aware, a larger quantity of the sweets of life than she did to any other of her board- ers; Her partiality for him was not owing to the fact that he areas paid his bill Neca e when it was presented, but to that genial kindness in his voice and smile which won the hearts of all, both high and low. .When he had finished his second cup, asked for his bill, settled it, and ee a few politeness with Mrs. stories which I hear people tellin’ of— | Pe clouds, and blessing the feeling of the cool soft grasa beneath his feet. Thus it was that Paul Pennon, artist, chanced aie wears his Fk iy of ee em jinks of e€ curious and ¢ eme! c © W. ; unknown young girl had just brought from “Todk, mother!” said Clematis, as goon es the stranger had been welcomed; “see what I drew from the welll This gentleman says they are emer: : With her first glance at the treasure the mother grew very pale, and waved her hand as if to move it away. ey 2 eo do not know what you have done, my child,” she said. ‘Til fortune waits upon the one ) who should first find the emerald necklace } parting words of | utterby, he returned to his | | must fall upon you, which Heaven avert “Why, mamma, what do you mean? I never heard anything about necklace, Did you know that it was in the well? Does it belong to the “No matter, now, my darling, You have “96 it, and I fear that the fulfillment of the prophesy your grandmother's.’ , a Clematis Percy was not supers Hi walk through a graveyard alone at it; but s thing in her mother’s voice startled her, and jooked at the pit bauble with consi awe. It radiated light like the eyes of a living thing. ¢ Shall I throw it back in the well?” she -“T su ing it, ou did,” said the elder ; or +. ‘Oh, well; then T’ll keep it—it w beso ing to wear around my throat,” said Clematis rly... The thought of jewels, real jewels, had i her awe; so she carried away the Pes and return to tea, all curiosity to hear its history, which mother séfined at preaant tate nie ae CHAPTER I, THE HISTORY OF THE NECKLACE, » Tux room which Pennon occupied that night ¥ a@ quaint-looking apartment, and a most agreeal ch from the square, dusty, commonplace cham at Mrs. Butterby’s. Tt was scarcely high enough at twoof the sides for him to stand un but was quite lofty in the center of the ing. It was large and dim, with painted w. Nearly in the center stood the bed, broad and hig covered with a silken counterpane whose embroid- pose it would not alter the fate at year fish y' room, and spent the evening writing letters, king | ered flowers were and somewhat frayed w & trunk with books, clahes ant 9 on; ca also in | wear, and the bed was shaded quite with, arranging an artist’s portfolio and camp-stoolcom- curtains. The whole furniture, Tiehuding two or bined se aevonape % ch he had hi gotten up three pictures upon the walls, looked as if it to suit his convenience. - | have been arranged a hundred years before. -No! He went to bed just w enough to have delight- _ ing looked new except the absence of the © ful dreams, which he took as good omens of his scrupulous whiteness of the linen, and a bou et of summer tour, woke up in the morning eager and | fresh flowers in a vase upon a stand, A joyous, impatient for his adventures. For, although | Gothic window, corresponding in architecture ennon was twenty- he had almost the impetu- osity and freshness of feeling of a child. The world was not ‘weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable’ to him; he liked it—that is, pretty generally, though of course there were times when he was very misera- ble, as there must be with all ioned natures and sanguine temperaments, ‘partic morn- ing he Was as blithe as Shelley’s skylark, and trilled _ several little melodies while making his toilet, not as sweet as those of that immortal bird, but quite rich and bs phere ones ye . borg? man with- out wings to soar eaven, Or near it, He went off in the early six o’clock train for the north, and breakfasted at a railroad station, swal- lowing the black coffee with an inward regret that it was not of his landlady’s make. Bein ly start- ed upon his journey, it matters not how or where the first three days were passed, unti 1 toward the close of that third day he was wandering, camp- stool in hand, through one of the loveliest valleys | @ver seen, looking up at the near hills and the sunset the pointed roof, occupied a portion of one side of the guest extinguished ‘is Hent and cat himself by the guest e: ishec i and sai S the Findow to ie the effect of the moonlight both within and without. noel Beit seta to fen Si sense ada ost of min erfumes about the Deantitcatt were twined honeysuckles the sweet face he had seen leaning over the well, bathed in the rosy light_of sunset, or the Sr vag beauty of the place and hour had most to do in in- ducing it, cannot be ge ay pe. A both had their share in leading him on to dangerous dreams of fancy and sentiment, -
Page 4
“This will never do,’ he murmured, as a clock in the room beneath struck eleven. “If at four the morning to make my sketch, I must be to bed es. re had been porns what a have eae es upon a& scrap oO aper. e@ suggestiv: Rot tho tivor: for the iket baehour. Tins he ust into his pocket, and resigned his seat by the pipes: for repose upon the inviting, quaint-looking ' Just as he was sinking from conscious thought into slumber, the sound of the clock, striking the midnight hour, fell faintly upon his ear. At the same moment he became aware, as by some mystic influence, of the presence of some one in the cham- ber. He was wide awake in an instant; and tu his head he saw what, if his conscience had no been clear and his soul composed, would have ; tened him. j n old stood near his bed. He could not see “her face distinctly, but it looked so pale mianeh not severe. Her hair was puffed an powdered n the ancient style. A broad bar of moonlight lay ‘across her dress, and he could plainly see that it “was of rich brocade, cut goreing, and plaited into a belt, upon which shone a handsome gold buckle in Ww ie detected the glitter of jewels. As he gazed at her she spoke. er voice was hollow, but Bot unmusical. It had a mournful cadence, as of a voice burdened with too great a knowledge of sor- “Unhappy man! who art thou that_thou shouldst gome here to trouble the innocent? Was it destiny “that led thee to the well at that fatal moment, to _ blight the fortunes of the fairest of the Percys? Be -merciful, and go from here before destiny has its consummation. But that cannot be; fate is immuta- -ble—immutable—immutable!" 2 “— voice arose, not loud but shrill, like the shriek- of a summer wind, and before its accents closed she glided silently away, save a soft rustle of the silk brocade, “ Well,” said Pennon, in a subdued whisper, after a short be psi “this racer A like an old romance, One might almost be persuaded that some witchery ‘connected with those green stones which that eup to-day. Immutable! Canit be thatI pany wi pa paetly, connected with the fate love ture ie ch wed at the thought, until he remem- that the prediction was of her sorrow. That ff so pleasant. into his slumbers. ‘oke at four o’clock, and the first thing “he remembered was yision of the night ’ before, It seemed more real in memory even than > mee, If he had not had a contempt for _ the of ghosts, he would certainly have believed in the apparition. The more he thought of it the more it pase him; so ho dismissed it as much as possible from his mind. “To get up or not to got ap thus early in the bg sey is the question,” he softly yawned, Four hours of sleep had hardly rested him, and he was about to give up the idea of a sketch, when he caught a glimpse of the hills through the window, and they wore such a magic atmosphere, ‘and the’ sky beyond was tinged so exquisitely, that the artist awoke in his soul. He forgot his reluctance, and from his couch in a glow of enthusiasm, In mn minutes he was on his way to a part of @ valley from which he wished to begin his work. e came back to breakfast none too soon; the mily were at the table when he entered. They | gave him a courteous greeting; that of Clematis | was Nt oat in words, but a rapid hightening of | age a er pie poke a aiiter est op Haale. _ His drawing, which » one in water-colors, was looked af by ail and very much admired. | “If we only had so good a picture of our dear na- tive valley, how much I should like it.” said Ole- ‘glance at the matis, and then blusttéd for fear the stranger would think she was asking him in that way to give it to Pore aera ae oil- ng wi more G} | “and if you do not feel that Ishall intrude for a day or two, I will copy this in oil for your daughter. te be but a small return for the privilege of stop- ping in this beautiful place,” Clematis turned her — eyes upon her father with a look which asked to accept the offer. This he was glad to do; and before the meal was completed, arrangements were concluded on, The — farmer was going to the hpe a that morning for . men to pe im cut the grass in his meadows, and he would stop at the hotel and get the box contain- ing canvas, étc., at the same time that he informed the landlord of the whereabouts of his guest, and — pee him take care of his other baggage until called or, That afternoon an eis gh pe easel was set up in the rose-shadowed and rose-scented parlor of the old farm-house. info could hope to picture the charm of those s footed hours by, while Pennon painted, talking at the same time i his instructive, fanciful and original manner to mo- ther and daughter, a3 they sat, with their sewing, listening and answering more by smiles and inter- — ested looks than by words. metimes Clematis sung, at his request, and then he painted with more wonderful swiftness and effect than eyer—his ‘brushes seemed to fly of themselves, his colors to take on rare tints, until the picture glowed in an ethereal softness of atmosphere more beautifulthan — the loveliest reality. , . Ah! the sturdy farmer did not guess, much as he was delighted with the sce c giving him that | picture for a few days’ board and odging, was like ng iy a costly pearl or diamond in return for a | sket. tt was on the fourth afternoon of his stay that at — his solicitation, equal with her daughter's, Mrs. — Percy gave the family legends connected with the — — of emeralds which Clematis had found in the — e well. A soft wind was blowing among the roses, and dis- — fant glimpes of the landscape he was working upon — could be had from the open windows. The very | witchery of the present romance seemed hovering — about the young couple, while the still handsome — mother took up the romance of the pee 7 “You must know,” began the matron, with a look — of pride not at all unbecoming to her, “that the Aste are an ancient family, and that Clematis has — good blood in her veins.” ? “TI do not doubt it,” thought the artist, with a — here the ric’ ies wed with te ag vaithveat whe f ns glow eV e: es and best of blood. = roe “ But it is not on her father’s side alone that she is thus gifted; my own family was the peer of the Percys, in the good old days of Queen Bess, before this country was any more than a strange and un- fariiliar dream. The necklace came into the family — in 1595. It was presented by bap ireey 8 ontieth to ie my beau ancestress, Lady Alice ere, on the day of her wedding to John, of Leste r, Mortimer Monteith was a Scotch cousin of the oi Alice’s, who had once been a suitor for her hand, but who had been rejected. He was not 9 man to inspire the other sex with tender sentiment, — says the tradition; and he took his dismissal in that silent sort of way which no one knows how to inter- pr wever, he was © bi nde at the wedding: — east, and gave the lov bride the costly gilts pe Sg it about her white throat with his ow? hands. “That night, when the bridegroom sought re of chamber of his bride, he found her dead in her nor could all the science of the best physicians that day say wines AS that killed her, The emet- ald necklace, which her maidens had forgotten t? — unclasp, was abont her throat, sparkling and flas 4
Page 5
like some beautiful serpent exul destroy, At least, it thus edge inits power to red to some, while that it could possess ‘ny fatal influence. Montieth was never heard from : ard: and the widowed earl threw his life a Pi battle at the first opportunity. ter these tragi others would not acknowl ¢ occurrences, the necklace slumbered many years in its casket. Upon the mar- riage of another beauty from the house of De Vere, Was sent, among other eter: a present to the ride. Three weeks after the wedding, she was in- stantly — being thrown from her horse, While out hunting. Singularly enough, she wore the emeralds at the fame, having taken a fancy that they suited her green velvet riding habit. A whis- Per now breathed through the family that some evil and fatal influence lingered in the neck- ©. For a period of seventy years no one could induced to wear it; and no bride of the De Veres but would have shuddered at having it presented to er, It was kept in a casket by itself, and looked at as a curiosity. Its splendor and costliness was no temptation to the vani the fair women who ex- amined it; until eline Monteith, a_ brilliant Creature, full of spirit and bravery, being betrothed a noble cavalier, avowed her intention of pos- Sessing herself of the necklace to add to the jewels of a trousseau. Tt — a be ae emer pore so superb an ornament Jan n perpetual darkness, because of a foolish superstitions the bride who Wore it last would have been thrown from her horse, if she had not chosen to wear the emeralds. As for herself, they became her, they were magnificent, and she would wear them, She had her way about it; and fora time she seemed to prosper; but she never left her chamber after the birth of a puny boy, and died in less than a year from her brida day. | “Tt would weary you,” continued . Percy, “to recount the history of the various women of our line who have perished from accident or met with sudden death, after having had the temerity to wear the emerald necklace. It has been the traditionary belief that Mortimer Monteith laid such a curse and an upon his giff as can never be shaken off. Inspired with horror by mournful edies con- necte.| with it, it has several times been thrown away by some one or another of my ancestors, yet it has never failed, sooner or later, fo come to light, whether it were thrown into yawning chasms, into bosoms of deep lakes, into fires, or, as in this latest nstance, into a voiceless well; and the finder has ever been as unfortunate as those to whom it has been presented. ; “It came, with a branch of the family, over the water about a hundred years ago. The vessel in Which they sailed was wrecked on Absecom coast; but all of the omy op were saved, except one young girl, Anne de Vere, a lovely creature, the pride and hope of all, who being ged to shore in he mad clasp of her father, was found to be drowned, that hateful necklace glimmering about her throat in the pale light of the stormy dawn. .. Of course, in this age of realities, of science, light, and knowledge generally, our faith in omens, bans, curses, and all traditionary legends, is not very strong; and my mother, who was a woman of excellent mind, s d at the stories attached to the costly trinket, which she thought, would be a fine heaped tome upon the occasion of i marriage, he sent to an aunt, who had the Fee in charge (almost the sole remaining token of former splendor), forwarded them at her request, and they arrived the day before my marriage, ‘This house, in which we still reside, was the homestead of my mother, WelldoI remember of taking that dreaded x (for I confess to a small degree of superstition), stealing out in the moonlight, and dropping it into the wallatter which I breathed more freely; and could give my hand to my lover, the next morning, with no worse dread than maidens usually feel upon Similar oceasions. It was eighteen years ago the tenth of last month,” she added, witha soft eer “And to your throwing away the eme ids, J | A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. 5 suppose, you attribute alt of your and = ‘8 un- wonted felicity,” said Clematis, with oa ugh. “T do—I certainly do!” murmured . Perey; “‘and I am sorry you found them, Clematis. May Heaven avert the usual result!’ i? The mother said this 86 solemnly that the bat “Come!” Iaughed she, “ti S gr ig melan- choly; let us*criticise your picture, Artist.’” But there was not light enough Jeft for this morrow. To-morrow! To-morrow their guest was going away. CHAPTER It. THE ACCIDENT. ine Bane hs nod th asking his daugh , Mr. Percy joined the company, - ter for some musie. Clematis Abeer wile strange melodies out of the Ler ip ol every one loved to hear her play and sing. ms e she complied with her father’s request, Pennon sat silently re- garding her, and thinking how loth he should be to = edi the stone cottage, now that his picture was nis “If I could only invent another excuse,” he sighed. “Not that any thing is to be gained by stay- ing here, in Pardoutas— ai the Gprorcuntty of en: jo this elightful country; and the house is so quiet and the people so pleasant—I wish lau would take me as a boarder for a few weeks. A - t persons take summer boarders, I wonder many “ they would be displeased if I should make fhe w the subject, Clematis, who had been playing some o' her payest, least soulful music, arose and moved to the lamp on the center-table, : “Mamma,” she said, with a smiling Se mg it not curious, we have not only been favo by having an artist in our valley, but some poet hag also been wandering about this vicinity. Papa found boca > out in the meadow, and brought it to me = ing rt mine, It is quite like poetry—shall I you 2 aoe A sudden a crossed Pennon’s mind. ber thrust his hand in his vest pocket with a look may. Sve ee cet ais mie egins, as usual, a title,” é ; Ce s girl, with apparent gravity, “and is Ast ‘ e e te , - proposition.” While he was musing upon the best ay, to broac ed Here Pennon made a start to seize the paper, but e was prevented, and the young lady contin “fat THE WELL ‘She stood beside the ancient well, A. youthful girl, in rustic p. ht; The rosy sunset round her Flushing her form with lovely light. | ‘No rustic was she, though she dipp'd ante hocket he the fountaln a ipp'd } see how silv The water from the bending sweep, ‘If ever angel troubled pool— As the old or love to say— An angel stirr’d the ee cool Within that well at close of day, ‘The sunset’s glow was not more brigh8 Than the.sich manees of her hair, Just where they rounded to the light In nestling on her shoulders fair, after the lamps were brought — f5 eg i a a! a no
Page 6
x . ‘Eyes laughing, and Byes elon oh of ack and hope; Beers BY ec Ve _ ee oe va ee 6 A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. et full of pride, And cheeks as delicately dyed ' As flowers that in the moonlight ope, RR pmee ¥ ¥ arm, the g ‘orm poised upon one slender foot— bathed in sunlight soft and warm} *As if to greet her own bright eyes i‘: e re my oe ane mossy eurb; et fear’ some Pe ea The tanusaous Bal to disturb. ‘Just then a wild and thrilling scream ; a Sent back the life-blood from my cheek; Alas! how vanish’d my sweet dream ; LT hate a frighten’d woman’s shriek,’ ” “TJ did not write that last verse—you added it ourself,” cried Pennon, half-angry at the mocking e of i magi — les ata —— nate production, yet obliged ugh at the mock- herole Cohiinajon she tacked on to the unfin- bg /* she exclaimed; “you are the author, are you? and of course I am the heroine,”’, “Of course you are! and the most beautiful of all toe hundreds I have had, and the most willing to read and proclaim your own praises.” here was a trifle of malice in the last half of his po ar ag Mi ee was provoked by an intuitive feel- ing that if Clematis had cared any thing about his verses or his commendations, at least if she had re- garded them with a shadow of tender feeling, she would not thus have dared to make mirth out of em; she would have laid them away in her escri- toir, or eine precious book of poems, and said nothir about them. ee in his words lurked in the st ones; “ had sung the praises of a hundred Sines It was nothing new to him to meet lovely and string rhymes together in their honor. as only an amusement.” pi erate Clematis, and suddenly iost her Pennon, too, was a little out of humor. He desire to spend more time in the valley; me he ing = geg silly fellow for the last ree days, and that his baggage at the hotel in the ge attending to. He confined his con- versation almost entirely to Mrs, Percy, was re- served but profoundly polite, and stole but an occa- onal glanee at the eantiful girl, who sat with son cheek and downcast eyes, busying herself work, breakfast the next morning he Mr, and Mrs. Percy both to stop and see them whenever through the valley, and he accepted tation; he had now some thoughts of re- Coning another summer—perhaps the next. ‘If the lip of Clematis trembled a little when she heard this, he did not see it; she was bright, and friendly, and calm when she gave him her hand te farewell. ho he went away; and Clematis crushed a burn- ing tear between her eyelids as she watched through the lace of the curtain at her window, and saw his form slowly disappear down the road. “T, living in this secluded spot. like him—as accom lished, gifted, accus- world, and to admiration, too, no doubt —for how could he help exciting it?” she murmured, with bitterness. “But he has seen thousands of la- dies not only more beautiful (nay, Clematis; look in mirror, }), but in every way more fitted to his regard, in the arts and wiles that worldlings prize; Gnably attired, elegant, versed B the eons of Fay lt es = get id = whet ante er to * ppy ve peg aT and music, and my garden, and my * never before met a gay ballad—‘t Coming Rye.” When she came to the words, “Tika lassie has her laddie— Nane, they say, ha’e I,” i broke down, and went on getting her flowers in ence, ; ‘ This silence was presently disturbed by the raising of the gate latch. She looked up and saw their est re jae te the walk, pale and limping, lean- upon a stick which he had picked up. Asshe has- tened to him, her ingenuous of the fear and interest she felt. ** Are you hurt?” “I sprained my ankle in jumping over a fence. It was very careless of me. I have dragged myself back for half a mile, and must wait, I think, until some wagon passes which is going to my destina- tion. forcing a smile, spoke eloquently A. foolish accident!’’ he sai though he evidently suffered. “Tam 80 sorry,”’ murmured Clematis, “Take my arm, do, until we get in the house, or lean on my shoulder. Mother will bind it up for you—she is very “You ak like Jane Eyre,’”” remarked Pennon, in a peculiar tone, as he accepted her offer. 0). yes, Iremember! And you are Rochester. I did not think of that when I spoke, But you have a good — in accidents,’ ‘It does not ease the pain any, though, to re- member that. others have auttored. However, this is a mere nothing. It does not hurt so much now.” Was it because he was clinging to the slender sup- post so sympathetically offered him? They reached bo house, and Mrs, Percy’s skill was put to the “Tt foels so nicely. Thank 2 ge @ thousand times,” he said, after she had bathed and bandaged it, and he was extended upon the sofa in the parlor in an i 46 gs “No; I shall not hail ei n,’returned Mrs, Percy, in answer to something he had said, “You are a little feverish now, and it would increase very much if you endured the jar of riding nine or ten miles, Let your mind and body both rest, but do not be afraid that you are troubling us. e are glad to have you back, though we aresorry for your / misfortune,” “Do not call it a misfortune, then,” said Pennon, quite gayly. “I ought tobe content if-you are. It is not every bruised 0: wounded mortal that can be nursed in a place like this.” rought him his dinner with her own hands. After that she read to him an hour in Ten- nyson’s ‘ Princess,” and then left him to slumber for awhile. She felt very sorry for the pain he en- dured, but she was happy to serve him, and light- hearted in the thought that she could confer plea- sure, There was company to tea. Some relatives of Mr. Percy had come to spend a fortnight with him. | There was an aunt, a rather coarse-looking woman, _ tall as a grenadier, who wore a dark- en lute- string dress, a black silk apron, and three little twists of curls down either of her hollow cheeks. Pennon almost shuddered at her voice, for he was fastidious about ‘a low, sweet voice in woman,” and hers was loud and creaking. He surmised that she had some kindness, if she could only have her own way about sho it,in her self-willed heart, She was accompanied by her son, a young gentle- man of twenty-two, who was away during a vaca- tion from his eollege, and had come to see “if his cousin Clematis had grown as pretty as she prom- ‘ised.’ He had attempted to kiss her when she met him in vhe -hall (Pennon heard it all), declaring that | it was only a cousinly right, but she had rejected
Page 7
A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. the salute upon the lea that ‘he was at best not more than a second Pusin” : PET: BGs co . “At which I hope to have cause for rejoicing,” | I shall crown you with flowers and Was the Lig tose Pennon took a dislike to him before he saw him, pg was Increased afterw and: Jalien Percy was all as his mother was large; a dapper, dandy- h fellow, elegant with the af “ te youth. Foppishness can be forgiven his age, how- ever, and it was not that which caused the dislike of ennon. Something cold and selfish in his eye and Cautious in his manner was repulsive to a person devoid of such th: not expecied to find a man so much finer in appear- ance, and in every way superior to himself, so per- fectly at home in the house of his cousin. ’Pennon did not go out te tea, which gave the visitors oppor- tunity to. ask questions about him. I am surprised. that. you should have allowed e airs of a collegiate | The prejudice was mutual. Mr. Julien Percy had | ourself to be taken in by a mere strolling adven- | urer, uncle,’’ remarked Julien, with a slight sneer, When he had elicited the information he desired. These traveling artists have not all of them the best of characters,” “Mr, Pennon {fs nota traveling artist; and if he | to his discreJit, Besides, | were, it would be nothing he has told us all about his family and his residence, and his Past os) spoke Clematis, with a little be- trayal of excitement. “Then all that remains for your prudence to dis- cover is whether his stories are true or not,” replied her cousin, coolly. , ; ““We do not doubt him. His face speaks for his truth.” A red spot glowed upon Clematis’s cheek. Her cousin saw it and laughed. “He has a very handsome face, and such usually ri mel to young ladies eloquently enough, whether they sp truth or not,’’ he said. “You could not have had a fair opportunity of jocging replied she, and laughed at him so bright- yy t he was sorely vexed at her remark. ‘Don’t let us quarrel,’’ said he; “ especially about my beauty;’’ and he ran_a hand, slender and white enough for a woman’s, almost, through his straight a gro I will to the pre e uarre so agree to the propo- aidlaal | aan acon Clematis; and havin finished er, look- their tea the returned to the parlor toge ing so well-pleased with each other that a pang shot through the heart of the lame man—who was obliged to remain upon his sofa and witness the numberless attempts of the new-comer to flatter and Picken: That yery pans annoyed Pennon. “Can it be,” he asked himself, “that Iam grow- ing envious?’ < A 3 there ever an Occasjon upon which a woman awake some © dreams of the dollars time. Clematis resolved to be and 4, ntle old horse was put in the pales, and ‘es done around to the few families in the neighborhood and invited the aon Pigeon over for that evening. When she returned she had the rooms to arrange and some of the hments to. re ‘A “What are you going to do with me, Miss rt in the midst of your happy guests? I think youh better send me off to bed at nightfall. | — "No, indeed! I am going to have an coe chai? and footstool in the nicest odie for you. place you upon & sort of throne for all my-friends to do honor to you, Why, I depend upon you as one of the attractionsof ny.’’. t : . Julien, I suppose, being the first, ” not want for any him, I have told a black-e friend of mine, Ki Parker, that she must eo ae prettiest to aaksiels ou. : “I do not like black eyes as well asI do soft gray ones, ‘The soft of the brooding dove, . Full of the svcet and tender ray : Of holy love.’ They are more amiable.” ; “Has all your previous experience given you no more tact than that in Re ing compliments? I carn mane one more myself, and I am bu ‘A youthful girl, in rustic guise.’” She turned the full splendor of her eyes upon him aa. dhe spoke; she was not going to be abashed by atteries, i“ sath? “I shall not beg your pardon,” said Pennon, look- ing, into them cadib: and ‘Strangely thrilled by their beautiful, mystic fire, ‘for I spoke only the truth. I have always fancied a certain kind of gray eyes, and yours have more than confirmed the li cing. I should like.to look into them thus for- ever.” Now, indeed, the eyes wavered and sunk, and a sweet blush kindled in her cheek, for something was or oh eg mere id eda m , ntil supper-time, perhaps,” was her reply. an attempt at gayety, and she went on a Sashes competion Der eee 4 ve ng that her an 1 from them a peculiar . She did not lift a or place a vase, or make a new fold in the of a window, but the thing seemed infinitely im- proved, It was a calm pop te wep rid-weary man like Pennon to recline at his ease tl mahogany sofa and watch the quaint room. er “Tt is sweeter than any romance,” he mused. ‘How lightly and deftly she performs her tasks. Sipe a good housew: fe as ve oy eature poetry; and [am sure she would look graceful an; where—for instance, making butter, And kind of things are not to be laughed’at. All men not enormously rich, and she will not be li have a very wealthy husband, here in th spot. A husband? I wonder if she ever of —she ought not to, There is no man fit_for so pre, sensitive, and lovely a being as she, ; as so much faith and generosity, I warrant she would be easily deceived in character. That cousin of, hers, for instance—does she like 1 SGP . 4 wot ‘You are very fond of flowers?” he asked, aloud. “There! do you think these roses and myrtles look well to eee back this lace bartaid. wine **T think they are exquisite.” : ; “Thank you. Now Iam going to dress, I exp that you will smile at my attire for T have not Thad a made for six months, and of course I shal). be antediluvian to a dweller in the ¢i for ‘the ned as I, rest of the people, they will be as old- , em, . ’ the tea-bell rung, and I do not care for t P She came Me gi? Rita or it was sunset then, and she expected h early. She brought in Pennon's. tea to fie parlor drapery. the young | flit about
Page 8
self, and her heart beat with pleasure fs she noted his admiring aze. She had just left her mir- ¢ throat, Shesmiled when Pennon’s eye fell upon it. and I moment, “ — ry answer, as she hurried away to her —_—— % CHAPTER IV. THE WORKING OF THE CHARM. THe was a pleasant little affair. Pennon imself with observing the peculiarities of some of the more plain of the country people about him, not ill-naturedly, but with the love of acquaint- ing hi with new varieties of men which a citf- zen of the world He was cosmopolitan through and through—could haye made himself friends and a home ag. Bcsape unless it might be among the Battakers, that race of savages of whom the Countess Ida Pfeiffer even was a little afraid. He had tray- Rast and West, North and South, and knew how to e If a favorite at that little country fes: tivity. His picture was much talked of and ad- and some Very original criticisms and re- f passed upon it, Clematis and Kitty Parker, pin oe On friend, played cotillions for the tal what he had her very much, Clematis. When the company had all gone, as he lim ff to bed upon the arm of Julien Percy, whose pet iG was fps to oa” Wie heokon a lingering gaze upon the yo rl, is he ew heavy, and he longed? to Nit ‘his finger and ts Howard !” She seemed to him, all of a sudden, to be invested with danger or misfortune, unseen and unrecognized, but certain and close at hand. Why hé felt so he could not tell. He was a good magnetizer, though he seldom ex his power, and now he half-deemed that s0me magnetic relation was established between him and Clematis, which warned him of something about wiry, to her. é would think that a little physical pain had | my b t gly rms’ b @ escort poodnicht ot the door Par g his ood-night at the door. ‘ Per- J bape i i the stltrinees in the air which oppresses He leaned out of the window. The atmosphere was stifling; not a breath stirred; the west was black with a thunder-storm. By-and-by a hot wind out of the coming cloud struck his cheek. He watched the magnificent but almost fearful storm _ oS af A PAIR OF GRAY KEYES. as ft swept rapidly from the horizon. Large drops of rain began to fall. He closed his window to keep them out, and, creeping into bed, lay listen: ing to the awful ‘music of the elements. As hig pa es throbbed with the thunder, which rolled and broke and trembled overhead, he muttered a verse from Childe Harold: “Sky, moun rivers, winds, lake, fightn lye With ni ht, and clouds, and thunder mvp yt To make these felt and feeling, well inf Things which have made me watchful; the far ro} Of your de aries | voices is the kn Of what in me is sleepless—if I rest. But where of ye, oh, pests! is the goal? Are ye like those within the human breast? Or do ye find at last, like eagles, some high nest?” A terrible crash of thunder cutjthe last words short. ft was so close and overwhelming that he was cer- poe the jena was ey ee pee out of ere threw a dressing-gown al m, and opening the door looked into the hall, : There he saw Julien-Percy flying about like one distracted, his white night-gown yyy Meng 94 him, looking so comical and so frightened he bata aa eg ing i 7 ear!” ¢ oung man, perce! " “where shall we go to? We will certainly all be struck. I am so d of lightning, Mr. Pennon—I always was. Mother! mother!” knoc! at her door, “I wish you would let me get into with uu. wPeanon hobbled back and flung himself down on the bed tolaugh. The idea of a youth of twenty- two still — to his es for ass e ~— hi er, Was Vi udicrous . He wes almost malicious enoagit 16 wish that Clematis might have— “Clematis! what of her?” 2 He paused in his laughter, and asked himself on. ms Something has ngs to her, Iknow. I wish that I dared to go to her chamber-door and ask, or that I knew where her parents slept that I might ask them to go.” Just then his door unclosed and she came in, Leen ey peath the plate of the tigtiaing, kad mp burnin m the glare of the ng, an he sae her distinctly. She had not undressod: She was just as she was when he saw her last, except that the necklace was gone from her neck, and her curls were partially put up in a comb. He arose and’ spoke to her gently, for he conceived that she was greatly ak ned. She made no reply, but stood close by him, looking at him with a but meaningless gaze, He thought she might have a habit of walking in her.sleep, and touched her hand to arouse her. She shuddered from head to foot at touch, but gave no other sign of con- sciousness. Now thoroughly alarmed, he aroused the house- hold. Her parents were distressed and half out of their senses at her condition. They said she had no habit of a somnambulist. She was taken and laid upon the bed in her own room, her temples and hands chafed, and every endeavor made to re- store her to animation, for she seemed to be in a strange sort of a fit. She gave no signs of manor y i except that once or twice when Pennon chanced touch her the same shudder went through her frame, and he grew afraid to papi her for fear of increasing her suffering, if she suffered. “T believe that it is the effect of fright,” said Mr. Percy, oo he sat by her bedside and upon her in anguis bie Will not some one go for a physician?” sobbed his wife. “J would that I knew the way, or that my foot was well,” answered Pennon; “but I will if I a to creep on my knees, if you will me where.’ Julien stood by, but the storm was still so severe that he would not have offered to go forth for any- thing less than his own life.
Page 9
~ the necklace ° pin, 2) Deh eee. ¥ —s a on 9 the hired man, can go. way, and can get ou the horse and Send him,” — ae he lich nis Lok 1e was struck by the lightning, I do believe,” exclaimed Pennon, as he picked up the fragments of from where they lay upon the floor be- chimney-piece, against which her mirror The necklace was severed in two pieces, Oh! that fatal bauble!” cried Mrs, Percy; “I knew it—t was always so!” All hastened forward to examineit. It appeared wrenched — as by some great force, and the [apo which it was strung was melted as by fire one place. “We will dash water over her, then,” said the aunt, who had her thoughts — collected than any Of the others. ‘Maybe she will come to before the Sctor gets here.” Pennon retired to his room and paced up and Wn regardless of the pain his ankle gave him, un- til after the physician arrived and had given’ his “John He knows the and ride. I will go fore the rested, - Opinion, The cold water had been efficacious in restoring her partially, for she moved her eyes, and seemed to recognize her friends, though she'could not speak.: The doctor examined her throat. It did not appear Injured outwardly; but after seeing the necklace, he Was of opinion that a very light current of elec- tricity had passed down the chimney, come out at © crevice above the mirror, and fixed upon the neeklace just at the yee where it was broken. He discovered a bit of steel wire wound upon it. The mother said she knew the emeralds come ssi the links being a little corroded in one or two Places, from long laying in the water, and that Cle- matis had mended it for the oceasion, in what man- ner she -did not know. The doctor was further of the opinion that the shock had paralyzed her pow- ers of speech, and that there was great danger they Would never be restored. “My child, my beautiful child! can it be that such & misfortune has come upon you!” moaned Mrs. ercy in distress that was painful to witness. It was evident now that Clematis understood them, She was asked to speak, but made no reply; asked to swallow some water, and when her rm Were pressed apart with a spoon, she make the de- Sired effort with success. .. She can swallow, at least,” said the physician; 80 there is no danger of her starving; and in the course of time perhaps her speech will return, I Will consult with a physician in the city.as soon as DOssihia, ” : This was poor comfort, but it was all that they could get. was now almost morning, and no one thought of slee but sat drearily watching the rising of @ ened day; no one but cousin Julien, who stole away to his couch and dropped into slum- ber in the midst of a characteristic reverie. A dumb wife! If the fortune was a little great- er, NOW, a person bes even go that; especially one 80 beautiful: This p and five thousand in and what I shall have 4a mother—and they do Say that a woman's tongue isa great bore—so, of course, a woman that has none must be a prize. And then, too, folks will believe me so disinterested. i " confounded bad as I was afraid it would be!” © fi. Pennon halo his way to the parlor, and flinging tren a shutter, sat by the window and gazed out a the east, just faintly flushing at the coming sun. Every flower in the garden was hanging out its cen- Sor of perfume, every leaf was laden with rain-drops, and one little bird awoke and warbled to another until the air was full of inspuing melody, But Young gentleman was pale and troubled. He strove in the stilingse ot that soli our, to read his heart and find why that fair girl had become so dear to why he felt so much distress at her afflic- It was not 8) nor pity for the ai one with her conditio: x wan her parents which ao pained him. . : Before he came to the stone cottage he had wan- the. A PAIR OF GRAY EYES, | dered through many places and met with gee beautiful women, Once or twice, or thrice, heart had been touched sere but sa’ his first boyish love, which all men have before co of age, he had not been bound to one. He had known Clematis Percy but a week. In that time he had not altered the impression he réceived when he’ first beheld her standing, a vision of loveliness, at the well, unless for one still more favorable. Lovers do not seek to analyze why they love; so Pennon» was, perhaps, only asking self -why he was so” strangely tnterested. Beauty combined with ol eet esty, youth with dignity, amiability with intellect,» fresh unsullied tastes and sympathies with sense discretion, innocence with a certain degree of wis- ' dom—these were enough to form his excuse without recalling the arch smile, the sweet fire of the. soul- ful eye, the joyous mirth, the lovely tinge of senti- ment, the sweet behavior to her parents, the —: sense of duty. These two latter might be old-fash- ioned virtues, scorned by many of the sex he had been most accustomed to associate with, but they were charms more fascinating to Pennon than re-» fined and voluptuous indolence and sel ess. “Oh, just and merciful Heaven!”’ he murmured, looking up to the calm , ‘why didst thou choose to smite such an one as this? Why did thine arrows of fire fall upon the innocent?” t He remained absorbed in thought until the bell. called him to the,-dining-room, He went to the table. more to meet the family and inquire after the inva-. lid than because he felt it possible to eat. The ap- etites-of all had vanished—still exeepting Julien epee & vaio fasted somewhat for appearance sake and the breakfast was a sad contras: to the merry’ meal of the previous evening. Mrs. Percy informed Pennon that Clematis a peared quite well, was perfectly in her right aia and had answered all her questions as well as she: was ig ath looks and motions; said she did not. suffer; had put her arms about her and kissed her with a bright smile, as much as to ask her not to pew herself on account of her accident, All simi- ar cases that any of the had heard of, were’ discu . At one moment, hope was raised as ~*~ told of paralysis which had only lasted a day or a week; again it was depr when others were mentioned where it was g. Some one told of a case where a woman was struck by lightning and’ made dumb for a number of years, but had suddenly recovered her pet coring. asevere thunder storm. This gave rise to a great deal of talk about elec tricity, and the use of the ae battery, and the proba: . bility of the physician aving reopens to it, As they arose from the table, Pennon said to his host and hostess: d “The stage here to-day at ten o'clock, I believe. I will not further tres upon ’ bounty, but go on my way, not without a v wy A. heart at leaving you in this sorrow. I shall be G) city very soon, and shall consult the very vet. cians upon your daughter’s case, and write to you, their opinions.” : ‘“‘We are very sorry Mrs. Percy, touched by his evident e have learned to regard ron as a friend, ea " like to part with you at this sad SEs at should nave ee “Jer this as a home, if you can be Staying longer. , : eT an hayaie think Tam suihe on ae. sper no a of the my ends I Ba rake cha een other e may meet again. — now, 2 a reason vor pein, T should hurry away te find : can be done for your daughter. Can I see her, to say good-by before I go?” : ; Mrs. Perey told him he could go to her room in half an hour, He spent that time in up and down the garden-walk. As he went , the anteroom communicating with Olematis’s ® he heard a voice speaking rapidly, and saw th door was ajar. , He had no intention of bey g nor with. to part with you,” rep a any idea that any thing private was being .
Page 10
x ~ zr ‘leave her—that is, with your pérmission to stay— - open doors, and was not to blame that the rolowing es reached his ear as he went forward: “You pk sebingeie thought, coz, that your pros- of marriage were injured by your misfortunes —that Clematis Percy would not be as attractive as hitherto—but with one, at least, itis notso. I love you more devotedly than ever—I should love you to on if you never spoke another word. I have come to comfort you by offering to ma you. Will you have me? Speak—or no, write—I mean write what te feel—two or three dear words— that you willbe mine. Here is the pencil—write!” Pennon went softly back, and waited in burning impatience for the coach to make its appearance. “I must go and say farewell, though—this will never do. It will look very careless or very ungrate- ful. I wonder if that cousin is out of the room yet! I shag of if she accepted him! Can the fellow really have more heart than I thought? I hope so, for the sake of her who is to be his wife.” intl upto her room. There was no one in it at instant. She lay on the bed, looking calm beautiful. She amiled a greeting as he came to r side. “Miss Percy, I have come to say good-by!” How — and cold the words came out of his throat! ying to becalm ke ota almost rude. Herlips quivered, and her dark lashes droop- ed to her cheeks to conceal the intense look of dis- tment, She made a motion to give him her hand, but histone had been so cold. that she with- drew it, and it fell beds iawe d upon the bed. There was a paper slate on the couch, with some- written upon it. Was it dishonorable in Pen- B om ae what he did and what depended upon it, should seek to read the trembling charac- trac m? If it was, he was so agitated did not reflect upon it until Jater in the day, but allowed his glance to eae what was all important to others besides Julien Percy: “That m: peemneer of marriage are injured is no regret to phe Ihave parents, oa love to live with them. I do not think of being wedded; and if I should, it would not, cow/d not be to you, though I am grateful for your alae nat tad disinterested affection. Iam your loving cousin—I can never be any thing more to you.” Be en for his t had ch phe up quickly, for one anged; it sent the bod to hee face before she mee his eyes. , God bless you and restore you to health.” He bent forward and teed her, and the tear pp fell upon ber cheek from his eyes at that mo- ment thrilled through her being more sweetly than ets é first kiss which had ever been pressed by other than relations upon her lips. With blinded vision Pennon hurried into the hal Pg running over Mr. Percy, whom he me _“ How is Clematis now?” asked the father, ie 10ow—I think she is very well. Will you not step into my room a moment, Mr. Percy? I have something which refuses not to be said.” went in together and closed the door. a e your daughter, Mr. Percy. I did not know how much until I went to part from her. I can nut while she is as she is now. I know that this is sud- den—that 1 am a stranger; but I know that you will find me worthy of confidence, You can write to those whom yu know in my native city and learn about me, I will wait your approval until then. But I wish the privilege of being near Clematis,” _ Which I will not deny, for I like you. But Ole-. matis—poor girl! have you spoken to her? She will hardly care for a lover now. “And I do not know that shé will care in the least iio Bia tae? Be ote ee y ay re me; ve ely she | will—for what am I in ihe eyes of one like her? | _~ A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. But if you say I may speak, I will go to her at once.” ‘Perhaps we bad better wait for the letters,” said Mr. Percy, with a smile, ‘‘ before that most impor- tant = is acted. A father’s prudence—not a man’s friendship.” CHAPTER V. THE WONDERFUL CASTLE, PENNON was a@ upon his weeny ina melancholy mood. He had been rejected. He was not a very vaig,man, considering his advantages of personal appe nance, pernn and worldly position. And yet it was true that he felt mortified at being refused by a simple country maiden, when so many city belles would have been oe of his preference. He felt mortified at times, but not always; for Cle- matis Percy seemed to him a being the ces of whose soul were such that no worldly advantages were to be held in comparison, nor any man to feel humiliated because she did not. give “her love, He felt that he had aspired to her lov. t brought — him down to ef as at some overw. g loss. He had wed his ho to dwell upon this new treasure so strongly, that which sent him forth to rove over the coun quest of some new experience, Suddenly as light bursts through a rain-cloud pe og a glory over the world, a new hope had flooded his uote with radiance and revealed to him the paradise he had es, yearned for. He had cried ‘‘Eureka!”’ to his rejoicing spirit—and now how dull, and selfish, and commonplace the world had grown ain! ee a desponding, if not in a bitter frame of mind, he wandered listlessly from place to place. / He went to Lake George, and sketched and pict i for a while; but his genius seemed to have orsaken him, except as far as painting female faces went. is attempts at other things seemed all to turn, as if by fairy wand, into beautiful heads with spiritual gray eyes, lovi and pure, long masses of rich brown hair, lips that seemed, even upon canvas, tremulous with feeling and melody, and foreheads not more delicately fair than ex pressive of thought and ideality. He met friends at Lake George who did not fail to rally him upon his altered demeanor, and to detect a family likeness in his pictures, but as to who the heroine of his canvas and meditations might be they were totally in the dark, and Pennon took no s to enlighten them either as to the beauty of the Tiber Creek Valley or the cottage that nestled therein; neither how, like Jacob, he had met a Rachel at the well, and had afterward kissed her. and lifted up his voice and wept, not because of having kissed her once but because he was never to have that joy again. These things he kept serupu- lously to himself, and teasing only made them re- treat closer into his spirit. Eyes profane might never look into the holy of holies reserved to them. ‘As we have hinted before, Pennon was a great favorite. He had a peculiar power of “ winn olden opinions from all sorts of people’’—perhaps use his own nature was so truthful and affec- | tionate. Even at Mrs. Butterby’sit had been guessed by his fellow-boarders that they owed an' extra allowance of ounces of white and fresh butter to his presence at table. Their landlady was a woman in the scales of whose soul, prudence and , the love of peace outweighed justice and the love of her kind; but Pennon had jumped boldly into the lighter balance and brought it Jevel with the other,
Page 11
. have hear A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. © li Which may be set down as one of his most surprising age. ‘You will upset the boat, triumphs. One poles! he had a letter which he read upon the fo tico of the hotel. “Well, Pennon, what news—good or bad?” asked his friend Noyse, who saw a ¢ countenance. ; “Most goonies would think it good news. You ange pass over his Spent his whole fortune of two hundred thousand dollars upon fifty acres of land, and a castle which he built in its midst, living thereafter in it, solitary e a spider in the center of his web of glory. ‘1 elieve I was almost the only human being he ever fancied, after the young lady deceived him, who Was the ruin of one of the most splendid of men. Well, he is dead, and has left me his castle and Surroundings.” “Whew! most people would call that pretty good news, You were born with a gold spoon in your mouth, my dear friend, There is no use in your friends standing by and coveting the delicious mor- Sels you fish-up with it.” Pennon heaved a deep sigh. “How little is known of people’s veal fortunes— the fortunes of the heart—whcether they are good or ad. I assure you, Noyse, I am not to be envied,” “Yet I'd e’en take the g00d looks, geod gifts, and good luck.” ““Pshaw! love affair!’ muttered Pennon, “To be sure it is strange that you could un- fortunate in love, unless the rsd of your choice be dead. But if it is not that, wha 80 low-spirited, eh?” } : “TIndignation, perhaps. Let us think of this new turn of the wheel, Noyse. What do you say to making up a party of our friends here, three or four of them, and going up to St. Ceil to look at the castle, and to stop awhile if we like it?” . “Glorious! Now that you speak of it I shall be impatient until we start.” “Very well, then, We will have Fenelon and his beautiful wife—” “ And her still more beautiful sister.” “Yes; and that is all. I know they have nothing to do but idle away the summer, and if they are ready we will start to-morrow.” On the 12th of July the party of pleasure selected by Pennon, having traveled for thirty-six hours by rail and boat, were left by the great steamer which daily furrowed the waves of the St. Ceil, on the dock of a little village several miles from the estate they were in search of, The travelers had heard glowing accounts of the Scenery between the and the castle—as the ead had named his mansion—and learning that_a ferryman could be procured to row them - slowly to their destination, they preferred this more romantic manner of reaching it. The afternoon was fine. As they glided out into the middle of the broad, fair river, they felt upon their brows the re- freshing coldness of a breeze sweet-scented with the northern pines. The banks sloped W egre down to he water, and were green with wa ng grass, and dotted often with ups of elms. Here and there M4 © of those sta trees bent close to the river’s m. ¥ As the boat shot murmuringly ang, leaving a folden trail, the grassy slopes rose into wo ights or sunk into romantic vyales, hile they were all g: at a hill, which ought, erhaps, to be dignified as a mountain, standing sol- tary before them at about a distance of a mile up the stream, their attention was drawn away by a glimpse of turrets, domes, and_battlements rising rom among a forest of trees midway between them and the hight. “The castle! the castle!” exclaimed all. Resalie Sloane sprung to her feet. , “Sit down, love,” said Mrs. Fenelon, the matron of the party, albeit she was but twenty-four years of is it that keeps you | me tell of that eccentric old bachelor who | : urden of that little love | the boat swe affair upon my spirits, for the consideration of your | they realize and thén what “Why, the gentlemen would rescue us, I a eT It would do no harm to tax their gallantry a little more, just so that they need not forget that begs | oad expected to be chivalrous,” and Rosalie turn ) _bright blue eyes half-reproachfully, half-laug! ° upon Pennon. ; She had thought his demeanor too abstracted—- she was not wont to be less than the absorbing: interest when she was present among gentlemen;. and that day she had acted her prettiest, and been: treated with only the most E gipeclarrens liteness, . without one stolen glance pentinneis meaning than the words confessed—and she thought, . as she turned her face to the other side of the i and pouted her rich, red lip, that it was ‘‘too a bi fair. wish we could get a more aera’! | | view of it,’’ burst forth Noyse, striving to pierce wit! | his eager glance the dep | tected the castle from view. ; Just then an S gtenge] in the foliage rev a | wing and part of the main body of the building, Every one uttered an exclamation of delight; bu on so rapidly that it vanished before its beauty. , | _ It seemed to be something in the style of the old Moorish palaces; and yet not that, being more lofty and elegant. It was a mixed architecture, but plan- ned by some one of original genius, for if was very beautiful as a whole; to be compared, perhaps, to a warm and passionate love-song, translated from Italian into words of solid ee splendor, and. breathed to a proud but tender English beaamrs. € it —e to Pennon, but the comparison is su a “Tt ig not like any thing that lever saw upon the Rhine or in Italy, or in England either,” remarked Noyse, who was a great talker, and always inter rupted those silent moments of enchantment which people of more sentiment keep sacred. “I . never seen any thing precisely like it in any book of drawings. I wonder why he called it the castle? I is not Fe nor glowing enough for such a title. should think—” At that moment the boatman turned the skiff to the shore, and they were in full view of the place, and in front of an avenue leading up to the hall. Soon Pennon stood upon a block of gray marble placed as a landing at the foot of the avenue, and was helping the ladies out. : The party were disposed to be very gay, but the thought of the dead friend who had p: there the last years of auseless and disappointed life, sadden- ed Pennon. \ : reg dove Shall not ruin me as it did him,” ero for red. ‘“Which way?” cried Rosalie, tarryin im, while the others, all curiosity, lost the es in the winding paths which branched off from the main wal She had taken off her bonnet, and her light hair glis- tened with a golden tinge in the sunlight: her form was tall and full; step had something and yet majestic in it; her complexion was as cate as lilies and wild roses, * Her cheekis fair, with just as much Of color as would be. ; Suppose a moist mogs-roge should touch Tay lovingly. : “ Her hair like wavy silk seems spun Unen the gold rage of the oun, © £0) "nd gilded thus the thread.” She was a fine-looking, fasci woman, | nor vesinol 3 am he Giickened bs slepeis saa her. Sh» looked, even there, queenly enough rag / one Tre: pressed sigh, one tone made thrilling with deeper’ “Tt us be magnificent! I had no idea it wasso - of. foliage which pro- — Re
Page 12
: 2B rg ™ Going to St. James’s Court ss In beauty and in state;” “nd he thought how well she would grace one of _ those fashionable homes which she coveted. She was not sv cemry and her friends were devirous she should make a brilliant match. This she could have done more than once, but it wasso pleasant to be ad- |’ mired that she was in no haste. _. ~ Aglow of exultation made her heart thrill as she waited that instant for the guidance of her host. She had long been yielding to an interest. which she felt in him, and the idea of being mistress of such a home as she saw before her put the finishing per- feetion upon his attractions. She, as well as her sister and brother-in-law, had taken this invitation | as a mark of particular favor toward her; though, if they had known the truth, they need not have built much hope upon it, for it was more to please Noyse than himeel? that Miss Rosalie Sloane made one of the party. *“We shall reach the house easily by this way,” | said Pennon “They folidwed a labyrinthine walk, shaded by numberless varieties of trees, some towering loftily, | others bending beneath a weight of fruits or flowers. They had glimpes of fountains, grottoes, fanciful | summer-houses, and statues occasionally in lonel nooks. Birds warbled as if in their own native wil- dernesses; for the solitary owner of ail this splendor had disturbed their reveries but seldom; falling wa- _ ters murmured in marble basins. “How sweetly one might live and die ina Place like this,” almost whispered Rosalie. ‘Oh, I love such beauty as this.” “You love beauty, I know,” answered Pennon, - witha e; “for you love your own dearself; which is only what the rest of the world does also—loves _ you more than you deserve.” She did not ow whether to be pleased or ca TAR - voked at this speech. She wanted to say something which should draw from him the innermost mean- Bs ie remark—perhaps io induce him to say yi Mgr that he, like the rest of the world, was her lover; : put Noyse, uneasy and jealous, was waiting for them, and they joined him. : bee 3 advanced to the lawn where Mr. and Mrs, Fanelon were awaiting them, entered upon a stately ee and from thence passed into the principal all, whose stained glass window, floor of white and a black marble in mosaic, lofty ceiling, and grand stairway excited still further their admiration, ere were but two servants about the mansion— a faithful old man who had charge of affairs gener- ally, and his wife, who acted as housekeeper. “Oh, dear!’ said Pennon, as they rested them- selves in the hall, before seeking rooms, ‘I am afraid that my friend’s gift will impoverish me. I can never afford to keep up such an establishment; and out of Feepect to the wishes of the dead Ishould never wish to sell it.”’ “Ah, you can afford it better than you think,” said Rosalie. “‘This place is not so large as it is richly furnished. A very few servants would keep it in proper order. It will take buta trifling expense to keep By grounds,” 4 “You talk like a housekeeper—that is, like one who has some idea of domestic expenses and ar- 4 aments, as every woman ought to have,” said _ “That is, if she marries a poor man.” The slight, very slight accent of scorn with whic this was said, considering that Noyse iabee not bE any m a rich man, was r consolation an reward to fo: Gwibe fe the frata of the brilliant uette for the last two months. The color | _ suffused his face, for he felt too poo to entirely Ail the mercy of her who would have been kinder had she doubted | fore any one spoke again the housekeeper | ed to receive orders and conduct the ladies to _ . Pennon gave her liberty to send to the © td A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. village and procure such help as she needed in waiting upon his guests, She was dressed in deep mourning, and appeared very sad; but her new master evidently made a favorable impression, and she went out looking more cheerful than when she came in, ‘ath afew moments apartments were ready for the ies. ‘Oh, how charming! how perfectly entrancing!” exclaimed Rosalie, as she entered the one allotted to her. “If I was the mistress of it!’ she mur- mured, as she threw ‘herself into an easy chair. “Tt. must be—I wij/ be! and when Rosalie Sloane ay ‘I will,’ then the thing must come to pass!”’ he arose and approached an immense mirror which reached from floor to ceiling, and was between the drapery of the windows overlooking most lovely scenery. Then she gazed upon her own loveliness with as much interest as if it were new to her, when, if the truth must be told, she spent many an hour in that same agreeable occupation, That the result was, as usual, satisfactory, might be told by the rich smile gathering about the full corners of her red mouth, and beaming out, lustrous and dewy, from the long, half-drooped, languid lashes shadowing her blue eyes. The draperies of her apartment were of rose and amber-colored stripes, shaded down into a white ground, which produced a very soft light and elegant effect for a chamber-room. The furniture was tasteful, corresponding in all things, and fully fine enoygh to awaken the covetousness of the luxurio auty. ‘I shall keep this room for my own, when I am mistress of the mansion,” she whispered, as she began to lay out articles for a fascinating toilet in which to make her appearance at tea. “Dear! what shall I do for help before the maid arrives?” Pennon, when he was left alone by his retiring guests, walked back and forth through the hall. ““My friend little thought, when he left me this, that he was making a fitting choice of one whose necessity i twould be to follow his example of ce- libacy; or, what were worse, to marry some woman to be mistress of his house, when his heart goes not with his hand and name. This latter shallnever be. Iwill not add my own to the frightful list of unhappy or selfish or unprincipled marriages. I have dreamed of.a marriage of soul and hearts—a union of the noblest. and most spiritual—one purpose, one love, one hope for the future—a marriage as blissful as never ending—a marriage for to-day and not the less for tone A Oh Clematis! why didst thou dis- appoint me in this dream? Wast thou cold? coquet- tish? wayward? Icannot decide. I only know that thou didst cruelly destroy the hope that I had built from thine own sweet, spiritual smile. If I did not seo love in thine eyes, such as my soul wildly craved—if I did not see love in thy blush, and hear it in thy voice, then indeed did my self-approbation make me blind and deaf. Why am I ever living over in memory the moment when thy refusal] fell like a stone upon my heart?—like a stone above a grave, it lies there never to be lifted—” His melancholy reverie was interrupted by the fall of the lightest foot, the rustle of the richest silk, and looking up he met the smile of Miss Rosalie Sloane, as she swept, in the charm of her fresh toilet, down the magnificent staircase, ; CHAPTER VI. CAUGHT IN HER OWN NET. ‘To-MORROW the week which we had pro to stay is out,” said Pennon, at breakfast one imtew have come to the conclusion that no cooler, more retired, and comfortable oy in which to endure the heats of August, can found, If the rest are of my opinion, we will delay returning to the world for a month yet; and, for fear that ennui will seizo upon my fair friends, I will write for a little more company—that is, if there is any room for them,
Page 13
ee =,” ee ce a ee a ee el Sen Ser How Is it, Mr. Fenelon? I gave you the duty of as- certaining our resources,” : ‘There are two chambers, well fitted up, which are vacant,” “How delightful you are, Mr, Pennon,” cried e, in her most silvery voice, ‘‘I came very near to wasting a tear upon an ea ing, he farewell. to this lovely spot, this very morning, 2efore I came down. Now I will save it for some other occasion.” “That is well. You have none too many in store, and ought to keep them for some occasion when rs seem absolutely necessary. Now, if ever des- perate, rejected suitor should commit suicide, you would not do like Thackeray’s heroine— ** *Charlotte, when she saw his body Borne before her on._a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter,’ Ido not think so badly of youas that. I sincerely believe that under such circumstances you could foree that. tear which you came so near shedding this morning—just for its becomingness, if nothing more, “One never knows when you are in earnest, Mr. Pennon,” she rejoined, with a charming pout. ‘I am.sure I do not think grief is so very becoming;”’ and she looked over at Noyse, who seemed to be blessed with a poor appetite. , Her taunt was more severe than witty, for she had had the triumph of refusing him on the previous evening. He was nota fool, nor without considera- ble spirit, although she had blinded, bewildered, de- ceived and scorned him. He lifted a half-angry and contemptuous glance, and gazed at her more stead- me than passion had ever allowed him to do hith- erto, “Tf Lady Rosalie Sloane ever expects to see my body ‘borne before her on a shutter,’ she is laying up tears to dry for want of use, It would be folly to give one’s Jife for an offering to vanity, false-heart- edness and capricious beauty.” “How do you dare, sir? One would indeed guess you to be an unfortunate suitor.” Her cheek flushed with indignation. “T should not dare to accuse you of caprice or falsehood,” he answered, with the most malicious coolness, “Sif I did not remember, too well for my own peaee, the light in Rosalie’s eye, the smile’ and blush in her. cheek, when we sat to rest after climb- ing that rock at Lake George; and when, embolden- ed yg 5 soft and tender look, I—” “* Mr, Noysel” Her face was pale and her look imploring. _ +Turned to press the purest kiss of love upon a _ lip I thought as pure, and in that moment tasted nageinet which is now to thrill me with an unsatis- fied lo forever.” She into tears and left the room. Mrs. Fene- lon followed her; Mr. Fenelon muttered “ villain!” and went out upon the balcony; Pennon followed Noyse to the front portico, and found him lean- ing, le and exhausted, against a pillar, ‘How could you take so unmanly a revenge upon Ser _ girl?” he asked, almost sternly, of his riend, “God knows Iam sorry! I would apologize, but the mischief isdone, I pal hf it was ee me} ‘but the truth is that I was afraid for you, too, Pen- non—afraid that she would play off the same arts upon you that she did upon me, and I like you too well to see you made a victim of. If you could have heard her laugh last night, when I called that scene to mind in proof that I had received encourage- ment to make the avowal which I did—if you had heard her laugh, Pennon, you would not blame | me!” He almost ground his teeth together, “No doubt you have been very much outraged, Noyse; but you see you have spoiled our party, un- less this matter is made up, You need not have feared for me, my friends not that I do not ac- a - A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. ae knowledge the beauty of Miss Sloane, but I read her’ a character long ago; besides, I have—” = aes He paused without finishing the sentence, Neither oak of the gentlemen guessed how very sh pee row had pierced into the supposed invuln pane heart of Rosalie; for that heart had become fully — fixed upon the owner of the castle, and she knew that truth the most scrupulous and. sty t most pure were qualities which, above allo she | admired in women. Her mortification was ex +1 t enough to gratify the fiercest ‘malice. Poor Noyse: he was eapable of blazing ve tl spirit and pride upon occasion, but he himself suffered too deeply, and loved too much, wat to regret the of his resentment, —:0 liv The whole part. tion. Noyse’s go’ — seem, and conduct, It was very much as she said, -No we good family, fair-looking, with some me o: head and heart, although rash andl , und Rosalie was réally so much in love, that sl ; willing to leave a large fortune out of his a -- tions, and accept him without it, when Pennon made his appearance. Considering that she had bee n ed-' ucated to regard wealth as indis ble, it was & pres that some true womanly feeling still bloom eneath the artificial flowers in her that she had been so near to taking a nea moderate means. Love was near to ’ over lucre, when Pennon, with both fortune, and innumerable: other endowme unfo: ately chanced too near; then, in order to free herself from her more than half-committal to Noyse, she had been obliged to act with more duplicity and more heart- Jessness than was natural even to her, Now she was reaping, in the bitterness of humiliation, the harvest : she had sown. \ yet weeping, her sister knocked at While she was the door, : ; “‘How meanly Mr, Noyse has conducted himself,”’ | she said, as she entered and threw her arms about % Rosalie. ‘‘Just tell me, my love, that what he said was not true, and I will inform Pennon of your word Sobor a ora Bertha, I did not mean to “But it was true, Bertha. not_ mean” deceive Mr. Noyse, for indeed, indeed T thouehe I loved) him at that time. But when I saw Pen- non I~ : é “Yes, dear, Lknow, And you chose very wisely, . too. I shall tell our host that aha lieve that your affections were engaged to friend, but that a you distovered that he had a bad temper. **Oh, Bertha!’’ ae “He has, darling. Did he not prove it this morn- ing? I am so glad that you escaped the fate’ of being his wife. Besides, comery care be done, — I will not tell any falsehoods, but make this matter as near right as it canbemade, So cheer ~ up, darling.’” Tas felts Mrs. hans a retty face and winning ro pieonapanciod to Pennon, She was no scientious in all she said—but she loved ' and that was the way they were educated. | out a very good case ‘for Rosalie’s interes noble qualities of Mr. Noyse, her igi sd _ ty without much fortune, ete,, etc., until shée found
Page 14
4 A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. out his sudden and en rude; was ready to apologize; hoped the be eames sevens bis Trend scope, an, wo again, for he some an Joris toate ineeih, and wanted all to participate em, So with the offender’s apologies, and his host’s i des feos him, Mrs, Poneion went back to her / Tr. yn the, soy ok down to a angh r een . The su dignity of her air was soften by the flash of tears mien still lingered upon her clieeks and gave new brijjjiancy to her eyes. It would have seenied profa, p, to have treated such a being with any thing b' mder admiration; and Noyse wondered how he could have been such a peas. even with the memory of yesterday ringing in ears, CHAPTER VIL. THE MYSTERY. A WEEE or two more had sped away; new guests had arrived at the castle, and the most of them were going out one morning upon a boating ex- nm. _* We seem to be liv 7< on the water gracefulasaswan, A gild- th crimson cushions, ran around it. strange himself a palace of enjoying it in that your like this for the ‘He was nota selfish man,” said Pennon, “ or did not mean to be. He was unfortunate. Perhaps when he planned this place he expected to make a of it by sharing it with the womaa he loved. ladies are sometimes fickle.”’ Rosalie looked over the side of the boat into the water. The south wind, balmy from the blooming shores, blew them along until the spray which broke away from 4 prow glitteredlike a wreath of jewels hung und aro’ The scenery seemed to the sailors more pic- turesque than that below thecastle, The mountain, vered with pw atood on their right; on their lett Baan sloping banks with groves growing down i "s edge. _ There was a bend in the river where it swept around the base of the hill, and as the boat followed its course, the party came in sight of a small island sweetly on the bosom of the stream. HOD | told them nothing of it, though he had a day or two before, wishing to :. expect, from iis ap! ere We es here -for anhour or two of explora- a No poet ever yearned for a sweeter spot; ; o q ie ¥ Hecke - ea ae the ‘bright little isle’ of wig. dices ‘Here a leaf never dies in the stil. blooming bowers, And a bee banquets on through a whole year of owers, All ayes Were attracted to it as they approached Underneath the trees, which arose in lofty groups, they could see shadowy vistas, pleasant with moss, grass and flowers. They were welcomed by a golden burst of harmony from Countless, bright-winged birds fluttering amid the swayiny branches and darting their bills into the fragrant bells of blos- soms, Every one was eager to spring upon the shining sand, which lay like a girdle of gold about the island. Pretty shells, some of which Lulu gathered hastily in her straw hat, peeped up on the shore; but no one could stop at that moment to aid her sclection, for the cool shade wiled them on to their protection; while the murmurs of the leaves overhead, the carols of the birds, the rushing of the river, to- gocher with the cam of flowers, made the air reamy with sweets. They had not gone far into the island before they discovered, sheltered in a thick forest, the fanciful roof of a summer-house.. They drew near, admirin the slender pillars and the curious lattice-wor which covered four of its octagon sides, the other four being open to the breezes and the birds; and also the meeting of the lofty branches of the oak- trees above its gilded minaret. Upon entering it, they found oaken sofas placed against each lattice, and a round table standing in the center, They were just wearied enough to sink contentedly upon these Seats. The outside of this pretty pagoda was overrun with tartarian honeysuckles, whose sweetness at evening would have been overpowering; but now it was de- peal not only to the people within, but to aswarm of wild bees, that, happy as the bees of Hybla, sung and swarmed without, e was first to notice a book lying open upon the table. She took it up and fonnd it to be a tied : of Bryant’s. poetry, open at the “Forest n ‘ ‘Some one has been here before us,” she said, “some one possessing taste, for there could not be @ more appropriate place for the reading of this noble hymn,” and she read aloud, with exquisite emphasis, a few lines; then, carelessly turning the leaves, she came to the name of the owner inscribed on the blank first page— Clematis Perey ’—quite a pretty cognomen.” No one noticed the sudden pallor of Pennon upon hearing the name of the woman he loved, thus un- expectedly spoken. He arose and began plucking the honeysuckles from the vine outside, while endeavoring to regain his composure. , “For whom are you binding that oppressively sweet garland?” asked Rosalie, following hing “For Lulu,” he answered, throwing the goldeti wreath about a head as goldcew. “There, pretty one, run and see if old Galleon is in sight—I know you are hungry,” “Yes! there he , bugging ittle girl, himself,”’ laughed the moment after, Galleon was the purveyor-general, who followed the party in a er, of his own, having in charge a cargo of dainties fit for fair ladies and brave men to refresh themselves with of an occasion like the resent, The summer-house, with its convenient able, was willingly resigned to him for the time being, while the party dispersed itself amid the groves as inclination led. Rosalie could do no better than pet up a pretty romp with Lulu; for Pennon was absorbed in that stupid book which she wished the unknown woman had not been so forgetful as to leave; and Noyse was | aying back her past con- duct in her own coin—since the new arrivals he had left her to himself—try as artfully as she might, she could not perceive that she retained a fractin of her power over him, Sitting at the foot of an elm, the host forgot his a basket as big as bounding back a
Page 15
A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. | Company, in the whirl of conjectures which danced through his brain. Whence this book? Did spirits bear it bodily through the air, and deposit it in this lonely island to remind him of that far-away being whom he still loved, ae of her rejection of his erself so near to that ut just missed seeing her? Hadshe been here? What could have anaes that quiet farmer’s daughter to this remote and almost unknown re- gion? He was in a maze of perplexity. He turned eve ,as if he would reed therein the answer to his questiongs—but the book would not tell him what he wanted toknow. “De luncheon is ready to sarb,” said the swart Galleon, gleaming out of “he pagoda, as turbaned pervert gleam out of the pagodas of the Orient. Blow the horn, then, id rig ee ue aa “Hav'n’t ' youatm horn, or a cow-bell, G: * Blow the esa Beat the gonguin.”” “Hav’n’t no tin hoi mane, but I’se a tin pan | args and dis wanelanas what I made de rh “ Rattle away, then; and the unmusical music 0: ibe iy an reverberated through those enchanted ‘ores meson. into silence, The sreup up chattered like magpies over their cold fowl ey ir sandwiches, ambrosial wines and iced sweets—all but the hex who said as little as he ate, which was little enough. Rosalie noted these signs, almost hoping ee were the wees of his ha been seized with an affection of the heart, whic ‘was, indeed, true, though the cause was far re- moved from any apparent source. As soon as he could, without rudeness, slip away frofa his guests. ts, Pennon started and roamed over every foot of the island; he half expected to meet the vision of a fair young girl, as mute as death but as lovely as light, flitting underneath the shadows, or wandering on the beach, But nothing so unlikely as this occurred, Ha’ searched the groves, he Paes silently along the very sand w edged the shore, looking up er down the river with a pyentning gaze, as if something were ralet ad be revealed to him. denly, s aoneue limmered at his feet;,a sun- ee struck it, it hed out into thousands of fiery sparkles. He moaped and picked it up—it was the Emerald Necklace! Robinson Crusoe, when he came upon the foot- prints of the savages in the sand, was hardly more astounded, though not so pleasantly so. Unseen by any but the approving ana of Molding grape ye pressed the treasure to his be SN pe De and again to assure himself of its identity, es! the same—even to the still unmended links, whose feeble hold had been Post ap by the lightning. Mysterious aoxcrel one or inexplicable part coe ae Caer on flashing in. the sunlight, © gorgeous 2) n 4 seemed to work w ee oF life. How her mute Pr oa gently, but sot sent him from her, Here was arenes. that had. been near—or if not en the very witches had been! aged ae was hard hardly the era of necromancy, There agune to awaken euapeust tion 4 wing, Wav flash e gems, into myst, 0 + Pell how rte Fi Td It was. the voice of Rosalie ake spoke; she had followed Pen- non, weary of the time where he was not, and found him lost in a dream over the necklace, which he held to the rays of the declining sun, Tt is not ne some ve oe strange, | es, frightening bee and bird, bough and | | ing forth a a a ve among the ladi | as if there were no other poseon in himse she B Ossible you have found any thing so rere as pos his wild id spot, Paul?”—it was nearly the first ike poses i eed called Nondesin we first Sg and she spoke now very ‘tender are supett those emeralds! ie aging oa a glow, ee see th og Let aaa te ou e se very antique ns Mags teitet Sart in Gace from age, al although na the ori gel, They must have lain here ages, a3 you mr T do not think they have -been here long, Miss “Oh, they certainly must have been here forever! The Indians never made any such ornaments. - penn must have been buried with some princess of long since extinct, who lived in a splendor tke ike that of ancient Peru; ‘and now the river the shore until it has washed this trincket fron od grave. I always ni emeralds to all the other ceca stones. Those must be worth quite a little ‘ortune.”’ She did a return them to ig She pte y word and by be lg admiring them | Wer wine attitude said, * Give them to me!” —her eyes were full of a covetous fondness, and a smile rested on her face. She knew that the man was generous, and as he had no near relatives to need such a bauble as this, it Begone to her ox proper and probable he would HOY Kee dear Miss ters I have no use for an sears eli e aoe But Pennon had no such idea. Reachi his hand for the gems most reluctantly vest pocket without poe another word about them; and vexed at her ny po tment and at his abstrac- tion, Rosalie was & en they came in the rest of the pa: “We shall Sardi reach — rates 9 five ht a a spr He Pinto te’ tairy eet, analy. ec nging in rk, @ a hand in aid of the h nl rs aa cautioned me not to keep dinner waiting, unless we ed to spoil it.” Hardly had the boat —_ out into the > crimson-corded sail and golden. Hin eg the : pene Bs strange m3 4 beautif ttle vessel which the castle. Their ghout was answered back as merry if not so great, and there was a ies on either side. a ears Pennon? He had started up so a a as almost to u ey phon povenp a be wav- ing his handkerchief fh could be discerned. Then I he raat pr to down silently suy- the fairy ing not a word, till the bark was moored | grotto, CHAPTER VIL. ot iiet- seminar CATALPAS. hours of a ho Pry intolerable to Rosalie lie Sloane. Not of the heat and languor of the atmosphere, for she flourished in the: summer-time like a magnificent white lily; but this afternoon was weariseme to her because she was disappointed and desponding, Pen- non was walking up and down an a catalpas. from her window. d recrossed agth of mn were Soles very time she ada ment, she would ¢ and steal a glance and back in pny had ees. A site end of her room was an Object equally ing, at which she also took a lingering lance the op inte
Page 16
_depths held no myst th . til A fairly stru 16 . A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. at every turn of her solitary promenide—ner own image, revealed in the tall pier glass. Tn vain she questioned the rosy shadow of her own lips, why they had no power to allure him from the ence which he seemed to prefer—in vain she asked her own blue eyes why their soft and swimming ies for him to study—there ; Loar no satisfactory response to her deeply-vexed ' Rosali ie W. an uncomfortable mental predica- ‘ment, thing but the subtle art which gifts such women with unfailing grace would have made it ! rable. Her relations with Noyse could not. be seal de knew that he read har uurposes as in zt) 3 a@ jealous, yet scor spectator of emtadaacs adh she made toward a rival who was, in t most mortifyingly indifferent to her. it all over as she paced her room un- her forehead with vexation, grinding the heel of her toilet-slipper into the car- t in a dan, way. Rosalie—indolent as a wa- ‘ eas lolling on the bosom of a stream in the sun- shine—aroused herself to vow that matters should COM to a crisis, ; Again she looked in the glass. A half-blown crim- son rose flowered in a little vase upon the table; she placed it in the sunshine of her hair; her dress, pale, of the softest, snowiest India lawn, profuse its folds, light as the breeze which waved it, was y perfection. Stay! that scarf of amber-col- } gauze—she fastened it over the back of her head with a turquoise pin, catching it up over one lovely bare arm from w ich the loose, flowing sleeve swept away like the wing of an angel. She was going to meet Pennon—by accident. Floating down the broad staircase like an incarnate thistle-down, she wafted herself out into a side ave- nue, from which she wandered to the river's edge, through a thicket of roses, out upon an open lawn, ar ed and about, until she came into the catalpa walk, from a direction opposite to the castle. “ ‘Why, Mr, Pennon, you out this sultry after- oon?’ the most fully now; every moment is penne, hg by © water, My dress caught their kisses as I passed; but they are , the roses are. They will soon be gone,’ §§ And then we must go, too.” _“ Ah! why can we not live in paradise forever. - Why was not this castle built in some clime of per- tual summer, near by the fountain of truth, so that we could sip of its waters, and consider our- selves summer-guests forever—never tobe. disen- chanted—never to come down to breakfast some morning with a shiver, and hear the lord of the castle say—‘We must fly! here is the breath of winter blighting us.’ Why is happiness, Paul, like this rose?’’ and she scattered its leaves at his feet. Looking up at him with an air of delicious mélan- year, a h eeper, ng zo aera at him she, saw, grasped con- hand, that mysterious string of e by , It. was that, een she had seen him kiss, from her ing-place behin d the drapery of her window! A dhadow, as if'a cloud hed passed over the. sky, fell upon her, She was convinced that, Pennon was in love, or had bee her. The conjectures upon the subject, when he first came to Lake George, returned to her mind | was afraid of Penno | buoyant self—but latter n, With some woman unknown to | with fresh power. She felt shat she had a rival— but was that rival alive or dead? Did Pennon mourn for some lost love consigned to an early rave? She almost hoped so; for in that case, in ime, she night console him. While if this mysteri- ous rival were still alive to assert her claims, she was afraid her own chances as mistress of the castle, | were narrow. If Pennon had been aman of Noyse’s | Spirit, she would have satisfied her Metaini d a she asking him outright about the necklace; but s who had a way of keeping people at a distance when he did not wish them to | approach him, If our pleasures could be like those emeralds,” » | She continued after a moment, ‘imperishable, then—” “Then you would never go away from here?’’ queried her companion. “Not if you would let me stay, lord of the castle,"’ she replied, tempering the meaning of her re- ply by an ba! rahi os of gayety; but a vivid blush roke over her face, at her own boldness, and her glance wavered and sunk beneath his grave look. She was lovelier in her confusion, than in her usual calm self-possession. Her fingers trembled as she plucked another rose to pieces. “Tf I could believe you, Roaalie, I might invite you to stay with me here and hereafter—for now and for eternity, But I think your idea reaches no further than an earthly visit—l would choose a com- anion for this world and the next, I’ve some un- ashionable notions, I know. What if I should pre- sent these domains to ay friend Noyse, having but ‘little use for them myself? Inever expect to marry, and _ this castle needs the fairy presence of a woman to charm it.” “Oh, N !’ exclaimed Rosalie, bitterly, ready to weep with vexation at Pennon’s assertion that he never expected to marry. ‘ You are so unkind to ‘speak tome of him.” - “You must forgive the unkindness in considera- tion of the motive. When I see him so pale, so wretched; so disappointed, I pity him, and wish him Si st of that ee which you, my sweet y, and you alone, have the power to bestow. I have known. him since we were ‘boys together,’ and he is out of a woman’s best love. I recommend ou to think twice, before you allow him to go away rom here as unhappy as he is now.’* ‘Oh! Uncle Paul, are you here?” I’ve been look- ing for you for the last hour!”’ eried Lulu, bounding from the garden, in that direction. : ** And what do you want of Uncle Paul, now?” “Oh, just tocome with me, end look at the fishes all silver and speckled, which Peter has caught and put alive in the pond.” sad itty ee = ee aa Pit him, =e was dr‘ away e dancing ¢ leaving the proud beauty, tearful and sullen, having ghinédh nothing by her attack upon the citadel, except a re-- commendation to walk into a citadel already sur- rendered, and which she disdained to occupy. CHAPTER IX. DANGER. od Mr. Prrcy had taken his Sp clita Clematis to the Sault Ste. Marie, in hopes that'the eoolfwinds which: blow across Lake Superior and through the northern pines, would restore the sinking energies of aframe — which had received a shock too severe for it, The tour was almost as novel to the father as to the child; it was a rare thing for one of the inmates of the stone cottage to be away from under its roof more than anight or two fora flying visit to some relative. Now, these two had been absent over a month. They were returning toward fbeir home, less hope- ful than when they set out.® Clematis had rallied once or twice, and seemed like her old blooming and she had sunk ge lost oe tand appetite, had n detained at the Sault Ste. Marie by illness over one trip of the boat; and was now making a great effort to keep up and ay 4 ee EO ey a ee ee
Page 17
1 ee “— 2" =e", s = ,- . ‘- |, ae ee — pear well, until she could reach the haven of her mother’s arms. During a pleasant afternoon, the third or fourth of their voyage, she grew so wearied, in her weak state, that, despite of the beauty of the near shores, and the sparkle of the water, which she loved to. watch, she was obliged to retreat from the deck to one of the sofas of the cabin, where she dropped asleep over the book which she pretended to read, in order to isolate herself from the uninteresting com- monplaces exchanged with great spirit, by the ro. passengers. ° e was awakened by the stopping of the steamer to wood at a little village dock. She was on the side nearest the shore, and as she looked out of the win- dow with wee eyes she saw quite a number of passengers and an immense amount of baggage, waiting on the wharf tocome aboard, They were a distinguished-looking ag to be gathered together at So remote a little village; and with the curiosity of Pe Clematis raised her head to reconnoiter them. Just then one of the gentlemen handed a lady across the plank: She was young, beautiful and * vichly dressed; and Clematis heard her speaking in a ~ voice silvery sweet: ‘“Wait, Lulu, Pennon will take care of you.” And then she saw who this gentleman was who had assisted the lady onto the boat. She felt too weak and ill to meet him then and there in the gaa of all that company; she knew that she would betray os not becoming to. her ride, and she arose and sought her state-room with Kasty steps, reaching it as the new-comers entered the cabin. Mr, Perey had likewise seen’ Pennon enter, al- though not perceived by him. After the boat was onits way and the late arrivals comfortably set- pag Be went into the cabin to speak tohis young end. Pennon met him with a glow of surprise and leasure, but not without an agitation he was pained see, for he had heard from his daughter’s own lips that she had refused him. They walked out upon deck to have an undisturbed talk, “How is Mrs. Percy and Clematis?” ‘“My wife was well when we heard from her last. Clematis is with me! Did you not see herin the cabin? “No, Idid not, Ido not thinkshe was there.” _ “She has gone to her state-room, probably, to lie down. She is hardly fit to travel, butlam anxious to get home with her.”’ “Has she been ill?—has she recovered her voice ?— what is the matter with her?’’ “Thank God, she has recovered her voice, but—” ‘* Ay, thank God!” murmured Pennon, “‘But she has never seemed so well since that un- happy night. I have been traveling with her for her health, but she has failed instead of gained since we lefthome. We were detained four days at M—— on account of her illness, and have just started on our way sy reer . “T long and yet to meet her, Mr, Percy. You know my feeling for her, and that it isin vain, I can not bear to that she is suffering. I thought that she loo! hinner when I Saw her that day in the boat. fi “What day can you be king of?” “Tt is curious, is it mot, Mr, Percy ?—but we. came very near meeting two or three weeks ago. Were ‘you not upon a little island about twelve miles above ere on the third of this month?” , “We were. Our boat met with a slight accident sev A hours ie serait ee ae tention, and hearing of the beauty <m i of” us hired a boat and went We had a delightful ‘sion, : We there within half an hour after you weitere daughter lose any thing on the = ry - -her cheeks bur. “forehead, sent the chambermaid | hand of a woman is needed here, A PAIR OF GRAY EYES, 1" eth ‘‘Theard her speak of leaving her favorite copy of Bryant on the table in the summer-house.” s “Tfound it and will return it to her. You can ess my surprise at seeing her name on the y-leaf. While wandering along the shore [ saw something sparkling in the sunlight. I went toit and found she had lost something of more worth than the poems—that veritable nec e With which my fortunes seem my to be mixed. I ty 0. an gna of this opportuni restoring it, for it is of value.’ 3 “T wish she had lost it in the river where it would never have appeared again. I co to the one ‘of beginning to feel nervous 4 it that. ing. Pennon smiled, though rather mournfully. ““T must go and ‘see Clematis,” said her father. . ‘“*T will tell her of your presence on the boat. I be- lieve she will wish to see you. There is no under- standing the heart of a woman, sir, but itis my be- _ lief—based merely une my own observations, and, therefore, not tobe depended upon—that she refuses the offer of your hand simply because she thought her affliction unfitted her to be the fitting companion of such a man.” : “Ts it be ta, Mr. Percy? No, it can not be!” “Mind, Ido not say itis, I may be entirely mis- taken; and of course I do not intend you to build up ore Pee it, if you yet wished it so, I onl know that Clematis has been another girl since th day you left us. Alas! 1 fear she will never be the blooming child she once was. I must go and inquire . after her,” F He went after Clematis, and Pennon returned to his por “Who was it Page were talking with?” asked Rosa- lie, as he came back to the group. Ce She seemed jealous of almost every word and look that others had from him, _ “Tt wasagentleman with whom I am well ac- quainted. I was glad tomeet him,” and he relapsed into silence. He knew that the woman by his side thought or fancied that she loved him, and he had seriously questioned within himself whether he ought not to marry her and secure her happiness, an haps his own would come time. Now a sevalaae of feeling had taken place. They had not sat long be- fore Mr. Perey approached them and beckoned Pen- non aside. : = “Clematis is very ill,” he said, in an ted voice. “I found her in a high fever—delirious. There is no physician on the boat, and we will not reach port until morning, I think she must have seen you. She was just in that nervous and highly excited state when any mental disturbance is too much for the prostrated physical powers. The doctors told me particutarly to guard her from ex- citements.” ‘**Do you think it could have been her surprise at seeing me? What a foolish idea, Mr. Perey! I wish. you would Jet me look at your daughter. I am. not unskilled myself in some kinds of diseases, and have ae ay afriend through dangerous diseases. a ‘oP h Most certainly. Ab, I wish her mother were ere,’ They entered the state-room together. She was tossing upon her little, uncomfortable ped, 4 ering now and then a moan. Her head was fearfully hot . Shedid not recognize either of them, staring at them a moment with bright eyes, and then restlessly Sarow ing herselt Don her’ pil- low. She was enveloped in her tight, warm travel- ing dress, while the air in the tiny room was oppres- sive to the last degree. Pennon pene the window and door upon the deck, put a we ca upon her ith self on, though evid ty alarm aoe wi haere evidently. 4 ined “Tf it should end in inflammation ‘the Coaare he muttered; ‘and it will, without etic sake The must come off immediately,” saps ti ps re ae Pas US
Page 18
He > eae she had call " Miss Percy. She may be nothing “ Sala A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. He went back to Miss Sloane, who was stand- ing in the cabin door looking off at the fair, green shores. ‘“* Rosalie,” said he, “I depend upon you as a friend. The woman I love is lying dangerously ill in No. 18, She has no female friend on the boat. Do for her what you can, and you ma, any thing = me hereafter—my gratitude will not know ounds,”” bi f “The woman I love.” The blood rushed into his ~ Mstener’s face, ane then returned as quickly. Had she been the weak and utterly selfish woman which her conduct sometimes intimated, she would have failed in the moment of tri “T will do all that I can,” she said in a tremulous voice. me none unseen by him, and then followed him bravely. ; With Mrs, Fenelon’s help she soon had the uncon- scious girl relieved of her extra clothing and com- fortably attired in her night-dress; had knotted back the bright, entangled curls from her burning brow. held iced water to the thirsting lips, and perform every little act of gentleness which comes ready to a woman’s heart and hand, All that long night three persons sat up with the sick girl, Miss Sloane would not leave her charge except for a few moments of rest, when the father and Pennon would take her place. Almost every other instant the cloths about her. temples were pet og in ice water, and her hands and face contin- ually bathed. If she had been a sister, Rosalie could not have been more devoted. Toward morning the fever was abated, and the sufferer recognized her father. During the night often on his name, and once or twice she had murmured another name, sending a thrill _of pain through the heart of her faithful watcher. t daylight the steamer rested from her toils at her dock in the city of D——. Rosalie, and, inde hop whole party, proposed to go to the same. hote with Mr. Perry and his daughter; and Rosalie de- clared her irtention of remaining by Clematis’s side until her mother could be sent for, Her sister was somewhat astonished by her unusual benevolence, though she and all the others admired it, and inter- ested in the youth and beauty of the patient. None knew the seeret of Miss Sloane’s peculiar kindness but Pennon, Wrapped in one of Rosalie’s elegant morning- ented Clematis was borne to a carriage by her ather and Pennon, and drawn as Fy gone as possi- ble to a hotel, where a room h already been ordered and prepared, She had but little fever until afternoon, and then nothing like as violent an at- tack as on the previous day. With a and good nursing the phymcign said that the fever was averted. “Tt was dull for you and your sister stopping here until Thursday,” said Pennon to Rosalie, as they walked to and fro in the public parlors that weno * Not very duil,”’ she oe cheerfully. ‘There must be some duilness au: after such a visit to an earthly paradise as we have just enjoyed, it is well to be reminded that there is sickness and trouble im the world.” “Rosalie, your care may haye saved the life of refused to be to me what my heart demanded, but if were my wife I should feel under no deeper obligations to you. If you ever need a f! if you have a wish that I can gratify, come tome. You do not know how much you have grown in my rever- ence and esteem—how much more beautiful beauty is to me—how much better I understand and | about the appreciate your character than‘eyer before, though he have always been admired Me me. You were ike an angel last night, Rosalie! You deserve to be happy. Ma you always be as brilliant, bloomin an Dole as now, and may you make the joy ar a that is worthy re you,” “Indeed, have done nothing to merit this out- oe | My 3 ¥ For an instant she pressed her hand on anger of brain | sorrow in every life, and | burst of praise,’ answered the belle, but turning upon him eyes beaming with a melancholy sweet- ness strange to them. “It would be an angel of darkness who would not do all ible for the sick. However, I had some thoughts night rather new to my careless h and unless I am too weak to detain them, they may lie there until they spring up, blossom, and bear fruit. Life was not given us merely i? idle away—do. you think it was, Mr. ‘ennon?’ : pronounced the question, as if she had been the “ * Life is earnest—life is And the grave is not its 2 Longfellow says, Miss Sloane; and it is true, too, though sad, that it is often only through suffering that we grow strong. @ is any thing but a boli- day to the most of us, Rosalie,” : CHAPTER X. ROSALIE CROSSES THE CHASM, “ fas the omnibus come up from the boat?” * Yes; I see it now, just poppet Weraee the hotel,” Rosalie was peeping from the ds of the window in Clematis’s room, who was jally sitting up in bed, reclining against a h of pillows, “Do Lr ane Ne looks as if she might be mother girl at the window laughed. ‘“*What a question! but, really, there is a lad leaving it that would answer to the description she were advertised as Clematis Percy’s mother. And now I see your father hastening to her—so it ‘must be your mother, in a moment you will have the pleasure of seeing her.” “Poor mamma! I am sorry they telegraphed to her, Whatsuspense she must have been enduring for the last forty-eight hours,” “Well, now you may know that she is very happy in hearing of your safety and improvement.” “ Come here a moment, dear Rosalie.” She went at the summons, and Clematis drew her dom to har side, and put herarms about her neck with a kiss, terly kindness to me—me, a ‘ect r to you, if you came to me in Se gry 3 ni, mother will love you!” : he. door opened just then and Mrs. Percy, her face covered with mingled smiles and tears, ad- vanced rapidly to the : By poor child! Oh,I am so thankful—so re- O1C: After the first embrace, Clematis said: “Tt was cruel to give you so much anxiety, mam- ma; but I believe I was pretty seriously ill when they sent for Fou and might have been go now if it id not been for this lady, Miss Sloane, mother—my friend, my sister, she allows me to callher.” Rosalie held out her slender white hand. Mrs. Percy in taking it burst into tears, and ended by to me; she hag | fiin, her arms about her, “* Heaven will bless you, dear mademoiselle.”’ Rosalie cried a little bit, toe out of nervous sym- pathy, as well as from a swelling sensation of hap- pines at heart from hearing herself praised, not for uty, but for goodness, — “ Oh, if they knew what it had cost me Besiieg 8 od labor!” she thought, as she brushed away her rs, : Mr. 1 See Biker added to the group who gathe of the almost recoverer fi id, With g faces they gazed upon cheerful countenance, and conversed almost gayly of past danger. There was another who longed to, yet dared not, dots the rest, but was doomed to_ | restlessly through ors and halls, his busy thoughts but little diverted by occasional: eg *
Page 19
A PAIR OF GRAY “YES. 19 or remarks from his friend Noyse, who was reading | & book by a window. ‘ Noyse was not quite so rollicking as when he left ake George, and had grown a little thinner} other- wise he seemed contented and tranquil. Grateful as Mr. Percy felt for the attentions of Miss Sloane to his daughter, he could not help smiling at the friendship which had blossomed into full flower so quickly. minds, acting from prudence or reascn, and not from impulse, reserved if not cold, self-possessed and conservative, laugh at the sudden and ardent friendships which spring up between women— especially young women, who have not get grown to lavishing all the wealth of their natures upon husbands and children. They do not understand it, and are apt to think it weak or ridiculous} but, in fact, it is rather admirable, The want of worldly wisdom, of fear and suspicion, the ig out of affection seeking some object, the quick sympathy of kindred emotion, the banishment of envy, the confidence, the enthusiasm, are beautiful and be- bap, Sag youth and gentleness, So this new intimac promised well for their hearts, if not their heads After tea the evening passed rapi away; Rosalie seen the most of it with her friends in their par’ all,- were congregated. Very pei on. after nine, she bade them good-nig’ i, an to Clematis’s room. “You must be very weary with your hurried journey, Mrs. Perey, and I have come to send you away for rest. I must stay with Clematis to-night. She does not need any attention now; soI will just take this cot-bed so as to be. within call if she should chance to want anything, and shall sleep just as nicely as if I were in my own room, You must make no objections, for to-morrow I must go away, and this is my last ra deat pa know.” So they left the sweet persuader to have her own a little returned way. “Do you feel like sleeping, or are you feverish to- night, arling?” Cool and composed, and comfortable as can be,” replied Clematis. ‘Quite a combination of the e’s. Well, then, 1 will just ie up my hair and slip on my sing- gown, and then I shall be still as a mouse, and you can slumber undisturbed.” : “ © Your gentle limbs you will undress, And lay down in your loveliness,’ ”* “Do not try to make a Christabel out of me, love; rather give me the part of the lady she entertained. What, if in looking at me, you should rasa or tect the serpent eyes? Are you not almost d to let me sleep so near you to-night?” “Oh, do not speak so, if you please.” “T will not, since I see it makes your flesh creep. Iam a naughty nurse, I shall be getting you feverish again. So lie still, and good-night, my dear.” ‘ Good-night,”’ Rosalie.” There was no sound in the chamber for a time, but the soft rustling of Rosalie’s silk dress, as she stood by the mirror removing the ornaments from. arms and bosom, putting the bright tresses of her hair back from her pees ears,and knotting it up behind, and looking into the reflection of her own eyes, as if seeking there the answer to an enigma, By-and-by she extinguished the lights and opened the blinds. The moon was at the full, and a soft luster haloed her form as she sat by the window, looking out over the city to a se of water where Ho ee “et t a ks It 5 ier than she usually re » 2NG S19 a on = ag heart and its destinies. between the young ladies or, where the young veariy, only and | oa | en, slow to make up their | that he is wretc “ Rosalie jet nad be certainly ought to come to bed, You will take cold.” “Bless me, Clematis, I thought you were asleep hours ago, “T was asleep a little while, I guess, But I do not feel sleepy now. I keep thinking about Christabel.” “That you must not do, until — are less ex- citable than now. MayIcome and lie down by your side? I want to talk to you and make you think of something else, or you will have a fever-dream and deem yourself bewitched.” * She crossed the floor and stole into bed with Cle- matis. : “*T would like you to tell me, if you have n0 ob- jections, why you refused Pennon’s hand?’”.- . Clematis gave a little start, and nestled her cheek . deeper imo the pillow. “Who told on ?” she asked, in a low voice. * “He did. ever aman loved woman, he loves I can not conceive how you slight such ove from such a man, unless you were previously pigdzed to another.” ; “a ‘o another? No,no! Hedoes not think so, does e?? } “T do not. know what he thinks; but I can see . You cast a jewel of the richest price away when you discarded » Clematis.” The young girl was trembling as she flung her arm over Rosalie, “T love him—better than life!” she said. “‘Do you think he cares for me still?” “His looks and his conduct betray it. If you loved him. why did you send him kj from you?” *Did he not tell you the circum ces of his visit to our house, and the accident which befell me hI “ “ He told me nothing of any particulars. I should like to hear them, for I am deeply interested in both of you, I part from you to-morrow, and we may not meet for a long time.” x With her arms about her listener's waist, and her warm cheek very close to hers, Clematis told, in a ‘softened, tremulous voice, the little history of Pen- non’s stay with them. , ‘‘ When he came to me, the day after I was strick- en—I had gone down and was lying upon the sofa, in the parlor, trying tothink calmly of re fortune, to reconcile my mind to the probable consequences—and made me the offer of love which he did, my first feeling was one of such overwhelm- ing happiness that I entirely forgot my affliction. But when I e ed to — then it was foreed oe on me-and with it the thought of my selfishness in proffered hand under the circum- **'There is where you did him serie Clematis. He would be proud to prove, in such a loyal way, his devotion to purity and gentleness.” - “It was because I loved him so much that I could not bear to purchase my own happiness at the peril of his, I was afraid that I could not 1 wife that he ought to have; and so I turned away from his offer, while my heart was breaking with its double trouble—not that I felt the loss of_my voice as I did of his love. After he left me, I scarcely thought or cared for _~ —t that it had been the means of parting me from Oh, Rosalie! he must see that £ have suffered. It has nearly cost me my life, “And all for a foolish scruple. Unl er actions, ed eer he see in en ess any connection with did you not write and recall him after ‘phy- restored your powers of speech?” ; ** Because I did not know where he thought—-I thought that he had gone a sO ilv. and never gave me any chance to retract Se es! ea Se a S ee nS ee ee pee ey eee be to him the» was; and I -
Page 20
20 | eckiniy ee he had discovered thathe was mistaken in sentiments,” “Oh, you little infidel! Pennon would not veg a lady’s love. He has so lofty an idéal, he thinks where there is real. union of souls, that the woman will feel it as certainly as the man, and not compel him to beseech her forever.” “J did not think there might be. But I had seen 80 little of the world, and was so-—so—” “Such a timid, self-mistrusting little thing. Now, what if you had iost a lover from want of appreciat- ing our own qualities?” * Well, I do wonder, even yet, how it is possible that he does not ican you. You are so queenly; habe look so well by his side, Oh, do you know hought you were his bride when you @ame on to the boat that day?” : “And so you fell intoafever of despair, which came near being fatal. Pennon love me? Why foolish child, Iam the last woman he would think of choosing; so do not be jealous of me. I could have told that you would be his ideal, if I had seen youinacrowd. It is you who have the face and voice for him.” “Are you sure he loves me, Rosalie?” “Tf hecould hear that quiver in your words just as I heard it, and feel your little heart leap up thus wildly as 1 feelit,do you not think he would be in- sane with rapture? lam qvite sure he loves you; and to pay myself for telling you, I am going to exact a promise from you.” “* What is it?” “That I shall be your bridemaid, There, your blushes are fairly burning the pillow, or else your fever is returning. So good-night, again, darling. $i sweet, and be happy.” ‘lam happy. Good-night, Rosalie.” CHAPTER XI. 4 THE FATALITY DISCOVERED, Rosatm arose, the morning after the confession she had won from Clematis, very happy with a ptir- pose which she had in herheart. She could hardly wait for the breakfast-hour which would summon the party together; as immediately after, she in- tended to impart to Pennon the delighted informa- tion she had for him, and thus put an end to the foolish and unne misery of a couple of senti- mental young people who seemed trying to under- _ Stand each other, : But when the breakfast hour had come, Pennon camenot. Noyse informed her that his friend had left, on an y train, for the East, ae summoned by unexpected business, and had left his farewells for the to be impartially distributed by himself. ‘“‘Tam afraid he is troubled about money-mat- ters,” remarked Noyse, “he has seemed so moody and restless the last few days; and now his sudden departure seems to argue some difficulty. Artists and poets are always in financial trouble.’ a Financial trouble!” cried Rosalie, scornfully, ** He has made a fool of himself, as usual!’ “I must say, lam astonished to hear you findi fault with that impersonation of perfection rand Noyse looked at her tener “am I to attribute this sudden outburst to mortified vanity, at his havy- ing deserted you so abruptly?” . ‘No, Mr. Noyse, my vanity.is not in the least hurt,” answered she, ooking at him without anger, “Paul Pennon has no longer'the power to mortify me, by slightin: me, though, I confess, I should like to have his good opinion, and would be proud of his esteem. Haven’t your sharp eyes penetrated the mystery yet? So promising a lawyer as yourself ought to have unwound the thread of the little ro- mance played before png very eyes.” “ You don't say so!” and the gentleman looked as if he were now beginning to unwind the thread. “Yes, do say so. I know all about it. That yoane creature up-stairs made me her mother-cor- essor lastnight; she loves that fly-away hero, but not any more devoutly than he does her, And here, just as Tam commissioned to bear a message, as rich A PAIR OF GRAY EYES, Nea a en ah eS with sweets as a bee with honey, expecting to reap the reward which comes from such good actious, behold, the coward has fled. Financial troubles, in- deed! Ishould have painted his face-with a glow of everlasting sunshine. if he had waited for my tid- ings. And now, I suppose, the patient will be hav- ing her fever back again, and every thing is at cross- purposes. How tantalizing!’ Pennon had indeed acted like a coward, although a braver nature than his could not be found in an army of heroes. That extreme sensitiveness which belongs topersons of his temperament, and which certainly amounts sometimes to a positive defect, and of which good sense, after a sufficient exper- ience, will sometimes get the mastery, had prevented his making the attempt to ascertain if the illness of Clematis had any thing to do with her feeling for him. Besides, he had too intense an interest in her welfare to allow himself to risk her returning health by ths pea disclosures; he did intend to try fate again when she should be considered con- valescent; but the nen ae previous to his abrupt departure, he had received a letter from his house- keeper at the castle, announcing that an accident bad ee to the steward of the place, who had fallen and injured himself, There was no necessity for his going to see about it, but as he wanted some- thing to occupy his restless mind, he set out on a solitary return to his home, allowing Noyse to infer that he was hurrying on to New York. : Curiously enough Pennon took with him the emerald necklace. It was entirely by accident that he did so. He had intended to give it into Mrs. Percy’s hands to returnto her daughter; and had placed it in a small box and set it on his toilet- table, that he might not forget to doso, The box, which he had converted into an im romptu jewel- casket, we are obliged to confess, had once con- tained bene ia and had been fished for the oc- casion out of the depths of Pennon’s trunk, When he came to leave so hastily, the whereabouts of the jewels disappeared from his memory, the tooth- ia ae, was packed up—and it was not until making S toilet, the meer | after his arrival at the castle, that he was surprised by the oe flashing at-him, as wicked eyes wil | unhatural gems sometimes flash, in place of the harmless dentifrice into which the brush was ready to descend. ao At that moment those magnificent emeralds looked to him like the living eyes of serpents, and he re- turned the coyér to the box hastily and with nervous trepidation. Tt was the first time he had ever per- ceived any thing ominous about them; hitherto they had appeared to him invested with that tender charm given them by the fact of Clematis having worn them about her throat; but now there was something baleful in their green light. A sudden shadow fell upon the cheerful chamber, . When he descended to the solitary breakfast pre- rap and served with faultless skill by the house- eeper, snatches of old stories and ain kept humming through his head, as hornets will hum in chambers from which they ought to be banished— ugly traditions, all of which had an odor of witeh- craft or poisoning about them—of the old Italian eras of treachery and assassination—of the French and English era of love-philters and poisonings—of hideous hags and withered magicians. In the rich aroma of his cup of coffee he detected the flavor of a love-philter; in the cream-gravy of the Tricasseé chicken was a lurking savor of some subtle poison; the faithful and innocent housekeeper, as shecame in with a plate of hot rolls, appeared to him a wrinkled beldam, conspired with spittis for his destruction. Some glamour was over his eyes; he rubbed them, arose, looked at his watch, and took up the morning paper. “You've not much appetite this mornin’, Mr. Pennon.” ~ “Not much; but it will increase, I assure you. | The fault, vertainly, is notin your cooking. Before | I go away, you will have no‘reason to complain.” ' “6 is very thoughtful of you, comin’ because of ‘a
Page 21
—— fl ete the steward’s hurting himself. Will you stop long this time, sir?’’ “T hardly know. A week I shall stay, at all events. The gardens are full of porsoous flow- ers; every thing is very beautiful here still; and do not see why I should not stay. I believe I will set up my easel in the picture gallery and paint something. I-fee] just like it.”’. “T trust you'll conclude to do so, Mr. Pennon. It seems a great pity to have nobody here but me and tha, steward and the chore-boy, and all this great }..,2e lookin’ so splendid. .The old master. used to think the fall of the 7m the best part of it here. He was mighty fond of the forests when they were all turned a-yellow, and of pickin’ up the autumn leaves —he liked. the dahlias and santhemums, and all the fall flowers, sir. My! but he was a man of taste—and I think you take after him, sir, by your ways. You’ve minded me of him one times. So you paint peairen, do you? Well said! I'll like to see something you do, sir; and the longer the master is at home, the better we'll all like it. I'm sorry you couldn’t eat no more breakfast, Mr. Pennon.” He thanked her for her interest, and strolled out of the breakfast-room into the garden upon which it opened, The September sun was still warm enough for out-door sitting, and he threw himself wpon a seat, where the silver flash of a fountain filled his ear, and a thousand brilliant flowers met his eyes. He had the paper in his hand, but he did not read. A daily newspaper seemed as foreign to the Scene as a modern advertisment would be, pasted across the forehead of the Egyptian Sphinx.. There was a witchery in the soft, yellow sunshine which wove about him like acobweb. The present receded —time and place, It would not haye surprised him to have ascertained that he was a thousand years old, and was dreaming away life in some splendid court of the Alhambra, and that he was thousands of years older still than that, and was eating opium in some eastern garden of roses—a panies however, in which occasional serpents struck out their fangs from the foliage of the choicest roses, He felt as if danger menaced him, and yet as if a fatal indolence oppressed him—a Gelicious languor against which it was in vain tostruggle. Thus, for a couple of hours, he reclined on the rustic beneb, staring at the golden flowers and silvery fountain, Then, with an effort, he stretched himself, arose, walked twice or thrice rapidly up and down the walk, and seating himself agne called himself back to the present reality of things, by a glance at the news-items of his paper. He read the market report as staidly as a Pre uce merchant; and ascertained, to his great enlightenment, that iron was firm, and lead was heavy, that cheese were inactive, and hegs were dull; that flour was rising, and hops were active, that milch cows was steady, and calves were de- wressed, that pigs were falling, and lard was irregu- ar. Having attempted to est these interesting items, his eye glanced over into another column, where it fell upon a curious statement of a recent occurrence in Paris, which had, at that hour and time, @ powerful fascination for Pennon. The extract read thus: ‘All visitors to P; will have noticed the shops of bric-a-brac, or objects of curiosity and verty, so numerous and tempting in that capital. At one of these establishments, in the rue St Honore, a gentle- man was engaged a few days ago, in examining an ancient ring for sale there when he accidentally gave himself a slight scratch in the hand with a sharp part of it, He continued talking with. the déaler fee a short time when he felt an ble numbness and torpor faculties, and soon became so Scape the shop hastened to call in a physician, tor immediately declared that the gentleman had been poisoned by some Sie 7 age an nee strong antidotes, and was pola mi Sod oh relieve the symptoms which eee ee eee alarm, The ring was then emamiped by the med- A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. ‘or. ical man, who had spent some time in Venice,. and who found that this old jewel was w is there called a ‘‘Death , a class of orna- ments in frequent use in Italy during the seventeenth century, when the habit of poisoning was almost universal. Attached to the part of the ring intended to be worn inside the finger were two minute lion’s claws, of the sharpest steel, and havin them filled with a violent poison,- In a or other crowded assembly, the wearer of this fatal ae wishing to exercise revenge On any one presen would take the victim’s hand, and when peas it, ever.so gently, the sharp claw would sure to inflict a slight seratch en the skin, and the victim would be equally sure to be dead before the next morning. Notwithstanding the length of time which must have elapsed since the poison was secreted in the ring in question, it was still powerful encugh to cause great danger, as has been seen, to the gentle- man who had so unwarily touched it.” - At the moment he ceased reaming Sie statement, a flash of acute pain, sharp and sudden as lightning, read from Pennon's hand over his body. Upon the first finger of his left hand, a small red spot began to inflame and swell—he examined it closely ; it seemed to have been punctured, either by some sharp metal, or by the sting of an insect. “Pshaw! it is the bite of a spider, or the sting of a bee,’ he muttered; but as the pain intermitted, only to increase, and began to be excruciating, he felt alarmed. “Confound that necklace! there’s onrihing about the clasp of it that’s not right,” he ex ‘“‘T remember scratching myself with it when I lifted it out of the box this morning. It shan’t be the death of me, however, if there’s any virtue in the power of suction ”’—and applying his lips to the: wound, he extracted as much as possible of what- ever poisonit contained. Then, going to the kitchen, he had the housekeeper wash it with a aoe alkali, and bind it over with a poultice of sera castile-soap. “No women’ I felt and acted so strangely, this morning,” he thought; ‘it was this mysterious poison working in my veins. Til go and take some of my eixir v and see if I cannot shake off the spell. Great Heavens! is it not terrible to think Clematis has been wearing that fatal bauble? Ido not believe the lightning struck her at all, I believe it was 4s Sepumbing, meow of ay co weakened: ts long repose in. Wi i fortunate that I did hot restore it to her mother be- fore I made this discovery.’ ving taken some of the ¢e/ixix which he took from a tiny gold vial in his medicine chest, and the pain in his arm having somewhat abated, about an examination of the necklace. had occurred, he of as being upon the old Venetian ring, upon the under pasa he clasp of the antique ernhrted It was so small, and so onpningy. disposed beneath the filagree work of the clasp, that it would pass unob- served by any one not purposely searching for it. The curse which that incarnate demon of porary Mortimer Monteath, had lain upon the necklace, been of a very practical character no doubt; the sudden death of the bride to whom he presented it, ages ago, was caused ne the silent fangs of this hidden enemy. Although, by Mrs. Percy’s account, several of her fair ancestors had met t dei by accidents for which the jewels could in no way’ be made accountable, there were several who must have perished by this fatal means. The claw was arranged so that a wound would not, of necessity, be the result of wearing the emeralds, but would be very likely to be inflicted, sooner or later, Pennon seized a pair of forceps from his dressing- case, and was about to wrench the erous clas from the jewel; but, upon second thought, resolv: to leave it as it was, until he had an opportunity of | exhibiting to Mrs. Percy the deadly secret of the ancesival gems, aud returning them to her. treed clefts in. he. ts After what? was not very much surprised to find a minute steel claw, similar to the one spoken _ eaths »
Page 22
from the ancestral curse. So he returned them again to their box, which he put away securely and — up in a drawer of his bureau, for further safety. His arm still remained too painful to permit bim to think of painting, although the pain was subsiding, and he perceived no. cme jo symptoms. The day was one of glorious freshness and brilliancy, and he spent the afternoon wandering over his estate, enjoy- ing its solitude and copes sr If Clematis were here!” was the perpetual cry of heart. He little dreamed of the consequences of his rash flight to her. He had feared to agitate her by seek- ing her presence in her sick-room, yet the dity of his love had forbidden him to dread a far more fatal agitation as the result of his desertion of his arty. hen he came in to a late supper, which took the lace of his neglected dinner to him, he suffered ut little inconvenience from his wound, and par- took, with gratifying relish, of the good housekeep- er’s dainties. He retired to his room, full of those delightful dreams of youth, in which the aspirations of genius and the glow of passion are mingled—slept soundly _ and arose to work. Yes! he was going to paint a i oton His subject was chosen, hisshead, heart and soul ready for the work. He went first to the gallery, which had a skylight, but decided that he liked his own pleasant chamber best, and trausferred his easel to that. Be- fore the ruddy blushes of dawn had melted into the full splendor of day, his materials were prepared. ‘The summons to breakfast interrupted him in out- lining his picture upon a canvas ready pre F He partook of a light et hoot enough toinvigo: ate the igs ian) stupefying the mind, and re- turned to task with ali the ardor which his sub- ject inspired. It was not the fair scenes which lay stretched out before his window which he sketched —it was to him the embodiment of all beauty in a ‘woman’s sha’ portrait of Clematis. long he had labored he did not know; his hand seemed inspired, and wrought of itself the h t effects—colors as lovely as he had ever im- ned seemed to combine of themselves ee his pal- ette and transfuse themselves into the beloved coun- tenance which began to smile upon him from the canvas. Hours or moments, he Ne op tell which, flitted by; looking up, by the mer chance, in a moment of dreamy abstraction, there, in a chair which steod a short distance from him, sat Clematis herself. She had taken the position of the portrait, its expression, its dress, and was smiling into his eyes with a look of love, so deep, so soft and still—it was like heaven to gaze into eyes. ¥er several seconds neither of them stirred; the Jove which he saw so plainly in her look was to Pen- non such a surprise and joy, that for the time being he forgot to wonder how she came to be sitting for her oar there, in his room. ; ** Clematis! He almost whispered her name, in accents touch- ed by his overpowering feelings, but gently as he spoke, his voice alarmed her. chair and glided. toward the door. “Stay! stay, l implore you! only a moment until 1 ou!” speak . She reached the door, and turned at his cry smiled upon him with a strange sadness in her smile, and glided out, silentas a phantom. gt te it was ‘a phantom! Pennon aw. to his feet and rushed to the door, He caught sight of a shadowy form de- 8 the broad staircase, he heard the faint rus- tle of a woman’s silken garments, and she was gone, He followed down into the hall, but no one was there; he hurried out upon the avenue—no one was > in sight; he wandered in every direction, but saw no footprint, nor any trace of any visitor. He stepped se ha tpe ter a el department and asked her if 8 one wali the grounds = ie i “ A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. Ihe arose from the | but made no itted any one to the house, or seen any | A abs i ette a living soul. Was there robbers about, or what?’ “No robbers, I thought I saw one of my friends in the hall.” i She looked at him curiously, for his manner was of a kind to attract attention; he observed it, and tried to appear more natural. After a ess search, he returned to his room and sat down before his easel; but the power to work well had vanished, and he could not recall it. “It was her!—and—no, it was mt her—what a fool I am! it was an illusion, of course-—-yet I am sure it was her.”” Thus ‘did he con- tradict himself. Reason and common sense forbade him to believe that Clematis Percy had actually been in his room; yet those very senses, whose evidence we are wont to accept as conclusive, assured that she had. He had neverseemed to himself to be in a freer, happier, healthier state of mind and body—there was not a single pang left in his wounded finger—he was not a man given to 5 ae see and he had never had trances nor walked in his sleep, nor ex- hibited any tendency toward any extraordinary or phenomenal powers. In vain he took up his brushes —every touch which he gave the picture disfigured it; he saw that he must wait until the spirit moved. He walked about the room, he looked out of the window, he took up a new volume and began to Suddenly the thoaght came to him that Clematis was dead, He felt cold and faint—as chilled to the heart as if he had touched the marble forehead of a corpse. Ifthat were really she who came to him then Clematis was not dead, for that which he had seen was nota spirit nor an angel—not a holy and beautified spirit—but a woman, pure and sacred as earth can be, but warm, loving, full of the tenderness and sympathy of this world. Of course it was all in vain that he tormented him- self to explain a mystery to which he had no clew. It was midnight before he could compose himself to sleep; but when he did slumber, his rest was pro- found and dreamless. He awoke with the same éla- tion of spirits which had distinguished his rising the previous day. He felt so geen to proceed with the portrait, that he resumed his work immediately after the morning meal. This time he felt no surprise when, having hardly ot satisfactorily at his work, rai his eyes, ho held Clematisagain in the chair. deed, he had placed the chair for her, feeling sure that she would return, She was looking lovely, her cheeks tinged with faint blushes, her hair falling carelessly about her face and throat, her white dress floating about her like a light cloud. In her bosom she wore a rose and a sprig of myrtle, and aband of plain gold cir- cled either arm.” Pennon was so afraid she would dissolve into air if he spoke to her, that he said not a word, looking alternately at the sitter and the canvas, and work- ing rapidly and with delight. At length he spoke, without thinking of the ae consequences; “ Turn your head a little this way, Clematis.” She obeyed him without speaking, her eyes seem- ing to ask if it was right. “ Yes, that is it, precisely;” painting diligently, but venturing to ask, aftera pause—‘‘ how came you here, Clematis?’ There was no answer; she looked at him gravely, of ha heard the question. For half an hour he worked on; then w down his pallet and brushes, exclaiming: “Speak to me, dear Clematis L bee’ of you. Your silence is so hard to bear. If you are really she whom I love, allow me to tell you again ’—but she _ vanished—his eloquence relapsed into dreamy ence, For several days this bewildering experience was continued. Every morning Pennon painted open the portrait—every morning his sitter came to him, obeyed his instructions, smiled upon him, looked happy, but never spoke; and whenever he attempt- ed to approach her, or imploted her to explain ta
Page 23
-motives for the actions of A PAIR OF him the stery of her going and oe she arose and lefthim. She always went out by the door and down the stairs like any ordinary mortal, but after she had reached the avenue he could trace her no further. Once, indeed, he had followed her down to the river-bank; but there she had turned and made a gen imploring him to follow her no further, and e had turned back at her bidding. Pennon was half distracted by this tantalizing arg toned han- tom it were—sometimes fearing that his mind was affected, yet if it were, he had never worked so well when he was sane. The portrait. was a masterpiece of art, astonishing in the i gee beauty of its coloring and the impassioned life of its expression— it wasail that a portrait could be. It _was finished at last;Pennon could invent no excuse for another touch. He was wretched at the thought, for he felt assured that he should see no more of Clematis, And, strange as it may seem, he had grown so infatuated with her silent beauty, her quiet presence inthe chamber, smiling, radiant, delicately robed, that he loved her better thus than ever before. Frequently came back to his mind memories of that time when he had sat in the old-fashioned parlor of her father’s house, paint- ing, listening to her voice, re, ing her household ways, and learning to love her. He had been en- thanted then, but he was enthralled now. He had many Liar ger fancies about her visits. At times he Imagined that she was Playing some pretty trick upon him, and he would humor her whim in it; again, that paralysisof her powers of speech had returned upon her, and that she had come to allow him to obtain her image, and then was going ae 4 to hide herself from him forever; then again, a these theories would appear so absurd that he laughed at himself. Yet laugh as he would, the fuct was there. Hither Clematis Percy actually came to his room each day, coming in at the door and pass- ing out of it, like any other mortal, and sat to him for her ape ee or else he was the victim of astrange elusion—an_ hallucination of which he had never before had the slightest symptoms. How could he persuade himself that the young girl sitting there—a palpable, blushing, breathing presence— was only a chimera of his own brain. “Tf 1 might touch her—even the folds of her dress!” he murmured—but some power withheld him—the fear of startling her, perhaps banishing her toreturn no more. He might, of course, have called in the house- keeper, to sit inhis room, during the morning, and decide by her eg aap A whether there was or was | in the room; but to this he had | not a third person two objections—the first that he respected the shrink- ing delicacy of his sitter, and the other, that if he were thus deceived and mentally astray, he was too proud to allow another a knowledge of his weak- ness. eee remarkable a this, aac ve were generally symptoms 0 insanity, But there was ho insanity heredita in ib, nob teverigh, eae” ite nee cece hea’ not | with no’ Ss Oo cerebral excitement. Others may ieee betes weet of es Peet haat tie he was not—he was vi ts) ie felt his pulse, looked at his tongue in the mir- ror, questioned his mind coolly, and was convinced. His trouble was in fixing upon some reasonable 2, on ey bees l. He a er paren y home, aw: a po irae r Prvalescence to enable her to re- sume the journey. What should have caused her to desert them and follow him ?—where she kept herself when away from him?—her object in_ co: to him in this maxner?—all these 4s Feee tan forced themselves upon his mind, to be ven back unan- ee ee > Bie oe 2 <9 . ee GRAY =YES. aie eee. lg 8 we ! swered by the might. of his love and the sweetnes, | of his content inthe present. For, after the m.crn- ing sitting, although he could paint no more after she left the room, yet he felt peaceful and hay py, spending the rest of the day in the gardens or on the ver, and the evening in reading and pleasant mus: | ug. The day before the picture was finished, a thought ' hadoccurred to him which had made him very. un- ersy—the idea that Clematis might have been'seized w th brain-fever and wandered away from friends in‘a state of partial insanity. If so, what danger must she not be in, and from what terrible suspense - rust they be mom He scrutinized her c ] last time. There was no appearance of fever or un- natural excitement; she was calm, gentle, her eyes osely when she came.for the serene, and her cheeks just tinted with the roses as healt. j lai ——— CHAPTER Xi. A PHANTOM BRIDE, As We have said before, there soon came a day | when the picture was finished. When that last | touch was given which renders all further touches | desecration, Pennon looked up with a yearning, re- gretful look into the eyer of Clematis. Sne saw | from his expression that the portrait was completed, and arose, ‘ “Will you not Jook at it?” he asked; but she shook he: head and glided toward the door; moved by an uncontrollable impulse, he stretched out his hands supplicatingiy, but she shook ‘her h agai opened the door and flitted through, pau a brie? instant to give him a farewell glance. He felt that was resolved to end she would return no more possible, by. following = this myste*y at once, er. Passing into the hall, he saw her descending the stairs, and pursued her out into the avenue, through the catalpa-grove, the rose-garden, over the lawn, into a thicket of laurels, and from thence into the grotto which formed his boat-house. He was sur- prised to find her so familiar with all the labyrinths of the grounds. She never once looked around, but oye on with the notseless step of a spirit. When e reached the grotto, she was just step into a little boat which he had never seen ‘ore, but which shamed the w crimson and gold of his own pretty bark. It looked more like a “curved shell of hollow | out looking behind her, the young girl took up a slender oar, elegantly fashioned and silvered over, with which 'she paddled out into the broad sunlight of the river. Soswift were her motionsthat Pennon had difficulty in keeping her in sight, while he de- tached his boat from its moorings, took down a pait of oars, and pushed out into the viver. There was hardly wind enough to make the single sail of his boat available, so he left it furled and urged the oars tothe bent of his power. He made em<ndous strokes, but with an ease transcending his usual gr cs was soon so close to the fair fugitive that he shouted to her to wait for him. His shouts were unheeded—the pearly boat, with its white-robed occupant, flew along the sparkling river as we dream of the barks of Par on the eternal streams. Pennon wondered that rough men in the river craft, whom they met, did not turn and stare at the beautiful vision which flitted b them; but they hardly cast a glance at the gir caring more to gaze stupidly at the crimson an ding of his boat, and the sturdy speed with which fe ed the oars. roached it this day. The leaves of the Seeapnome at them just tinged with the first light frost, fluttered in the tremulous breeze like so many » birds, Soom oan pgp of ed ae in the rich atmosphere hymen £0) p about the island to protect its beauty, Springing aril!’ than anything else. With-.
Page 24
Loe ee = 24 ey Y hes , 3 ts upon the land the moment the keel of her shailop ‘grazed the sand, Clematis turned for the first time, beamaaen Pennon to follow her, and took the path tothe summer-house, He hadan occasional eine of her figure amidst the trees, as he hurried after her. When hereached the pagoda, she was in the entrance. He now perceived that she added a wreath of orange-flowers and a vail to her attire, The long, full vail floated about her ethereal form, waved by an almost imperceptible wind. ‘Tam ready, Paul,’ she said, speaking for the first time in all the six days she had been with him. She took his hand and ied him into the pagoda, | A venerable old man stood by the table, on which | was a vase of flowers and a book—a prayer-book | open at the marriage ritual. Upon the entrance of | the young couple, he began the ceremony, and in a | brie time further, Pennon and Clematis were man ane e. e old man blessed them, as they knelt before him, and vanished. ‘‘Gome, my darling, let us go home.” é bs oe et us hasten, before storms arise!” cried | the bride. The two wandered, hand in hand, down to the shore, until they came to where their boats were | moored. ‘ “One boat will suffice for both,” said Pennon. * Yes! let us take mine. It is the swiftest, and danger threatens. Do you not see the tempest com- ings aul?” $ s 8 é R £ a S i=] or) > 2, : oe > @ n at . “Have courage—we must soon be there.” The fanciful pennant which flew before the mast was rent in tatters, the sail was close-reefed, and the little vessel labored in the sullen waters; lightning flashed overhead; the sun set and night came o1 with onan Fee which only the bolts of heaven pe rend asunder. ‘Oh, where is our home?’ cried Clematis. “T know not—but at least we can die together)”’ He reached forth in the darkness and gathered her shive form to his bosom—that moment the vessel struck a rock and was dashed in pieces; —_- waters rushed over them—they sunk— su yen “T's a dreadful mercy, doctor, that he wasn’t - drowned.” ‘He was about as near dead as men ever get to be ur ry life a little longer.” : “Lve heard idk say he was an-excellent sailor, ow he came to let his boat run ag’ ” a snag in broad daylight. If fishermen hadn’t been ‘io hand, hedasy A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. “Keep him warm, and give him plenty of stimu-. lating Grink. Tl in to-morrow again; he’s foing “ee enough now. How do you feel, Mr. ennon?’ : “Very. comfortable, thank you though I can hardly be certain how I do feel,” answered. the patient opening his eyes and looking about him, ‘Say, doctor, was she saved?” 7 0?” asked the physician, in | " ; Ls My wife—the lady who was in the boat with e. ; The doctor and housekeeper exchanged glances, as much as to say he was not in his right mind, ‘“‘Perhaps he was wounded upon the head by the boat or snag;”’ and he began examine the head of the patient beneath the hair. - **No—let me alone, my head is all right, Eemgere I have been dreaming. How came I in this $ tion and what has happened to me?” “You were out, alone in your boat, sailing on the river, when you ran into a snag, upset your boat, and you sunk being either unable to swim, or having, received a blow which stunned you. Some fisher-. men _near at hand, dragged you out and brought ou home, when your housekeeper summoned me, Ve had hard work to bring you back to life, Mr. ennon, ; “What day of the week is it, and what hour of the day?” “Tt is about six o’clock of Wednesday, P. mM.” **Only four hours since I left this house,” mur- mured Pennon—“it was all a hallucination then. Doctor, I want to talk with you to-morrow, when ou eall, yThe next day Pennon and the physician had a long conversation, at nearly the close of which the former exclaimed: . + Confound that tragic necklace! it was that, after “T am convinced that it was!” **You think it possible that a poison, once violent enough to produce instant death—then, when weak- ened by age, paralysis—might, on some constitu- tions, produce such effects as I have suffered from the past week?” do. It has acted upon you something as opium or hasheesh might. Your housekee avers that you behaved ‘curiously’ all the time. Moreover, I taust infer, since the young lady of whom you speak was so able and persistent a part of your visions, that she had previously been very much in the doctor smiled. Pennon smiled also,.and his color hightened. *You are not mistaken,” he answered, frankly, “T should like to see the necklace—it. must be a curiosity.” “You shall—and the portrait which I painted, also—that is, if I really painted one. Lbave not been in my chamber yet; the housekeeper forbade my leaving this room until you gave orders.” ; ‘Tt will do you no harm to stir about a little now. I could hardly tear myself from the house-until I knew whether you actually worked during your. extraordinary illusion, or only fancied your rs,’”: The two gentlemen went together to the cham- mM he “Tt seems to me almost as if the perfume of her garments lingered here,” murmured Pennon, step- Ping in, as if the pave were sacred, 1e chair which the snapinary. sitter had occupied stood in its proper place, the easel, which was turn- ed toward the light, the pallet, just as he had has- tily set it down, was there, the paints drie don; they vanced eagerly to the front of the canvas. ‘Good heavens! I don’t beers? yar need to regret being poisoned, if this is the result of it!” exclaimed the doctor. Pennon stood spellbound before his own supreme- ly beautiful work. “Tt is herself,’’ he whispered. : “Then go and ask her to marry you—you can never hope to do better, Itell you, [don’t wonder vou had visions.” ——— se
Page 25
es A PAIR OF GRAY EYES, _ Bs The young man laughed at the staid doctor's en- thusiasm; but he was not at all displeased by it. “The picture would make you famous as a work of art. And sr what a subject! If I was not a married man, and the father of a family, I should rr aa in gearch of the original, and try to cut you uu ; ‘“*T don’t know but I shall imitate Praxitiles, and adore my own work.”’ t Praxitiles had no original to adore, | ju That’s the difference, my boy. There’s a more sen- sible plan before you.” ‘And do you think I am to feel no further effects from tlfescratch of the steel claw, doctor? Hold! I will show you the emeralds.” “Tthink not, at present,’’ was the answer, while Pennon unlocked a drawer and drew forth a box, “Your cold bath, and the start your system has re- ceived, will shake off all effects, especially if you seek change and travel for a short time. At this time of the year, another season, you may have a slight recurrence of your malady; but you and your friends will understand it, and know how to humor it. Your constitution is excellent, and you will suffer no especial harm.” The sician handled the emeralds as he would have done a serpent from which he wished to ex- tract the fangs,” “They are superb,” said he—“ quite a treasure. You had better allow me to wrench out this dan- gerous claw, before some one else is harmed by it.” “T had rather not, until the owners have seen it. I will be careful that no one shall handle it;” and the necklace was replaced. “TI can not persuade myself that all this has not bee “ed een ve read of more remarkable instances of hallu- cination,” began the doctor, taking a chair where he could look at the portrait at his ease. ‘Indeed, T have made brain disorders a study. Such illusions as you have labored under, are very common in cases of insanity, when beginning to develop, but are also uced by other causes, as for instance, some kinds of drugs and age whose effects are princtogiy upon the brain, Dr. Arnold relates a very striking case of incipient insanity, where the effects were something similar—not that I think you. “A gentleman, aged thirty-five, active, and in good health, living near London, had for five weeks complained of a slight headache. He was rather feverish and neglected his avocations and family. He had rackets i and had taken some medicine, when he received a visit from Dr. Arnold, by whose advice he was placed in an asylum, where he passed two years; his delirious fancies lessened by degrees until he was restored to family, in sane Ee ee told by himself: s One on in the month of May, feeling a little unwell and in for business, I de- termined to take a in the city to divert my- self. pty, 3 reached St. Paul’s ard, I stopped at the print shop of Car: m to oak at some e vings of the cathedral. ad there but a short time, when an old gentleman, stout, St. Paul's, Sir Christopher Wren, and asked : in thedome. On my replying in the negative, and finding that I had not dined, he piers to repair toa neighboring tavern, and said, that after the re- st he would accompany me to St. Paul’s; the day, e added, was magnificent for the view, and, ae he was familiar with the places, he would point out all € Objects of interest. atten a hasty dinner we mounted to the ball which is placed immediately under the cross, an we entered it alone. We been there some minutes admiring the Sp a4 orama before = when the old gentleman drew from the side pocke of his coat an ent that resembled a compass and on which some curious figures were et he murmured some unintelligible words, placed it in the center of the ball. : “*]T was seized with a violent trembling and a kind of horror, which in on his offer to show me, if I wished, a distant friend, and, also what he was at that moment doing. My father had long been ill, and I had not been to see him for some weeks; the sudden wish to see him overcame my scruples, than I saw my father in a mirror; he was reclining in a chair t his usual nap. As I had some- what doubted the power of the old gentleman, I was frozen with terror, and, feeling very ill, begged him ~ instantly to descend, He complied; and on parting with him he said: ‘Remember you are the slave of the man of the mirror.”’ I returned home at night, unhappy, restless, and fearful, and full of t! ts of the stranger. For three months I have never ceased to feel his power.’ Dr. Arnold asked the patient in what manner the old man exercised the influence over him. Throwing a suspicious glance on the doctor, he took him by the arm, led him through two or three rooms, and at length into the garden, when he ex- claimed: ‘It is useless; nothing can hide us from him; every place is open to him; he sees and hears us now. : ““T requested him, said the doctor, to show me the mysterious individual who saw and heard <7 He replied, with much agitation: ‘Have I not told you that he lives in the ball under the cross of St. Peter’s—that he only comes down in the church yard, and to go and dine in the dark alley? Since that fatal meeting with the necromancer—for I cannot call him by any other name—he poe rae attracts me within his mirror, sees me thus at all hours of the day, and reads my most secret thoughts. I have the terrible consciousness that no act of my life esca his knowledge, and that there is no spot in which I can be hidden from him.’ “To the doctor’s observation that the darkness of night ought to protect him against the machina- tions, he replied: ‘I know what you would say, but you are wrong. I have soy spoken to you of the mirror, but in a corner the building the magician showed me a great clock, and I distinctly heard the sounds that came from it, and those that entered; it was a confused ep Ae en laughter, cries of anger, of despair; and as I listened in great terror, he said: “It is my organ of hearing. This t work has communication with all the clocks at are in the ee phic circle. By this means I hear the words of all those under my supervision.” “*T have not told you all. is necromancer apes his sorceries by means of hieroglyphios on he walls and houses, and he s his rod of fire over those whom he has inclosed in his cirele of cnet oh Oy and who are the objects of his con- stant hatred.’ “The doctor begged him to explain the characters and how he could interpret them. «They are,’ was the reply, ‘ the signs and sym- bols that you, in your ignorance of their real mean- ing, have read thus: Day and Martin, and Warren's ptt You bg error. These signs are the cabalistic bode Sag that he traces to intimate the limits of his - to prevent the escape of his captives, eae i to wihaeee By self days and three nights, until I fell, and breathless, a wall and gey saw the fatal letters, and felt tha in his power.’ “Was not that quite equal to rou wonderful boat- ride?’ queried the doctor as he finished, “‘ M. Calmeil reports the case of a veteran who felt himself every night nailed ina coffin, and carried in men’s arms, by a subterranean road. from Charenton to Vin- No sooner had I formed this wish’ oe ee eee eee ae ee, a ae ee ee ee
Page 26
might not Be 8 bet Se at her ‘superstition,’ as we both 26 A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. cennes, where a funeral Sefmon was chanted in the chapel of the chateau, The same invisible persons miso "Go mie iar high! = tng pre of sphile Gontier a ere the effects of hasheesh on himself: # *** One of my companions ’says this writer, ‘was the first to yield to its effects, haying taken a larger sosethan the others; he saw the stars in his plate, and the firmament in his ag Seat then turning his face to the wall, talked to himself, bursting into fits of laughter. felt perfect) calm until dinner was over, although the pupils of the eyes of my other friend began to sparkle strangely and acquire a most singular. turquoise-blue tint. The table bei cleared, I (still paving. my senses) arranged myse comfortably’ with cushions on a divan to await the ecstasy. Ina few minutesa general lethargy over- came, me. My body appeared to dissolve and _be- come transparent, saw the hasheesh, which I had eaten, distinctly within me, in the form of an emer~ ald, from which thousands of little sparks were emitted; my eyelashes . lengthened jaietntely twisting themselves like golden threads round little ivory wheels, which whirled about with inconceiva- ble rapidity. Around me were figures and scrolls of all colors, arabesques, and flowery forms in endless variety, which Ican only liken to the variations of a kaleidoscope.’ **T donot see,” continued the doctor, ‘‘why poison oduce such, and various other effects,”’ Allof this reminds me,’’said Pennon, when the d finished his narrative, “ of an incident ecurred to myself, in connection with this cklace. But as it was before I had been in- with its poison, and when I wasin an ex- ceedingly vigorous frame of body and mind, I can not account for it upon any of the theories which you have advanced to-day.” ** Relate it—relate it, please,” said the doctor, giv- ing his chair a twitch, and looking interested and ex- cited. He was investigating one of his favorite branches of study, and any thing which gave him a harder nut toerack than usual, was valuable to’ him. He had been profoundly pleased and interested by the case of his young patient, and was all curiosity to learn as much of him as possible. * You must be told,” began Pennon, “ that I com- menced m. eps ene with the lady Ihave been fe anmay e , at the very hour and moment when she ‘ew these emeralds fromthe well where her mother had cast them eighteen years before. Iwas travel- through the rural districts on a sketching tour, when I paused before her home, attracted by the quaintness of the house and the beauty of its sur- roundings. Iassisted the young lady to carry in the bucket of water which had been the meansof her finding the emeralds; and was hospitably treated by the household into which I had intruded myself. The mother had expressed sorrow and the sight of the necklace, but the da doctor which eemed it, avowed her purpose of wearing the jewels whenever she chos?, That night I was given a well- furnished but old-fashioned chamber, whose high- post and curtained bed was an impersonation of the _— Every thing to me was charming and. novel, went to bed by moonlight, and fel! into the first light slumber dreaming, very probably, of the lovely face of my new acquaintance, but totally forgetful of any magic connected with the necklace, and indeed, oblivious of the necklace itself. As we can feel a = in the darkness, who approaches us, before they are near enough to touch us; or as we ee our eyelids when regarded steadil leeping, so I was aroused from my slum m: conscious of a presence in my apartment, The moon was shini 1 saw distinctly, stan with peculiar brightness, and 1g in the center of the room, an old lady, dressed in the costume of fifty or eighty To ago, puffs, powder, gored skirt, short bodice, looked at her calmly and without fear; my reely beat a thrill louder or faster. Present © began to speak, in a high, tremulous | her that man st | that his passion, instead of being exterminated, was | was trampled u key, that vibrated through the chamber with a power which t have rendered it audible in other rooms. I cannot now recall her precise words, but I remember well their meaning. She asked me’why I had mingled my destiny with that of the Percys—spoke of my fate as being now irre- vocably blent with theirs, and of the misfortunes sure to attend the finding, wearing, or ownership of the necklace—ending by declaring ina weird and majestic way that the destiny she had invoked was immutable, Then she glided out of the room— I could even hear the falling of the door-latch after her. Now, I put it to your conscience, doctor, if this occurrence was not singular, I am cert that I was perfectly well, free from fever, night or excitement of any kind. I was a stranger in the house. There was no old lady an inmate of the house; and if there had been she would not: have been dressed in that rich and ancient costume, I could distinguish the figures in the pattern of her brocaded silk.” “Well, I don’t know,” cogitated the doctor; iy — sure you’ve not been subject to any thing of the kind—mental disorder, I mean? Your high- aig temperaments are frequently over- rung. “But I have been remarkably free from nervous diseases—you see what a physique I havel’’ and Pennon threw back his shoulders and expanded his broad chest. “I must ‘make a note of it ’—perha plain it by the time I see you again,” cian, taking out pencil and note-book, T can ex- id the physi- CHAPTER XII. A LETTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. Tae morning following upon this interview with the doctor, the chore boy brought Pennon a letter who was expecting no message, because he had n left his address with any of his friends. He recogniz- ed the dainty chirography with some surprise, some vexation, “T thought Rosalie was cured of her folly,” was the flattering comment, made entirely to himself, with which he broke the seal, The letter gave him a different opinion of Miss Rosalie Sloane from that which he entertained when he commenced its perusal. It ran thus: “FRIEND PAvL: It has always been a mystery to me why sensible men like to make fools of themselves. You have disappointed me terribly, The morning of your selfish and ungallant flight, I had as sweet a confession to bear to you as yor fondest dream could anticipate. Think not that Rosalie Sloane was about to throw herself at your feet. Ifshe ever had a weakness like that, she has recovered from it, and H2gte al dared tho room ot “Bu shared the room of an innocent bal pure and undefiled, ‘unskilled in all the arts that worldlings prize,’ and I won her gentle confidence, She told me, with swch shy blushes, the reason why she had once refused the hand of the man she loved best in the world—that it was because she thought an infirmity, which unfitted her to be the ‘wife of so hopeless] proud sensitive a person, was fixed ] ly upon her—and now that geortca Aig removed, she hesitated to manifest a retrac of her refusal, lest, in the meantime, he had grown indifferent to her—timid thing! I made her happy by assuring loved her—her ontyupon earth; like chamomile, and throve the more, the more it i! Ha convinced her of this sweet truth (as [deemed it), I took an zesthetic pleas- ure in her emotions, “ *She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame, And, like the murmur of a dream, IT heard her breathe (thy) name «x
Page 27
ae | eA *** She half-inclosed me with her arms, She press’d me with a meek embrace, And bending back her head looked up And smiled into my face.’ “So, having medicined her to the sweetest sleep she had ever had, Llay awake nearly all night, think- ing of the er and delicate way in which I should approach e@ morose lover with the glad tidings. “When morning came, I found he taken to an igppminions flight. For a timeI was so bitterly pro- oked and disappointed that I resolved never to break the network of error in which he had pur- posely involved himself. “But the sight of a wan, sad face, a } pre! of pitiful eyes, Which tried to smile their loving farewell at me when the omnibus moved off for the Cars, with a certain party among its passengers, moved me to break my iron resolution, “ Noyse phone knew better. I have read your selfish nature, and I know you are rusticating this moment, enjoying all the splendor and beauty of your castle in solitude, not only unmindful of friends, but of a heart that is breaking itself most uselessly. Well! if somebody dies, I know what her epitaph ought to be; but I be- lieve she has too much good sense to die for so inad- en en re <2 x VF. ? equate a cause, However, she is not of the strong- | We are: est make—she is fine clay, easily shattered. going home soon. I shall not ony whether we are well and happy, or not, for you do not care, and do not deserve to know. The Percys are at home by this time, Yours, in high dudgeon, ‘Rosalie SLOANE,” A word tothe wise is sufficient—sometimes. Vive days after the receipt of the communication which set Pennon to packing his trunk so unexpect- edly, and which caused the poor housekeeper to sa to the chore-boy: *‘ It’s plain to be seen, we'll have li tle peace of our lives with a master that never knows his own mind, and is here one day and away another and back the next ’’—five days after this, about half an hour before sunset (to be explicit), Clematis Per- cy, looking fragile and wan, leaned back in the arm- chair her mother had drawn to the window for her, and looked out upon the landscape. It was the win- dow at which their guest had painted the picture now hanging over the mantle—and she gazed at it now more than ever; for she was an invalid, and had not much else to do. Her parents glanced in at her from the dining- room, where Mrs. Percy was laying the cloth for tea. “Tt is the emerald necklace which has done it all,” said the mother, ‘“‘ FWiddlestick, wife! it’s that confounded painter of pictures!” “ nD It was seldom Mr. Percy used stron; age; but his feelings were by no means enviable as he saw | the “sole daughter of his house and heart’ droop- ing daily before his eyes. t was well that the lady of the house had set the table so neatly, and placed on it ‘good store of all | that’s nice ’—for even as the father spoke so grufily. | the latch of the gate clicked, and Clematis started from her musings, to hear a voice at the door, and “footsteps in the poseage,” which sent the blood rushing to her wan face, “ Even before the tea was served Pennon had told his story straightly, and asked the parents for the hand of their darling. “Tt will be hard parting from our only one,” mourned the father. : “But it will be best for her—can you not see it will, husband?’ and the mother looked at the rich light in her daughter’s eyes, and forgot her now # , ss. ‘ eT wile beg 3] rtrait so like her that you will scarcel, ow the difference,” and ightness of hisheart. "I ing li ess of hisheart. ‘ ene cociom atama te tell you about that ortrait—and about your necklace, too, Not now, or the tea is waiting.” A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. | Stones.”’ | emera! ' give them to Clematis as part of her ¢ousseaw.” ht you were in New York, but I | | pose,” sai That evening, he told to an interested trio of listeners, of the secret cause of the fatality of the necklace, of the wound he had received, and of its singular consequences. He produced the emeralds and showed to them the steel .claw whose fangs had been death to the fair and young, years and centu- ries ls a eer take these gems to the city with-me and have a new setting niade forthem, They will then be as harmless as the most prosaic of precious / as ? ‘ ibd § re are really convinced, Mr. Pennon, that the ids themselves are safely to be worn, I will “Don’t blush, Clematis, at that word,” whispered her lover. “The truth is, we are already married, according to the vision. _1t will not seem so very strange when I really call you wife.” “T shall never rest,” said Mrs, Perey, “ until I see that lion’s claw consumed in-the fire to which it is destined.” “We've Pye enough fire inthe grate for the pur- | Clematis. “Na »”’ replied Pennon, “it must remainas it . unt: I, ees We vi cee ag appy e by exorcising forever genius 0: the necklace, y ! : CHAPTER XIV. A BRIEF RECORD, A-Wek 2 Rosatze SLOANE is at home. Not many people. have returned to the ef el from their summer re- sorts;. but the beautif e is preparing for her wedding, and is glad to have her time so much to herself. She keeps two dressmakers and three or’ four embroiderers and sewing-girls eng and is very happy amid laces, and silks, and robes, and new patterns, and the beautiful presents which come to her almost every day from some of her many friends. She is very happy, and far lovelier than ever, It can not be the excitement of the new things and the anticipation of the coming Bay. season, during which she will reign as a bride alone, which keeps her eye so moist and bright and her cheek’ charming with its changing tints. Pennon, too, has grown radiant; stays in the city, and goes to visit her very often. — ; si at Sr wag do [not owe to you?” he mur- murs almost every day, as he presses her delicate hand; and she smiles an answer out of her dark- blue eyes. In the mean time, what has become of Noyse? He, too, is in the wig: 5 He has gone to practicing law with his uncle. He studies night and day, almost, and works with a will and purpose to succeed. He seems trying to banish some constant, preyi thought. He would be restless, Larap forget absurd, if he did not compel himself to this indus Then, also, he has determined to be a rich man, if rseverance and talent can make him so, Perha n this he hopes for some future revenge, ae Pennon has had a confidential inter with Mrs, has informed her that he k et. Mrs. Fenelon is in her element. If there has been @ care upon her mind since her own husband was secured, it has been that her darling sister was yet. unprovided for, She has held up her prety hands many times in horror at the carelessness with which Rosalie dismissed her suitors. But now there is really a wedding on hand. ; Rosalie is not exempt from a passion for these , likewise; but a gee passion, a pure exiiad- tion been awakened in her nature, never to sleep again, and as she dreams jpoming dreams of the future, and her heart swells with a new, strange happiness, she is not eae to allow her sister to as- sume the responsibility of the drousseau.
Page 28
A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. CHAPTER XV. EXPECTATION, ' Iv was one of the most gorgeous of autumn days about a week before the eighteenth of October, tha & calTiage pa before the little avenue leadin up to the stone cottage, and a lady with an incredi- amount of baggage was land ‘ony it. ; “What a sweet, rustic, delfcious place,’ mur- mured Miss Sloane, for it was she. “ Pennon said truly Aree it was a secluded Eden—and it holds an Eve that never sinned. *** Oh fairest of the rural maids!’ as Bryant sa; I seek you in the midst of befitting beauty, C) cried, as Clematis came to meet her, Both the girls laughed and blushed as they kissed each other, as if they had been lovers. “You promised to be my bridemaid, and it seems that I am to be yours,”’ said Clematis, “ AndIam so peppy are not you dearest?” “Oh, very! but it scems so strange!—I cannot it. ” “Nor I, either, I hardly dare think of it.” “Who would have cremiied it, the first time we saw each agenda : who wo! . in one in and see mother. I will send Peter to bi in the baggage and then we will have lunch; ved then we can talk over what we have to do, while you lie down and rest.”’ Oh, I’m neither tired nor hungry. After I have spoken with your beloved mamma, I should love to walk through the meadow and sit under that — maple-tree that I see glowing like the burning b between us and the Ee ‘*You are as romantic as I am,” laughed Clematis. “TI did not think it.” “* Indeed I when I was a child, to be a real am getting back my old tastes : would give my best dress or my diamond ring to be the enthusiastic creature that you "Do you feel so very old, Rosalie? Let me see, you ai polite: or thereabouts, are you not?” Tt = not the 8, & was ayy raped of bi which I was regretting. One co stay young for- . ever in a place like Sis. That rustic well-swee looks as if it dipped into the fountain of perpetu Yoat did’ the eS , Pennon wrote some verses about eno Pn the silvery laugh of the fair girls rung on There is mamma waiting for «us at the door.” wag hastened toward the house, ““Welcome, my dear Miss Sloane.” As Mrs, Perey kissed the yo traveler’s cheek, ing in her soft voice, and looking more wel- comes than she said, as she untied the bonnet-s' mi phe the cape, Rosalie wished that she had uch a, mother. is rg fave not had a mother since I was a little child, Mrs. Perey,” she said, “‘which is the reason I have 80 py lg Mon Iexpect. Will you not adopt me?” “T will adopt you and take suitable care of you untiJ some one else substitutes their right.” oT well; that will be soon enough,” and the deauti ul girl sighed, and Clematis caught its echo 00. oe tray of refreshments which were brought into the parlor looked so nice that Miss Sloane found she was a trifle hu , after all; so she ate a little lunch, beet a tle mger with her hostess, took onn “R. ow for the maple tree, Clematis.” With arms ut each other's waists, they wan- red forth. Mrs, P looked after them lovingly and : Bly, brush a tear from her lids and seeming sad for an instant as she turned away. says, ‘Give me a seat on a sofa,’ but if is not more luxurious than velvet and steel P, i then I have no perception of luxury,” said Bosalie as she flung Rareolt Gato the fine crisp grass and golden moss beneath the maple. “And what a canopy we have—better than the yr $d: os Ain ee Seen fy crimson, silk which used to flaunt over kings and queens. “More splendid than the embroideries of the old English courts,” responded the city belle, as she leaned against the gnarled trunk and looked up into the fluttering foliage above her. “How gently it whispers to us. The tree loves hal Rosalie, for it has dropped one, two, three of brightest leaves into your hair, as if ‘to crown you. You told me in your last letter, I believe, that ee dress was of w motre antique, and that you ad ordered mine to be just like yours, Of course you have an elegant vail, and dainty orange flowers and camelias, fashioned by the fingers of some little French Now I propose that we weave us wreaths of these brilliant leaves, and crown our- selves with these instead.” ‘What would sister Bertha say to that?” and Ro- salie laughed at the picture her fancy drew of Mrs. Fenelon’s consternation to find her care and exqui- site coiffure exchanged for such a garland, ‘They are not appropriate to a wedding, since it is the touch of death that gives them their low; but it was not for that I should certain choose them,” continued Clematis, ‘ However, I have two or three white roses in full bloom now, and we shall not lack for the pure real flowers.”” . bas va pw no gardens or conservatories near? Bertha be in despair,” “No, but I have some beautiful a in my little study. There is a japonica budded, besides the roses, and geraniums in abundance, We shall have flowers.” “Tam so glad that I am going to be married here; I shall escape the formalities of a town wedding, t shall realize my new hopes and my new happiness more.” - Wri comay wonderful it all is!” murmured her com- on, pa: They grew silent, each absorbed in her own mu , until the tinkle of a bell called them to tea. In the evening Clematis took her visitor through all the rooms of the house which were to be open to company, The arrangements were simple and tasteful, in character with the size of the mansion and the fashions of its people. “This will be your room after you are mar—” “Hush!” : “Why, Rosa, I could not help mentiqning it, could I? Isit nota queer, quaint old chamber? Here is where Pennon slept the first night he came to our house. week you will room with me; but lét us ~ —~ & moment by the window—the night is so lovely. “Tt is indeed a quaint room; ghosts and old legends,” Clematis laugted merrily. “ Your spe of ghosts reminds me that Pennon saw one that night he staid in it.” #Oh, he told me.” "Beclde; T len 6 told me. eS, ew it before.” “ bed kind of a ghost was it—young and a No, oid and wrinkled. You have heard us speak of my emerald necklace, and all the strange stories attached to it, Pennon has told you how he found me ai the well just as 1 found the necklace in it. e dismay which mother showed when I came in with it, set me to thinking of all the stories she had from time to time excite my fancy with; and you inay be sure that when I went to my room that night I did not go to bed without first ponderin over the precious emeralds. I was very glad I h “ound it; it was ite to very suggestive of of an old well; yr as I was not the least bit credu- lous I smiled at the legends which my dear mother was wont toconnect with it. It put an idea into my head, which I was just mischievous enough (I was full of the spirit of mischief then)—” i “And have changed a great deal in four months, suppose. ast wild enough to carry into effect. I do not
Page 29
A PAIR OF . know now how TI dared to doit. Ihaveno intention of confessing to Pennon unless he questions me about it. In the bureau of my room there is a ree oY ; =. Pants aes ‘ are gf) old-fashioned nery—her we elieve. ; “That's fine. You will show them to me.” “T got out the dress, the pelt, the emerald clasp, the puffed hair, the high-he@led shoes, and put them on; drew a few wrinkles in my face with a bit.of India ink, and begin tid my voice awhile at a high and querulous, but notloud pitch. I think I should have passed for the spirit of my ancestor—at least, that was what I intended.” “Did you really venture into the young gentle- man’s room?” “T did. It was very audacious for me. But I peeped through the key-hole and saw that his light was extinguished; and I could hear by his regular breathing that he was asleep. I knew that if he were frightened, or attempted to rise, that one bound would take me out of the chamber, and that I could escape to my room before he detected me. Stealing softly in I began the ett which I had studied—t forget the words now—but they connected pint with the family destiny and the emerald neck- ce.” “Very easy to Prophesy, and then set deliberately to work to bring about what you have foretold,” jeered Rosalie. . ‘Oh, but in sober truth T had not a serious thought of such a thing. I supposed the young gentleman would leave us and our fortunes upon the morrow, never to think of us again.”’ “Wished that he would, too, I make no doubt! How did he take the intrusion of so wonderful an apparition?” “Very coolly. Quite too deliberately to please me. He was neither frightened nor exasperated, but looked at me so calmly through the moonlight that it was I who grew alarmed for fear that he recog- nized me, and was laughing silently at my expense.” ‘He did not recognize you. Hehastold me about ‘the ghost,’ as he called it, and confessed that it has pee him in thinking about it. He never thought of you.” Ppockuse he could not think I would do such a thing, Oh, I never mean to tell him, unless he asks. “You see how dangerous it is to prophesy even in sport,” said Rosalie, with mock gravity; “for your idle pect came true in some very serious wafs.”’ ‘I can never regret it,”” murmured the young girl. “ What if that lightning had killed you?’ “ But it did not; .and if ever there was any evil in the emeralds I have faith to believe it is now exor- cised, I have had my share of the ills they be- queath. What a singular accident that Pennon should have found them when I lost them on the island!” *“ And what a pang of pain it gave me when I saw poe eyeing. about the garden holding them in his and. * Did_ you see him doing d that, dear Rosalie? But why did it give you pain?” Never mind’ now, darling, since it is all over. now and forever. I had not been behaving well then, you see, Iwas foolish and vain, and wanted to conquer every one—even the unconquerable Pen- non. : “ Unconquerable,” mused Clematis, “ yet so easi- ly, easily conquered.” ; . Not so very easily, my dear. It took a great many gitts of mind, heart andperson to vanquish him at last.’’ - “Tt is not stamnge,”’ spoke Clematis, after a mo- ments silence, ** that the only two offers I ever had should both occur upon the day that I was most stricken? Shall I take it as a proof of the power and unselfisbness of true love?” : “Yes, or for the love men have for i all the talking themselves. Nodoubt both of them thought a pd wife would be a great blessing. ? » Rosalie, what a girl! I should not wonder, GRAY EYES. a) though, if that last supposition was true of one of them. Poor Julien! I must smile when I think of his chagrin and ill-temper. He went. off that same afternoon, first twit me of being in love with a low adventurer. I guess he had an eye upon my vay modest little fortune, but I am not sure.” “Tf one were to feel discards, she would have but a melancholy life'of it,”” said the proud and adored be le, as she ee ry late that night, wi the girls sunk to ; was ver @n the sun sleep, for the tnrite had Bee carried w and grieved over all the lovers she | there was the whole bridal paraphernalia to be looked _ at and discu After such a delightedand excit- ing occupation, it was t they slum- Sip es surprising y. CHAPTER XVI. THE NECKLACE IS EXORCISED. THERE were two weddings upon the eighteenth of October; and if there were, in any en of the world, a happier bridegroom than Paul Pennon, that other paid eae one was Noyse. The pride and tenderness which dwelt in Rosalie’s eyes as she looked at him witha new and sweet t we Fee thought of that superb beauty having elded to him her heart at last, was #2 enough to lot out all memory of the bitter cup he had tasted. The ceremonies took place on a golden afternoon and the festivities were continued late intothe e :n- ing. Julien Percy was one of the guests, thui ch not a very b nt one. ae Clematis was alone in her chamber. There was still a ‘ sound of revelry ” in the parlor; some one was playing the piano, and conversation was going merrily on. She heard all this distinctly as she stood in her bridalchamber. Two or three of the ladies had stolen away with her to offer their ser- vices, but_she had dismissed herself. The bridal vail was removed from her hair. over her, on ng A she strange e nce; a dim, ghostly luster. filled the chamber, Shefelt irresistibly im turn and gaze u her, hi her b “Clematis Percy Pennon, heiress of our line and yet sweet and sad withal, whose solemn accents, low as they were, filled every nook with painful distinct- ness. That is indeed the fatal number,” she whispered, as the chill of dread crept around her heart. “Ah! and thou shalt make the fifth. Would’st know thy fate in time to prepare thyself for it?” ‘Any fate that does not part me from the one I love!” she cried in sudden anguish, as the thought, of the probability of @ separation from her husband smote her . 2 s fate, then, is—” began the melancholy voice— or To be the most worshiped, the most adored of ble es He interrupted the clear, soft voice of Pennon at the door, ‘Mercy! shrieked the spirits, flitting in eve direction ne = the blood “slowlan pied and ™m se) ) } bosom oot h chilled. ; : iti = ad been 60 After a wedding is there ever any thing more to’ , told? Notif one would end a story with: an artetie climax. Very uneffective it is to come fluttering in +, Je
Page 30
-'30 with the small banners and tag end of the proces- sion, after the grand ceremony is over, the great act of the spectacle performed. Yet we had curios- ity enough to keep our eyes for awhile upon the new-marvried couples. We wished to know whether the earnest resolves to live more for others than herself, to be content with a man not pypcnitioees! rich, to find ker purest happiness in the love which she felt herself capable of entertaining for her hus- band, lasted any Jength of time with the beautiful belle, once the veriest butterfly of fashion. We are happy to announce that “ practice makes perfect,’’—that the charms of her soul and mind are equal to her person and manner—that she grows more truly lovable day by day—that the last thing the proud and contented Noyse thinks of isto re- gret the time when he pardoned the fair belle for her transient falsity to him, : Pennon is more of an artist, poet and enthusiast than ever, for the presence of Clematis is like an inspiration to him. He almost thinks it is she who paints pictures and writes rhymes, so does she avhenathins with his tastes and give life to his dreams, When the wedding-party went from the stone cottage, the second day of their marriage, they con- cluded to pay a flying visit to the castle, as Pennon was anxious to show its beauty to Clematis. Rosalie, for a moment, was loth to return to the scene of her ill conduct, but she overcame the feel- ing bravely, and became secretly anxious to test the strength of her purposes by recalling the tempta- tions of that luxurious home. _ E They found the castle a most charming place to dream away the honeymoon; and there they lin- -.. gered until the cold winds of November warned them home. They visitedd the island and held another pienie there, and enjoyed every delightful day wandering about the grounds. : f “Do you regret the necessity of parting with this place?” asked Pennon of his bride one day. | ‘1 should be gat if you were able to keep it, as it was a bequest, Ido not regret its splendor so much. The old stone cottage in the little valley will always be a sweet place for us to spend our summers in, don’t you think so?”’ sae “Ay, haf sweet to me, dear Clematis; for it was ‘there that T found you, my pearl, my star, my wild- wood flower,”’ — . “What a habit you have of calling me names,” laughed the happy young wife. Pennon. when he left upon his artistic excursion had promised Mrs. Butterby a story when he should return in November. He had not the smallest idea how that story would terminate—that it would wind up in stereotyped fashion with a wedding—but it ended even so, and this that has been told you is the identical tale that he related to her one evening about the first of December, illustrating some of its most striking passages with the loving picture of his beautiful bride, who nestled by his side while he narrated ib. : “Dear suz!” remarked that good woman, “T never thought none of my boarders would have a true story happen to ’em.” THE END, The Dime Dialogues No. 31. Containing twenty Minor Dramas, Extravaganzas, Burlesques, Farces, Dress and Humorous Pieces, for the Amateur Stage, Parlors, Schools and Exhibitions, All original and by favorite authors, professors, teachers and amateurs. a For sale by all newsdealers, or sent, post-paid, on receipt of price—ten cents, BEADLE AND ADAMS, PusuisHErs, , 98 William Street, New York. A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. ‘Beaver, Buckskin Sam, nd Beatles Weeki The Best Weekly of Popular, Entertain- ing and Useful Literature Pub- lished in America! Its Unrivaled Corps of Contributors, almost all of whom write erclusiney for its publishers—embraces the following authors of world wide repute— : Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. Albert W. Aiken, Capt. Fred. Whittaker, Capt. Mark Wilton, Joseph E. Badger, dr. Edward L. Wheeler, Charles Morris, Ol Coomes, C. Dunning ese per on White ajor Dangerfield Burr, T, ©, Harbaugh, Philip §. Warne, Willan R. Eyster, Anthony P. Morris, Launce Poyntz. Each and all of whom give to Brapir’s WEEKLY their very best productions in all the varied fields of Border and Wild West Romance— Adventure Exploration and Sport— City Life Character, Courts and Ways— Detective and ‘Shadow’ Revelations— Stories of the Great Deep, etc., etc. So that each and every number is overflowing with reading of the most interesting and exciting nature; while in its Special Departments, covering all the needs, and adding to the general interest and usefulness of the popular journal, BrapLr’s WEEKLY is the paper of all others for your weekly reading and entertainment. Beadle’s Weekly is Published at the Following Rates: For Four Months.. ...... et ey reise cree 1,90 FOr One" ¥ Gale wit <n keen Radke eae ne NEN te cau 8.00 Two Copies for Qne Year! ies sss us over set ia de 5.00 Singie Copies: ..ic: Souter <ivahas ke ....6 ceuts Supplied by all Newsdealers. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Pus isHers, 98 William street, New York. DIME DIALOGUES AND SPEAKERS FOR SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS AND HOME ENTERTAINMENTS. Dialogues, Nos. 1 to 31 inclusive, 15 to 25 popu- lar dialogues and drainas in each book. Each vol- ume 100 pages 12mo, Speakers, Nos. 1 to 24 inclusive. Each speaker 100 pages 121imo0, containing from 50 to.75 pieces. YOUNG PEOPLES SERIES, Dime Book of Winter Sports. Dime Book of Summer Athletic Sports, , Dime Gents’ Letter Writer. Dime Book of Etiquette. Dime Book of Verees. Dime Book of Dreams. Dime Fortune Teller, Dime Ladies’ Letter Writer. Dime Lovers’ Casket. ~ Dime Ball-Room Companion, Dime Book of 100 Games, Dime Chess Instructor. 5 Dime Book of Beauty, {2 The above books are sold by newsdealers everywhere, or will be sent, post-paid, to any ad- dress, on receipt of price, ten vents each. BrADLR T AND. ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William st., N. Y,