Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 172) (1883 02 27)
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= So 2. ae wer ae eee ——-——_-----+.- thick t oe feaving the ends he Renta out tects. ribbon the blo. in a thousand shining rip She had on her sweet face, at that instan offended. expression, and the wild-rose flush her- cheeks deepened and dee had none of the angry, wick which flashed from Florence Goldsborough’s. “ At least, I know who my ples. pepe es but che fire in her eyes nts are, and “BLACK £ EYES" AND ‘BLUE. pao ee a Dis vicky thai oateste, Charlie then throw yl down the rod, laid his trout in the grass, and biog getting hold of one of Violet's faintly-resisting hands drew her down to a.seat beside him, on & moss-grown log near the path. “Tell me all about it,” ie & said, caressingly. “T can not." I never can tell. you! Oh, it pare that they are respéctable people r ‘Florence was was something dreadful, Charlié!” and the ‘saying, with a spiteful smile, lips quivered, and the dark-blue eyes pink And do. Sot I?” . Violet. rejoined, hastily. | naecd for an’instant through their showers of | tears. was, for he was quite familiar with poor Violet’s = any father se a we he os as rich as yours, but he ts as mauc' ' shameful of you to refer to the dead.” - three of the girls ran after her, and would “Wait till I know she ts dead?” was the scorn: | ful "What do: at do you mean?” asked Violet, opening es very wide, her lip trembling as if eer ate an ‘have said more but could not. “Oh, hush!” “ Florence, you ought not, real. ly!” “for shame!” interfered several of their companions as the fiery brunette began her an- swer; but Florence was in one of her passions, during which to expostulate with her did as much good as to combat a whirlwind with a ar rei he said, deliberatel mean,” s elibera tense distinctiveness of scorn, that no one ever knew who your parents are. Mr. Vernon #s not your father. He is: not even a relative. He fished you out of this very creek that is run- ning under our feet this minute, a little half- drowned waif, about six months old. He was sitting just beyond that turn, there, behind a clump of bushes, fishing, when you came sail- ing and bobbing past, in your long white ' clothes, and so fished you out, instead of a | trout. Some dropped you in the water by the bridge, but, by the time Mr. Vernon had you out, and had got the breath back in your strangled body, and ran up the path to see who had doné the deed, the one who did it had escaped. I’ve heard my parents tell the whole story many a time—and Mr. Vernon, whose young wife and baby had died but afew months before, concluded to keep you and bring you up. Of course, we don’t know what kind of a mother you had, but the inference from her probable attempt to murder her own child is ‘‘that she is not a mother you would want to know.” By the time that Miss Goldsborough had fin- ished her cruel.story, the delicate, wild-rose color had died out of her rival’s cheeks and the great blue eyes were regarding her with a hor- rifled look. “Ts this true?” Violet asked, with.a pitiable tremble of the ny looking around upon the startled group wi Silence gave consent. “Why did no one’ ever tell me before?” she. asked again; and then began to walk away as fast as ber quivering feet would carry her. “Don't go, dear Vibdlet.” “It was a burning shame of Florence to tell you.” You know it makes no difference to.us!” were some of the exclamations which followed her, and two or have walked by her side, but Violet fled like’s ' fawn who has heard the hunter, until outstrip- a ping the pace of the others, she found herself - alone, going rapidly along the path beside the _ one fe gens: hen eeinianicns Ce se, Fond on into the village. — ».and a string of trout in “why, Miss Violet, what is the matter?” he out his dise: right hand to arrest flight, and darting a keen look for- ware, on if bo Ckpacied to's a mad Gps, Bh the least, in pursuit. — “Nothing, nothing, Charlie! Let me go!” “But you are as pale as death. Something is the matter, I know. If you are in any trouble you might tell me, Pm pare’ Violet burst into tears, 6 There! I knew something was wads: And you won’t tell me?” reproachfully, “Has any to insult you, Miss Vernon?” asked the young gentleman, looking wrathfully up and down the path. “Ifhe has, Pll kill him!” ‘ “No, no; oh, nol It is oaue Florence @oldsborough said to me, Charlie, fool- sf . As to my poor mamma—she died ple ee fe was born—and it is| | | The young man immediately guessed what it Florence, knowing how assiduously Mr. Vernon had ‘endeavored to ‘keep from his adopted - child the dubious story e her first appearance amid the gossips of Lycurgus. But he would | not hint to the weeping girl by his"side that he was aware of what had so wounded her; he | patted her little hand gently, and, after a few | minutes, drew out his white cambric handker- vd EAs rs an b aa v + 1), = ee MM uy = ue y ee ee 5 ME PAI No og UT, he eS e se Bit chief and made a half-comical attempt to wipe the glittering drops from the roses on her with the in- | cheeks, Violet laughed at this, hysterically; broke down into a dozen little sobs, rallied, brushed off her own tears this time, and finally looked, very forlornly, and very defiantly, straight before her at the golden streaks in the western sky. Her companion sat quietly waiting for her to recover her composure, occasionally stealing a sidelong glance of admiration at the beautiful | face which, despite the stain of tears on the flushed. cheeks, looked all the mére lovable for tae storm which had passed over it—the trem- ble of the rose-bud mouth, the droop of the long lashes, the fire and dew in the sorrowful, resolute eyes. Finally, seeing that she had grown compara- tively calm, Charliesaid: “I was going to your house to give the trout to Chloe, for Mr. Ver- non’s supper. Iam afraid we shall be too late for that—but they will keep for his break- fast.” Violet rose instantly. “Yes, it is time I was home. Papa will be uneasy about me. don’t want him to see that I have been crying, Charlie. He would | ask me about it, and I could not tell him. Oh, Charlie, I shall never be the happy, careless girl I have been!” “Do not say that, Violet. I hope you will continue to be very, very happy. You have at least one friend who will try to make you so,” Violet blushed under the meaning look with which this was said, pulling her broad-brimmed hat a little lower over her c face; while Charlie picked up the string of te speck led beauties” and tho and the two set off at a quick pace on\ their return to the bridge, from whence they pa hee eae ag into the village, and were soon passing along pretty street, with elms on er side, end neat, vine-decked h ouses, back a little, with grass-plotsand flower-beds in front. - ‘Charles Clarence Ward was a law-student in Mr. Vernon’s office—the only one the lawyer cared to take. Mr. Vernon was considered the ablest pleader and most thorough scholar in the ity; once he had done a fine amount | coun ed, | of business and promised to grow cay Ww rich, but Lycurgus, like so many sy towns, first came to a_ stan in its growth and then receded} so that aay, ‘and in the of his pow- ers, he eet found himself with far less a id ee Se eee of his career. He had a lovely home, and:enjoyed évery com- some ambitions for Violet which ren- ru anxious to increase it. a ang Wari, was the son of an old friend ‘living in a naighiboetae town; he was a college- | ‘ graduate, his father had a good deal of money, he was very good-looking, had something of a Bostonian air about him, brought with him from Cambridge fine prospects, fine health: and fine spirits; altogether he was the young gen- | tleman of Lycurgus, and the young ladies | were all sad when he went home on his va- cation. ae 3 Neal rin adie “the girl: sho es Bae ip pened ils Mis. Vernon. but had Y fF > ae! try ite! ots 2 a ae ae eee a standing invitation to Yi. hts oe ata so and-tea with him, which he generally made use of. He was very fond ‘of Violet—but . whether only in a brotherly way, or a more tender one, was what the girls of Lycurgus would have liked to know. Now, then, you have the secret of Florence Goldsborough’s: jealousy. It was not enough that Violet should win the prizes at ‘school, and sing the sweetest in the choir, but she must set up claims to the undivided attentions of the only*fellow in the village worth having. Flor- ence never saw Violet and Charlie together— _.a bitter heart-burning, not free from malice, Mr. Goldsborough was the owner of the Ly- curgus bank; believed to be wealthy, and own- er of the only’ house in the place built in the modern style, with Mansard roof, and painted | brown, and having a tower. Florence had reached home half an hour be- fore Charlie and Violet went quickly by, and was standing at the parlor-window, feeling ashamed of what she had said, and wishing she | could take back her words; but when she saw those two go by together, she pressed her little no longer sorry. “T wonder what he can see in her—a tall, mer’s muslin!” She looked after them with scornful eyes, as far as she could see them; then ran over to the great mirror at the back of the double parlor, to take a long look at her own elegant little fig- | ure, and dark, glowing face, with its small fea- tures and velvety-blatk eyes. | I hate. blondes!”. she ope OE to herself. : “Tam twice as handsome as she is, any day! | Charlie Ward would not care for her if she was ' not forever hanging around him. He has an errand to the hcuse every day, and is there ev- ' ery Sunday—of course, she makes the most of ~ | her opportunities! Never mind, Miss Violeti! you won't have your own way altogether, if ; you do have the advantage of me! 1’ never ‘rest until I make a quarrel between you and Mr. Ward.” | The great, velvety eyes had a wicked laugh in them, as she turned away from the flatter- ing mirror. Florence was not a very bad per- -son, generally; but she had strong, vivid feel- ‘ing; and her selfishness and vanity had been | fostered by indulgert ‘relatives, who though there never was another child like her. control, she naturally gave way to whatever passion was aroused for the moment. She was growing into a woman, now; and was some- times surprised at herself, when she found how — ‘| impetuous, how ty * gab some of her | fits dras, ora feeling were. If any one +e healer ons was winained, oF rion she was jealous and invidious; all her feel- ings were proportionately m- ing; so that it would not take a to fore- tell that much wretchedness, af others, nae close in the ssi - : CHAPTER. LL THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER, ‘Waen Violet reached home, after that unfor- tunate strawberry excursion, if was so near twilight that Mr. Vernon did not notice the ‘traces of tears on his darling’s face. Indeed, his own thoughts were pre-occupied. Tea was waiting, and the trout was deferred to break- ting wuss’n anudder to keep arter it wus ready — to come out de oven, dat ting wus Sally Lunn.” “You mus’ walk right in de dinin’ room, honey, an’ you, Massa Ward, an’ done set rigs down, an’ D’ll bring in de Sally Lunn dis in | stam. + he Vernon bed in dar, now, a-readin’ a 3 bell ire _ fs suit, Charlie?” Aunt Chloe produced a snowy towel trom oh dresser-drawer, and ‘ de children,” as she call og 4 them, pumped Water on. each ogber's tales ¥ history; and he felt extremely yexed with | Which was pretty often—that she did not fool | gawky creature, as washed-out as a last sum-~ Never — | having been taught the hard lesson of self- her own, sho — young com- | cadauaeed © with defer- — = for | iff fort ts Dut his come was very latete, ana | 2255 for, as aunt Chloe said, “Ef dar wus on? — white teeth into her scarlet under lip, and was _
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_ law, before bed-time. After he had gone away, - touched caressingly the lovely pale-gold hair, © had such a merry time of it, that Violet had eimost forgotten her heavy heart, when they passed on into the dining room; but the first sight of her father called it back. Young Ward thought it very pleasant at Mr. Vernon’s tea-table that evening; he did ample justice to the repast, for he had been fishing, and caught an appetite. A light breeze brought the odor of a thousand roses through the open windows, and the light of the lamps shone cheerfully over the polished silver and quaint old china. He stole many a sly look at Violet, whose sweet face wore a most touching trace of sad- ness; yet was lovelier than usual with the soft ' Gush on the cheeks and the wistful look in the eyes. When with Violet, Charlie always knew that he preferred her in his heart of hearts; but when he came into the witching presence of Florence Goldsborough he was sometimes tempt- ed to believe that she was his favorite. The little brunette was irresistible when she made an effort to please, and there was no dark m tery surrounding her origin—and Charlie had & good degree of family pride. To-night he pitied and loved Violet; who, poor child, wor- shiped the ground he trod upon, without in the least understanding her own feelings, or ever having. questioned them. . Mr. Vernon was pleasant, during tea, but Seemed pre-occupied, When the meal was over the young people went into the parlor for some music, while he returned to the library to read his magazine, Charlie stayed only about an hour longer—just for a few songs—returning to the office for a ® more reading of the Violet—haying mused a few moments over bh we was about to venture—with a slow ep and a drooping head,' went toward the li- brary, which lay Opposite the and was. rs, “Poor papal” she thought to herself, ‘h does not like the idea of these intruders on more than Ido, I wonder why he takes themf I thought his income was quite sufficient *- our modest needs.” Again Mr. Vernon sighed, while his head sunk lower. “Papa is in sore trouble to-night. But I must speak to him! I cannot lay my head on my pillow until I know whether or not that was an infamous falsehood which Florence told me to-day.” She crept into the room so hesitatingly that at the last she might have retreated, but in her embarrassment she stumbled over a foot-stoo causing Mr. Vernon to start, and look around. Tn on instant, acting upon impulse, she sunk xi on the carpet at his feet, caught one of , and resting her soft cheek on his knee, looked up piteously into his face. - Father, ig it true, this thing the girls tell me—that 4m not your child?” Who has told you this?’ was the stern in- “ She papa, is it true? Only answer me Mr, Vernon leaned back in his ¢ the air of one to whom a crisis, np aed, has come at’ last—bringing with it, after all, a certain relief, that the worst is over. He look- ed down very tenderly at the pleading, pallid young face, and his hand, trembling a little, Q. ee Supposing my little daughter was only an adopte daughter, would she be any the less my child on that account? Would she be any the less contented and happy? Have I failed in anything, little Violet, that a father should do or be, to make you discontented, now that _ some meddler has informed you of my misfor- "Veins did flow ie, tune in not being really your father? Remem- ber, if it is a regret to you, it is a still greater regret to me. I only wish the blood in my in yours, my darling!” y oy, Ab, how good you are, dear, dear papa!” mA 4 we ean ene a tae eee eS a a eae in ee OE ea Oe e OP . to “ me. Saag Ae C Pay ss ~ BLAC v reat ee See Meee Oe K EYES AND: BLU sobbed Violet, “A thousand, thousand times | mors to be loved and worshiped by me, to whom you have been so loving and so indul- gent, than as if I had some claim to your affec- tion. Do not think that I am discontented—or will be—dear father; only—only—the girls said such cruel, hateful things! Oh, you can- not think how it wounded me! They even said, dear papa, that it was believed my own true mother was a murderess!” Violet pressed her hand to her heart, as if she felt the sharp | thrust of those wicked words again piercing like a sword. A dark frown gathered on Mr, Vernon’s usually benevolent face. He sat for a few mo- ments in silent thought, his hand, meantime, gently stroking the bright hair that streamed over his knee. Finally he aroused himself, and lifting the sweet, sad face between his hands, and earnest- ly scrutinizing it, he asked: ‘¢ Now that those malicious things have been said, and my little girl knows the worst, does she feel that she will be any more contented, or ‘better satisfied, to know the whole truth about herselfi—be it good or bad, remember!—the | plain truth, whatever it may prove to be, and whatever the consequences of the knowledge | may be to me and to her?” “Why, papa, do you know the truth?” “ Answer me, first, ould you prefer to remain just as you now are, or to learn all that can be learned about your origin?” 1t was now Violet’s turn to take time for re- flection. it was fully five minutes before her answer came: ‘Papa, after what has been said to me—after what I know is in every one’s mind about me—I don’t believe ‘that I can ever again rest really content until I have found out more about my parentage, you understand—that it is not be- cause of our relations to one another—yours | and mine—but because people will always re- gard me in a certain light, Yes! I am certain I would prefer to hear the truth—however bad —than to be always brooding over possibilities, The worst—the very worst—can be no more bad than they make it out to be. Now, tellme, | papa, have you .earnea anything at about me since that day when you fished me out of the water?” “ Nothing,” was the disappointing answer. * As far as I am concerned it can only be pain- ful to me to take any steps to learn anything. I have always regarded you as a sweet and special gift of the Heavenly Father, to console me, in some measure, for the loss of my own darlings.” “Oh, papa, then I am content, too! Forget what I said a mombnt ago.” “No, no, my dear. Your head spoke then, not your heart. I feel that it will be as you say—you will be gnawed by secret suspense, by hope and fear—shadowed by an undeserved sense of shame. I wish to Heaven, my child, that I had it in my power to furnish you the information you crave! But I cannot—and all the advice I can give you, is to be brave and good, and to think as little as possible about the matter.” He kissed her even more tenderly than usual, as he dismisséd her for the night. After she had crept from the room, he looked once more over the letter he held in his hand. “How strange—how passing strange it would | be,” he murmured, “if this should prove to re- late to something or some one connected with | my little Violet’s history! But, pshaw! how | idle is such a thought! I do not see why if should have come into my head—or why it should linger there, as it does. I have had let- ters from unknown clients before this.” CHAPTER IIL WHAT AN EAVESDROPPER OVERHEARS, | VIOLET VERNON did not sing in church the following day; and Florence, who, by this time, | was heartily ashamed of the attack she had made upon her, had no rival in the choir. On | Monday Florence actually bumbied herself to | write and send an apology—partly because she | \ ts yee a. 3. ¥ E. a es ag wie | starting as if struck. Raat} j 1 ae eae a ~ tab - Sy 5 = =} é i i + + : _ re ee SS was very sorry and partly becanse she feared Charlie Ward would. be offended with her, it was inconvenient not to be able to visit at Mr, Vernon’s, where Charlie spent so much of his time. On the evening of Monday she strolled out | toward the bridge alone, just after sunset, Of summer dusks the bridge was much frequented . | by young and old; she hoped to meet Mr. | Ward there, and perhaps ‘make up” with Vio- let, who had answered her note very sweetly and courteously, but alittle coldly, There was’ no one/on the bridge, however, when she reach- | edit. She resolved to wait a little while—it was dull at home, and the summer evening tempting. Dusk came slowly on;.but the © western sky was still streaked with searlet and gold, the zenith was a lovely purple, and the birds chirped as one by one they dropped into their nests, | She leaned over the railing, thinking of noth- — ing in particular, amusing herself by dropping the petals from a bunch of roses which she held — into the creek below and watching them as they were swept away, while she vaguely wished that Charlie Ward, at least, would chance that way. Presently it grew quite dark, but Florence | was not afraid. In that village it was consid- , ered not at all improper for young girls to run — | about alone; the moon was just wheeling up, a_ | great golden globe, in the east; it was dull | and stupid in the house—doubtless some one | would soon happen along—and so she lingered on the bridge. She was standing quite’in the | shadow of a huge old chestnut that grew at one _ extremity of the bridge. A thousand times, when she was a romping child, had she, with — her playmates, climbed that tree, by swinging on to the railing and from thence achieving a _ foothold on the first great branch which hung — | out over the stream. Now, as she idled there, herself in shadow, but the road silvered by the increasing moon- | light, whom should she see slowly approaching but her own father?—and with him a lady—a | strange lady—whose presence, dress, oner, all aroused aer strongest curiosity, Why should i her fatuer te walking at evening with this beau- tiful and richly-dressed woman? Florence’s home-training had never been of the noblest; | she was capable of unladylike actions, as we have seen. She thought of herold perch in the — | leafy boughs above her head; quickly as a squirrel could have done it, and as lightly, she sprung to the railing and from thence into the crotch made by the dividing trunk, andin a | sainute was snugly seated where she could see all that passed without herself being vasible. The couple came slowly on until they reach-_ ed the middle of the bridge; here they paused, looking in every direction as if to be sure that they were secure from observation. Neither spoke for a moment. The lady drew a tiny watch from her bosom—Florence saw the moon- light sparkling on the diamonds which encircled it—and said, in a low, slow, cold, but exceed- ingly sweet voice: Th ig eight-c'clack,.Lexpected Mr. Vernon to meet us here at this hour.” ‘ “Vernon!” exclaimed Mr, Goldsborough, “Yes, He is my that passes between us two.” ““Bmilie, must 1 be humiliated by having a third person present at this interview?” Flor- | ence had never before heard her father speak — in a tone of such passionate agitation. She was thoroughly alarmed at her own position, and would gladly have gotten out of it; but it was too late! She was more afraid to betray her presence than to remain concealed. The lady untied the ribbons of her hat and removed it from her head as if the strings — choked her; but she looked as calm as marble, Florence could see every feature of he: val- cold face, for she stood with the moon full up- on it. It was the face of a woman no longer young, but still wonderfully beautiful, with a delicate, high-bred charm so rare in any part of the world. She spoke witha slight foreign _—~ accent; her features, her dress, had the same fo air. Florence was fascinated; she could _not remove her eager gaze from the stranger... Pe - —s Nae = f pre lawyer. He must hear ull | ae ovr » & Ny A, a 4 ; \ teu x baie (sg went %' i .
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' Who was this lovely lady, who seemed to her girlish imagination like one of those fair, proud countesses or duchesses of whom she had read in novelst—whose small fingers flashed with jeweled rings and who wore at her throat a cluster of superb diamonds—whose gems, silks and. laces seemed so native to her that she thought no more of them than the factory girl does of her cotton gown. f “Emilie! Emilie!” pleaded this man whom Florence called her father, but who seemed sud- denly to have been transformed into another and quite different person, “I did not expect this of you. I thought, from the tenor of your note, that I was to see you alone,” ‘“‘T should be wanting in ordinary prudence to meet you alone, Ethan,” replied the lady, glancing toward the village, from which direc- tion another person could now be seen ap- proaching. ‘‘The last time I met you alone, you made a nearly-successful attempt to MUR- DER me—and our child! The temptation is probably not less upon you now; but I do not propose to give you the opportunity. My law- yer must be witness to all that passes between us, this time. Here he comes.” The florid face of the banker turned a sickly yeLow. Florence was so absorbed, so horrified, so filled with wonder, dread, suspense, that she leaned forward until the branch shook and rus- tled, and her own dark, startled, vivid face ‘might have been seen peering out of its leafy screen, had any of the trio below chanced to look up—Mr. Vernon had now joined the group. “Sir,” said the lady to him, “I told you a part of my story this morning. I want you to hear what I have to say to this man—my hus- band, who has come to meet me at my request. Ethan Goldsborough”—turning to him and speaking in those slow, low, solemn tones that carried ‘an icy conviction in their every accent —‘‘it not unfrequently happens, in this World, that men, scoundrels at heart and vile of deed, wear the mask so well that for years their friends and neighbors never once:see the Me phistophelean face behind it. You have worn your mask in comfort and security; you are a ‘leading citizen,’a deacon of the church, a man who heads subscription-lists, a man severe and pitiless toward sinners—especially poor sinners —a man eminently respectable. The time has | come—after sixteen years of patient waiting— when the womah—your own wife—whom you have so wronged, proposes to lift the mask from your features and allow your fellow-citizens to see you as you are. You cannot escape the ex- posure which threatens you. I have the proof of everything which I assert, in the shape of legal documents—except the attempt at willful rourder, and that I can so nearly prove by cir- cumstantial evidence that the fact will not be doubted, when taken in connection with the main story.” , “ Spare ‘me, Emilie, spare me!” groaned the | ‘banker, abjectly. ‘Let this matter rest be tween us three, as it does now. What satisfac- tion can it be to you to ruin me—now, at my time of life?—a man in his forties—with a grown-up daughter! Spare me, for her sake— my child’s sake! once, dear Emilie!|—you are too fine a woman | to betray such a low spirit of revenge! ‘You are rich, comfortable, contented—far richer and more prosperous than I am, Oh, let me | alone! Everything conspires to bless you. Your child is living—has grown up into a sweet, good, ladylike girl. Take her away with you—and leave me as I am. I have worked hard for my place here. Indeed, = you, Emilie, when I was young and inconsider- ate. I have been living a pious life since those days, Do not be revengeful. Remember the blush for him, The lady looked scornfully over him and in- to his evasive eyes, which fell before her clear, fiery glances. ‘Mon Dieu!’ she cried, as if to herself, “nnd I once loved this man! Adored the ground his foot spurned! hung upon his words! \ I used to think you loved me | BLACK EYES AND BLUE. — was wretched when he frownéd—in heaven when he smiled! Ah-h! but young demoiselles | are fools—fools! But I loved you, as you say, | in those days, Ethan Goldsborough—loved you | well—well—when I consented to a private | marriage—to become your wife in secret and keep our relation hidden from the kind eyes of my only true friend, my dear uncle. You be- lieved me to be an heiress in those days, and you wanted to secure my hand and my interest in the large fortune and estates of the D’Eglan- tines. You made yourself certain, by private research, that I was the true heir—though an- other contested my claim—and then you has- tened to marry me secretly, out of pure love, as I, fond fool, believed. Well, I was very, very happy with you—despite the gnawing un- easiness of feeling that my uncle should know all —for almost a year, Ethan! Why, whata child I was! the cruel blow fell! of happiness! My cousin Philip was pronounced the true heir, by the voice of the courts, and you were disappointed. You lost the stakes for which you had played so cunningly. In less than one week you were on your way back to America, your native country, after a brief in- | terview with me—your wife—in which you heartlessly assured me that the marriage be- | | tween us was not a legal one, and you would -months old 1 escaped from the convent. not hold me to it. ‘Ah, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! What did I not suffer during the year that followed!”—she clasped her hands, turning her pale face up- ward—‘‘it is incredible that the human heart can bear such trouble and still beat on. You knew—villain! scoundrel!l—before you left me —me, & poor, young, timid creature—that some time I would be a mother; You knew that I was your true and honorable wife. Yet you left me to bear the burden of sorrow and shame, I could not prove the story I told my uncle, for I could not tell him on what street was the | church, nor who was the priest. He was very fond of me; but he doubted my word—every one doubted the word of poor Emilie in those days. My uncle sent me to the sheltering arms of the sisters. In their dull home the weary months dragged by, till our child was born, As soon as I could sit up, I began to embroider, and to sell my work for such small, sums as it would bring. When ur babe was three I had a little jewelry with me, which I disposed of, and made my way to Havre, where a steamer was about to leave for New York, ‘Worn with illness of mind and body, almost wild with despair, but kept from suicide by a fixed determination to prove my poor, innocent infant’s rights to its father’s name and care, I landed in the great American city, a stranger, friendless, and nearly destitute of money. “T learned afterward how my husband had, meantime, been amusing himself. He had lost no time. On his way home to America he had made the acquaintance of another heiress, the daughter of a New York speculator in petrole- um—a coarse-grained, ill-educated girl, with a certain sort of vulgar beauty—and this lady he had married within a month after their arrival in New York. Her father gave her a few thousand dollars, and her pretended husband— driven by the fear that his real wife might pos- sibly take a fancy to follow him—persuaded her to come with him to this out-of-the-way New England town, where her wedding-por- tion enabled him to set up a banking-house and assume his natural position of eminent respecta- J | bility! deed, I have bitterly repented the injury I did | ““Here he hoped to enjoy his well-earned peace; but the meek, quiet, timid little wife, afraid of her own shadow, was unaccountably | bold enough to trace and follow him; she, and old times, Emilie,” he added, with an attempt | HE RR i iearies to simulate tenderness which made Mr. Vernon | her babe, appeared before him, one evening, in a startling manner, “Do not groan so, now, Ethan—that wassix- teen years ago! But yourecallit all, Look at him, Mr. Vernon! Do you see his hand trem- _ biv, his lips turn white? Nowonder! Itis un- pieasant to force his memory back to that time, 4 ought to spare him. ae i! ae Only a little over sixteen at last, when | The cruel, cruel blow that | forever deprived me of faith in man, of hope, | God knows, as far as 1, _ alone am concerned, I would freely do it. But. justice bids me speak. My child cries to me, forbidding silence. Ay! guilty man, with the crime of attempted murder on your soul, I would spare you. But it must not be. As a wife and a mother I must assert my rights. “TJ surprised him under the shadow of his own vine and fig-tree. In his dread of discov- ery, he told me a thousand lies, ending by ap pointing a meeting with me on the afternoon’ of the following day, ina lonely part of the woods not far above the bridge on which we stand. He swore to me that if I would meet him there, and talk over our affairs calmly, he | would acknowledge me as his first and true | wife, and return with me to France to assure my uncle of my innocence. Despite of the dreadful wrong he had done me, | still loved Etban Goldsborough, and craved a reconcilia- tion. “He met me, in the lonely, hidden place in the woods which he had appointed. I held up to him our smiling babe, that should have touched the heart and the conscience of a demon. “The place of our meeting was near the ruins of an old mill. Only the wheeland a few timbers remained; but the dam across the stream was there, and the pond above the dam was deep and still. He took our child in his arms, and, while I looked for him to caress it, suddenly, with a furious gesture, he whirled it. far out and it dropped into the water of the _ pond. Then the cry which arose to my lips was choked in my throat~and I knew no more —for some time. I know, by the gleam in your eyes and thé working pr your lips, Ethan, that you are only wishing that your plan had not failed. But it did fail—despite of the stone which you tied to ‘my feet before you threw me after my babe, all unconscious as I was, with the black marks of your wicked fingers about my throat! | “Doubtless you hurried away after the hid- eous deed, creeping back to town by devious ‘ways, to resume your part of ‘leading citizen,’ ““The swiftness of the current swept me ' against the walls of the dam, and my poor feet became entangled in the timbers; the cold bath restored my senses, and I found myself being dashed back and forth, my stone-laden feet caught and held, but my face floating, and a jutting end of a sluice-board within reach of my arms. I seized the board and clung to it. I could quite easily have crawled out had it not been for the stone tied to my ankles, As it was, I succeeded, after exhausting struggles, in freeing my feet from the burden—I think the cord broke, After that it was not so hard to reach the timbers, and to make my way, inch by inch, back to the bank, over the moss- grown, slippery dam, covered six inches deep by swiftly-passing water. It was sunset when I reached the solid earth, I fainted, and when I again became conscious it was dark, “ told you the particulars of the remainder of the story this morning, Mr. Vernon—how I crept back into the village, listened, crawled, hid, like some guilty thing, until I heard of the safety of my child, and then went. back into the woods to sleep. How I hung about the town for days, never allowing myself to be seen, and living on the berries which I gather- ed in the fields, trying to make up my mind to leave my babe with the kind gentleman who had concluded to adopt it: I was at your kitchen window, several evenings, Mr. Vernon, and heard the colored woman telling various neighbors what you proposed to do for the lit- little waif; I felt that. you could care for her better than I could, and I finally left the country, resolved that Ethan Goldsborough should believe he had murdered me, until I could, sooner or later, return armed with such authority as would place him in my power, and restore my daughter to her rights. That time has been long—long, in coming. I have en- | dured years of hope deferred. More than ' once, meantime, have I stolen, under cover of the night, into this village, and feasted my fam-. ished eyes on stolen glimpses of my child. For _ the last five years, however, I have been in | France, fighting again over the contested heir- ship. At last, I have triumphed—not alone in securing the estates, which belonged from the \
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ae a first rightly to me, but I visited every church in. Paris, I made the acquaintance of every priest—and I found the church where my mar- riage was recorded, and I have the evidence of the priest who performed the ceremony, and of the clerk—and I have come here, at last, as your wife, Ethan Goldsborough, to rout the spurious wife from her title, and to take the crown of legitimacy from the brow of her daughter to place it on that of Violet Golds borough’s—where it belongs.” Florence, hidden in the tree apove, heard the terrible words; she clung conytlsively to the limb on which she was seated, but she shiv ered so, and was so icy cold, that she expected, every moment, to lose her hold, and go crash- ing down into the stream. . Ah! what wild, incredible story was this? How completely were the tables turned upon her, who had twitted Violet of her doubtful origin? Her heart swelled and knotted itself in her panting bosom until it seemed as if she ‘should die. Florence was extremely vain and ambitious. She had that same eager desire to be foremost —a leader—which had betrayed her father in- to crime. She had always been courted by the Other girls; and was rather imperiously proud of her father’s position in the village. Thesud- den ruin and disgrace which threatened him pierced to her very soul. “Violet—my sister!” she thought, growing dizzy; but, with a violent effort she steadied herself and listened with intense interest and terror to what followed, “You ought to remember, Emilie, that my ‘wife is not to blame for anything which has bappened,” pleaded the father, in trembling tones, ‘You ought to havesome mercy upon her! And on my daughter, too. As a moth- er you ought to sympathize with that poor child, Think of the blow it will be to her!” . “I think only of my own child,” was the cold response. ‘My first duty is to her.” “Tt does come hard upon poor little Flor- ence,” said the kind voice of Mr. Vernon. “I have always liked the child—a merry, bright little maiden, as ever was. Madam, I wish there was some way to spare her feelings.” “TI can think of but one, Mr. Vernon, I have no wish to be revengeful. The wrong that was done me was of a kind not to be re- paired in this world—least of all by a harsh re- venge. I would jike to spare even the unfor- tunate lady who has so long believed herself thie man’s wife, As to their daughter, if I could help it, she should never learn how bad & man her father is. But my daughter's legiti- macy must be established. I shall see that it is left with no shadow of a doubt upon it. , ‘lam willing to make this compromise. I » ‘would like to spend a few weeks in this village ' to leave here, - . Quaint some one +or my health. Iwill remain quietly at the i ht Meantime, Mr. Goldsborough, if he de- ‘sires, can close up his business and seek a new residence, and the denouement need not come until his family are removed and provided for. { take it for granted that the lady will desire with the mother, ' deed, I might so arran : ; gethe divorce that oe publig heed not know the truth, until this as free to ratify his present marriage. When a ; 5 es > the court of this county sit, Mr. “In August, ma ” ‘Very well, tpNee Public, until about so that my case you and Vernon,” and the lady : shot a meani lance “at the banker, who bit his lips but said oth. | ME in defense of himself, “Also, I must | “ PY ; i , ‘ ; SS ES ei een re " eat ae BLACK EYES AND BLUE. — 5 ESM SP SS STR SES OE Re prs = mer aeT | meke my sweet girl’s acquaintance. Every hour is an age that keeps me from her, now that Iam so nearher. You may trust me not to betray to her that I am her mother, un- til the time is ripe. But I can feed my hungry heart on her looks and words—” ‘‘ And that is where my loss begins,” said the lawyer, sadly. Madame looked at him a moment inquiring- ly—the tears rushed out over her pale cheeks and her mouth trembled. ‘‘ Ah,” she murmured, feelingly, ‘I am sel- fish—I forgot you, who have been a father and mother to my darling. The saints will reward youl God himself will not forget your good deeds. Think not that I will tear her from you at once. No, no! we will loosen the roote by degrees—I will stay here, in this far vil- lage, so that she can be near you—something! We will talk it over. You have the right to decide what we shall Go. We will do nothing without your consent!” and she laid one small hand on his arm and looked up at him grate- fully, so smilingly through her tears, that the sedate lawyer hardly knew whether he waa most pleased or embarrassed. ** Will you tell my lawyer, in the morning, what conclusion you have come to? propose to have another personal interview with you, sir,” the lady then said to the banker. Mr. Goldsborough nodded, unable to speak, and she took Mr. Vernon’s arm and walked away. For perhaps ten minutes the ruined man-of- the-world stood motionless. where they had left him; then a sound, half-moan, half-curse, broke from his lips, and he stalked away, while his daughter crept frorn the old chestnut tree and dragged herself wearily home like a bird with a broken wing. CHAPTER IV. A VANISHING FIGURE. THE sun shines as brightly on the stream that flows over a corpse as over a reed; the most dreadful tragedies are those that happen silently and leave no outward mark. A new pallor on some young face, a deéper wrinkle on an older one, or a thickening of gray in the changing hair, is often all the token given of ruined hopes, wrecked hearts, terrible earth- quake outbursts of feeling which leave the soul scarred and seamed. ‘ No one in the village, saving the four who were at the bridge that evening, knew .any- thing of the little drama which had been acted there—three performers and one spectator. The spectator was as hushed:as death about the single scene in a lifelong tragedy, which she had chanced to witness. Florence came down to breakfast the follow- ing morning looking a little pale and heavy- eyed, but when her mother noticed it, she gave | her father a shifting glance, burst into one of her merry laughs, and began to prattle about some trifle, light as thistledown glistening in the blue air. Her father was not, by nature, so quick-wit- ted an actor as Florence—he appeared a little dull that morning—but he simulated an appe- tite which he did not possess, forced down his breakfast, kissed his wife and daughter as usual, when the ceremony was over, and stroll- ed down to his bank. Florence went up to her own room, shut and locked the door, and was sitting staring stonily out of the window, astrange, hard,robellious ex- pression on her small, dark face—the scarlet lips pressed tightly together, the black brows contracted, the usually sparkling, flashing, melting eyes glittering under them black as | night, but curiously small and intense—when a servant tapped at the door to say that Miss Vernon was in the parlor and wished to speak with her a moment, A mocking smile trembled on Florence’s lips. “Oh, how I kate her!” she murmured, and ber little white teeth flashed savagely as she said it. “Fated to be rivals in everything! And I always to get the worst of it! It must not—shail not be!” and she sprung up from her | chair and.stamped on the fluor. ‘I will pay | her off yet! I will—I will! I will wring her heart as mine is wrung! And she my father’s bag SRN . Ido not | | enjoy it!” and she laughed bitterly. child—my own half-sister! Oh, how strange, how dreary!” Going to ber mirror she gave herself a scru- tinizing glance, as if she feared her thoughts might be written on her face; and the next » moment flew down the stairs, and, with a gay * -ood-morning,” gave the Judas kiss to Violet. “Papa is waiting for me at the gate,” said the caller, ‘so I dare not stay a minute. We are going to call on a lady at the hotel—a stranger, and client of papa’s—and I just stop- | ped to tell you that I want you to come to tea to-night—will you?” Ever generous and im- pulsive, Violet took this way to assure Florence that she had really forgiven her her cruel tauntings. ‘‘Be sure and come. It will be very entertaining,” and then the two girls laughed, as girls will laugh, at they know not what, and Violet kissed her friend again, and hurried out to join her father. “She is going to meet her own mother—and she does not dream of it!” thought Florence, locking after the slim figure, in its fresh morn- ing muslins, with a deep interest. ‘Yes, I shall go there to tea, of course. I must play my part for a while yet. I''wish I could be present at this romantic reunion which is about to take place. How Mr. Vernon must. ‘Florence’s was no common character. She overflowed with vitality; the rich coloring of lip and cheek, the velvet smoothness of her skin, the luster and power of her splendid eyes, her whole vivid expression, told of life of the intensest. kind. Her feelings were of the quick- ness and passionateness indicated by her tem- perament. Well-governed, subdued by con- science and religious aspiration, they would never bring her to harm. But hers was not a | nature to bear trouble or disgrace meekly—the first she would find too tedious, the last she would seek compensation for in some desperate acts of her own. Self-restraint she had never been taught. However wrong a part he had acted toward others—known: to be, in business, cold and calculating—a man whose inner life was quite different from its outword pretense— yet to his daughter Florence Mr. Goldsboroush had been a fond, devoted father. She was per- fect in his eyes. He had laughed at and ap- plauded her baby-storms -of rage; and he did so still, when, less often, she got into one of her passions. He had always told her how hand- some she was—what a belle she would be, when grown into a young lady—and had en- couraged her love of finery by buying for her everything she asked for. Nor had her mother been much more judicious. Poor, spoiled child! illy prepared to face the trouble about to come! Mr. Vernon and Violet walked on in the di- rection of the hotel. ‘Make yourself as pretty as possible, child —the lady may be critical, you know,” he had said to her before starting. - So Violet, modest as her namesake, was dreading a little this visit to the wonderful French lady, who had, of course, seen so much of the world and would be so fastidious, Madame D’Eglantine had taken the most ex- pensive suite of rooms at the hotel; her maid waited upon her as if she were ‘a princess in disguise, and all, consequently, were deeply im- pressed by the merits of the beautiful foreigner. One of the hotel waiters, with a most deferen- tial air, showed the callers to madame’s private parlor. : Violet could not be otherwise than graceful, and she was most shyly and charmingly so, — when her father took her in and presented her | to Madame D’Kglantine, who came quickly to- ward her, put her arms lightly about her and kissed her fair cheek. “‘ What winning manners!” thought the girl —‘ perhaps it is the way with all French ladies —they are said to be so demonstrative,” Her own slight confusion prevented her no- i ticing the tears in madame’s beautiful dark eyes, or any other of the signs of extreme agi-' tation which she so soon controlled. Madame D’iglantine spoke English easily, with only a delicious little foreign accent that softenud if and added a grace. She made the young lady sit ly her, on a sofa, and chatted ; ° ' 2 4 bee nf : S - i Me? Riese A A oe) ae Ree ee ee ey tari) ae a 5 q * 4 eens
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&: | ee most immediately ;.and as madame -insisted on a prolonged call, Mr. Vernon excused himself of his office, and then returned for his daugh- ter. Violet rose to go. Madame kissed her again, thanked her for her visit, and added: “You must come fo see me almost every | lie that he must be sure and come to tea that for a half-hour, going to look after the affairs — | to be there, afternoon, for Miss Florence Goldsborough was “ As if that would be any additional induce- ment to me!” answered Charlie, in a low voice | —not intended for Mr. Vernon’s ear—and with ; & meaning look which brought a touch of color day. Iam very lonely here. I will try to re- pay your attentions by improving your French,” with a smile, ‘You speak my lan- , guage tolerably; but you will improve. We do all our gossiping in French, my dear.” “Oh, thank you—it will bea great privilege, But I did not need that temptation,” rejoined Violet, prettily—and so the first meeting of mother and daughter terminated pleasantly, the latter going away delighted with Madame D’Eglantine, and without one thrill of intuition to warn her of the truth. As for the lady, no sooner did the door close between her and her sweet child, than she pressed her hand to her heart, calling faintly for her maid, who came ruuning from the ad- joining room, and supported her mistress to the sofa. “You saw her, Teresef—-my own, own child! My dear daughter! Was she not sweet, good, charming? Ah, Terese, it is for this I have contrived to live through all these dragging years! my good name—that I would not die of sorrow, or even of shame—of loneliness, misery, sus- pense. For this that I contested my rights to my inheritance, and never abandoned them through the long struggle with my selfish rela- tives, And now, thank the good Father, I have an unspotted name to give my child—her father cannot spurn her from her right to his name; and I have a noble fortune and the pres- tige of my own old family name to bestow up- on my darling! How happy it makes me that I have so much to give her! Ah, I repent my promise to that man, last night, that I would say nothing to the world until August. I should not have waited an hour—not one hour! —for have I not waited sixteen years? I'can- not smother the mother-cry of my heart. I know, I feel, that the next time my darling comes to see me, I shall tell her all. She must know that Iam her mother. She will love me, and be glad to have found me. Terese, do I look as happy as I feel? Why, I seem to my- self to be the careless girl again that I was | when he came to me, and turned the sunshine | black for me! Everything is bright once more —give me joy, Terese!” “‘Y do, madame, with all my heart,” respond- ed the faithful maid, who had long been her mistress’ most trusted confidante. ‘“‘ Your daughter is all, and more, than you could ask— s0 pure, so artless, madame, it does one good to be:in her presence.” “That is true. It cannot hurt one to lovea creature as good as she is,” and the lady, her cheeks glowing like those of a girl of eighteen, her eyes shining through happy tears, fell into a smiling reverie, Tereso looked at her mistress affectionately, but would not disturb her by speaking until she came out of her dreamland. “The gentleman who adopted her—madame | raust. feel much gratitude tohim! He is one in ten million!—and he is so modest about it, he presumes not at all.” “He is a gentleman, Terese, who would do honor to any society. He is too generous to | demand my gratitude; but he knows that he has it, Ah, ciel! how different would my life have been had Fate thrown in my path a man like that in place of the villain whom [ was too ignorant: to comprehend! Brush my - hair, please, Terese, I am nervous, after the excite- ment of the morning, and that will quiet moe sooner than anything else.” The-Frenchwoman smiled to herself as she | went after the brush. ‘ Madame looks almost as young and quite as pretty as the child,” she thought; and re- turning, she.took down the lady’s long bright hair, and brushed out its threads of gold gently . and patiently, while madame sat lost in a balf- smiling reverie, ‘ ; For this that I fought, like a tiger, for | { | | | | | and a faint smile tothe young lady’s face, ‘So you have forgiven your naughty little friend, already!” he added, reproachfully. ‘“Not until she asked forgiveness, Charlie.” ‘Oh, it’s all right, then, I dare say. But I can’t affirm that I admire Miss Florence’s spite- ful little ways, for all that.” Yet that evening, had you been at Mr. Ver- | non’s tea-table, or in his parlor afterward, you would not have believed Mr. Ward had he | again affirmed that he did not admire Florerice Goldsborough—his whole manner would have contradicted such a statement; and Violet saw it with a silent, sharp pang, not so much of jealousy as of sorrow. If Florence had been in a room full of bril- liant people she could not have taken more trouble to be charming. She was gay to reck- lessuiess, Never had her eyes been so laughing, dazzling, glorious, changeful; her cheeks burn- ed with too intense a red; neither of the others noticed the strange, quick, sidelong glance she occasionally darted at Violet. “Why! it is ten o’clock! I did not dream it was so late!” she exclaimed, at last, pausing in the mad waltz she had been taking with Charlie about the parlors to the time of the music which Violet played for them. ‘‘ Where is my hat? Ishall be chided by mamma for staying out so long!” She tied on her hat, with a most coquettish look at the young gentleman, who stood ready to wait upon her to her home, “ Good-by, Violet, my pet. Forget ard for. give all my sins, won’t you, little saint? Dor’ | think anything bad about me, whatever others may say,” saying this, a little incoherently, she kissed her hostess, took Charlie’s arm, and went down the steps, in the full moonlight, flinging back such an arch, mocking, half-wick- ed, wholly-fascinating look that poor Violet stood staring after them, with aching heart, afraid to think of Charlie alone with the en- chantress, walking under the wayside elms, with the moon’s glamour on that bright, mock- ing face to make it more lovely and irresist- ible. “She does not care for him—she is only flirt- ing with him; but he cannot see that,” Violet whispered to herself, watching them until their forms were lost down the tree-shadowed street. Now that they were out in the magical, warm moonlight Florence did not seem to. be in so much haste to get home; she herself pro- that they should prolong their walk; and she looked up at the sky with those great, soft, melting eyes, and then at Charlie, until she had him quite confused. ‘* Charlie,” she said, very softly, as they fi- nally approached her home, ‘I want you todo one little favor for me—make me one little promise—will you?” “Tf it lies within my power,” was the rash answer. “Oh, it does! world. valuable ring of opals and diamonds from her second finger and playfully putting it on the little finger of Charlie’s left d; ‘“‘and now that it is on, I want you to.promise me—on It’s the merest trifle in the | I want you to let me slip this rg on , | your finger,” she said, drawing a quaint and | | Other girls—she had lots of good and bad in her es ne er ere “Whatever you ask, Charlie, You shall ehoose your reward.” “Then I promise to wear your ring until I see you again.” “Good. Now, one more stipulation: will you also promise not to tell any one that I ask- ed you to wear it?” She was smiling again, looking coaxingly up at him from under drooping lashes. What a beautiful girl she was! and how full of wit, fun _ and kittenish tricks! the young man thought, as he dallied with his answer just for the sake | of prolonging the pleasure of having her coax | him, and of watching the changing eyes and the little mouth curving from a smile into a pout, “You shall not have the ring at all unless you promise both things, Mr. Ward.” “Ab! Well, I promise.” “There, now, it is a solemn compact—as so}- emn as if signed and sealed! ‘You are to wear my ring—without telling any one how it came into your possession—until you see me again. And, Charlie, be very careful of it! Papa brought that ring from Paris when he was a young man; he had it laid away for years, but gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday, a month ago, It has more than a money value, though that is great. And now I must really goin the house. Good-by,” and she held out her little hand, but snatched it away.when he would have held it longer than was necessary, kissed it, airily, to him from the steps; and, the next instant, vanished in the darkness of her father’s hall. When certain that the witching vision had quite disappeared Charlie turned and walked toward his hotel, his hand burning at the touch of the ring which sparkled belefully in the , moonlight, and his mind a chaos of images of dark curls and splendid eyes, of rash promises, a sweet, persuasive voice, a charming little figure, full of grace, kissing its hand to him. “But how icy cold her hand was!” thought | the student. When Charlie awoke the next morning the: | first thing of which he became distinctly con- scious was the ring, which was a little tight on his finger, and which flashed like a small rain- | bow when he raised his hand. “Tt is avery conspicuous jewel,” he thought, "T hope the little witch will reclaim it before it,” But “ before night” it had become apparent to him that Florence Goldsborough intended him to wear her signet for some time, Indeed, before noon, the whole village knew that Florence had runaway from home; that she had left the house in the night and gone to | the station, where she had taken the midnight express—which stopped at Lyeurgus for water —north, Only her father knew, however, that she had taken with her a thousand dollars, which she- had abstracted from the safe in his bedroom. Only her father had a suspicion of the real!’ causes which had led her to this desperate ac- ' tion, A guilty conscience burned the truth in- | to his heart, : Of course, Mr. Vernon had his conjectures: that the girl might Have learned something of | the disclosures soon to be made; and, in her your word of honor asa gentleman—to wear | | ghild had made a desperate move in a desper- it until I see you again.” “By which you mean until to-morrow,” | laugbed. Charlie. “Do you promise to wear my ring until the ' next time we meet?” ‘¢ What shall be my reward for so serious an undertaking?” He spoke in jest, for her manner was that. | of a frolicsome girl bent on some small piece of mischief; but that manner suddenly changed and she gave him a thrilling look as she an- swered in a solemn voice, as if entering into a _ | Compact: shame and anger at her father, been rash enough to fly from her friends. But he was not certain of it. As the gossips said: “ Florence was not like —it was just like her to want to get up a sen- sation by some such trick!” and so, with others, looked tor her speedy return. Not so her wretched father. He felt that his: ate mood; he knew that he had lost her! Nevertheless, he had telegrams sent to Port~ land, Boston and New York, instructing the detectives to look out for a young lady, and: take the best care of her, if found, until hex parents could reach her. He, himself, as soon as he believed a clue had been “found, started. out in search; but he came home, at the end of a week, without her, or any tidings of her. _ “Ethan, do you think she has killed herself?” asked the unhappy mother. . — ——
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_ “No, she fs” moody reply. It seem nét one of that kind,” however, as if that little figure _ which Charlie had seen vanish out of the moon- BY we 54 * 3 t . ~ 7 45 nee *) . a ; 4 es % ® f * # te ae, 3 Moet promise and in © awa A _." oe ee Ba 57 saw Violet’s white _ light had from the face of the earth; so utterly was it lost; and the opal ring continued to glimmer and flash on the hand where it had been so artfully fastened. : CHAPTER, V. THE SPELL WROUGHT BY. THE RING. CHARLIm Warp felt a little ashamed of the ring which he wore whe nhe found,as he did be- fore the day was over, how many people rec- _ ognized it as Florence Goldsborough’s, and ral- lied him on having a knowledge of her where- abouts. Every one who saw the ring took it for granted that an engagement existed between him and the runaway girl. Long before night he would have thrown the costly bauble into the first rubbish-heap he came to had he not been bound by his promise. Charlie was not so dull but that he compre- hended that Florence had purposely entangled him; annoyed and surprised, only half-seeing through her purpose, he yet felt himself inex- orably bound to keep his word. He had said, upon his word of honor, that he would wear the ring until he saw her again, and wear it he must. His embarrassment increased, when, late in the afternoon, Mr. Goldsborough called at the office, having heard some rumor of the el. “You are wearing my daughter’s ring?” the r said, in a tremulous, eager voice—it seemed to Charlie that he had aged ten years since he saw him last. “Yes,” answered Ward, blushing to his ‘Since when, may I ask?” 2g Since last evening, Mr. Goldsborough.” “Did you know, last evening, that Florence ’ wee, going away?” ‘ ‘ a sir; I did not even suspect such a “Mr. Ward—you will excuse the question under the circumstances—are you and my daughter engaged?’ “Oh, no, sir; not at all.” There has never been anything particular between us,” stam- mered Charlie. ; : “Then, perhaps, you will not refuse to re- turn her ring to me. It is a family jewel which I do not care td have in the possession of a stranger,” “Mr, Goldsborough, I am very sorry; but I am not at liberty to resign the ring to any one but Miss Florence.” “Tndeed!” exclaimed the banker, with a sneer, ‘perhaps you are too well aware of its insic value.” “Say what you please, sir; I am under a Ig keep it. 1 only wish that 1 could honorably be rid of wearing the ring,” he indignantly, And the father*went away with the very er a pression that young Ward, in spite ' having some very serious thoughts during the day, being driven to reflection by the step whieh Florence had taken All day, in his tnind, he had’ been’ contrasting the two girls; and there was no longer any doubt in it as to which of the two he most admired— for the first time he said to his own heart: “I love Vi- _olet, ‘and Violet only, There is none like her, none! How could I ever have thought of _ Fiorence in the same breath with her?” _ Tye summer dusk was full of sweetness as he _ finally took the familiar path to Mr. Vernon’s house. It waa with a-feeling of relief that he dress glimmering on the pi- was the. alone—waiting for him, Charlie thought, | a sudden, sweet, warm thrill of the heart; and he could walk and talk with her, and she would “mot see, in thé evening dusk, clet that burned his finger. “Qh, Charlie!” cried Violet, in her silver voice, coming half-way down the steps to meet him, “I thought you would never come! I have something wonderful, miraculous to tell you! Something you will be so glad and so surprised to hear! Guess!” and as the moon, which had long been brightening in the east, just then poured a golden radiance into the per fumed dark, its light fell on a lovely face all aglow with joy and excitement, ten times more beautiful than it had ever been before, “ Guess!’ she repeated, “before you tak another step!” and her eyes shone and her cheeks were flushed, and she stamped -her little fodt: with an imperious air as néw to her as it was becoming. ‘«@uess!” answered Charlie, fy omen do you take me fora Yankee? Well, I guess that Florence has been found,” and he glanced co- vertly at his left hand, hoping that it would prove his conjecture was true, and the wild girl had repented of her freak and re- turn : ed, “No,” said Violet, almost petulantly,” it is nothing about her. It is something very, very, -very important, indeed—to me!” . He looked at her more closely, fairly starting as a thought finally flashed over him. “Violet, can it be that you have heard any thing about your: parentage, to please y so?” “Ah, I knew you would find out! Charlie, I don’t care to go in, do you? Let us walk here on the piazza while I tell you something which papa says I may tell you, and you only.” She took his arm and they paced back and forth in the moonlight; her heart was so full that at first she could find no words; they had gone the length of the”piazza twice, when she paused at the further end, and all in a glow of smiles and tears, sobbed out: ‘ Charlié, I have found my mother! I have seen her+-kissed her —she has held me in her arms this ‘very day. Oh, Charlie, I am ‘the happiest girl in the whole wide world!” ~ ‘ “You hhve found your mother!” repeated Charlié, quite sufficiently astonished, and con- scious of a jealous pang even in the midst of his surprise. ‘Amd is she—do you—is she—” _ “Yes, yes! Shé is everything adorable, Char- lie. Oh, the loveliest, sweetest mother! Why, ff the angels had sent her down in answer to my prayers and dreams she could not be more nearly what I have imagined! I seem already to have known her always! Charlie, you must ses herto-morow. Sheis at the hotel. Madame D’Eglantine, they call her—for oh, Charlie! she is a French lady! Isn’t that strange?” “What! the French lady, so rich and so elegant, with her maid and her carriage, the best rooms in the house, the landlord flattered | to death to have her in his hotel, of whom I have heard so much in the last few days? Mad- ame D’Eglantine your mother; Violet! Well, now, I shall look for the end of the world to come next!” ‘¢-You think she is too good for me?” asked the girl, with a pout of the rosy lip that was ravishingly pretty in Charlie’s eyes. ed “Violet, you know I should not think a queen too good to be your mother, but-I am so astonished! It will-‘take me days to realize it. Why did she never | Why has she come, now? come before? You see, it is quite enough to puzzle one!” ; “True; I have all those things to explain to you—only I don’t half understand them yet, myself. However, papa says ‘it is all right; and only in deference to the interests of an- other person, that he does not tell me all now. He says I shall know everything in a very few weeks, Meantime I am at liberty to share our secret with you; but you must breathe not a word of’ it until papa gives you permission. Oh, my beautiful mamma! F wanted to go and 28, wh ' sored .. | mine by doubting his word. " azee, where she “was pacing back and Have you seen her, " eT doubt. oe 5 ED a. ee a AT a at forth ow I must tell yaatearbure Cuneta | a - Peete S = | © ty. z : \? Asin i? if Si . » / ae I By Aes aH 3 eit s M be Fate Eh Ae ses Sit dF Ay vrs -2Ne ne le JSS aa EPIRA oy eae ae aS Oe C: FES Cash? EN FP ee Om with the hateful cir- | looked at her with his soul in his eyes, a | me, do you not, fio inly. 2 a S| “ ‘«, r . ie oF SP aS: Scevl, > apy Hares ue: parents you all the little'I myself know,” and cYinging to his arm, while they resumed their prome nade, she poured out the fullness of her heart. 9 into her lover's sympathetic ear. Sip ‘ ae Her lover! the words are written, for such == » Charlie Ward felt himself to be before hecame __ Bs, in sight of the white-robed girl who awaited him on the piazze, and more and more every | eS moment, as he watched the kindling eyes and heard the silver tones, and saw whata luster happiness added to that pure face. SAC with his own It caused him a severe struggle wen impulses not to catch the sweet story-teller to his bosom, and tell her howhe loved her, inthe © same breath with his congratulations. She seemed almost to expect something of the kind, as they fihally stood by the rose-wreathed rail- ing, he uttering his warm good-wishes, with faltering voice that made her look down and idly-pull to pieces the dewy flowers, while her fair face was fairer than a lily’s in the moon- light, and hér slim figure, in its soft white — dress, palpitated visibly with joy and fear. Better would it have been for both, perhaps, had he yielded to the longing of his heart, and told Violet how dear she wastohim, = But two reasons restrained the tender words which trembled on his lips, },He felt that this was no time to win from his companion a prom- ise to be his own; she would never suspect him of mercenary motives, but this now mother and Mr, Vernon might very properly question his right, under the circumstances, to speak to her before consulting them, They might say: “You were slow to make up your mind when — the shadow of a dark doubt lay over the girl’s s origin, but now that you find her the inheritor _— of an ancient lineage and a princess’ fortune, you are .quick, indeed, to make up your mind that you love her!” Therefore,’ he felt that he had best keep silence, now, though every sweet look and appealing accent of the confiding girl __ made the task more difficult. Then, too, thera was the ring of Florence Goldsborough! He must wear it, and he must not tell any one, even Violet, that he had been asked to wear it —duped into it, in fact, for some not evident While Violet, all fair, and soft, and ie eet! stood scattering over her white dressthe pink ‘petals of the perfumed flowers, and Charlie sudden movement of his hand caused the ring to flash in the moonlight, and drew her glance to it. She caught his haud; he forced a laugh — and attempted to draw it away—why is it, in such emergencies, people always do the very light. ‘‘ Charlie, this is Florence’s mng!” + 0 “ Yes—and the worst of it is, I have prom- ised to wear it untilshe returns.” pe levee Violet’s clear eyes attempted tosearch those _ of her companion, but he looked away in af- — fected carelessness. When she spoke again her — was so changed thatit startled him—low, d, sad—and her sweet face was paleanddull: = _ “Do you know when she will return, Char- | lie? If so, you should give some clueto her _ | distracted parents. Did she give you this, last _ night? 1 know she did, forI noticed it on her hand when she went away.” : B. ran ‘She lent me this, last evening; but she did not tell me thatshe was going away. I rae ees no more about her than you do, Violet. Itwas foolish ‘of me to take her ring—you know how young people are always jesting—and neither of us meant anything serious by it.” . ye **T suppose you will send it to her parents, then?” : ; (Hed ye ae “No,” answered Charlie, desperately, feel, == ing that he was being sacrificed to an unlucky = | promise, “I told Florence, upon my wordand = | honor, I would wear it until I'saw her i Sey oagel and Inmst. When I said it, { did not dream — | that I should be in possession of the ring more than twenty-four hours. You believe — Violet?” « Lebeau gees I can not insult a friend: of
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a ee _. BLACK EYES AND BLI ways favored you above all others,” and then | she began to talk of other matters—not brightly and blushingly as she had been doing—with an air of reserve and weariness. It was to poor Charlie as if the little cloud, no bigger than a man’s hand, which had sailed across the moon, had chilled the warm earth, and was destined to grow and grow until the heayens were blotted out. Violet shivered, as ifshe too had grown cold; he was forced to suggest that‘she had better go inside; she did not object, and so, he wished her a wistful good-night on the steps, and walked away, op- pressed and sad. # Violet, who had said to. herself an hour be- fore that she was the happiest girl in the land, crept up to her’ room and threw herself on her bed, sick at heart, jealous, wretched. “She had not dreamed there was such passionate emotion +o be suffered az the love and despair which for the first time fevered her. gentle nature. ‘‘ Hither Charlie is a heartless trifler, and has deceived Florefice as well as me, or there is, something between those two!” she said to her- _.self, Over and over again. Tf the subtle Florence—who had planned for precisely these effects—had poisoned her ring with one of the slow and dreadful, the surely fatal poisons of some oriental sorceress, she could hardly have made the wearer more rest- less under its prgssure; or produced deeper dis- tress in the loving nature of a rival. Unhappy as the wanderer. doubtless was, _wherever hiding at that hour, uncertain of her own future, and bent on desperate attainments, her great black eyes would have burned with an evanescent flash of triumph could she have | witnessed the parting of the lovers on that evening. Down in the bottom of her turbulent soul she had vowed to have revenge on Violet for all the ills which had befallen herself, and be- hold! here was one of her purposes already taking shape and sitting, like a vampire, on the breast of her innocent rival. But, at least, however miserable, one girl was safe at home, under the shelter.of her adopted father’s roof, while the other—who | knows what dangers followed, like blood- hounds, the trail.of the other, who had been so rashas to flee from the only safe refuge of girl- hood, her mother’s arms? : CHAPTER VI. MASQUERADING—-WITH A VENGEANCE, _A VERY curious adventure had Redmond Rhodes as he was returning to his residence _—facing Gramercy Park, New York—about “midnight on the night of the fourth of June, ,,He had been to the,Academy of Music, but a few streets below, to listen to Nillson, in Mar- guerite—there being a very krief season of summer opera, and he. being passionately fond ‘of music—and was passing up the brown-stone steps—guarded by stately lions-—of his statelior - house, when he stumbled over a prostrate fig- ure lying half-on the upper step and half on the | threshold. The figure could not have been there.many policeman pacing his rounds, whose steps could now be heard, a few rods away. clamation of mingled surprise and impatience —for Mr. Rhodes took it for granted that the prostrate woman’ was either intoxicated, or | ‘ worse—he stooped, and drew her partially into ° a sitting posture, turning her face toward the moon, which shone down from over the trees in the park with » light like that of a softer | day. At the same time he rang the door-bell | rather sharply, with the intention of telling James, his man, to speak to the officer and have the vagabond taken off to the station-house, But by the tinie James had opened the door his master had changed his mind about sending | for the policeman. He had seen something very odd indeed when he turned the face, half-hidden in the depths of @ gray silk Quaker bonnet, so that the moon- beams fell uponit, He had seen that the figure was scarcely larger than a child’s, that the face was pale, the eyes closed, the woman or girl, or ghatever she was, unconscious. He had no- ? 4 : : Wey With an ex- | | ticed that her dress was that of a neat old lady from.the rural regions; probably, from the bou- net, and the prudish shawl pinned about the | Shoulders, a Quaker; but he had also observed | of jetty ringlets that looked strangely out of | place against the wrinkles plainly to be seen on | she is too. respectable for the station-house,” , did not take long, after that, for Mr. Rhodes to | into my hands! minutes or it would have been observed by the | , He administered brandy. in doses of a few ' not too flurried to notice critically, while doing a certain incongruity which had aroused his curiosity: a pair of spectacles had fallen from the closed eyes.and a ‘‘front” of gray hair had become sadly disarranged, being quite pushed to one side by her fall, revealing an abundance the pallid forehead. “James,” said Mr. Rhodes; as his man open- ed the door and remained stupidly staring at the unexpected tableau on the steps, ‘‘ help me to take in this poor old lady. ‘She bas fallen down.and fainted away at my very door.” She’s most likely a vagrant,” the careful James ventured to remonstrate; ‘‘’adn’t I best just .call.a’ officer, sir?” é “She is no common tramp, James; I can see that. No, I think we ought-to take her in, and make an effort to revive her—at once.’ She will die if she is negleeted many minutes, See! “Sure enough, sir, ’ere’s her pocket-book a- dropped out o’ ’er pocket; an’ it seems stuffed full enough,” cried the man, picking up a full wallet, as he bent over to assist in raising the woman. ‘ ‘Perhaps she has arrived on alate train— thought she- knew her way to a, friend’s house, but lost it, and became frightened and tired | out. It would be a shame to neglect her. Lift her feet gently, James, and we will place her on the lounge in the library; is there a light there?” “Yes, sir. My! what little bits o’ feet, Mr Rhodes! - She isn’t much of a weight, is she, sir?” ‘Not much. Now, thatis right—here! Run and close and loek the hall-door, James; and then bring me a spoon and.a bottle of brandy or wine from the pantry. Quick! And wet a napkin in cold water, James, to lay on her forehead.” The man moved with the softiand steady ra- pidity of a well-trained servant, to obey these orders, while Mr. Rhodes took off the stiff (Quaker bonnet, laid the head of the unconscious stranger low, so as to facilitate the return of , the blood to the brain, felt the faint, almost suspended pulse, and vaguely wondered at the | dimpled, roundness of the little wrist, and at | the mass of raven hair which came down when the bonnet was removed, and fell in a rippling tide. on either side of the queer little brown, wrinkled face. .His yague wonder increased and grew, posi- tive when James brought the wet napkin, and his master, wiping the wrinkled brow with it, wiped eyery one of those wrinkles away! Jt understand the false front and the black hair. ‘Poor foolish child!” he muttered, to him- self. . “Some reckless or unfortunate girl in disguise! I’m afraid this masquerading will prove sorry work for her. It is well she fell If that officer bad discovered her, she would have figured in the police-court | to-morrow.” While thinking this ho was working also, drops, rubbed the slender wrists, bathed the smooth forehead; and, being a calm personage, of mature years and cold temperament, was these things, the exceeding grace of the trim little form, the velvet fineness of the skin, the extraordinary length of the black lashes which | » | finally began’ to quiver as they rested on the | ivory cheeks, When a pair of dusky blue eyes suddenly flew wide open and fixed themselves inquiringly on his face, Redmond Khodes thought to himself, not without displeasure: “Hore is a first-class adventure! I am afraid | I have been rash; I am certain “that this is an embarrassing situation! What is to-follow, I wonder? Ah! the lady must have friends near at hand-——she will give me their address—lI will send James to take care of her—she will hasten to fly to them—and I shall be out of this awk- ward predicament.” . ae In | Basier planned than executed, Mr. Redmond. 4 Rhodes! Among all the staid and irreproachably-re- spectable citizens of the metropolis, there was none—not one!—who stood more calmly secu? and above reproach than this wealthy bachelor, with his forty years, his quiet habits, his sump- tuous income and his. grim and stately mansion on Gramercy Park. Never, in all his dignified , life, had he been guilty of an imprudence. He had a clear-conscience, now, as he sat by the lounge, bathing that fair foreheadand giy- img those tiny doses of brandy; yet he felt that the situation was becoming awkward, especially — after the dark, dreamy eyes had opened, and a silver voice, tremulous and sweetly-broken, had ynurmured ; “ Father!” “T am not your father, Rhodes, a little hoarsely The great black eyes opened a little wider, child,” said Mr. ‘the curved lips paited—for a moment there was silence on his part, speculation and return- ing memory on hers—with a gasp, a moan, she struggled into a sitting posture and clasped her two little hands together. _ ‘* Take this,” ordered Mr, Rhodes, presenting & spoonful of liquor. : She swallowed it, and then her eyes glanced wildly about the beautiful, strange room and - back to his anxious countenance. “Are you a doctor?’ she asked. ‘“‘ Where / am I? Oh, what has happened to me?” “Nothing very serious, I trust, my dear young lady. I found you, ,insensible, on my doorstep, on my return from the opera a few minutes ago,” “Oh, what will you think of me, sir?’ she eried, putting her hand to her head to feel for the false front, and darting swift glances about her, at the Quaker bonnet, and at him, “Nothing very bad; that is, if this is your _ first escapade, and you promise not to go out masquerading in this style again, Young la- dies cannot be too prudent in their conduct— and you are very young, I should say,” for a flush of shame was kindling in her cheeks, and as her color came back, with some of the glo- rious, liquid light to her large eyes, he saw more plainly how much of agirl she was—and what a pretty one! covered you before the policeman came around, or you would be brought up in court for this indiscretion, Now, give me the address of your friends, child; and my man shall go out for a calriage and take you home at once.” “T have no friends! I have no home!” she sobbed. .. ‘ ‘* How is this?’ he demanded, sternly, ‘At least, I could not go to them tonight, sir. .They are far, far away. . And I never will go back to them. No, no! I will throw , myself into the river first, I cannot tell you all—only that I have run away from my home | in disguise—not for‘any fault or sin of my 6wn! —believe me, I was driven away by the sins of others|—and I came to this great city because I thought I could hide here more effectually . | than anywhere else, I had money, and: I thought it would be easy to find a safe and respectable boarding-place. But they all want- ed references, or would not take me because I was a woman, all alone; and it was after dark, ' and I grew afraid to go to any more houses; — and so I walked and walked, and I was so tired _ and hungry and frightened that at last I knew I must go in somewhere, and I went where the houses looked safe and nice—and I suppose I fainted away as I was going to ring your door- sir, ” ; “You should have told your story to some police-officer. He would have found you a stopping-place. As it is, that step will have to be taken yet to-night. . And here it is, one o- clock,” “Do not send meaway with a strange officer, at this hour of the night,” she begged, flinging herself at his feet before he could reach out @ hand to prevent her. ‘Ihave gone through so much to-day. You seem kind; do let me stay here until morning. Where is your wifel Surely, she will pity me, and allow me to Te main. _ But, my child, I have.no wife, There's the difficulty, Iwould not think of permitting you. * “It is fortunate for you that I dis- - 4 nn a ? x
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—— aaa little girl he had found on his door- Pp. Mrs, Plimpton dared not disobey the letter of her master’s instructions, but she did the spirit. Ungraciously as possible she brought some cold chicken, a biscuit and glass of wine to the “‘little impostor,” as in her own mind ‘she dubbed one whom we know to be innocent of any guilt, if passionate and rash, The stranger choked down a few mouthfuls of food, drank the wine—for she still felt dizzy and sick —and followed with faltering steps where the nigel led, to a bedroom on the third oor, ‘You can sleep here,” said Mrs, Plimpton. “Tm across the hall—if you want me in the night, come and knock on my door. Here’s your pocketbook; Jamies picked it off the step, ere seems to bé some money in it; bolt your door ; there may be burglars.” Ps “Yes, ma’am, I will,” said a meek voice, Pm 80 sorry you had to be aroused to attend tome. If I dared, ma’am—if you would not be offended—I would offer you some of this: ceed , in return for the trouble I have made “We, in this house, never take no presets,” ‘aid the housekeeper, loftily. ‘But if you’ve 80t a good conscience, and have a mind to con- te your mite to my church, for a Sunday offering, I won't refuse it, as a Christian.” The little stranger drew out a five-dollar bill and thrust it eagerly into her hand, and Mrs, | 4 n still amazed at her master’s folly. CHAPTER VIL THE TABLES TURNED. CoNJECTURE ran riot in the little New Hamp- shire village for weeks after the disappearance of Florence Goldsborough. It was evident to | the dullest comprehension that something very | strange was transpiring in the history of the Goldsborough family. sdaughter’s flight the mother went to some rel- | atives of hers at New York, for a long visit. | This was followed by the announcement that the banker had concluded to change his placo of residence and was advertising for some man, | with money, to buy out his banking business in | Lycurgus, Such a person was found; and, on the first of August, Mr. Hthan Goldsborough retired from the bank, with a snug little for- | tune of seventy-five thousand dollars, and leayv- ing his residence in the hands of an agent, to dispose of at the first opportunity, be bade a feeling adieu to his minister, his brother dea- cons, and all his long list of friends and flat- terers, who expressed their deep regret. at the loss of so excellent and substantial a citizen. Nor had the voice of gossip been entirely si- lent with regard to the great and sudden inti- macy which had sprung up between the Ver- nouns and the French lady at the hotel. Lycurgus was haunted by summer-boarders during “‘the season,” and Madame D’Eglantine was not the only stylish, wealthy lady stop- ping at the Lycurgus House; but she was cer- tainly the lion of the hotel and the village. A woman of such winning manners, great per- sonal beauty, absolutely o>rrect taste in dress, possessed of such rare jewels and reported to be the owner of old esiates in her native country half as large az a small province, would naturally make a sensation in almost any community. In lLycurgus her every movement was noted by a phalanx of curious admirers. It was said that the grave lawyer, so long devoted to the memory of his young wife who had died so shortly after their marriage, was wildly in love with the charming madam—or her estates—and encouraged a friendship be- tween her and his pretty adopted daughter as an excuse for himself being often in her com- pany. Certain it was that after her second visit to Madame D’Eglantine—that visit during which the fetters which the yearning mother had placed on her own lips were unlocked, and her whole. story, names excepted, poured in the ear of the astonished girl—Violet was daily, and for hours each day, in the French lady’s society. Their affection for each other was ap- parent; yet, curiously enough, no one suspect- ed the fact that Violet might have found her mother, at last. Finally, on the sixth of August, the court sat in an adjacent county-town; and it was from there the story came, breaking over Lycurgus, like thunder out of a clear sky. The French lady was Ethan Goldsborough’s first and true wife; Violet was their child; and the lady had now applied for papers of separa- tion which would allow him to do justice to the deceived woman who, for so many years, had yogarded herself as his legal and only wife. were revealed and proven in court, were seized upon and devoured by the hungry neighbors of the absconded banker. Well for him that he had taken himself away in time! he had dared public opinion by remaining, the fate of “‘old Floyd Oirson” would have been his— ‘““Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart.” His poor daughter Florence-was: now pitied, _ BLACK EYES AND BLUE. Not long after her | drive her into deeper sin!” was the general tenor of the comments upon her case. Lo! Mr. Vernon had good reason, with that complicity suit on his hands, to consult the beautiful stranger frequently; while the friend- ship between the two ladies was most fully ex- | plained! And so! Violet, the flower of the vil- | lage, the favorite of young and old, was des- | tined to be a great lady and a great heiress! And so! the good lawyer who had taken her, dripping, from Silver Creek, and brought her | up as his own, was likely to receive a rich re- ' | ward from the gratitude of the mother! How | interesting! And every light and shade, every | possibility and impossibility of the affair, was* | dwelt upon with lingering relish. Meantime, | the case went into court so fortified by proofs: already prepared, that in three days the long~ rusted link was legally broken, and madame | had received the right to assume her own family name, under which she was already known.” And Violet Vernon was Violet D’- Eglantine, by special permission —forshe would not claim or bear her father’s dishonored name —and, reluctant to desert the adopted father to whom she was far more tenderly bound than te | her mother, had persuaded Madame D’Eeglantine to beconte a visitor at Mr. Vernon’s during the ' ree period of her proposéd further stay in the { age. ° "4 | Time fairly flew. To poor, weary, life-worn | madam, his wings seemed made of thistle- ' down, glittering whitely and silently im the blue air, leaving no sign, making no noise, | She was resting, and heavenly happy, after | years of unquiet and misery. But the middie of September came all too s00n; when the measure of the idyl must be changed. Her plans, as far as she had made any, were to spend the winter in New York, keeping Violet vith her, and to return to France the following summer. Convinced of Mr, Vernon’s strict integrity— | unwilling to separate him entirely from Violet. —anxious to repay some of her money obliga- | tions to him, she had offered him the agency of her estates at a salary quadrupling his modest income as @ village lawyer. The offer had not | yet been accepted; Mr. Vernon was a “crea- | ture of habit,” and it was hard work to uproot. ; his life from its native soil. But the temptation was great in two ways; he knew that he should like the gain of » larger experience after the first effort was made: and his home could never again be really his home to him after the bright girl had deserted it who had so long been its sunshine. He saw ‘and acknowledged that the retired village | where she had hitherto grown like a wild blos- som was no longer a suitable residence for a young lady with Violet’s prospects." Destined to queenship, she must learn to rule. The art of trailing the courtly robe and wearing the | insignia of rank must be acquired. . She was | her mother’s girl, now. If the thought gave | him many a keen pang it gave him also many | athrob of proud delight. Violet would be a lady, lovely as the loveliest, proud and pure— stately, perhaps, as the years wore on—but al- | ways with a sweet charm of her own, like that of the moss in which the richest rose half-vails its pocrless beauty. The fifteenth of September, as we say, came | all too quickly; the lawyer had not made up All the details of the scandalous history, as they | So surely as | his mind; but when madam’s baggage came down into the wide old hall, and among it one modest trunk with “V. V.” painted on it, his doubts vanished in one sudden resolve. “T shall join you in New York before the ' first_ of October,” he said, when he came into the dinner-table, and the motives of her flight better under- | + stood, “Poor child! poor, sensitive, petted child! She could not bear to show her innocent face among those who would so soon learn her fath- | er’s infamy! Ah, where had she fled, poor young thing? Pray Heaven to keep her in the right path, and that her father’s sins might not “That is settled!” Violet jumped out of her chair and ran | around to give him a hug. “Cannot you g6 with us to-morrow, papa?’ “Tinpossible. Two weeks will be litile enough time to close up nty affairs here, FE must find a tenant for the house—the books must be boxed—including those at the office —” Oh, papa, what ‘will become of Charlie?” eried Violet, interrupting. ‘ ‘(He will have to place himself in some other lawyer's office, I suppose. Poor Charlie! he’s , very blue about our desertion of him. I told * ¢ 3 -
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“ could ask to seo! the temptation, and resign law in Lycurgus, with the brilliant prospect of a judgeship just before me!” . “Yet he has not been here for a week—Char- lie has not,” thought the beautiful girl, going back to her plate, slowly, with downcast eyes, ** Oh, how cold, how distant he has been, late- ly! Blue? Papa need not flatter himself it is on our account! I do not wonder that he is blue, since he has learned all that wickedness ‘of Florenée’s father ”—Violet never could, fora single moment, then or thereafter, think or feel that Ethan Goldsborough was her father, also! ‘Perhaps he has had bad news from Florence herself. If he is low-spirited it is | about her—not about me!” and the. blinding tears rushed into her eyes, as they had got into | a foolish habit of doing. Very little dinner did Violet eat that day. | Every mouthfyl was aneffort. It was notonly that Charlie had kept away so much, recentiy; | but this was the last day at home, and, fond as she was of her new-found mother, eager to taste the joys of the world, her heart clung to home, and seemed breaking when she thought that she was leaving it forever. As soon as the dinner was done with-—they dined at two o’clock in that primitive village— she told her mother, who usually indulged»in a siesta from three to four, that she was going | out for a farewell stroll through her favorite haunts, It was a glorious September day. The deep- blue sky fairly burned with intense luster. The morning had been cool in that mountain- ous region—frost, the night previous, had sly- ly loosened the forest leaves which it had paint- ed, and, all day, like gorgeous, lazy butterflies, those leaves of scarlet, purple and crimson had slowly floated and settled down. Violet took a path through the fields back of | the house, which brought her out, sooner than | the village street would have done, tothe banks of Silver Creek, a short distance below the bridge, and, on the edge of the woods. Far off the blue hills stood dimly agaizst the more blue horizon; the stream, strewn with fallen leaves, sung dreamily, like a lady in love, to itself, between grassy banks, along one of which the path led on into the woods. The | place was the frequent haunt of the villagers; | not a shadow of fear, any more than as if she had been in her own garden, fell on Violet’s ‘ mind, as she wandered along the well-known way, thinking of her brief past and her strange , future—a dreaming girl on the verge of wo- | manhood, and the sweetest picture ever seen | between sunlight and shadow as she finally sat herself in a grapevine swing not far from the ruins of the old mill, where she and her moth- | er had once béen so near to meeting their | doom. ' As sweet a picture as painter, poet or lover | The fair, fair face, half- drooped in reverie, the bright hair glistening and waving in the breeze, the slender, girlish figure, in its white dress, looking like a spirit’s, 80 lightly poised in the swing—great bunches of purple grapes almost touching the golden head, and framing, with their green leaves and dark-red tendrils, the whole airy picture—the | little, meekly-folded hands; the tiny, slippered | feet—no wonder Charlie Ward, coming to the house five minutes too late and following in | swift pursuit, paused long to look and love, | adore and glorify. But Charlie saw more than the girl’s beauty | add adorability; he saw the jewels flashing about the lily throat and on the little hands, placed there by a haughty mother, who had , doubtless planned a splendid marriage, some day, for her beautiful daughter and heiress. For young Ward, in addition to his other | doubts and troubles, saw, or fancied he saw, that Madame D’Eglantine despised him— ‘‘4 youth, to fortune and to fame unknown,” and sought quietly, without giving the affair the shape of words, to discourage a sentiment ‘which she was resolved should never amount to anything serious. The mother discounte- | ‘nanced him—the daughter doubted him! Char- lie stood, his heart in his eyes, the shadow of his trouble darkening his frank face, nervously ' yw ; Ma) ) | wayward woodland wind waving the light- brown curls on his almost boyish forehead— scarcely knowing whether to creep away with- out speaking the farewell which, at best, must be but a hollow, half-way expression of his feelings, or whether to risk all on one rash burst of love’s young eloquence. While he hesitated, two pearly tears gather- ed and fell on the face before him, and her lips parted in a low, soft cry: ** Charlie! Charlie!” Z He knew that she was unaware of his pre+ sence—unaware, indeed, that she had spoken aloud—but her voice told him all; that she loved him, reproached him, wondered at his | absence! What did he care then for the mother's — | haughty smile of patronage, for the ring burn- ing so wickedly on his hand? “Violet,” he answered, to her inmost | thought, and starting, the tear-brimmed eyes | met his; soul spoke to soul; no need of words | of explanation. He held out his hand, and | Violet, slowly slipping from the swing, whose purple clusters had kissed her golden bead, eame coyly forward and gave him her own. | | He drew her to him, and for the first time | their hearts each felt the throbbing of the oth- | er, while the happiest moment possible to any | human life—the first moment of knowing and feeling for the first time that we are beloved— fled swiftly over them. Oh, rapturous mo- ment! ; A thrill ran through the quiet woodland, the leaves whispered, the stream laughed softly, a bird high up in a scarlet maple burst into a trill of exultation, Presently Violet, with cheeks colored like carnations, and a little sweet, shy laugh to hide | her confusion, drew away from the arms press- | | ing her too tenderly. You will let me take Florence’s ring from | your finger now, Charlie?” and she made a’play- ful move to do se, : * That is the only thing you could have ask- ed me which I would not do joyfully for you, Violet. a reason, which I am not at liberty to tell any one, why I must wear the ring until I see Flor- ence. But it is not—Violet, I swear to you it is not because I have any interest in her, or that there ever was any understanding between us.”” $ “You expect me to be satisfied with that, Charlie—and yet allow you.to wear her ring and to have a secret about it?’ They were walking along the path now, to- ward the village. Violet was not suspicious by nature; but just in proportion to her love for the one by her side was her intense joalousy about the ring. “JT would like my Violet—ifshe is mine—to trust me!” said the lover, trying to take her hand as he spoke. She folded her arms before her, looking at the path, not at him. “Tf you cannot trust me in so littlea matter, Violet, how can you confide your whole life and happiness to my keeping?” “T have not promised to do that yet, Mr. Ward,” she answered. ‘‘ Violet!” he spoke, almost sternly, stopping and standing before her so that she, too, was obliged to pause. ‘‘Do you love me?” For a moment the soft, clear blue eyes were raised to his with a look he had never seen in them before; her lips trembled; but when she answered him her voice was steady and cold: **- You have no right to ask me ‘that question as long as you wear another girl’s ring. And I will not reply to it as long as you do.” ‘“‘Very well, Violet. Let the subject be dropped between us, them. If you have no , confidence in me, you can have no real love for ‘me, Imay as well bid you good-by hore as anywhere. You leave in the morning, I be- lieve. Good-by, and—and—a pleasant winter to you, Miss D’Eglantine.” The fiery pride which struggled with his love could not quite prevent the choking of his voice over the last words. \ “s << Sy ete ame 4 Shang Why did you think ef that? There is | | She remained rooted to the spot, believing that he could not really be gone. Yet she had driven him away. She had ended her own hap- piness—quarreled with Charliel—and about what? Ah, that dreadful.ring! Was it not destined to be associated, in her family, with sorrow and tragedy? Her mother had noticed the ring on Charlie’s hand, some time ago, and had declared it to be an heirloom of the D’Hglantines, and the very ring which Ethan, in their mad | flight, unprovided with another, had married her with, and afterward basely robbed her of. Yes, her mother had asked Charlie to restore her ring to her, and he had politely, but firmly, declined! Yet he expected, under these strange circumstances, that she would be content to sea him wear it, and demand no explanation, But indignation could not make Violet less miserable. She stood there, angry, suspicious, jealous, yet in love all the same, vaguely hop- ing and expecting that Charlie would :eturn and make some sufficient apology, and they would be happy again. Five minutes passed, She did hear a step approaching, and then, perverse as her sex is sure to be under such circumstances, she would not turn—she would not yield an inch! | Then some one spoke to her, but it was not Charlie. A voice which she only half recognized said: “Will my daughter do me the first favor her father has ever\asked of her—grant me a few minutes’ interview?” She wheeled about and stood face to face with—Mr. Goldsborough. | A strange, creeping chill of dislike ran through her when she heard herself addressed as his daughter. Her first impulse was to scream and run, but she conquered it. “Come!” said he, and he did look ill and worn. ‘‘Iam in trouble, and I want only te talk with you a little while. I did not care to venture in sight of those who know me. It would make scandal and excitemené for noth- ing. Walk along the path with me a little way, while I give you the message which I wish you to take from me to your mother.” Very reluctantly sho turned and walked with him. And Lycurgus hau another sensation that night. It was in a fair way to “sup full of horrors ”—when the church-bells rung at nine o'clock that evening, and the news flew from mouth to mouth that Violet D’Eglarcine had gone into the woods fora ramble and had not come out. All night the villagers, led by Char- lie and Mr. Vernon—both of them nearly mad ‘with anxiety—searched the grove, the pond, the stream, but found nothing. CHAPTER VIII THE BELLE PETITE AND THE DRAGON. Tue little adventuress awakened early in the strange room in which Mr. Rhodes’ housekeeper had ‘put her to sleep, Fatigue had given ker some hours of sound repose, but . the light steps of the first servant who descended from the at- ' tic to the regions below aroused her, and she had at least two hours for meditation before | Mrs, Plimpton knocked at her door with word | that it was time to rise. | Inthose two hours Florence Goldsborough did ages of hard thinking. She had a clear | head, like her father, and something of his lack of moral principle. As yet sbe had never done anything really bad; she» shrunk from wicked | things with the sensitiveness of a young person reared in a strict and critical New England community; but she had little of that innate modesty which distinguishes many girls of her age; and none of that keen perception of the ‘right which would prevent her from commit- | ting a thousand small deceptions and shams for | the sake of accomplishing her wishes. \ | That she had plenty of energy ang executive | ability was proven by the success with which | she had planned and carried out her flight from See / bay, " 7 L
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ee 4 oe Ley her great, velvety eyes, soft as dark-purple violets after the dew of sleep, roving about the elegant chamber, drinking in, with a sense of luxurious delight, the details of its decoration and furniture, her busy mind ran over a thou- sand improbable plans for retaining the foot- bold she had secured in this house. ““{ must stay here!” she said, over and over again; ‘‘I will stay here! He said he had no wife. What a proud man he is!—not hand- some, but better than handsome—a perfect king! It’s a revelation to poor, ignorant little me! I did not dream there were any such Men! Yes, lam going to stay! I will stay! “Mrs, Plimpton don’t like me. She will want to hurry me off--but I am not to go. Did not Josephine foresee that she was to be an ®mpress when she was only a poor young girl? | She believed in her destiny, and so do I in mine! I have been wronged--wickedly, cruel- ly wronged. A girl whom I hate has my mame and my rights; but I will triumph over them all; I will; la belle petite is not to be put down! She will live, thrive, triumph—she will be empress yet!” La belle petite jumped softly out of bed and stole to the mirror. “Providence has given me a gift which oth- ers cannot take away,” she murmured, as she azed at herself in the glass. « ‘‘ They may take my father, my name, my fortune—they can- Not take my beauty! My beauty shall be to me what the sword of the warrior is to him— it shall conquer the world for me. \ “Ah, yes, la belle petite, you are very beau- tiful—there’s no denying that!” and she con- tinued to gaze at her image lovingly, caressing- ly. “‘My face is my fortune, kind sir, she said.” No pale, expressionless blonde, like Vio- le", could be as attractive as I am. A man might look forever into my eyes and he could never see to the bottomof them. How lustrous and large they are this morning! And what @ color [have! I wonder if this Mr. Rhodes— forty years old. if he is a day!—ever saw eye lashes with such a curl to them as mine have} Hight o'clock!” looking at her tiny gold watch, which she drew from under her pillow, ‘and No signs of life in this house yet. They keep luxurious hours here. Hark! there is! my friend, the housekeeper, now—coming to call me up, Yes, ma’am, I’m awake, and quite ‘well, thank you. I’ll be dressed in a few mo- Ments.” j ““T’ll come for you in twenty minutes, Miss,” Said Mrs, Plimpton, on the other side of the door, ‘We. will have our breakfast to- gether,” : ‘ *‘Oh!” breathed Florence to herself, more disappointed than she cared to acknowledge, “of course I am not to breakfast with his king- ship. I seem to be ed quite in the light ofa beggar here. Supposo I should be dismiss- ed, after the charity of the morning meal, and not see him again, at all? But I will seo him!” added Miss Beauty, setting her little foot down, aecidedly. “I must t es must help myself. eee jeriomn hott! $ “What a shame that I have no other dress to put on,” she sighéd, as sheregarded with dis- ‘favor tho drab-silk garment which lay across a chair. Florence had optamead her disguises out of a chest of ancient costumes in the garret at home. “Lucky for me that I thought to put ose-colored ribbons in the pocket—they will 0 very well with the gray, after all.” She brushed out the purple-black hair into a thousand rippling tresses, pinned a little rose- Colored bow in their midst; donned the Quaker dress—which fitted her trim little figure exact- ly, for she had once altered it to wear to a Masquerade—placed another bow at the throat, assumed her watch and chain; the costly pink- oral earrings and necklace which had been her father’s last gift, and which she had secreted in , bosom along with the most of her jewelry. There!” she ejaculated, almost satisfied, “I 4m sure I look as fresh as if I had not fainted door-step last night,” Aen Mrs, Plimpton came for the stranger, pvely little lady, modest as arose and self- , aaa @ princess, opened the door of her and flashed out upon her, she was fair- aoe BLACK . Now, as she. lay on her lace-ruffled pillow, SSS eee ly surprised out of her severe expression of righteous condemnation. ‘‘ Well, I declare, Miss, you do look revived,” she stammered. ‘Call me Miss Goiden, please,” said Flor- ence; who had already decided fo assume that name, as having the initial engraved on her ,| possessions, and as being a compromise with the truth. ‘ Yes, thank you, I am quite re- covered from my illness, thanks to your care, Mrs. Plimpton.” “Tt’s a shame to make you eat here,” the housekeeper remarked, as she led the way down to the servants’ dining-room. Oh, I don’t mind it, ma’am—not for once,” murmured Florence. ‘‘I am too grateful to have been sheltered here, and protected by a | nice, motherly person, like you, Mrs. Plimpton.” SE a ee ee ee ee ee ee eee eee SS SL SES | SS Ses “Just so. It seemed to me more properer you should eat with me than alone with mas- ter. It wouldn’t be just the thing, you see, Miss. He’ll have his coffee about nine o’clock, in the breakfast-room overhead.” Florence was burning to ask a hundred ques- tions about ‘‘the master;’ but she was too wise to betray her curiosity about him. She felt, by instinct, that the moment she showed the dragon—as, in her mind, she had already dub- bed Mrs. Plimpton—her interest in Mr. Rhodes she would excite her suspicions and shut off’ all further communications. So she demurely ate her eggs and toast, and sipped her coffee, saying nothing at all but “oh,” and * oh,” and ‘‘indeed;” yet before the meal was concluded she had learned that Mr. Redmond Rhodes owned the house in which he lived—-was véry rich—-was in no business—led a retired life—did not care for ladies’ society —was a highly-esteemed, solid citizen—and ex- pected to leave New York, on the evening boat, for a few weeks’ sojourn at Newport and other seaside resorts! ““Checkmated at the very beginning of the game!” thought little Florence. * And now, my dear young lady, what do you propose to do?” asked the dragon, when they had finished and were lingering over the table, : Florence cast a sweet, innocent, appealing look out of her long-fringed eyes at the Woman sitting grimly regarding her—clasped her pret- ty hands together, and said, sadly: “Ah, Mrs. Plimpton, you advise me. I know so little of the world!” ' “Tf you have a home the very best thing you can do is to return to it,” was the decided an- swer. ‘You are too young—too good-look- ing—though I don’t want to flatter you—to be wandering about like a lamb in a den o’ lions,” ‘“‘But-—supposing I cannot go home? And from no fault of my own?’ **Do you know how to doany kind of work?” snapped the housekeeper, looking at the soft little hands and the pink-coral jewelry. ‘No, indeed, Mrs. Plimpton. Iam an only daughter—at least, I—I always thought I was, until lately, and that’s what niakes the trouble, you see—but I can’t and I won’t explain it,” —rather incoherently—‘“ and the greatest pet, Mrs. Plimpton! Oh, Iam spoiled, I know!—a poor, petted, vain, spoiled darling—good for nothing practical. My father isa rich man— not rich like Mr. Rhodes—but a respectable banker. He did something wrong; I could not bear the disgrace; Iran away. i will never— never—never go back—not if Idie. I cannot work; but I have money to pay my board for a long time. Mrs. Plimpton I have just thonght of something!” “What is it, Miss? we “Tf Mr. Rhodes is really going away this af- ternoon, why cannot I remain here with you until his return, or just before his return? I need not see him again at all—I canstay inmy room all day. You might ask his permission. If he is so good and kind as he appeared last night he will make no objections, I will take one of the plainest rooms; and my meals with you; and reward you handsomely for all the trouble Iam to you. I shall-feel so safe with you—you can pass me off as your niece from the country, if you see fit. Then, probably, before Mr. Rhodes comes back you can place me with some acquaintance of yours—or—" _ EYES AND BLUE. | ” «Tet us hops, befére that, you will be among your own friends,” interrupted Mrs. Plimpion. “T see no objections to. keeping you, provided the master is willing. It’ be mighty lone- some for a young thing like you—nobody but me an’ two servants.” “JT shall be lonely wherever I am,” was the answer, while the dark eyes filled and the lit- tle mouth quivered. ‘All I ask is to be under the care of a respectable, Christian woman, I[ got so frightened yesterday; I did not know, until then, what it is fora girl to be alone. And, Mrs, Plimpton, remember! I am a lady —and must be treated as one. I shall prefer to take my meals with you; but the servants must understand that I do it from choice.” “Oh, certainly, Miss; any one could tell at a glance you was a lady. You shall have your own reom, an’ the others shall treat you as if you was master’s sister, as far as that goes. . Bui, -jirst; we must get his consent to your staying at all.” “T know that, dear Mrs, Plimpton. . And now I will.go to my room and remain there un- - | til Mx, Rhodes has breakfasted, and you tell me my fate. Is that the material for a cap,,in your séewing-basket?—then, let me take it with me, and make it up for you. I will not spoil , it; and I shall be so restless, with nothing to } do.” She carried the basket off with her. Fate must have smiled,on her maneuvers, for just before she came opposite a certain door on the first Janding, on her way to the third floor, it | opened, and Mr. Rhodes looked out on*somo er- rand of his own. Notwithstanding his vivid recollection of the scene of the previous night, a flash of surprise | and pleasure went over his sedate face as he saw the bright, pretty, blushing, shrinking lit- tle creature, who gave him a timid bow and hurried on as if anxious to escape his inquiring eyes. Why, what a marvelously-graceful little thing she was! And’ how young!—and how exceedingly pretty! ! “Jt is well for her I saved her from the sta-: tion-house!” he thought. ‘‘ But, what fol- lows?’ ae : He was pondering the question when he went down to breakfast. He ate his. meal like one balf-asleep. Hardly had he passed into the li- brary, afterward, when Mrs, Plimptén knock- ee and wanted to know if she could speak to im: "= “Really,” he said, when she had laid the stranger’s proposition before him, “I feel quite relieved. I was wondering what we would do with her. We cannot avoid all responsibility in cases of this kind, however much we may wish to. If you, Mrs, Plimpton, are willing to assume the trouble of her I see no further objection,” “‘ She won’t be any trouble to speak of, sir. And thank you, sir.” “Stay. Perhaps I had better have a short talk with the young lady. She will have hard work to deceive me. If I decide that she is no impostor you may keep her in the house with- out distrust.” “Ttll be very embarrassing for her to meet you, sir,” said the wise dragon. ‘She'd rather not, I know; for she told me so,” “Tf she has a clear conscience she ought not to dread any one,” said Mr. Redmond Rhodes. “Tf she shrinks from me it makes it the more imperative I should see her.” “‘That’s only her modesty, as a young girl, aH A Very well; when shall I bring her to you, sir : “* As soon as I have finished the morning pa- per; say in half an hour.” At the appointed time the housekeeper ap- peared with the fair adventuress. Mr. Rhodes arose from his chair, bowing courteously, and handed his visitor one by the table at which he had been staying; Mrs. Plimpton at a look from him retired. He retained the morning paper which he held in his hand, and, looking’ sharply into the velvety eyes that were timid- ly raised to his face, he said: «Miss Goldsborough, if Iam not mistaken?’ and red and pale again. © ‘ ‘ f a34 wt te er Satan re we a ae oo. aa y Florence sprung from her chair, turning pale: { Y al q r, gmk: Fes ook lig x) i -
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ee ie 7 Oe ee ! BLACK EYES AND BLUE. He smiled, and handeé her the paper, point- and looked keenly from its master to the lovely ing out a paragraph among the personals, “$500 Rewarp, for any information as to the whereabouts of my daughter Florence,aged six- i ' little lady who blushed and fled from the room, | not without throwing back a girlish, sparkling teen, small of stature, dark eyes and hair, who left | home on the night of the second of June, and is supposed to have gone to New York. Address “ETHAN GOLDSBOROUGH, Banker, . “Lycurgus, New Hampshire.” “See! how easily I can earn five hundred dollars this morning! I have but to lock you in your room and step around to the telegraph- office,” and he half-smiled. ‘ ‘But you will, not do it!” said the little girl, in a low voice, coming nearer to him, and fix- ing on him the full power of those splendid, winning eyes. ‘You will not do it, Mr, Rhodes.” “Why not?” «A gentleman like you will not care for the reward—not take it. You have no right toin- form on me, sir. It is true that I am not yet of age—a child, in the eyes of the law, subject to my parents—but I am nota child, really. I have judgment beyond my years; my father has forfeited all claims on my respect or obedi- ence; Imade up my mind to leave home on good grounds—ah, Mr. Rhodes, have mércy on me!—have a little confidence in me, as one able to judge for herself what she ought todo! You never had a sister, I am sure, or you would pity me,” She allowed two tears to brighten in her splendid eyes and gather slowly on the long- _ curved lashes, where they glittered for a mo- ment, like diamonds, before they fell. Then, with a pretty, imperious ion she dashed them from. her peachy cheeks with her lace handkerchief, and smiled at him coaxingly, like a child begging for sweets. “Tear out that advertisement, Mr. Rhodes, please; for if Mrs. Plimpton should see it ’m afraid the five hundred dollars would outweigh her friendship for me.” “Then I am not to telegraph to your fa- ther?” ; “Oh, thank you, sir! generosity.” Well, certainly, it was pleasant to have it in his power to please and gratify this little crea- ture. How her beautiful eyes kindled, and the scarlet threads came out in her dark, clear cheeks, and her whole expressive little figure and vivid, splendid little face breathed the gratitude and relief she felt! ; ‘*T hope I shali have no reason to regret yielding to your wishes—that you will be very prudent and careful, Miss Goldsborough. This is a censorious world; it will be easy for you to incur its frown.” “T shall not go out or come in—speak, smile, move—except as’ Mrs. Plimpton advises me. I’m quite certain, sir, the watch of thé dragon will be sufficiently strict! Indeed, after the lesson of’ yesterday, I’m horribly afraid of everybody, Mr. Rhodés. All I want is to hide myself. And, speaking of hiding—of course the detectives will he looking for me now, in hopes of the reward. Don’t you think this house, sir, is the very safest refuge for me in the whole city?’ “T do,” was the answer, after some reflec- tion—“‘that is, provided you remain inside of it, denying yourself all promenades,” T will not put my foot out of doors for a month, Mr. Rhodes.” You are an angel of ther. I am sorry for you. .I give you the freedom of the house—the library, music-room, picture gallery, and so forth.” “Ten thousand thanks, May I trouble you to tell Mrs. Plimpton so?—you see, I do not wish her to think I presume.” ‘“‘T will give her my orders on the subject. She shall treat you well. And now, good- morning, Miss—Goldsborough. I have some matters to attend to. Ah, Harold! how the deuce did you get in?—I did not hear you knock,” and in spite of a self-possession called | by acquaintances absolutely unassailable, a’ slight flush of embarrassment and chagrin rose in the face of Mr. Redmond Rhodes, as a dash- ‘ing, foppish, brilliant-looking gentleman of glance at the new-comer. “James admitted me by the usual means, | Redmond. “But Imust beg twenty pardons for | walking in here without warning, You see, I ' | | } | never suspected—I did not know—yow of all men! Ha! ha! Ha! But Idonot blame you. I shall never forget those eyes!—melted dia- monds—night and fire—how they flashed!” “You oblige me to explain,” said Rhodes, stiffly. ‘ CHAPTER IX, RED ROSDS AND STOLEN SWEETS, In every large city there are a few men like | Fraser Harold: imperfect products of over- civilization, one might say. Sons of rich fa- | thers, indulged from the drawing of their first breath, pampered in every way, they grow up > with nothing to do but to amuse themselves, There is very little of the tough fiber of man- hood in their make-up. Pleasure is their pur-;, suit, not their recreation, and as such, frequent-' ly becomes such hard work, that they let even that go, and sink back into utter supineness. Fraser Harold had more brains than some of his class; he had considerable taste for art, and sometimes read a book or so, and could talk | about it. He had fastened himself, as it were, © on his neighbor, Mr. Rhodes, as a vine fastens on a pillar. | Whenever he was ennuied to death of his | lady friends, his club, his horses, his yacht, his pedestrianism, his cravats, he would run in up- on Redmond Rhodes, to talk about “ pictures and things.” In this way a sort of friendship had grown up between the two men, arising out of their very unlikeness. Fraser admired the dignity and integrity of his calm neighbor; who, in. return, half envied him his airs of easy arrogance and his hundred little graceful ways of appearing brilliant on | small capital. | The Harold mansion joined that of Mr. | Rhodes—was another one of those ample, lux- urious twenty-five feet front houses, inside of which goes on, in our magnificent metropolis, such lavish, superb living. Fraser had two sisters, both younger than himself, and both married—one lived with her husband in her father’s house along with Fraser and the parents. This sister was always selecting pret- ty girls, out of the best society, for her brother to marry, and he was always declaring that a married life was not, to his mind. When men get to be thirty, with the club habits and prin- ciples of Fraser Harold, they, are not apt to ex- change their brilliant freedom for the mono- tony of wedlock—especially as their vanity is generally satiated by the knowledge that they can,have their choice of the proudest, purest, most accomplished girls, if they will only ask for a wife out of the number. Fraser went away from his farewell morning. call on his friend with a thought working more actively than usual in his indolent brain. Red- mond, foolishly sensitive as to what might be inferred by the presence of a young and beau- tiful girl in his house, had indiscreetly con- fided to him, under his promise not to divulge the facts, the story of the little refugee, and | that he had consented to allow her to remain / under his housekeeper’s protection during his “You will be quite a prisoner this June wea- | per’ P e absence. A dozen times during the day Fraser ‘laughed to himself over the artless way in { | which Redmond had told him the story. ‘‘But the child’s as safe with him as she would be with her mother. I never saw such a fellow as Redmond is! The soul of honor— and as unsuspicious of others as he is himself | meekly resolved to attend dutifully upon ' immaculate. Ten to one that bright-eyed lit- | tle beauty is an adventuress! He would never | find it out, if she were! I do think, as his | friend, I ought to look into the matter! J | could find out, in half an hour, whether she were really a rural maiden in distress or an artful little humbug, who knew all about Mr. Redmond Rhodes before she fainted on his door-step. I must contrive to have an inter- view with her! Lucky for him that I don’t about thirty entered the library unannounced, , leave the city as soon as he does! And lucky , Ways : for me that this little episode will help to fill up the time, until | join Redmond in New- port.” Mr. Harold, senior, had been stricken down, some weeks previously, by a slight attack of something resembling incipient paralysis, and this melancholy accident was detaining the family in town beyond the customary time. Fraser had resolved—his father now being able ' to sit up, and indeed, to hopple about his room —that the other members of the household were sufficient to remain in waiting; and had expected to start off in a day or two; seg e 1‘. parent, another week, and do what he cou: meantime, for the interest of his absent frien, Unselfish kindness! i The only thing he could think of on the da ‘following Mr. Rhodes’ departure, was to walk up and down in front of the house a few times: “Tf she is a flirt,” he said to himself, ‘ she will contrive to let me know that she observe me.” Poor Florence! time did pass wearily, monc tonously enough, as- soon as the excite- ment of Mr. Rhodes’ departure was over. She spent the first evening in reading a novel; but novels were not too plenty in the solid library of the house, nor was she found of any other class of reading. ‘¢ Oh, how shall I ever endure six weeks of this!” she sighed to herself, as she walked aim- lessly about, peeping out through the closed blind, first of one window, then of another, “Tf I could even fling the shutters wide open-,~ or walk in that park—or go out shopping! But no, I must even trust Mrs. Plimpton’s taste to select the material for a dress or fwo! I dare say I shall see a sky-blue muslin, or a de bege in big plaids, when the package comes home, Oh, dear, dear, dear! who is that walking by the house so often? What a handsome—what an elegant creature! Oh, I recollect now! itis the gentleman who came into the library as I was going out of it, yesterday morning. Heis looking for mel and she clapped her hands, gleefully, while the color rushed over her tri- umphant face. ‘‘He need not deny it. He is looking hard at the drawing-room windows! I wonder if Mr, Rhodes could have told hit anything about me? I suppose he did, and the gentleman is naturally interested.. Oh, dear! what asplendid joke! ‘My face ismy fortune, kind sir, she said,’” trilled the slender maiden, in a low voice, full of suppressed excitement, and she whirled up to one of the) sumptuous mirrors lining the great room, arid took anoth- er long, fond look at the pretty, flying figure and glowing face, which, dim as the light was, laughed out at her like‘a sunbeam, All her weariness was gone in a moment. She had not the least thought of anything wrong, for she was dangerously ignorant for one so willful and so unprotected, but shé im- mediately determined that the gentleman should not be entirely disappointed. “Tf he comes by again, he shall know that I _ have noticed him,” thought the foolish child, happy to be admired, “I must have mady quite an impression on him, in the half-a-min- ute before I got out of the’room. And he is so splendid! Even Mr. Rhodes is not so perfect, Poor Charlie Ward! I can afford to laugh at you, since I have had the opportunity for com- parison. Ah, here he comes again! I will move. the slats just a little—not enough for him to see me, but to, let him know that I am here.” Fraser Harold, walking deliberately by for the eighth time, had a glimpse of a tiny white hand turning the slats of the shutters; instant- ly his fine cambric handkerchief went to his lips, he passed on, returning no more durin that day or evening. The following morning, about ten o’clock, the door-bell having rung, Mrs, Plimpton her- self attended the summons—James had gone with his master—only the chambermaid and the cook's assistant were in the house, besides herself, the cook having gone to Long Branch, either to enjoy the sea-air, or to hire out at ex- tra wages during the peri ¥ of Mr. Rhodes’ — absence. On the door-step, stood Mr. Frasers”
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es Tae Nai 7 ey © e sO iy : ; th : i . ds ; Ws iar i £5 ‘ i ' i / ' ¥ \ ; : 4 * ; ee j - . e% w - 4 ‘ 138 BLACK EYES AND BLUE. } , 4, . Pleasant and polite as:ever—a book in nd. ‘ bility of -it all summer—it might go astray.” his “Mrs, Plimpton, if you will allow me, I will Step into the library a moment and return this volume — which I borrowed ,of -Mr, Rhodes—to its place. He is particular about his books; I don’t like to have the responsi- “Certainly, Mr. Harold; very true. But a take it in myself, and save you the trou- e, “Not the least trouble in the world!” brush- ing by her and hurrying on into the library; there was no one in it; but he was not dis- )-uraged by this. sa db Laying the book on the table, he dropped his indkerchief on it, and came out instantly, wed slightly to the housekeeper, and ran uzhtly down the steps, Hardly had the door closed before Florence flew down from the upper regions. - . “I had such a fright!” she said, pressing er hand to her heart. ‘I thought Mr, Rhodes _ad returned, and I would have to ieaye at Plimpton.” “Tt was only a friend of his, next door, re tarning a book.” “Oh!” and Florence, after watching the dragon, dusting the drawing-room bric-a-brae With an old white-silk handkerchief, for a few Moments, slipped into the library, on the other Side of the hall. , Her quick eye saw. the handkerchief at once; she took up the book and shook it—a note d~opped out, This’she hid in her pocket, left the book and handkerchief as they were, and _™ade her way to her own room, The perfumed billet was written in French, so that the dra- fon, if she had fallen upon it, would not have been any the wiser. Florence was a coquette by nature; her eyes sparkled, as with a ‘little ~ hesitation, she, made out the contents of the note: “ MADEMOISELLE:—My friend Rhodes—ono of the nob'est fellows who ever lived!—has to.d me all about you. I know that it would please him if I could do anything, in his absence, to make your im- Sriscnmenk less tedious. I know, too, the difficul- “You must not be talked about; nor must Mrs. Plimpton beoffended. If I cou’d coax her to allow Fer to slip out and come to our house to see my sis- Yr, your secret wou'd be safe with us, and my sis- ter wou d be very kind to you. At present, perhaps we had best not ventureso much. ~ I have thought of Something. To-night Mrs. Plimpton will attend the er-meeting; the two girls stole out the base- ment-door for a little visit to their friends; Florence had the library well-lighted; and felt quite satisfied with her own appearance; the white, soft dress became her dark beauty more than, any other; the carnations in her purple hair and on her bosom were the very color of her pink corals. She had not one idea that what she was doing was dangerous. Born and bred with the belief that her beauty was to | bring her all the gifts of Cinderella’s godmoth- | er-a golden coach, and a prince, among them —she looked on the advances of this brilliant stranger as the natural, inevitable result of her own supreme attractions. Fraser Harold was too familiar with every | leaf of woman’s heart not to perceive this, as | the piquant little beauty received him with a gracious, proud air, as if she were a princess who had condescended to be amused by one of her retinue. The dark, bewitching eyes were fearless, clear and pure; the little girl was a lady who would resent, the iirst appearance of a liberty. Ignorant she was, indeed, laughably so, of some of the formalities of city life; co-_ guettish, too—charmingly vain and coquettish —but innocent of evil intent or su:picions, Her naivete was something delicious to thé wisest man of the club. Yet he could not di- vest himself of a feeling of respect for the girl, who was walking straight over a narrow and rotten plank, as,if it was the gayest and/safest promenade in the world! “Your twenty minutes are up,” said Flor- ence, consulting her tiny watch with a grave air that made her unutterably charming. “You must go now, Mr Harold. I am,ever so much obliged to you for taking so much trouble to .entertain me. I wish your sister had come with you. I know I shall like her if | she is—” here she came to a sudden stop, blushing delightfully. «4 At all like her brother,’ you were going to | revenge, however natural, is on to punish the in- . 0) say—were you not? Thank you. 1 wish I could make if seem right to Mrs, Plimpton for me to call every evening; but I know she will not allow it.” ‘“‘T call her the dragon,” responded Florence, laughing. ““Good! I shall have no other name for her from this time forward.” “But you rhust go, Mr. Harold.” “T know it, I wish I was not so certain of | plowed flelds of earth. Even her vague re- | solves to be avenged on Violet, through Charlie, | were obliterated in the intense glow of her | present experience. And Fraser Harold knew that he had secured her heart, and that the flut- tering captive was in his power, CHAPTER X, PERSONALS, PALE as a statue of DeSpair sat Madame D*- ; Eglantine on that sunny September morning | which should have witnessed her and her daugh- | ter's departure for New York. A few fleeting weeks of more than mortal happiness had been | hers, after seventeen weary years of strife with a world that seemed to league alk its forces against her; and now the battle was to be fought over! Peace, the white dove, had flown afar—all was doubt, distress, turmoil, while at her mother’s heart tugged a heavy anguish worse to feel than any trouble for herself had ever been. ~ She sat in one of the deep windows of the old-fashioned parlor, a letter, which young Ward had brought in from the post-office a few moments previously, lying in her lap, her head drooped, her hands hanging idly, her eyes on the floor. Mr. Vernon was striding up and ‘down the length of the room, evidently laboring under intense excitement. He was pale, too; and a dark frown made stern his usually placid coun- tenance. Charlie stodd by a table, his hat in his hand, as if about to go; yet he lingcred, wistfully regarding the blanched face of the lady by the window. 4 The letter which had caused her’ pallor was in a handwriting familiar to all of them and | ran on something in this fashion: | ‘MILI; “ You may be satisfied with your revenge upon ' one who wronged you, but / am not. Uniuckity, | nocent along with the guilty. I do not complain of anything you have done to me, | yousleep any the more soundly when I tell you that iny wife is dead—died one week ago, and was bur- ied, without my once haying seen her—died of the disgrace you inflicted, with pitiless jr sticce...pon hy* and her child!—of grief tor the-step that child toow inf runnin; about to descend. An innocent woman is dead—an innocent woman reyenged! I wish you joy. “But, madame, you ought to know me too well, to rest as secure as he ys are to have rested, in your work, When I found that the one creature on weekly prayer-meeting of her church; % is jike'y | it. When shall we meet again. There is a | earth I ever really !oved—my rt orence—had the'servants will take the Opportunity to do a little ig ; ; i" A fled from me as if YT tans a tiger, it did not improve PP y key to the park gate in this houst, I believe | 1). natural sweetness of my disposition: I allowed visiting on their own account. May I cal: on you? I know how you must suffer | from your pPpaonmess. and I wou d bring my sis- ter; but she happens to have an engagement. If you admit me, I promise to make a very brief call— . nd twenty minutes! For fear Mrs. P impton may as. you to go to church, you might complain of ‘headache! fr you knew/how much Mr. Rhodes thinks of me, you wou'd haye no hesitation in accept- ing my offer of friendship, made half from compas- sion for your loneliness and half from the selfish wish to do myself a p'easure. up Your neighbor and friend, begs - 8.—There are some red roses on the library IfI AT Pome, display one of those roses on dow Alas, poor little foolish Elorence! Nothing had ever so flattered her vanity as that note. er cheeks burned and her heart beat all day; she was quite happy, and went about humming snatches of song, restless as some: brilliant tro- Pical bird, Mrs; Plimpton was coaxed to go “ out and purchase for her a ready-made white dress, on the plea that the Quaker silk was too warm, in that weather. “And bring me some fresh flowers, please, Mrs. Plimpton. They are all 1 can have of the Summer weather, while I am so.shut up,” lorence came down to tea, in the white . dress and the fresh blossoms; the housekeeper thought she might venture out to church, by tien her Quaker “bonnet; but the young dy feared to risk it, . RE Seek be at all lonely, Mrs. Plimpton, book Tait sending. sit in the library with a t was not until tea was over, and the lon: Summer twilight made the signal almost lites tinguishable, that her trembling fingers got ‘Shurage to hang tho red rose on the sill of a Mrawing-room window, - The pious housekeeper went off to her pray- ‘the dragon would let you walk in the park ev- ery evening-a half-hour for your health,” . “She would offer to go with me.” “She would get tired of it, after a trial—the night-air will give her rheumatism—and after that she will let you go alone.” “T will see, Mr. Harold, what can be done, You might bring your sister to the park.” “Ob, of course!” hastily. ‘I'll arrange that,” and he held out his hand. , Florence shook her head, and her girlish laugh rippled theough the-:room, “T don’t knew you well enough to shake hands with you yet.” “Then I can ouly hope that our acquaintance will improve,” and he bowed respectfully and went cautiously. away. 1 But when Florence met him in the park, op- posite the house, two evenings later, his sister | still had engagements, and they walked about | stars and the murimurous, shadowy trees. Fraser, was fascinated by his companion; she was so. unlike any other girl. But he wags not in love; he had none of those plans of ‘mar- you to have your own way—sincel had no means of preventing it. All the time I was arranging the de- tails of a counterplot, the execution of which would cause you some of the same kind of annoyance you ~ have seen fit to inflict upon mhe. As my dearest daughter has left me, Imust console*myseif with the society of the other one—who never was a fa- vorite of mine. “Your lawyer, acute and learned as my friend Vernon undoubtedly is, forgot to petition that you should be decreed the care of our chiid! Very :ike- ly it now occurred to him that I would dispute your right; But Ido dispute it, Until she is 6f age—or for about seventeen months yet—I am her legal owner. You will now petition, of course; but Lo before you can receive your decree I shali be out o the country. In fact, our passage-tickets are pur- chased, and we are, this moment, on our way to a certain steamer which will convey us beyond the reach of any claims, made by the law upon my per- son, or for the custody of our child. “*T shall léaye an agent at No. 40, —— Buildings, Now York, who will receive and forward any money you may desire to contribute toward the support of our daughter! : ‘‘ And rfow, in conclusion, I have this proposition together for a delicious hour under the kindling | tO make to you. The day on which you give me no- tice—which you can do at any time through Mr. | Biank, the agent referred to—that you have disd¢ov- | ered my daughter Florence and settled upon her | the sum of one hundred thousand dollars, I will | send your own puling brat back to your longing riage which the childish little thing who clung | to his arm had already begun to build in the airy future; he had no eonscience as to the con- sequences to her of his sweet, flattering, sub rosa attentions. What he sought—with the ’ pitiless persitency of-a Sybarite—was a passing amusement; but for her—already her past life was an idle dream, without meaning; she had never lived till now! How poor, pale and fad- ed was her school-girllife in that dull New Eng- | land village! How different was this revela- tion of what was possible—as soon turn back, arms. ‘As I shall be obliged to live abroad hereafter, my Own Means will be barely sufficient to my own com- | fort. You are richer than any one person has a right to be, I have no mind that m4 child shall suf- fer and ours enjoy affluence. Bo wise and submis- sive. Exert yourself to the utmost ior the benefit of Florence. Otherwise, ge may suffer a life-long regret. You know that Ido not stop at half-way measures, The fates of those two girls are in the same boat, Take warning from these lines from one who has yet the power to prosecute—-o 10 still “Yocr Masrrr.” “Ah, mon Dieu /” murmured madam>, shiv-. ering as if with January cold, ‘he knows well how to wound and to turn the dagger into the after one’s foot is set in, Paradise, to the dull, wound! I should have been on my guard! [ ‘ ‘ Yet—I wonder, will. from us to hide herself from the trouble °*
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°° lanes f u never should have relaxed my vigilance while he lived. Oh, my poor child! He will inflict a million little tortures upon her—perhaps drive her mad with his small persecutions. . Mr, Vernon, youshould have warned me—have prevented this thing happening.” “Madame, I did not know Ethan Goldsbor- ough, leven felt for him great compassion. I could not forget that we had been friends and neighbors. I did not even ‘suspect that he would try to give us farther trouble. All we can now do is to try to circumvent his plans to get out of the country. Where was that let- ter mailed?” . . “Op the train, at midnight,” answered Char- lie. ‘* This is Friday. There are no European steamers leave New York on Friday. Two or threé will leave on Saturday. We have plenty of time for them. I will get.a yesterday's Bos- ton or New York paper and hunt out the ad- yertisements of all the steamers, at all the ports. We will telegraph, instantly, to all.” What a torture is inaction under such cir- cumstances! . As soon as Charlie saw there was something positive to do he felt a certain re- lief from the misery which preyed on his ‘young spirits. He snatched his hat and hurried off to find a paper and to telegraph. Anxious inquiries beset him at every step; and the news flew swiftly about that the absconding banker had kidnapped his own daughter and was trying to get out of the country with her. Every- thing was done which could be done by the use of the telegraph to arrest Goldsborough's fight, * Then Madame D’Eglantine and Mr. Vernon took the noon train out of Lycurgus, desiring BLACK EYES | ‘The party arrived in New York on Sa: | morning, and had consultations with skilled de- | tectives, who immediately—rendered vigilant | by splendid promises—boarded every steamer | about to sail, and entered, also, into communi- ' cation with their brother-officers in neigboring ' cities, They tried persuasion, threats and | bribes, on the quiet, little, shrewd-looking man | whom they found at No. 40, —— Buildings; but he was unyielding as the Sphinx. He smiled at the threats—which he knew were idle: the | law could not compel him to betray the where- abouts, of his client when the client was only | doing what he had a legal right to do, claiming the custody of his own daughter. ; The rainbow was fading in Charlie’s sky when be awoke the next morning, in his dull sleeping-room in the hotel, and saw that it was | a rainy, raw, disagreeable day; realizing, at the same time, that the city was ‘‘ considerable of a to reach New York as soon as possible— . before the ‘sailing of the Saturday’s steamers, While they were standing on the platform awaiting the arrival of the train, already in sight, Charlie came running up, carrying his duster and a small valise. ' “Do you go along?” asked Mr. Vernon, sur- prised. “Yes. I shall never cease my efforts, for a day or an hour, sir, until this tangle is straight- ened. If Mr. Goldsborough gets off, I shall then make it my business to find Florence. If she is alive, I will trace her out.” “How about your law studies?” asked his . tutor, when they had taken their seats in the ear. “T shall be taking lessons in legal matters that will be worth more to me than the books,” answered Charlie with a sad smile. «I expected you to take charge of my house and affairs,” added the lawyer. “J made Mr. Lyman” (the minister) ‘ prom- ise to attend to everything:” “Well, I am glad to have you with us,” said ' the elder gentleman, with a sigh; somehow he felt more reliance on W'ard’s young energy and fire than on his own experience. _ “And Iy’ added Madame, with a grateful look. ‘Of course, I shall see that you go to no expense, Mr. Ward. You must call on me ' for what money is wanted—and ah, do not spare it! Do not spare bribes, rewards, any thing that will be of service. You inspire me with confidence, Mr. Ward; you seem so brim- ming with zeal and resolution.” : “My life and strength are at your service,” one who had hitherto been studiously cold to him, ‘Plenty of money is a good:thing, too, in a case of thiskind. A golden key unlocks many secrets.” “Use mine at your discretion,” responded the madame. A watm feeling of hope crept about the young man’s heart. The rainbow, for him, already glimmered athwart the clouds; he would find | the naughty runaway Florence, give her back | her ring—Violet would be returned to her mother; who, grateful to him as the means of restoring her, would no longer frown down his suit—the ring given back to its owner, Violet would not distrust him—and there, at the end of the rainbow, if he could only come to it, was a wedding-sceno of blissful beauty. Then he dreamed in the swift-flying train. But no things are further apart, in this work- a-day world, than dreams andactuslitios, __ | 4 | _ tion, except that toward the rear. hay-stack ” in which he might search long and patiently for so'small a needle as little Flor- ence Goldsborough. He had not retired to rest the previous night until he had sent to each of the Sunday papers the following “‘ Personal:” “F. G@.—Charlie is in town and wishes for an in- terview with the owner of the opal ring. He has good news, of the greatest im be gy of commu- nicate. Will F. G. answer, through ‘ Personals,’ when he can see her?” With burning eagerness he devoured the per- sonal column every day of the ensuing week. No response, Meantime madame had selected a handsome suite of rooms in a private up- town boarding-house and settled herself there- in; while Mr. Vernon, seeing that nothing had been gained so far, and the search likely to prove a long one, had returned to Lycurgus to arrange his affairs so that he could spend the winter in New York as at first proposed. : On the second Sunday Ward had another ad- vertisement: 6 £ “F, @.—Your mother died three weeks ago. Her relatives lives at No. — Lexington avenue, where you can hear of her death, by inquiring. V. V. is supposed to be in Europe. So is your father. I have much to tell. Dorespond, _ CHARLIE.” A fortnight more dragged slowly by. It bad some wousequences, Madame D’Eglantine had no soouer settled down in her elegant apart- ments than a wild, feverish unrest took poss- ession of her. , “T cai uot remain here—in this country,” she cried, in the first moment of greeting Mr. AND BLUE. Ss ir te i yn yn npc mannii sila! y » life; the consciousness of work to do gave hins a certain dignity, very becoming tohim. He wore his curly lockslike a second Hesperion. Down-town he was hustled in the crowd; but when he left the Sixth avenue car which he “had taken, and walked along up to Fifth Avenue, and on toward the house—where a luxurious suite of rooms awaited him, which would have inspired the envy of almost any of the refined fops about him—many a bright eye . glanced boldly or shyly, as the case might be, at the handsoxx rusticus, Perhaps some of these beauties felt flattered at his earnest observation; but it was only a | habit into which Charlie had fallen, of looking | into every young and pretty face in his search | for Florence’s. As he sauntered along, lonely and pre-occn- | pied—so sad that he almost felt sick of life—his | eyes fell, by the merest chance, on the occu | pants of a small, open carriage which was | whirling by quite close to the curb-stone, drawn | by a pair of beautiful jet-black horses, whose gold-plated harness flashed in the sun, ere were only two people inthe carriage, | the gentleman doing his own, driving. He was a@ man to compel a second look—perfectly dressed, driving his spirited team with easy | skill, having an expression of refined dissipa- tion on his pale, handsome features. “*T have seen that face at the windows of the club house on the next block,” thought Charlie , and then his eye fell carelessly on the lady who was the gentleman’s companion. He saw an exquisite little figure richly attired, a tiny hand cased in a lavender glove; but ber face ‘was quite concealed by a double vail pinned ' earefully abouther hat as if in care of her com- | plexion. Yet, though the face was masked by the grenadine vail, something in the turn of the round, slender figure, the poise of the head, struck Charlie as very familiar. The carriage had not fairly passed, when he cried out, aloud, _ 80 as quite to startle some of the people about him: “Tt is Florence!” , He turned. If it was Florence, she had seen him and given the alarm, for the gentleman | had already spoken to his mettlesome horses and | they were flying along at the highest rate of speed allowed. The carriage turned the first ‘ corner and dashed on. Charli ran in pursuit, ' indifferent to the curious observers who paused. Vernon on his return—‘‘my darling is in Eu- rope—who knows but that we may discover her whereabouts by going abroad and travel- ing from place to place. My heart tells me* that I shall find her in Germany. Oh, I feel | drawn thitherward by a power I have no wish to resist. Come! We will sail ‘to-morrow—in the Germania.” “But you have engaged these rooms for the geuson!” . ‘Never mind. Mr. Ward shall occupy them | fa my place. He shall stop here, and continue she search for that willful girl who is making us all so much trouble. I must go. I can not sleep—eat—breathe! I feel suffocated. The suspense is killing me. It comes when I am no longer able to bear it. Only travel—change of scene—the constant expectation of finding my darling, will enable me toendure.” ~ He was powerless before her impetuous will. | Indeed, as he had much business to transact for said Charlie, flushing at this compliment from |}... in France, and there was little doubt but that Violet had been taken to some foreign country, his own judgment approved the meas- ure. From what he knew of Ethaii Goldsborough he inferred that he would seek retirement in some large city—Paris, London, Vienna, Berlin, | Charlie saw them on the Germania, and turn- , ing, as the ship got slowly out into the stream, | he walked away, muttering: { “ And now, I must begin in good earnest. Inch by inch I must go over the ground ”—a laughable idea, when we reflect that that ground was the great city and its suburbs which to find out what the matter was. “Stop that carriage, will you?’ he shouted to a dignified M. P, un the south side of the block. “Too late,” said the officer, shaking his head —‘‘out o’ sight, now! Besides, I ain’t no busi- ness stopping the carriage of a gent like Mr. Harold.” ' ‘ “ Harold!” gasped Charlie—“ then you know © him?” : ‘“‘ Like a book,” said the M. P., ostentatiously.. ‘ His club is on my beat. See him every day. B’longs to our gust families—regular high-flyer? Don’t care for his money—-” .“Any more than I do for mine,” said Char- lie, quickly, slipping a fifty dollar greenback in- to the man’shand. “I don’t carefor Mr. Har- old, but if you will find out where the lady ' lives, whom he had in the carriage this after- stretched about him for miles in avery direc- Stern resolution was stamped on the young — features which had already gained in manli- ; ness, since his experience had been 80 suddenly |) enlarged. ‘His boyish diffidence was wearing | away under the smoothing hand of metropolitan { “ 1 : j ¢ noon, I will present you with the twin of that ; ” “Tl spend all my spare time, when I'm off duty, till I do find out,” responded the police- man, grinning. ‘‘ Didn’t think that quiet chap, with a kind of Boston air about him, was up te such tricks that afte vain,” he commented to himself, as Charlie went on and he pocketed the greenback. “Tf that was Florence—and I believe it was!’ murmured Charlie, ‘‘I am afraid she has fallen into a terrible snare. What is she doing, out driving with that insolent fellows By heaven! I would like to wring his neck for him! Ah, Florence! poor, motherless, willful, vain Florence! I tremble for you! I pray that I may find you speedily, if it be.not already too late to find you the same innocent little girl with whom I have played, when you wore short dresses and a white sun-bonnet —not so very long ago!” mused the honest young fel- . low ewith a sad smile, : “Tye half a mind to linger around the club» — PAE
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hed ee house and shake the truth out of the puppy when he comes back there!” ‘CHAPTER XL WHAT. WILL HE DO ABOUT If Se ee and littlédark-eyed Florence whiling away the moonlit June evenings together—dangerous amusement for one of the two! Scarcely a day passed, for four brief, bewitching weeks, but that Fraser contrived, in some way, to talk with, write to, or walk with his new acquaintance. Florence usually asked Mrs. Plimpton to walk with her for an hour in the park, after dusk, and usually her guardian-dragon declined, with the aivice that she should go, however, for the air, as she must require it and the exercise to keep up her health. To this the little prisoner would give a meek assent, and stealing over to the shadows of the great trees in the inclosed grounds, would soon be joined by an impatient lover, who had nt a good part of his day in wait- ing for this hour—or, at least, so he always as- sured the young creature who welcomed him with such a blush and smile as not even the dusk and shadows could quite conceal. ‘ Fraser’s father was not quite so well as he had been; the family lingered in town on his aécount; and so the very Fates seemed leagued against our run-away by detaining the young Sybarite in her vicinity. Florence had betray- ed how romantic and impracticable were her views of life, in coming to New York as she did. It cannot be expected that she should have acted with prudence subsequently. She lived in a dream-world—during those days—as ‘different from the actual onv as are the visions of the seventh heaven entertained by the luxu- Yious Moslem, from the true heaven. Her wildest hopes, her most splendid pictures of life, were to be swiftly realized. The most elegant, hoble, fascinating man that ever trod the streets of New York was to marry her. He was fabulously rich; and she was to be decked in silks and jewels and to step into the magic circle of fashion and power. ; Her heart was set to run to that tune—“ pow- er, wealth, triumph, love—love, triumph, sce power!”—and it beat to it most sweet- love with Fraser Harold, she was sharp to cal- culate the advantages of marriage with such a man, and resolyed that her beauty should be the magic key to’open to her the doors of plea- sure and pride, She would wear diamonds and dresses from Paris; she would have everything on earth her fancy craved; she would have all Fraser’s club friends, of whom he talked to her sometimes, admit her beauty—ah! what a flowery path was marked out for her elastic little foot! And yet—-if she had prudently stopped and recalled that faet!—Fraser had never yet said & word to her about marriage. He had made love to her—recklessly enough—but he had committed himself to no promises. In the sim- ple village where she was reared, young men did not make love to young women unless they wished to marry them. She took everything for granted. She only wished that her admirer would be more impulsive and urge her to wed him before Mr. Rhodes’ return; as then ske gs De even from her present home and ve no r proper to one of expec tions. ised il Two or three times she asked Mr, Harold, in her pretty, confiding way, what he thought she ought to do when Mr. Rhodes came back, and he had laughed, with some light assurance that she would be provided for. So our foolish little beauty lived on alr. The Bae Mirrors which rose from floor to ceiling nm the grand réoms, where she was free to rou about, as proudly as if they were her Pa sl, her unceasingly as she flitted a one to another. They told her that Fra. ay arold only spoke the truth when he paint- her. in his gay and gallant phrases: Ot loveliness lon _Although so small, Florence’ was exquisitel griceful; the excitement under which she Pie i ‘ For she was a selfish little thing. Madly in’ | OTe ACK “EVES AND BLUE. ae 4 eontinually lived, added new glory to the large, deep-fringed eyes lighting up the small, dark face, new bloom to the peachy cheeks, new witcheries to voice and smile; She was, too, one of those actual devotees at the shrine of the Goddess of Fashion, who catches every murmur of the oracle; and there was not a trick of movement, drapery or manner of the haughty and high-bred woman who flitted by her win- dows but our rustic belle caught it and made it | her own. : A busy month that was to Florence, as well as the most important one of her short life. She had no time for ennui. In the morning, after breakfust, she haunted the windows, hevy- ering behind the half-turned slats of the blinds like some houri behind the lattice-work of her until Fraser Harold had passed by ou his way down-town. The one stolen glance which he directed to- ward the windows was enough for her to live apon until evening; though often, by some pre- arrangement, he contrived that she should get a little note or a flower in addition. We have said that our heroine had plenty of energy; she “was at work, hard, many of those long, hot hours, after she became acquainted with Fra- ser, cutting, fitting and making for herself half a dozen beautiful dresses. This was work she was not accustomed to; but Mrs. Plimpton re- | fused to bring a dressmaker to the house while her master was away, and Florence would have these rich garments prepared in anticipation of the day when her lover would ask her to go to church with him; and then, from church to his family. She spent all but a hundred dollars on finery—on a wedding trousseau before she had been as!zed to become a bride. Plimpton remonstrated with her on her extrar vagance; but mademoiselle assured her, loftily, that she was going where finer things than those would be required; and as the housekeep- er knew little about her mysterious guest and + the girl appeared to have plenty of money, she felt that she had no business to interfere, and patiently fulfilled all orders. When Florence had finished an elegant robe she would put it on, and sweep about the dim drawing-rooms like a fairy princess, smiling at her own beauty and longing for the time to come when she could wear her pretty things openly for Fraser’s admiration, instead of being compelled to steal to him in the shadow and in her plainest garb. All of a sudden, on the fifth of July, just a month after his de to his house on Gramercy Park. } Withott even a telegram to the housekeeper, he arrived one evening about nine o’clock, He asked for a cup of tea, and when she brought it | up te him in the library, and he had hurried over a few questions about her health, the state | of the house, and so forth, he added: “And how about your young visitor, Mrs. Plimpton?—have you had any trouble with | her?” “None at all, sir. She’s a bit vain and ex- travagant, I’m thinking, sir; but an innocent thing, quiet as a lamb.” z .“ Been contented, shut up here alone as it were?” “She ain’t worried or complained a mite, sir, Never spoken to a soul but me, sir, all these weeks; yet she seems cheerful.” “You think, then, she is all right—that her | story was not made up for the occasion, Mrs, Plimpton?’ “Oh, she’s no bad one, Mt. Rhodes. I’m certain o’ that. But what under the sun an’ moon she’s going to do, beats me. ’7em, ” “Perhaps she is going back to her father. I have often regretted that I did not answer his advertisement. She pleaded with me not to; yet she is too young to judge for herself. Iam afraid I ought not to have listened to her.” ‘And are you home for the rest of the sum- | mer, sir?’ inquired the housekeeper, with some curiosity; she had been very impatient to learn | pias had brought her master back so unexpect- » ae _ “Oh, no; only for a day or two. I grew / At first, Mrs. | Mr. Rhodes returned | She ain’t — nowise confidential, sir; and she’s made herself - beautiful clothes, and says she’ll have need of . \ ee toga. Of course I would not pass through the city without stopping a day to see how you are getting on. Miss Golden need not be frighten- ed away from here just yet. I shall proceed on my way Thursday. The thought of her has worried me a good deal. I think I will urge her to-morrow to tell me her true reasons for fleeing from home, and perhaps advise her what course to pursue. Iam glad to hear that you | have no great fault to find with her, Mrs. . | Plimpton. It would have been a mortification to me to have had it turn out that she was the | companion of some heart-smasher of a burglar.” “She’s no character like that, Mr. Rhodes. Inever thought that of her. But I wouldn’t have much to say to her, for all that, if 1 was you, sir,” added the shrewd housekeeper, anxious to keep her master out of the fatal range of the womanly artillery of eyes and lips, which the “ natural-born flirt ”—as she se- eretly dubbed Florence—would direct at him, Mr. Rhodes sighed, leaned his head on his hand as if weary, and forgot to drink his sec- ond cp of tea, “Where is she now?’ he asked, suddenly looking up. ; “Bless me, sir, how you startled me! She's taking a bit of air and exercise inside the park railings, sir.” tr * At this time of night!” “Why, sir, it’s not late, for a summer even- ing. The poor child doesn’t put her foot out o’ doors until after dark. She generally asks me to go with her; but I don’t like the night- damp; and it’s quite safe in the park, as you | know.” i “T will just step over and escort her across the street,” remarked Mr, Rhodes, rising, en- tirely forgetful that. he might be observed in this act®f kindness by some of his neighbors. However, the most of the houses in the vicin- ity were closed for the season; he supposed the dwelling of his friends, the Harolds, to have been deserted some time ago; and as he did re- call the fact, in going down the steps, that he should not care to be seen escorting a young lady—for whom he could not account—into his | mansion, it consoled him to remember that his | acquaintances were probably far away. | He went lightly down the steps, across the | street, and into the park. The moon was at | the full, and shining so brightly in a clear sky | | | tired of Newport, and am on my way to Sara- that the lamps had not been lighted. The park was deserted, except for a solitary couple pac: ' ing slowly up and down a tree-shadowed walk some distance away. Mr. Rhodes peered.sharp- | ly about at the seats under the trees, expecting soon to discover a little figure nestled on some | one of them, He could not have axswered had | he asked himself why he felt such a strange, | gentle pleasure in this guest— why such a warm | thrill of benevolent impulse, of desire to cherish and protect this wild,. foolish, imprudent, but , innocent little creature, ran through his usually | cool veins, as he walked about in the light and | shadow looking for Miss Golden. ‘ Her bright face, framed in its purple hair, | and illumined with those glorious eyes, had | haunted him so much since he went away, that | actually, he would have felt love-sick and dis- | appointed, had he been told, on reaching his | threshold, that the pretty stranger had taken flight. Yet he was almost totally unaware of his feelings. He knew now that he took a cer- | tain pleasure in coming out to. find the lost | bird, who, frightened and panting, had beaten its wings against a new cage, seeking shelter, and been admitted. He made the éntire circuit of the park. No one—not a creature—but the couple pacing up , and down that leafy avenue. Had Miss Golden | seen him, and, alarmed, taken flight again? His spirits sunk; his feet lagged. He leaned against the trunk of a tree; for want of some- thing else to do just then he watched the pair walking away down the arcade—a pair of loy- | ers, evidently, for- the lady clung tenderly to the'gentleman’s arm, with face lifted to cateh the low words he spoke as he bent his head to mur- | Maurin herear, It was not until they had turned, , and walking back, approached within a few ' feet of him, that a sudden suspicion darted .in- j
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46 + re di ; to Redmond Rhodes’ min figure, with the haughty, graceful head bent half-condescendingly !—surely that slender lit- | tle form—Mr. Rhodes stepped quickly out into | the center of the path, just as the two emerged splendor of the moon, until, seeing and recog- nizing him, they started and stopped. Tt was not often that Fraser Harold was guil- | ty of the weakness of blushing; but now, as he met the blazing eyes of his neighbor sternly reading his face, a deep purple flush passed - over it. Rhodes looked at him until his eyes sunk, and then his contemptuous gaze turned on the girl, who, pale and shrinking, yet clung to her companion’s arm, and whose eyes, al- though frightened and expanding, did not low- | er, but met his own honestly. ‘So! this is the way you abuse my confi- ' dence, is it?’ he spoke, after a full minnte’s si- lence, addressing the girl. “Ts it very wrong, Mr. Rhodes?—I did not mean it to be,” she replied, humbly, casting at him a piteous look, brimming with tears, ‘I should have told you all the moment IsaW you, if you had given me the opportunity.” ‘J found your little friend in the park, so lonely and sad, that I took it upon me, for your sake, Rhodes, to help her pass the time. No harm done, I hope,” added Mr. Harold, with an at- tempt to laugu down the dark frown on his friend’s face. “JT am afraid there is harm done, Fraser; | this young girl is under my protection.” “Oh!” sneered Harold, “if you had told me that I should not have interfered.” »“ What do you mean, Mr. Harold?” “ What do you mean, Mr. Rhodes?” “T mean that if this young lady is innocent, as she appears to me, I consider it my,duty to protect her, as if she were my sister. “ Under- stand! I will doit, by Heaven! If you have deceived her, you shall answer to me for it, as one gentleman answers to another., Now you have my meaning.” Fraser was brave, to recklessness, but his de- based moral nature quailed before the ‘‘right- ecus indignation” that flamed in the face of the man who confronted him. Yet he had no idea of giving up his prey. Soinfatuated had he , become with the mingled art and artlessness, _the daring and simplicity, the cunning and _childishness combined, of the beautiful girl, that it would now havo been the blackest disappoint- mient of his life to have her snatched from un- | der his influence by another. The two men glared at each other like tigers. ¥Fraser’s blush had given place to a marble pal- lor; his lips were curled so as to show the line of his white teoth—he no longer shrunk from Rhodes’ regard, but answered it with a wicked look of bold triumph. Redmond Rhodes, older, colder, wiser, was quite as fiercely excited. In that first sharp pang which darted through his breast when he recognized the pair in that loverly attitude, was revealed to him the truth. He, too, was in love with the little adventuress! His rage was prompted by his jealousy; his indignation by his knowledge of his rival's character. from which he had wiped the false wrinkles had haunted him in his journeyings and brought him home, to find those bright eyes shining, those curved lashes drooping under the love- look of another. And that other, his friend— but a friend who could not be trusted in his af- fairs with women. If Redmond had made up his mind to becoma the wooer of the unprotected beauty, he would have approached her with all the more delica- cy and reverence on account of her position; but he knew that: this was not the style of Fraser Harold. | He was terribly jealous. Having been calm and restrained all these years, it was as if a long-extinct volcano had suddenly flamed forth -. in fire and molten torrents. He had gone away, and in his a Fraser, the insolent, the the selfish, the all-conquering, had stolen into the company of the simple little girl, ‘gnd wiled her very heart out at her melting a ee Thoy were In deep | _ shadow; but surely he knew that tall, clegant BLACK EYES AND BLUE, _ ; :pesodm0o zeedds 03 4.10y0 3u0.34s &@ gL ‘pres pus—so.myeu pose.me OM OOM {40q UOT}Ae}UOD JO etOg EY}3—Surg3 o7991] poso-opras ‘oped oy} 03 pouim) sepoyy “WW Apucserg | ‘Ajoug poscous oy ‘proseyz poo ‘AT = Suraamo.ry ‘so ‘BUIYTSA UI JoZuep | from black shadow and advanced under the full ' ea Ae tag Ra 03 ApomMb sv par oys IoJ—1OAC, sey OF 108 | -Uep 0G} 92 Teoy TATA pol[itqy Osye jou oys pey poTLigg easy pfnom oys pus ‘eydiourid uo uvur -OM Surpuojep ul uey} “1eqy UT poxse.10yUT oO seam sopoyy “IW geyy Apjueysuy peulatp eoue “10,7 ‘IOABy S,udUL Jo suszIs ey} peer oy HOM’) ‘soo JOY e10Joq 1097814 OY} Surjooys puw IOATOAST sq SUlMvip wWOIy pouretjer a AqmnoyyTp aye SUA ‘snoLmy wry noyy ou, © ‘sefe bs tao not dw What has passed "Babveuts you and this gentleman; but I do know that he is a dangerous friend for you; and I warn you never to speak to’ him again. I want you to promise me that you will break off the ac- quaintance here and forever.” ‘Oh, Mr. Rhodes, I cannot do that. him, and he loves me—he has told me so a thousand times!—and I believe him!” and she darted a trusting smile and glance at her avow- ed lover. “Has he asked you to marry him? Has he introduced you to ‘his parents and sisters?” **’You have asked me to marry you, have you not, Fraser?” she asked, turning and laying her tiny ‘hand on his, ‘Or, if you have not— in so many words—” she stammered, as she suddenly recalled the fact that never in all his subject of marriage—‘‘it is understood, is it A sweet memory of the sweet face | not? Of course I expect to marry him, and soon,” she said, with the air of a princess, ‘T am making my wedding-clothes, now—for I know Fraser would not—wish me to be depen- | dent—oh, Fraser, why do vow not speak, and tell Mr. Rhodes how you love me, and intend . me to be your dear little wife, right away?’ she suddenly broke forth, looking up with an ex- pression of mingled reproach and confidence that would have melted a very selfish heart in- to an honest resolution. ° The man of pleasure hesitated. He had grown wonderfully fond of this silly little country girl—but it was opposed to every habit and idea of his, the thought of tying himself to a wife, everi wore she the daughter of all the ancient Knickerbockers. So he stammoered, as he looked down into her loving eyes: * You know, Florrie, my sweet, that I would never harm you. I would be just as careful of you and your good name as this man, who is ing to make trouble between us.” “ Oh!” moaned Florence, wringing her hands, “J wish it were not so late—or that I knew one soul in this great city beside-—I would go | away this minute from you two men, and, nei- ther of you should ever see me again. Fraser, you swore tome that you loved me.” “T do, my girl—I love you to distraction.” to speak calmly—* and you love him?” ‘As my life!” : “Then, allow me to make a suggestion to you, sir. It is not toolate to find our mutual friend, the Rev. Mr. Brown, inhis parlors, He will unite you to this lady without delay. I will accompany you to the rectory and give the | bride away. Situated as she is, if you have a spark of manliness, Fraser Harold, you will marry her to-night.” The white fingers of the moonlight painted the three faces even more pallid than they had become through emotion. That of the last speaker glowed with the dignity of his feel- ings; in that moment of manly defense of helpless beauty he looked so grand, so more than any merely young and handsome man can look, that Florence, panting, distressed as she was, even in the very instant of suspense, stole at him a look of admiration and grati- tude, Fraser, as if ashamed to have the pure moon | read his face, shrunk a little into the shadow, and when the girl to whom he had been making passionate love for a month, turned again, timidly stretching out her little hands i ‘romod 10 JO OOMOPIAO MOT SII} 9B YUSITOP WIL T love | passionate love-talk had he once mentioned the | “Vory well,” interrupted Rhodes, struggling — 4 . 1 a ‘toward him with a touching gesture of faith, he half averted it from the eagér glance of the great, soft eyes. The two others waited so long for his answer it seemed to them he had determined not to give it. CHAPTER XIL A NEW DANGER. AmMoNnéG the frequenters of the gambling ta- ble ata certain German Spa, in the season of 1870, none attracted such universal attention as a certain American gentleman known there ‘as Mr. Goldenough. It was not that he | played with a dare-devil recklessness—nor even | that he had a marvélous run of luck which | continued week after week and made him the ' envy of théold play-eaters who lived on the feverish drug of a morbid excitement—but _ that he was generally accompanied by his | daughter—a young creature, scarcely seven- teen, whose rare and delicate beauty, of a type | to set raving the coldest critics of woman’s | loveliness, was enhanced by her evident utter indifference to it, and the sweetly-sad expres- sion of a pair of blue eyes whose purity was like that of the deep Alpine Jakes which mirror | nothing butthe heaven above them. . | Yall and slender; with hair, like the ripple of sun-burnished waves, coming low and thick | over a smooth white forehead, there was a freshness perfectly exquisite in the pure pink and white of her complexion—a charm, of it- self, seldom ‘seen except in her own land; while the short upper lip and the full under one, gave just enough promise of tenderness and warmth to soften the cold beauty of her other features. She was always dressed with plain elegance— no more coquetry in her attire than in her manner; always accompanied the pompous, handsome father who spent hours of every af- ternoon and evening at the magic tables; al- ways waited with the same air. of pensive in- difference. Counts and dukes, barons and gay young bloods might stare at her by the hour; the only sign of consciousness of their observa- , tion she ever gave was to draw down her vail | if any one’s stare became insolent. So afraid of this loss to their feasting eyes did the lovers of beauty become, that they were extremely careful not to appear to be studying that fair countenance; and if some conceited fop, by too rude or prolonged a gaze, was the cause of the vail’s coming down, he was frowned at as acommon nuisance by the others. Young German artists, with wild, long hair and un- kempt beards, would cone their sketch- books behind the players, and steal the likeness of that loveliest face to reproduce it a thousand | times afterward in their pictures. It came to be a question addressed to all new-comers— | ‘Have you seen la belle Americaine?” Men, high in the world of power and fashion, sought the acquaintance of the American bank- er and made themselves agreeable to him. He was gonial and reciprocative; but he seldom introduced his daughter, To Violet, this life she was leading with this new-found father of hers was strangeyas any. ' page out of a book of fiction. She never could fully realize that it was herself who went through the quiet part, day after day, marked out for her by her manager; still less could she realize that this manager was her father, or that either was the sober deacon of the lit- tle Lycurgus church, the great man of the small New England village, toward whom, all her young life, she had felt a certain awe tem- pered by vague distrust. { On that afternoon when she had been accost- ed by Mr. Goldsborough on the road, near the bridge, and he begged her, importunately, to ride with him a little way while he could give her some messages for her mother, which he did not care t deliver personally, it was not until several miles had been passed over and her companion began to urge his horse to his utmost speed, that she realized his plan of abduction, She entreated him not to yisit upon ‘her his anger at others; but he re- proached her as bitterly as unjustly of being . the cause of his dear Floy’s being driven to the “rash step she had taken, and swore a terrible _ oath that her friends should never hear of her oem , ree
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v oe -™ BLACK EYES AND BLUE. ° - ‘until his own darling wasfound. He explained to her his rights, as her father; made her be- lieve that no complaints of hers would be lis- tened to by strangers or officials, when told that he was her legal guardian; painted to her timid mind the uselessness and unpleasantness of public “scenes,” and had her so intimidated by the time they reached a distant town at nine that evening, that she never made a word of complaint to the people about her, but drank the cup of tea he procured for her at the rail- road station, and entered the car, a little later, ashe ordered her todo. It isprobable that he got some person, by paying him, to mail his letter—which he had prepared beforehand—to Madame D’Eglantine, on a txain going in the opposite direction and at some point south of Lycurgus. Certain it is, he and his unwilling companion went aboard a northern-bound train, and in due time reached Portland, where, after, making a few necessary purchases for his daughter, he hurried her on board a Vessel about to sail for Nova Scotia, and only delay- ing to weigh anchor until their arrival on board. Poor Violet’s heart shrunk with dread from this man, who seemed capable of any- thing, now that the sheepskin, in which he had so long masqueraded, had fallen from his shoulders. She resolved, when they reached the port where they were to disembark and take the first New York steamer calling on its way to Liverpool, to run away and throw herself on the protection of strangers. But she had no money and no courage to place herself in. so forlorn a condition, and, as Mr. Goldsborough had assured her he should return her to her mother as soon as certain negotiations pevding between them were ended, she concluded to submit silently to his plans. He compelled her to assume the dress of an English servant-girl, and himself was clothed like a rough farmer—they took second-cabin tickets, and her father told her, on the second day out, that there was not a person on the steamer who knew him. Arrived in London rooms were taken in a re- tired inn in an old-fashioned part of the city; and here she was tald to resume suitable attire, and was taken to a ladies’ furnishing shop where liberal orders were given for a complete outfit Suitable for a young lady about to travel on the continent. ~ They had then crossed the channel and gone immediately to this German Spa, where letters were already awaiting Mr. Goldenough, as he now gave his name. Here he took very handsome rooms in a private hotel, and told Violet, curtly, that she had nothing to do but see the world and enjoy herself. They had not, been settled in their new quarters twenty-four hours before Mr. Goldenough began to haunt the roulette tables. He had nothint else to do. the associations of his life were broken up— he was devoured with corroding anxieties and passions; and he could not await in idleness the result of the daring move he had last made. The game of chance offered itself as a temporary relief to his craving restlessness; he began to play, had unusual good fortune, and became in- fatuated. It was just the medicine to a mind diseased as was his. For two or three hours each afternoon, and from eight to eleven each evening he was at his post, choosing his num- bers and waiting the turn of the devilish little instrument with utter apparent coolness, no Matter how Jargé the risks. By one of those curious freaks of chance, such as sometimes gives the thirteen trumps to a whist-player,* he was almost invariably a winner—until the pro- Prietor of the establishment began to enter- tain secret thoughts of having him quietly ass- ssinated, to prevent the breaking of the house, Of course he felt, and knew, that his extra- 9) luck must turn sometime to disaster. Within his own mind he resolved that at the first signs of a change, he would quit, not. only the tables, but the town, A resolve about as wise as when one ventures into a quicksand with the resolution that when he is drawn in up to the knees he will begin to retreat. Monsieur Goldenough never left his hotel to Nisit the gambling halls, or drive, or promenade, without compelling his daughter to attend him. He was constantly fearful that she might make the attempt to leave him. Even at night he kept the key of her sleeping-room, which open- ed on the corridors, " Yet he might have allow- ed her more liberty-—might have spared her, at least, the, to her, terribly disagreeable task of haunting the hells of Baden. For he never al- lowed her any money, although, dressing her beautifully and giving her fine apdrtments— and Violet was too shrinking to attempt to dis- pose of her jewelry, or to venture a flight through a foreign country and over the Atlan- tic, had she thus procured the means of paying her way. + No wonder the melancholy which settled down upon her young spirits cast a cloud over her fair, pure, delicate face. The cause of that melan- choly was the subject of much earnest discussion among the young snobs who made it a pious du- ty to devote a part of each day to worship at her shrine. La belle Americaine wa’ rich and an only child, apparently—very devoted to her father, for was she not constantly with him? Such an instance of affection between parent and child was as rare as it was admirable! Had she really lost her mother? No, for she was not in mofirning. Was it then, an affair de coun? Had the adorable young divinity fallen indiscreetly in love with some youth, whose purse, or whose genealogical record was not long enough, and had her father brought her across the water to allow the tender impression to. become obliterated by newer ones? So they chatted about our modest Violet—stared at her —fell in love with her, each after his way. It was a situation which Florence would have keenly, enjoyed; but to Violet it was tor- ture as keen. More than once, in those publie places, the tears rushed into her eyes, and hung glittering on the long,.down-bent lashes until they dried of themselves, far she dared not lift a hand to wipe them away. If, by chance, M. Goldenough, pointing with his little stick to the numbers he considered lucky, and awaiting the turn of the wheel, raised his eyes to his daughter’s patient face and saw it pale, or the mist gathering in her large blue eyes, a fiendish joy swelled in his heart. For he hated her! Hated her, because she had lived, in spite of him, and been the unconscious means of thwarting his plans for the only human be- ing he had ever really loved—his other, favor- ite daughter. The only real pleasure he had, away from the gaming-table, was in thoughts of the agony he had inflicted on the woman whom in youth he had so cruelly wronged; and in watching the “sadness and longing” creep over the face of the young creature whom he had chained to him. To some natures, to wrong another is also to excite hatred of the one injured. It was so with this man. The trusting girl whom hehad made his wife, only to heartlessly disown and | desert when he found her claims to enormous wealth denied, had fought her way to triumph and success—for her child’s sake—over a path of fire which would have blasted and killed any but a most heroic woman; and now he burned to be revenged on her that she had dared tolive and struggle, He had formed a dastardly plan to strike so that the wound would hurt the most surely. She had said that at last she was inde- pendent of him, and in return he had robhed her of her child. Beyond this brutal revenge he had also the purpose to benefit his own daughter. not endure to think that Violet would be heir- ess to estates that would rank with those of the | He could | richest nobles of France, and his Florence live | on the fag-ends of the small fortune not any t6o great for his own uses. He considered it a good joke to compel Madame D’Eglantine to contribute to the aggrandizement of his pet. If he could wring from her a noble sum for Florence to enjoy, there would bea spice of de- light about the spending of that money which only an epicure in wickedness could fully relish. Ho had lette Blank, from | pala oly. gs of | Even in that supreme moment of love, fear, time to time, giving reports of the progress of affairs in New York. On the day after the sailing of the Germania he received a cable dis- | ; M47: patch, in cipher, informing him of the two pas- sengers who had so quickly made up their minds to depart on that steamer. ‘Well! the season at the Spa was about clos- ing. He had thirty thousand dollars in gold more than when he set his foot on foreign soil; and had lived well all the time. He was quite ready for a move. He made his preparations for a trip up the Nile. “Give me a week the start, and madame will have a fine time pursuing: us!” he laughed to himself. ‘‘ And if she overtakes us—what then? I shall demand my daughter before I give up hers! The game is in my own hands. I will have some amusement at madame’s ex- pense, and receive twenty thousand pounds from her as a gift to my pet! ‘*¥ need not leave Baden-Baden for,six days yet,” he continued to muse. “In that time I must make the magic wheel turn a few times more for my benefit. And, by George, it will be a joke worth playing to marry this lily-faced daughter of mine to that old scamp of an En- glish Jew baronet who asked me yesterday if he might pay his addresses to her! I'll invite him to join us on our excursion to Egypt; *twill make it sd pleasant for Miss Violet—ha! ha! ha!” It would seem as if, the lid of hypocrisy which had so long covered the seething caldron of Goldsborough’s mind having been removed, all the hell-broth of the witches of the heath was steaming up out of it. It is not strange that Violet, inexperienced in reading human nature, but quick-witted and observant, shrunk more and more into herself, and continually suffered from a shuddering dread and distrust of this companion—this un- loved father, the very echo of whose voice shook her soul with intangible terrors to which whe could give no shape. Those terrors were fated to take shape quick- ly enough. On the evening after reading the cable dis- patch Mr. Goldsborough did not have his usual luck—he ventuted more and more, losing every time, much to the amusement and excitement of the spectators who had so long been interest- ed in his wonderful good fortune. The news that the American was losing drew a crowd to | watch his movements. < At length, when M. Goldenough had lost a twentiefh part of his previous winnings, Sir Israel Benjamin laid his hand on his arm, in trepidation at seeing so much of the gold, which he already counted as his own, disappear out of his future, : ‘Come away, my friend,” he whispered, ea gorly. ; ‘Tt is early,” responded the player, indiffer- ently. “You have forgotten your engagement with me,” persisted the baronet, aloud. “Oh! if I have an engagement, that is a dif- ferent thing?” said Mr. Goldenough, reluctantly rising; and he, his daughter, and the English baron walked away, followed by dozens of pairs of eyes and plenteous comments, among the latter the most frequent being: ‘He will marry la belle Americaine to that old roue !” CHAPTER XTIL A VERY BRIGHT BUBBLE. ““T WOULD like to know your intentions,” re- ~ ‘| peated Redmond Rhodes, in a voice which sounded greatly like a threat. ‘If you love and intend tomarry this young lady, I am your friend, and will go with you at once, as I said, to the rectory.” “*T cannot obtain a license at this late hour, Mr. Rhodes,” was the answer, in a hoarse voice, “Tt will not be necessary. A marriage, be- fore witnesses, in this State, is a legal marriage, I will see you safely through the affair,” Thinking that Harold was about to yield to his demand, Redmond’s stern tones grew gen- tler; there thrilled through them a vibration of sadness caught by the quick ears of the girl. suspense, agitation, she shot a velvety glance at the man who was so nobly caring for her best — aby :
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yes his half-angry response. | ‘wife’s charms! | and you, Mr, Rhodes!—will+it be too much if I 48 ———— meters en mere - - ( - > welfare, and thought, with ‘triunmh, that he, too, had been chained to her chariot wheels. Yes, even at that moment, deep as was her in- fatuation with Fraser Harold—perfect, beyond all imagined perfection, as he was in her eyes— _ there darted through the busy brain of the beautiful coquette the idea that, if she lost him | whom. she preferred to all others, she would not be without the chance of a husband, and a splendid one! : Perhaps it was this consciousness which pre- vented her fainting from the excess of her emo- tions; for, to a vain woman, the flitting of a man’s love, even though she be entirely indif- ferent to him, is incense so exhilarating as to enable her to endure much. Finally Harold reached out azd took one of | the little hands extended to him, saying in that | soft, low, passion-fraught voice which he knew | 80 well how to use: “My love, surely I.do not need to assure you of my intentions! If you do not trust me fully, unreservedly, then your love for me is not what ‘ T thought it was. My friend Rhodes means | well. But he is hurrying us in rather a per- emptory manner. Do you think, my darling, that I ought to be hastened—without any pre- paration, or even consulting my parents—into amarriage? Ileaveitto you. You shall de- | cide for both of us.” ; A deep flush passed over the dark, spirited face of the girl. It was cruel of Fraser—cir- | camstanced as she was—to force the decision as | to how he should act in a dilemma of this kind, | upon her / She knew that he wantsd her to refuse for Mr, Rhodes’ settlement of their difficulties —and yet, what, what could she do? Go back under the roof of this strange gentleman, who | had not even a sister to give her countenance? —while Fraser had sisters and a mother to whom he could take her if he would! A look of desperation passed over her beautiful face. ‘Kill me, Fraser,” she murmured, drooping | “Tf you do not want | me, nobody wants me!—I am out of place in | piteously before him. the world.” “Scoundrel!” muttered Rhodes, in his neigh- | bor’s ear, ‘‘ You will have to answer to me for your conduct. I am this young lady’s bro- ther from this hour forward. So, look out! You wed her to-night, or you part from her forever. I will see that she is placed with _ friends. Now, look at her, and take your choice,” Ashe spoke the bells of the city pealed ten o'clock, “Oh, Fraser, do not forsake me!” pleaded Florence. “T cannot give you up, the devil knows,” was “You have twisted your threads about me until you have me a prisoner. Well, what will you have? You are infernally pretty and taking; but not just the lady I would have chosen for the wife of a Har- old. Never mind that, now. The mischief is done. My friend here is a man of honor, and he tells me I ought to marry you. It may be so, i yield to his superior wisdom —and my In return—my Lady Harold, exact a promise that our marriage shall be kept _ a secret between us three and the clergyman for a few weeks?—only a few wecke, You will consider, friend Rhodes, that my father is in a critical condition and that any sudden shock— y if an unpleasant one—may” finish * him. On that account, and some others im- | portant only to myself, I would exact & prom- ise that this wild and hurried marriage be kept secret for the present. Do you agree?” “T agree to anything, dear Fraser,” mur- , mured Florence, Redmond Rhodes did not yield his answer so readily; but, after some reflection, he replied: “T will promise tc. keep the secret until, in my judgment, your father is in fit condition to be informed of it—nolonger. Should he die, I shall be at liberty to promulgate it as soonafter | his death as I think proper. And I trust you will not be ashamed of this little girl, friend Fraser; and that you will treat her as she de- , “¢Y yu ard a preacher born, Redmond Rhodes! | Lonly wonder yo. never took to the robes,” | | eried Harold, gayly, and he offered his arm to | the trembling girl with all his customary grace- reached, his spirits rose—no more doubt or em- barrassment now! If the little one was deter- mined to marry him, and his best friend deter- | consequences! He did not intend to be respon- sible for anybody’s sufferings or pleastre but | his own. It would be heavenly, for a time, to | live with and love this glorious, fairy creature, whose eyes were made of dark and dew, with | molten diamonds flashing through; whose lips were sweeter than the sweets of flower-buds in June’s languorous heats. ‘What shall we do? Lead.on, Macduff!” | “Perhaps, since you enjoin secrecy ”—Red- | mond’s grave tones were in strong contrast to | the gayety of his neighbor’s—“‘ it will be best for you to come over into my house. I can send a note to Dr. Brown; he will come at my | request, and the ceremony can be performed— | with. closed doors—in my library.” | “Good!” assented Fraser, “‘ tle arrangement could not be improved upon.” “Then, come at once, or the note will find | the rector in his bed.” Where , shall we go? ed over and entered his door, the maiden now clinging silently and timidly to her lover’s arm. No one, except James, who had accompanied his master home, saw the fittle party enter the house; they slipped into the library, closing and | locking the dour. tory for me, in a moment, James,” said Mr. Rhodes. ‘If Mrs. Plimpton wants to know if I have any orders, tell her no—that she can re- | tire at once.” Very soon the important note was written and dispatched; and, then the writer stole a covert look at the lovers. Both seemed a little | pale and distrait, but Fraser was the most so. ful empressement—the decision having been mined that she should, why! they must take the | Mr. Rhodes led the way, and the three cross- | “T will give you a letter to take to the rec- | nites Baw cealed vexation and trepidation, and had not. _ Once spoken to his host during her absence; and ‘“‘ Mr. Rhodes,” asked the bride-to-be, ‘how | long will it be before the arrival of—of—the | clergyman?” “Twenty minutes, perhaps, ’ “Then, may I run up-stairs and .change my dress? This is a black one, and I would not like to be married in black.” P ane Quite right. But do not keep us wait- ing. ” : In just twenty minutes Florence came down, | The housekeeper was in her room—Florence heard her there—and James had not returned; so she reached the library without an eye ob- , Serving her. | Both gentlemen started when the lovely, ' poetic vision floated into the room, In all the haste of her dressing Florence had had time fo think over the situation—and to approve of it. Her superb eyes shone with unwonted light; her dark cheeks glowed like the sunny side of velvyetiest peaches; a smile, or a light that was scareely a smile, but much more luminous, ir- radiated the vivid face, making the delicate, perfect features fairly startling in their beauty. A long-trailing robe of some airiest white texture floated about her petite figure; there | Dee * ys. | at the window, looking over at the dark trees were white roses in her purple-black hair and on her bosom, where glittered the only orna- | | ment she wore—a diamond locket which Fraser | had given her. She was going to be Fraser’s wife—Fraser, | go proud, so careless,.the prince of men! Fra- | ger, whom she adored’ as the child adores the moon for which it cries! She was going to be his wife—the sharer of his glory, his wealth; ethe future intimate of his haughty sisters. All was welt with her. How soar the pic- fures of her imagination had become splendid realities! Ah! what a fairy-world this was! Wow full of delight!—nothing to, do but enjoy one’s self beyond her wildest dreams! And oh —oh--oh! how she loved her prince! How happy, how happy they would be, all their , days, in each other’s society. : And so, with a last fond look at her flatter- _ perves, to be ireated, and as a good husband | ing mirror, she had floated like a white thistle- ‘ j ie , / | | j he folded the charming vision to his heart, quite satisfied, under the stimulus of her lovely smile and blush, he had been hurried into a vedding against his will. A mist came over Redmond Rhodes’ eyes; e turned abruptly, affecting to look for a pray- r-book on the shelves; the hall-door opened and closed, and Mr, Rhodes hurried out to meet | the clergyman ahd assure him that all was right between the parties, and that it was be- cause of the father’s critical condition that the son wished his marriage to remain a secret be- ‘tween the four, at present. The assurance of Redmond Rhodes was suf- ficient to 40 away with all scruples on the part of the Rev. Dr. Brown, who had not a parish- ioner in whose word he placed more implicit credence—or on whose judgment he would be so willing to rely. And if the rector had won- dered to hear that the incorrigible, the con- scienceless Mr. Fraser Harold, was caught at last, and in the way of being toned down into a quiet married man, he wondered no longer after he had seen the bride. In all the ultra-fashionable weddings at which he had figured for so many years, not once had such a perfect embodiment of girlish beauty appeared before him as in the little lady who took her place by her lover’s side—a creature so brtght, so glad, so enchantingly pretty that the sober clergyman could not sufficiently ad- Ina magically brief time little Florence Golds- borough found herself Mrs. Fraser Harold! ** Ah, if the stupid people of Lycurgus could know it!” she thought, in her triumph; but this last drop in the sweet wine of her success was not to be added just theh; and she signed | arecord with a trembling little hand, and had her marriage certificate given to her by the clergyman, who charged her, smilingly, to take good care of it, accepted the gold which Fraser pressed upon him, wished them joy,)and van- ished from the scene. “« And now, friend Redmond, since you have done so much, you will not refuse to my wife | the shelter of Mrs. Plimpton’s wing for another night?” asked Harold, rising to go, as soon as the rector had departed. ‘As you allowed me short time for preparation you will not com- plain if she trespasses on your hospitality a few hours more. To-morrow, bright and early, I will set about seeking a home for you, little wifo; at twelve o’clock a carriage will come for you; I will join you somewhere, within a block or two of this house, and we will at once go to housekeeping: Does the programme please?” “Anything you wish, Fraser,” niurmured the bride; he kissed her, shook hands with Rhodes, and walked out of the house. Then Mr. Rhodes said good-night in his most stately manner, and the little bride went slow- ly up the stairs to her room, where she sat un- til the moon went down, in her wedding-dress, in the park, shedding a. few tears, but in the main very hopeful and happy; very full of foolish anticipations; quite forgetful that those who build their houses on the sand must expect them to fall when the winds come and the rains beat, The vision of that joyous, beautiful bride haunted Redmond Rhodes many wakeful hours , | of that night; he was conscious that he could have loved her—that he had come home for nothing in the world but to try his fate with her—and he sighed drearily and often not only for his own disappointment but for the ill choice she had made. ‘Still, it may be that his marriage to a lov- gble yotung wife will reform Fraser,” he mused; and so he prayed it might be. When the carriage came, at noon of the fol- lowing day, for Florence, Mrs, Plimpton ibe ° i
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4 J lieved that, as the little refugee said, expected friends at last had claimed her. A trunk con- taining the few Gresses and lingerie which had been prepared was takem up beside the driver; Florence, with sudden tears in her bright eyes, wrung the housekeeper’s hard hand, leaving in it a considerable portion of the money she had remaining, and. then—all alone, poor thing! with not one to wish her joy, to fling after her even an old shoe, to give her seasonable advice, or to take heed what became of her—for Mr. Bhddes had departed in the morning, as abrupt- ly as he came—she fled down the stately stone steps, where a few weeks previously she had sunk in her weariness, and hid herself in the carriage which whirled her away to the new, strange, longed-for, yet uncertain life which awaited the unacknowledged bride. Scarcely had her tears began to fall, before her husband was in the carriage, kissing them away, and they disappeared in smiles. Re- grets, fears, haunting memories of home and mother, were swallowed up in the great flood of happiness which swept through her being. Given plenty of money and a large metropo- lis, and marvels can be wrought which sober country people would deem impossible. Young Harold had worked one of these miracles. In the few morning hours which he had devoted to the business he had found a home where he could place his bride, while none of his world should dream that in this other world—this double life—he kept a sweet little wife impris- oned in a golden cage. Resolved to remain a gay bachelor in the eyes of his friends, he had proceeded with as much caution as if engaged in some criminal enterprise. Far over on the west side, and a good way up-town—as remote from his father’s house, his club, or any acquaintance of his as he could get it—in a handsome private house, occupied by a French lady to whom money was an object, he had engaged a very fine suite of rooms comprising the whole of the second, or parlor, floor. The lady was pledged to re- ceive no other boarders; her own family con- sisted of her husband and two little children, a girl and boy, six and eight years of age. To this woman our little bride was intro- duced by Fraser as ““My wife, Mrs. Fraser.” Florence blushed deeply, not only because this was her first introduction to any one by her husband, but also because he had chosen to deny her the full use of the title to which she had a right—yet she had no thought of rebelling; Fraser had assured her that it was only pru- dent to conceal a portion of their name—other- wise the story of his marriage might come un- expectedly upon his father at any hour, prov- ing most disastrous. ‘ ‘‘Among other ill consequences, my sweet, he will cut me off in his will. Neither of us are fitted for poverty, as you know. Only be patient a little while, and all these unpleasant hindrances to our full happiness shall be re- moved.” So Florence went willingly into this house as Mrs. Fraser; nor did she dream that the black- eyed Frenchwoman construed hér wifely blush into a blush for something worse. “T hope you like these apartments, darling,” said Fraser, with his arm about her waist, ‘for you will spend so much time in them that you will have the chance of becoming tired of them.” “They are delightful, Fraser; and I never weary of any place with you.” “But I shal not always be with you, my sweet. You understand why we must be very cir ct” ‘ ‘ “Yes,” with alittle sigh, followed by a con- fiding glance of the soft dark eyes, stolen at him so shyly from under the ambush of the drooping lashes-that he could not regret what he was doing. “it is very good of ‘you to get such magnificent rooms, to please me, I trust you are quite able'to afford them?” “You must not fret your pretty brow about money matters, my pet. I am glad you like the place, Madame Florian has promised to be very kind to you, in my absence. Sce! tiis is your wedding-bouquet. Ichose it at the flor- ist’s an hour ago.”’ | could sd ion ey On a little table of rare woods, inlaid with rich designs in ebony and gold, standing be- tween the frort windows of the drawing-room, was a large pyramid of fragrant, snowy flow- ers—tube-roses, white violets, white carnations and roses, which filled the place with subtle perfumes, : ‘ And here isa ring to guard the wedding- ring,” continued the bridegroom, taking from his vest-pocket a splendid solitaire diamond ring and placing it on the tiny, dimpled finger, where a band of plain gold already glittered— a ring Florence had worn for some time and hastily adopted, the previous evening, to meet | the emergency. The dimpled finger seemed at- | most too frail for the magnificent gem with which the husband encircled it. , “Your wardrobe is limited,” continued the lavish lover. ‘‘ You must amuse yourself, days when I cannot come to you, buying new dresses, | bonnets and shawls,” and he playfully urged in- | to her han a well-filled wallet. Florence’s eyes shone more brightly than her diamonds. She would have been wild with bliss anywhere with Fraser; but she dearly loved finery, too; luxury, idleness, were crav- ings of her temperament; to adorn her beauty, and have it admired, her fondest duty. The center room of the suite of three was to be used as their private dining-room; and here, in a couple of hours, a small table was laid for two, adorned with a profusion of flowers, and waited upon by two silent attendants, while a dinner, fit for the bridal banquet, comprising the costliest delicacies within the power of a Del- monieco to furnish, was served a la Russe. And thus in a fairy world, where all was different from the life she had led as a girl in a dull country village—in a fairy world of lux- ury, of careless ease, of youthful passion and bliss, with no thought for the morrow, but-only the expectation of a long reign of idle pleasure, the honeymoon rose splendidly for Florence. Alas! before the term of that magic honey- moon was over she had shed many bitter tears —learned many bitter truths. Before it had. waned into darkness she had longed, with aca- ing heart, more than onte, for the dull pease and safety of her village home. CHAPTER XIV. STRUGGLING TO BREAK THE TOILS. Tue pretense of an engagement was only & ruse of the baronet’s to get M. Goldenough away from the gaming-table. The three walk ed out, and over into the pleasure-grounds, where crowds of idlers were sitting under the trees, at little tables where refreshments were served, or pacing up and down avenues lighted with colored lamps. The music of an excel- lent band, playing the delicious Strauss waltzes, floated airily over all, between the gay earth and the far, pure, steady stars. Violet looked up to those pure stars, shining unswervingly in the dark-blue ether, wishing, with a wild, wordless spasm of pain, that she was up there among their bright company, or somewhere out of this strange, foreign atmosphere of smoke and, beer, of a mockery of gayety, of fictitious | glare like that of the stained lights. | Homesickness, deep and deadly, was upon her. Fear, dread, terror of she knew not | what, hung about her like the formless shadow of some huge approaching, but as yet unseen, ill. The baronet had offered her his arm, with a smile that made her turn cold with aversion; and to escape the necessity of taking it, she had quickly slipped her hand over her father’s arm; but this was nearly as disagreeable to her. Sir Israel had only smiled the more uncomfortably; | and so they had walked on, without speaking, until, reaching a table under the trees in a | more quiet part of the park, the baronet asked them if they would rest here a little while, and have an ice. M. Goldenough placed ‘his daughter in a EYES AND ‘BLUE. | | | | PS | nothing to do with the loss of her usual bloom.” “Tam not well; I donot think the air of the place agrees with me,” Violet forced herself tor say. \ : Sir Israel leaned his folded arms on the table, ; and kept his small, black, beady eyes fixed up- on her, with a smile, that was most like a leer, | intended to express his unbounded admiration —perhaps something more tender than admira- tion. Viclet shuddered inwardly, sitting the like a marble image, never raising her eye The baronet was a person of “uncertain. age,” as they say of spinsters; some thought him fifty, others vowed he was seventy, if a day. He was very rich, and very mean, and very ugly—ugly in features and temper. He lived on the continent a good part of the year, because he could live more cheaply than on his- estates. He hada passion for watching others: play, but never himself ran any risks. He had: black eyes which revealed little of his thoughts, a Jewish nose, an ugly under-lip, a small, lean, _ bent figure, quick motions, dyed his hair and beard, was dreaded in financial operations as. one equally unscrupulous and successful, and. had as little about him of the better part of hu- man nature as it was possible to have, and not be actually guilty of atrdctious crimes. He was: too cunning to do things forbidden by law; but. anything which could be twisted to be within. legal limits, which avarice or inborn wicked- ness prompted, he would do, Ever since they came he had had those sinister éyes on the | pompous American and his beautiful daughter. He could have told, as accurately as the player, what his gains had been in that time. He made up his mind that' M. Goldenough was much richer than he was.. For once his shrewedness. was at fault—the overpowering, patronizing manners of the banker had given generally the ] impression that he was a person of immense — wealth and importance, : Also, after remaining eighteen years a wid- _ ower, he had resolved to marry la belle Ameri-- caine, if such amachievenrent were possible, It. was not love; nor even the passion of men for women; but another phase of his avarice that urged him to the resolve—the avarice which craved the best and mdst beautiful for his own, As one man will love the finest picture, not for love of art, but to have it said that he owns —or another, the horse which has made his. mile in half a second less than any other of his. race ever made it—so the baronet, seeing how she city was going wild over the delicate bloom, the reserved charms, the fair perfection of the American banker's peerless child, coveted her tur his own. “T have not spoken to my daughter of your flattering proposition,” remarked M. Gold- enough, suavely. ‘(I can reveal it to her now as well as any time. Violet, my dear, Sir Isracl Benjamin does you the great honor to offer you his heart and hand.” Violet cast a startled look from one to the other of the two men. “You do not understand mef” repeated M. Goldenough, with a cruel smile. “Sir Israel, our noble friend here, does you the very great: and unexpected honor to offer you his hand in. | marriage, : “Tt is my daughter’s first offer,” he con- tinued, a moment later, turning blandly to the baronet; “it surprises her, and she has not the self-possession to meet it as she would like to. - ‘You must pardon much to her youth and inex- — perience.” “Divine fault of modesty and innocence? How can I but admire and forgive a hesitation. so angelic?’ murmured Sir /srael, rolling up his eyes and clasping his hands, as if paying his de~ votions to a saint. All this time the large blue eyes of the girl were dilating, and her sweet, pure face grow- ing whiter; aversion, horror, and fear were - | painted on it, as shadows of distorted demons chair on one side of the small round table; Sir | Israel sat opposite, with the father between | them. An order was given for the ices: “How very pale mademoiselle is to-night,” remarked the nobleman. ‘I trust, M. Gold- enough, that what I said to you yesterday has ¢ are thrown from a magic-lantern on the blank surface of the screen. Tohave saved her: life she could not have uttered a word. But i as she glancéd from one face to the otherof i those two heartless men, and realized how com- pletely she was.in their power—as she saw the, . wicked exultation in the smile of the father /
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girl turned like a wild 1 ‘ 20 ‘whom, she felt, hated her, and saw the RY tne took in her misery—she turned cold, from head to foot, with a deep, sickening fear of she hardly knew what. Thon, involuntarily, she cast an appealing look at the stolid waiter who was ree lacing the ices on the table, and around upon he strange foreign people who would and could do nothing for her. Oh, for. her own dear, _ kind father’s—as she called Mr. Vernon—arms about her! Oh, to be safe under the old roof- tree! But, alas! everything here was alien, and she was like a poor little mouse under the spell of the cat that tortures it, M. Goldenough’s stealthy paw reached out to give her another . _ parylizing pat. “J will answer for her, Sir Israel, that she deeply feels the honor you have done her, grate- fully accepts your offer; and consents to a ra- ther unseemly hastening of the marriage solely on account of our proposed departure from Ba- . “Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” ' gaid the old baronet, trying to take one of the | little cold hands in his own, but which recoiled from -his touch with a gesture which brought a malicious gleam into the small black eyes, “than to go with mademoiselle before the mayor, to-morrow. .Can we not so arfange We will not “Not to-morrow, Sir Israel. These hurry the poor child so much as that. - young ladies must be humored. This is Friday. On Tuesday I leave for Italy and Egypt. On Monday, then, let us say, the civil and religious’ _ ceremonies may both be performed. Did I un- ‘ derstand you, Sir Israel, that you will, with your bride, accompany me on my projected tour?” “That will be as mademoiselle decides. I am her slave. She has but to express a pre- ference, for me to obey her wishes.” “Very well—” suddenly Violet had found ‘her voice; driven to desperation, the gentle reature at bay—‘‘ obey ‘me in this, then, Sir Teraal Benjamin—never _ speak to me again! My father hnows that I will not marry you—that I will kill myself, first!” Both gentlemen laughed softly. M. Gold- enough took a few spoonfuls of his Roman ice, ' glancing slyly at his friend, meantime; but making no other reply than that mocking jaugh 2 the wild declaration of the daughter whom he delighted to torture. Presently he’ said: “My dear, your ice has melted, and you thave not tasted it. Come, we * go home to our apartments. You will need to rest and reflect, Sir Israel, will you walk with us?” ” “No further to-night, thank you, M. Gold enough. 1 will see you in the morning, at - gleven,” “Very well, We will arrange all the pre- liminaries; to-morrow. Of course you under- stand, the affair is settled.” Violet arose “as they did. It was with a violent effort that she prevented herself from eee tom darting away and flinging | herself into the first danger that appeared— | Amie whero, to get away from her companions She restrained herself, for she said to herself, “Tf I am quiet, and try to think, perhaps I may escape the more certainly.” She was terribly frightened; yet conscious of a steely resolution to defy and thwart. For _ the first time in her innocent life she became ‘erafty and cunning, under the pressure of a * fearful need. When Sir Israel again attempt- ed to take her hand, she gave it to him, but with her eyes cast down lest he should read _ their expression. “Good!” he said, lifting the passive fingers — ‘to his lips; ‘‘ you "do not hate me 80 much as | — ®© you pretend, mademoisello. Good-night, and fine dreams. Carnot you wish me the same, omy fair lady?” “T wish you a good night’s sleep, Sir Israel, ¥ ”. ghe forced herself to answer. “Ten thousand thanks, my beautiful bride- be,” “ Violet,” said M. Goldenough, as he conduct- ed her along the cool, dimly-lighted street, af- oe cos crowds in the park, “I — All the idle yong tes of the Spa dropped | her. of you would reconcile rental. at once to the marriage I have arranged for you. There is ,no use in resistance or rebellion. I have de- ‘termined upon it—that is enough. Make any clamorous outcry or troublesome refysal, and I will clap you into the cell of a mad-house, from which you will never emerge until you are old and gray, if ever at all. Your friends will never have a hint of your place of concealment, You will be far worse than buried alive. You know that money can do anything. © I shall use mine frecly to secure @ place for you in an in- stitution, not far from here, on which I have my eye. I know that Sir Israel Benjamin is not exactly prepossessing; but I have chosen that you shall marry him; and you have noth- ing to do but submit.” ‘Have mercy upon me, father!” begged Vio- let, for the first time using the name “father ” in addressing him. ‘* Why do you seek to ruin my life?” ‘Because your mother has ruined mine, ” was the answer, from between set teeth. ‘“ I took you from her to punish her—I hate you, as I hate her, and you shall not prosper if Ican help it.. Do not speak to me—be still! Not a word! No mercy is in uty heart toward either of you. Let me warn you of one thing,” he continued, pausing as they were about to enter their hotel—‘‘to ayoid all appearance of ex- | citement—all strange actions, wild protesta- tious, and nonsense generally. | ness inherent in you. You cannot be toe vail- tious.” person who knew her antecedents—and with her own father to bring the complaint, she was powerless in his hands. She must make no ap- peal to the pity or mercy of others! not beg for help out of the hideous danger which encompassed her! An imprudent word might be the means of consigning her to a worse than living’ death! She went up the steps and through the wide passage, up the broad stair- case and on into their rooms, without ventur- ing to make any answer to the heartless threat of this unnatural parent, Her blood ran cold at thought of being shut | up with creatures in a strange country, far from hope, housed with despair—yet even that were preferable to marriage with that griz- aly horror! Her thoughts turned to Mr, Vernon and Char- | lie, Where was Charlie? Why had he not come to her rescue before’this? He could not love her way to trace her and watch over her welfare, bowed, and turned the key gnher. Why! even this habit of locking her up, had it been noticed | by the servants or others, would be received as | corroboration. of the accusation of insanity, ' should he choose to make it! All night her persecutor tossed and sigh- ed, as wakeful as she. did not like the manner of life he was living. It was foreign to his habits and distasteful to _him inmany ways. Yet he was in a frame of _ mind which demanded strong excitement to _renger life endurable. He could settle down | tonothing. His wife was dead; he was sev- ered from old friends; his pet, his Fiorence, was angry with him and hiding from him. He took a half-fiendish pleasure in driving Violet to despair; yet his conscience would not give him any peace for his conduct to her. He was like a dismantled ship, driven hither and yon by conflicting winds. In consequence, he arose late the following morning, feverish, restless, eager to fly to the gaming-table, ‘the day as usual, they breakfasted in their sit- ting-room, and started for their haunt directly afterward. Eleven o’clock came and found 'M. Goldenough with the same run of bad | luck which had .commenced the previous evening. The more he lost, the larger the | sums he staked on the next turn of the wheel. Each word and | | movement may be taken as proof, in case 7 en- | ter complaint against you as a lunatic, of mad- | It was true, She felt it, with sinking heart | and icy veins. With no friend near—not oné | She must | as she loved him or he would have found some , M. Goldenough conducted her to her room, | All night Violet tossed on a couch of thorns. | Ethan Goldsborough , Ordering Violet to dress for | _ BLACK EYES AND BLUE. ie the hall and ‘fied: in an ” paliehoatad group, about the banker and his beautiful, vailed daughter. The baronet came, spoke to him, tried to draw him away to talk over their arrangemefits for the marriage and tour; but M. Goldenough shook him off, impatiently, telling him he must wait. Hours rolled on. One set of loungers was replaced by another. Sir Israel fretted, fidgeted, and grew yellow with anger and ner- vousness, as he saw the gold raked in by the croupier which should have been his. At last, even Violet, who had sat behind him, indifferent as a stone, only so that Sir Israel was kept from approaching her too close] 7, be- came uneasy at the flushed face, sparkling eyes and reckless manner of her father; her little white hand, soft as a petal from a iily, rested on his arm, ‘and a dozen infatuated youths bent to catch the low murmur of her voice, as she asked him, in trembling tones, to come away. ‘Yes, yes, presently,” he responded, ina loud, bullying yoice; ‘‘I hope, by heaven, you don’t think I’m afraid to lose a little money. Let me alone. We Americans never back down! no, by George! I will sit here until my last dollar is gone, if I choose. Who is going to inter- fere? Do you suppose I am scared at the loss | of a thousand or two pounds? . This is what I | call jolly. Don’t interfere with me, my girl.” | Violet. shrunk back in silence, Presently, , however, she began to glance about her, through | the folds of her thick vail, with more interest. Sir Israel Benjamin had become either hun- | gry or angry, and had, at last, gone off. MM. | Goldenough was so absorbed in play that she , might leave the hall, and he remain unconscious | of her absence for an hour, | Her heart began to throb wildly. What if she should attempt, this moment, to free her self? Was there the least hope of success? & five-franc piece was all the money in her purse. | She had a few rings on her fingers; one of them | was set with a diamond which her mother had | given her. The stone was not large; but it ‘might be worth two hundred francs,. .Then she had with her a pair of plain gold bracelets and ear-rings. Her father had threatened, in case she made an attempt to leave him, to have her arrested and immured as a person of unsound mind. | She ran a terrible risk in venturing flight, ' threugh an unfamiliar country—a friendless | girl, exposed to a thousand perils. | | Something of the heroism which had support- ed Madame DEglantine through years. of | trouble, was inherent in her daughter’s nature. | Violet, after a minute’s hesitation, resolved to do what she could to escape the snare spread _ for her, She arose very quietly, glided out of the hall and into the pleasure-grounds, lying hot and still under the afternoon sun, She was followed, at once, by half a dozen im- pertinent young bleods, eager to watch the | movements of la belle Americaine, She was | going, perhaps, toa meeting in the park, with the gay butancient baronet. A young English marquis even went so far as to speak to her— overtaking her by an effort—as she flew along | an avenue of the gardens, looking for the most unirequented paths; Affecting not to hear him she walked on more-rapidly. A>few minutes , brought her out on to a’ street. full of small ' shops, at some distance from the one frequent- | ed by the baronet and other*fashionable loung- | ers. In the window of one of these shops she | saw a sign, in French, that money was loaned | on jewels and personal property; she went in and effected a bargain, by which the shopkeep- er obtained articles worth about five hundred francs for half that.sum; but she was more | than satisfied, and in great haste, ; Out she burried, pursuing her flight. with only one conscious plan—to take the meanest streets, where she would. be least likely.to be looked for. It was only because the autumn wind flaunted the garments in her very face, that she was led to enter another shop, in a Jew | quarter, where second-hand clothing was kept | for sale. She had not thought of disguise until | the garments flapped in her | face. A large wo- | man advanced out of another room to. meet Violet addressed her in French, and the - \
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woman answered in a sort of patois of French and German; but they managed to understand each other pretty well. . The eyes of the dealer glistened when the young lady offered to exchahge her rich clo- thing for the garments of a peasant-girl, with a basket holding a few pieces of lace, that she might pass for one of the lace-workers of the country. : “Come in here, my dear mademoiselle; you will be quite safe in this place until I make you one yery good disguise,” she said, eagerly, fur- tively feeling the thickness of Violet’s black silk dress and counting up the price of her hat and costly mantle. If any one saw the elegant demoiselle enter the poor shop they did not seé her come out; but in about twenty minutes there emerged a young peasant-woman, in short petticoats, a laced boddice, wooden shoes, a high, broad hat, aod with a lace-maker’s basket on her arm. The mistress of the shop had directed her bow to find the railroad station, which was not far away, and toward it the wooden shoes went softly clattering. As a train moved out of that station with the t lace-maker in a third-class car, Mr. Golfienough, at the sporting salon arose, with an oath and a laugh, from the table on which he had placed the last gold piece of all he had won in the month of his suc- cess: ‘We are just even,’ he said to the croupier, ‘Welll tonight we will take a new start. 1 never give up—it isn’t in the blood,” and then he looked about for the patient daughter who usually sat at his elbow —looked about, stared, grew as pale as he had been flushed, and wentquickly off. Sir Israel Benjamin met him on the steps, they exchanged a few words, and walked into the gardens, CHAPTER XV. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND. Crariie Warp went the third time to see the policeman whom he had bribed before he received any information in return for his mon- ey; but on this third visit he was rewarded by the name and address of the lady whom he had seen riding out with the gentleman called by @ officer Mr, Harold. “T reckon there’s something uncommon in- teresting about’the affair, anyhow,” remarked the man as he gave Charlie a card on which he had scrawled “ Mrs, Fraser, No. 124 West st.” ‘I’m afraid Mr. Harold’s been and gone an’ got himself into another scrape. He’s always in trouble with the fair sect. I’ve found out that the lady lives very quietly at this house, No. 124, as his wife. The lady who lets them the rooms only knows ’em by the name of Fraser—that’s his given name, you see!—and she don’t believe they’re really mar- ried. As to that I can’t say—I only know Mr. Harold ain’t reckoned a marrying man, and oe keeps very still about it, if he is mar- ‘‘ What is the name of the person who keeps the house?” ‘Madame Florian. She’s as tight as if she belonged to the detective force. { don’t be- lieve you'll get anything out of her. I’ve had a regular time finding out the little I tell you.” “T hope Tam mistaken in the identity of the lady—that this Mrs. Fraser may prove to be quite another person, ButI am greatly obliged to you; and here is the additional fifty dollars you have earned.” “Thank you, sir; and if I can serve you any further let me know.” Charlie turned away from the officer with a heavy heart, which was so evident upon his frank features that the man, as he carefully disposed the greenback in his wallet, said to himself: “Pretty bad case o’ broken heart, that! Harold has cut him out with the girl. ‘Chat Harold’s a gay one, now, aint he? J wouldn’t want him to get in‘my way if I was one o’ them young swells,” _ It was dusk when young Ward received the address from the policeman, amd going to his . boarding-house for his dinner, he had an hour for deliberation as.to what steps he should now “ ‘ : j = >) * a | | -* take. He felt almost absolutely certain that this Mrs. Fraser was Florence. The fear that she had already made shipwreck of her young life pained him almost as keenly as if she had been his own sister. In his mind she had al- ways been associated with Violet; and both were near and dear and sacred to him, But, whatever had befallen Florence, it remained im- BLACK EYES AND BLU portant for him to find her: poor Violet’s restora- | tion to her mother appeared to depend on Ethan Goldsborough’s obtaining information of his daughter, and her receiving a gift from Mad- ame D’Eglantine of one hundred thousand dol- lars. Charlie’s feelings were of a most conflict~ ing kind. Heboth hoped and feared the lady would prove to be Florence—hoped it, on Vio- let’s account—feared it, on her own. As soon as he concluded his nearly untasted dinner he went over to Sixthavenue, and took an up-town car to the street named on the card. His pulse throbbed unpleasantly in his temples as he rung the bell. A servant—a keen-looking mulatto-girl—came to the door, He asked for Mrs. Fraser. * Not at home, sah.” “Can | see Madame Florian?” ** Not at home, sah.” Charlie knew the girl was lying—for he walked up and down on the opposite side of the street for ten minutes and had seen the apart- ments on the second floor brilliantly lighted, while the shadow of a slender figure, walking -restlessly about, had fallen more than once on the curtains. He stepped into the hall, having almost to thrust the servant before him, as she kept the door in her hand, purposely barring | Charlie brought back, in a torrent, a thousand ° | memories of the old life, the old home. hisentrance, Charlie cast a quick glance up | the stairway; he was certain ‘he saw a little form leaning over the railing in the dusk of the upper hall where the gas was turned down. “T wish to see Mrs. Fraser very much. I | have important news for her,” he said, in | clear, elevated tones meant for the ear above. “Tt is Charlie!” cried a silvery voice which thrilled through him. ‘‘Oh, Charlie! Charlie! How glad Iam! Natalie, show Mr. Ward up this minute. He is an old friend of mine, and I must see him.” “ Please to walk up,” said the mulatto, with a@ wicked smile, up the velvet-covered stairs with thé same boy- ish'eagerness with which he used to bound up | the steps of Mr. Vernon’s piazza to meet the two girls who so often walked together there, A little figure stood in the open doorway of the brightly-lighted drawing-room—a little figure well-known to the eager eyes of the call- er; and a little hand grasped his own warmly, a well-known voice murmured words’ of wel- come, end Florence—the pretty little Florence of his student dreams—drew him into the mag- nificent apartment and closed the door between themselves and the over-curious servant, Charlie could not speak for more than a min- ute. It was Florence, grown strangely beauti- ful, and robed in all the splendor of some fairy pri furniture and perfumed with the breath of lay- ish quantities of flowers. She stood in the | midst of her superb surroundings, under the blaze of the branching chandelier, smiling at him with tears in her eyes, Her ruby-colored dress flowed away behind her in a long train; | ber lovely neck and arms—not fair, but smooth as satin, and of the rich tint of the true bru- nette—sparkled with jewels; a cluster of red blossoms nestled in her dusky, silken hair. Her great eyes glowed with the excitement of meet- ing an old friend; but they filled quickly with tears, too, as she said: ‘Oh, Charlie, how delightful it is to see some” | one that I know—an old friend—and from Ly- curgus—dear old Lycurgus! But I thought, when I heard the bell ring, it was Fraser—my husband—and I sprung out into the hall. If you had come up-stairs then, you would have had my arms about your neck by mistake,” she added, forcing a laugh. “Your husband?” asked Ward, gravely. ‘Yes, Charlie, I don’t wonder you are aston- ished. I have been married six weeks to-day! Perhaps Fraser will come in while you are: J “If missus counterdemand | my orders it’s all right,” and the visitor sprung Tho room was luxurious with costly | ‘21 E. to have company, He wants me all to him- self, I suppose,”. she said, smiling, as she brush- ed away two great tears about to fall. ‘Sit down, and tell me everything ” She gave hima comfortable arm-chair, draw- ing a smaller one close in front of him where she might watch his lips as well as hear his words. Poor, homesick child! Fraser had not been near her for three days, and her heart was breaking under its silk and jewels; the sight of ‘Tell me first,” she said, leaning toward him like ar. eager child, ‘‘have you heard anything of Lapa and mamma? Iam very angry with papa, as you know; but I would give the world to see my mother. Is she in Lycurgus’still?” “Did you not see the advertisements I pub- lished’a week or two ago?” “No, no! If I had, I would have answered | them. Iam no longer hiding—except to please Fraser. You see, Charlie,” blushing and hesi- tating, “our marriage is a profound secret, and must be kept so for the present—on Fra- | ser’s account, But tell me about my mother, Sometimes I wish I never had left her as { did. But oh, Charlie, the blow was so sudden and. cruel, and | was so proud! How did poor mam- ma bear it?’ - A lump rose in the throat of foolish, boyish Charlie. It was hard to tell the eager question- er that her mother was lying in the grave to which trouble had driven her—harder to listen tothe daughter’s sobs, and cries of self-reproach, after he had broken as gently as possible the news to her. “Wipe: your eyes, dear Florence—do not sob so—listen to what I have to say. I came here to tell you of many things,” he said, after | she had given way to a wild burst of grief, last- ing half an hour. “ Alas!” she replied, with a more tempestu- _ ous outburst of feeling, ‘I am all alone, Char- lie—miserable, desperate! Fraser has not been ‘near me for three days,.and my mother is | dead!” : : | Florence had no intention of betraying her | husband’s neglect—pride would have sealed her lips before Charlie—but in the agony of this new sorrow, it was wrung from her without aer will. Ward sprung from his chair, walking up and down the room in great excitement. At last | he paused before the weeping girl. “Florence, excus6 so dregdful a question, As your friend—your protector, if need be, ask it. I heard things before I came here which . your confession of his neglect seems to corrobo- — rate. Are you sure that this Mr. Harold has not deceived you?—that your marriage is valid © in the eye of the law?” ' Florence went to a little ebony casket on one | of the tables, unlocked it and took fromither marriage certificate. She showed this to Char- — lie, and told him the whole story of her stay in Mr. Rhodes’ house, her acquaintance with his - friend Harold, and the wedding which follow- ~ ed. She did not even conceal—although she softened—the fart that to Mr. Rhodes’ interfer ence in her behalf she owed it that she was Harold’s wife. “was one of eminent respectability, and ‘so is Mr. Rhodes one of the most esteemed gentle- - men in the city. Itis all- right—only Fraser feels that his father will be angry, and the old gentleman being very ill, he does not care to vex him. je “T am afraid,” she continued, presently, with an air of the deepest melancholy, “ that Fraser never really loved me—it was a passing fancy on his part, and he has already repented of his infatuation. He belongs to a very rich, very exclusive, very haughty family, which, he knows, will scorn me for my poverty and in- significance. But I do not care for his friends! I would curl my lip at them as haughtily as they at me, if Fraser only loved me, Oh, Charlie, what shall I do-to keep the love which ~ is slipping away from me? I would read, study, practice my music, make a gospel of the” decrees of fashions, an art of dress—I would: make any effort, perform any work, if thereby... I might hold his affections. For I love him—I ~ A “The clergyman,” she said, here; I hope he will, though he does notlike me*| leve him! I adore him! I would be the mosh,
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22 devoted little wife the world ever saw if he would only allow it. I would fit myself for | | naughty ring.” the company of his proud relatives. It is hard to be situated asIam! Charlie, {am an hon- est, pure, loving wife; yet the very servants sneer at me. They do not believe I am that gentleman’s wife; and he allows them to re- gard me as not his wife! When I watch for ~ him, and he does not come, and I grow pale, and my eyes red with weeping, they smile at my misery, as much as to say, ‘ You should have expected this; you must reap what you sow.’ They bring up elegant dinners; but when I have to sit down to them alone I cannot eat; and they take them away with an air of | amusement, It is true, as he says, that he can- | ‘not come so often as he would like, without be- ‘traying his marriage .to those from whom he ‘wishes to conceal it. But Iam sure he could _ ‘visit me more frequently if the wish were as strong as it once was. i wonder have 1 grown agly in thesesix weeks! He used to rave about my beauty. Charlie, tell me the truth!—have I grown plain, homely, deformed, since you ' gaw me last? AmIno longer beautiful?—no longer fit to be loved?” _ She stood before him with her hands clasped, ‘a look of piteous appeal in the lovely eyes whose dark lashes were beaded with tears, a picture of girlish charms as vivid as ever fired the soul of a painter, The color rushed into (Charlie’s face as he spoke, impetuously: “You are twenty times more beautiful than ever, Florence! This man, who dares to ne- glect you so, is a scoundrel. I would like to kill him,” “No—for then you would kill me, too, Good | or bad I love him as he is. If I could but make | him love me!” “T have other things to tell you, Florence. Sit again, and let us have our talk out. We may not meet again for some time.” They resumed their seats, and her visitor marrated all that happened to the Vernons and. Madame D’Eglantine, including, of course, the ry of Violet’s abduction by her father, his | threats and the conditions upon which she was | _ to be restoréd to her mother. “So you see, Florence, that it is necessary I shall immediately inform Mr, Blank of your | address, that he may confer with Mr. Golds- | “borough. Also, you will not be such a penni- | Your portion will be a |, handsome one to bring, even to a Harold. You | less bride, after all! ‘ meed have no doubt’ that Madame D’Eglantine will pay it, for she is quite willing—more than | willing. Indeed, now that your own mother is | dead, I dare say, had you not married, she would | at once have adopted you as Violet’s sister, and made you share in everything equally with her. I cannot but regret your rash marriage. But it is done, and cannot be undone. I only hope that Mr. Harold will be more willing to ac- knowledge you when he learns that you-are to , . ing the struggling girl at arm’s length and ad- have a large sum of money, and that some, at least, of yours friends and relatives are more » than a match for his own in heritage and wealth. “Your marr whether or not it suits Mr. Harold, senior. Ser- yants shall no longer sneer at you. You have - triends who will compel some attention to your interests. I only wish Mr. Vernon were here ‘in the city now.” ~ Much more was said. A marvelous clock on ‘the carved mantelpiece struck ten, with a sound almost as soft as that of a summer breeze run- ning through a branch of lilies of the valley. “J had no idea I had been here almost three hours,” exclaimed young Ward, rising quickly. ' 4 Good-by, dear Florenge, forthe present. You shall not be neglected, rest assured of thati And now, to attend to a small matter of inter- est only to myself. “You remember the prom- ise into which you bewitched me, when you got me to promise to wear your ring? We have met again, and Iam no longer under bonds to wear a jewel which has made me a good deal of trouble, for it has kept Violet from promis- ing to some day be my little wife. She was, naturally, jealous of my right to make love to .+ | herand yet wear your ring. When I see her ggain-—which I fervently, hope will now be a ° : 4 bait t v + t habs ig ‘ae 4 t . é at B tn As she reached out her hand for it, Charlie took the dimpled member in his own, playtful- ly, and placed the ring on hér finger. He had only the most brotherly feeling for the little lady with whom he had jested, and associated since since they were children; and now, it was | more out of pity for her, and a kind desire to leave her in lighter spirits than he had found | her, that he himself placed the ring on her | _ hand, and smiling, touched his lips lightly to it _ as he said ‘‘good-night, and good-by till we | | thence and down the stairs before Charlie could meet again.” Turning tO go, he, for the first time, per- ceived,.in the door, a person who had been si- | | lently standing there for some three or four | minutes; a person he immediately knew to be | | Fraser Harold, and whom he would haye been | glad to succeed in meeting, had it not been | for an expression on the handsome face which startled and disconcerted him. The sneer of a Mephistopheles was on the pol- ished, courtly features; but the eyes were red and lurid with jealous rage. ‘Really, madam, if I had known how you amused yourself in my absence, I need not have put myself so much out of the way to come up here to prevent your becoming quite | It was at some inconvenience I man- | desolate. aged to visit you this evening; but I have been so well entertained during the last five min- utes, I will. now depart, leaving you to the re- | sources of a new lover. Farewell, Madame Cora Pearl.” 4 ‘‘ Fraser!” shrieked his wife, darting to him © and flinging her arms about his neck. You shall not speak to me so! You shall not go away! Listen! . This is an old friend of mine —let me tell you ”—but he cast her from him with so much rudeness that she staggered half- ° across the room. “‘T might have known that a girl who would meet me as you did, in Gramercy park, was not a girl to trust,” he said, coldly. ‘I have had enough of you. Ihave been thinking so for some time; and now I am infinitely obliged to you for giving me a palpable and sufficient rea- , son for putting an end to our acquaintance. You are even more fickle than I deemed you.” \ He turned to leave the room, but again she rushed and flung herself upon him, dragging him, by the, might of her passion and anguish rather than by her physical strength, back against his will, while Charles Ward, brave and generous, if young and inexperienced, quickly closed the door and placed his back to it. “You shall listen to my explanation of what you have seen—for your wife's‘ sake,” said Chatlie, sternly. “Do not bore me with explanations; they are my pet aversions,” answered Harold, keep- vancing calmly to the door. ‘‘Open that, and let me pass, or I shall take great pleasure in | blowing out your brains.” must now be proclaimed, | * Blow them out, if you you infernal sneak and coward!” cried Charlie, ‘It is what one might expect from a gentleman too mean to protect his own wife from the insults of the servants who wait uponher. To assassinate an unarmed man were not so base as to murder the reputation of a woman!—above all things of the woman you have vowed before Heaven to love and protect.” Gentleman Harold quailed perceptibly under "this true charge; the hand which toyed with his revolver did not bring if to view; but he sneered still, as he asked, with forced quiet- ness; Los “Who asserts this lady to be my wife? She will have some trouble to prove her claims to the title.” ‘“‘Hraser! Fraser! Fraser! You pierce my very soul with your cruel words. How can you talk so to your own, own fond little wife? Mr. Rhodes will tell Charlie my words are true —so will the clergyman. I have the certificate. Fraser Harold, I will endure this false position | no longer!—to-morrow morning I go to your | | parents and tell them the truth.” “You will find it difficult to make them be- , your sisters, i . han we ~~ 2 Poaeig” ra you; and who knows what your power over me might have won me todo? Thatis all over now. The sight,1 saw when I came in the door decided my course, Redmond Rhodes sailed for Europe a week ago, to be gone two years; the reverend gentleman you refer to fell dead’ on the street, to-day, of apoplexy; my family is at our country house; and I am off, to-mor- row, with a lot of English swells, for a hunt over the plains—so good-by, forever.” He turned quickly, walked down the room into the adjoining one, out inte the hall from intercept him. As she heard the hall door clang, Florence fell headlong to the floor, with the low ery: ‘Oh, merciful Heaven, pEsERTED!” CHAPTER XVL THE LACE-MAKER AND THE TOURIST, RepMonND Ruoves felt a strange weariness of life after he had seen the little refugee safoly married to her too gay lover. He could not accouut for the ennui which pursued him at Newport—trayeled with him to Saratoga— stuck by him closer than a brother at Lake George, and made with him the whole tour of the White Mountains, arriving simultaneously with him in Newport again. He was not usu- ally ‘the victim of blue devils to any great ex- tent, having within his own mind resovrces which even the deadly lethargy of luxury could not wholly repress. But now he was listless, restless, tired of everything, unable to content himself anywhere. He came home again in four weeks. For the first time he seriously re- gretted having chosén a bachelor’s life. His house was insufferably lonesome. His books had lost their charm. The pictured beauties who smiled down at him from the gallery were stiff, unnatural, faded shadows on canvas as compared with the lovely, vivid, piquant face that had once flashed back a'startied blush and smile at him, as he opened his chamber door. Ah, mysterious witchery of woman’s eyes! A pair of them—“ sweetest eyes ’twere ever seen” —had entered the haughty bachelor’s, halls, cast the glamour of their brightness over evers- thing, and disappeared, leaving dullness, gloom, homesickness. Redmond Rhodes did:not gay all this to him- | self—would not have acknowledged it to his own dreams; yet in this was the secret of the sudden resolutiox. to bid farewell to New York for the winter, and to seek in Paris, or the sun- ny cities of Italy, the pleasure which had for- | saken his hearth-stone. His house was closed; his housekeeper pensioned off, with no duties except to see to an occasional airing of the rooms; his | wild friend, Harold, was delicately lectured on—“ now youare married, you must be good;” and Mr. Rhodes, with no particular feeling of elation, but,with rather the inward reflection that “the world was hollow and his doll stuffed with sawdust,” found himself outward bound ' on the Germania, for Bremenhaven; having re- solved on an autumn tour through Germany and Switzerland before settling down in Paris for two or three months of the winter. , Too reserved in temperament to’ make any of those intimacies common to steamer jour- neys—where the passengers are forced into a closer companionship than in other modes of traveling—Mr. Rhodes yet became very muct. interested in a certain Madame D’Eglantine, a French lady of exquisite beauty and refine- ment, reported to be rich almost beyond figures to compute. Her wealth and beauty made her an universal object of interest; but it was for neither of these very objective qualities that Mr. Rhodes fancied her; he saw, in her shrink- ing from thé homage paid her, in the pallor of her fair face, the shadows under her melancholy eyes, and the pathetic tones of her low voice, that she was a woman who had suffered. Somo- thing’ in her looks and manners attracted his sympathy. ; As he was a gentleman whose air proclaimed - his right to be respected and trusted, Madame D’Egiantine did not repel the few quiet cour- , tesies he found it in his power to extend to her, Sometimes they chatted pleasantly together for ‘ / 1 } . ye 4 } t ie a al " . Py ye ae | q
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es ee va. VER an hour on deck, on fair mornings or calm ev mings. Mr. Rhodes also liked madame’s busin-ss agent, Mr. Vernon—an honest, sensible, modes. gentleman, well-read in the classics, and a . shrewd observer of men and things—though he wondered a little at her trusting such immense interests to a man of so limited an experience. Mr. Rhodes did not know the reasons—aside from business ones—which the fair French madame had for trusting the American lawyer with her affairs.4 Mr. Rhodes was the only one on board the ship, aside from the agent, to whom Madame D’Eglantine spoke of her daughter; not even to BLACK EYES AND him did she confide any of the particulars of | her story; but he gathered from her the im- pressions that she had been very unfortunate in ber marriage, contracted in secrecy when she was scarcely more than a child, and that the man who had been her husband h 1d still the power to torture her, by keeping, or having at present, possession of their child—that she was now on her way to claim this daughter, a: ‘young lady, and was in some doubt as to where she should find her. So much, Redmond in- ferred, from what was told’ him; but the real and terrible tragedy of our story, the danger which threatened her innocent daughter, were not dreamed of by the gentleman whoso sympa- thized with the pale-faced, lovely mother. And 0 the brief acquaintance terminated with a few pleasant wishes that they might meet again, when the steamer reached her dock at Bremenhaven, for the ways of the travelers separated there: Madame D’Eglantine was go- ing directly to Baden, led by some strange, motherly yearning which drew her as a mys- terious, magnetic force. Ah! if she had been a week earlier on her way, and could have come unannounced by the tell-tale cable, how easily she would have at least found her child, and been able to keep near her, even if not to buy her from the malignant hate which kept possession of her only to torment! Before madame reached Baden those of whom she came in search had flown. But she learned how a Monsieur Goldenough had been there for a fow weeks—at what house he stopped—how he spent -his days—and how his beautiful daugh- ter, la belle Americaine, had been the marvel ef the city, followed about by a host of idle young bloods, who considered themselves re- paid for hours of patient waiting, if, perchance, she flung back her vail for a few moments, as she’sat near her father at his play, while her soft, pure eyes roved over the habitat of fash- ion, pleasure, dissipation, like the glance of an angel brooding sadly over some entrance to the Inferno. She heard, too, vague rumors, flying reports, of something which sent the blood back on her brain in curdling waves, which threatened to kill—a scandalous story which had been the delight of the halls and gardens for the last three or four days: how M. Goldenough had found a suitor for his daughter's hand—the well-known English baronet, Sir Israel Benja- min, famous for his meanness, badness and ug- liness—old, repulsive, rich, sensual, miserly; how the young lady had objected, and the papa had insisted; how la belle Americaine, driven to desperation, had run away; how the er and the baronet had soon found the trail, and were off, silent, keen, cunning, rather enjoying the novelty of the excitement, and certain to run down the’ game very soon. ““What more?’ gasped the agonized lady, of the one who had enlightened her thus far, striving in vain to conceal the tumult of sus- pense and pain which whirled through her brain.’ “Ah, madame, they do say mademoiselle was married to Sir Israel, day before yester- day. ’Tisa pity, for the baronet is a despicable person, though rich enough, the good God knows. Any one of.a hundred handsome and amiable young men, of good families, would have been glad to marry /a belle Americaine, since her father was so fast to get rid of her, Some of the young Englishmen went about with erepe on their arms yesterday—it was only half in jest they were, either—and a poor jest I call it, madame, do not you?” ¢* il y J BLUE. “How do they know about the marriage?” | stockings, trying to hide themselves in the rude “Oh, itis but a rumor; yet it is generally believed. They say they found her in a little country inn about five miles from Mon- siour Goldenough seems to have had great au- thority over his daughter, for she gave up, when once caught, and became most obedient, going to the mayor and the church, the next morning, as meek as a mouse.” **'You speak as if well-informed.” ' “T only cho the rumors which are in every one’s mouth, madame, It may be so, or may not be.” And this was the- weléome which awaited Madame D’Eglantine in Baden! Mr. Vernon was equally distressed, His love for Violet was that of the fondest of pa- rents; he had long indulged a fav«rite dream that she and Charles Ward would join hands and hearts and together be the comfort of his declining years. Even after her mother had | his door-step. pattens which were far too heavy for the feet. ‘Here is some more foolish masquerading!” — he thought, memofy flying back to the little Quakeress, with the false front and the painted wrinkies, who had once upon a time fainted on “This little girl is crying, too. Perhaps she has been in good circumstances and is now reduced to the pittance of. a lace- maker, poor young thing!” and Redmond, with the aid of a ready imagination, went on to con- struct a story to suit the fancied circum- stances. Just before the boat proceeded on her way, | a belated traveler was driven in a cab down to come, with dazzling prospects which made the | fair girl the peer of nobles, he still clung to his some time Madame D’Eglantine would be won to think as well of Charlie as he did. The idea | of his shrinking Violet forced into a marriage with a blase, mean, unprincipled old baronet was terrible; far rather would he have heard | that the earth had closed over her sweet eyes forever, Meantime, their whilom traveling compan- | ion, Redmond Rhodes, pursued his leisurely way up the river on one of the little steamers, ‘which go loaded down with - passengers, in no hurry for anything; and with no object in view | the dock, at a furious rate of speed; the cab- man jumped down, but not soon enough to open thé door for the gentleman who sprung out, flung his fare in the man’s face and hur- ried on to the steamer. Redmond had turned to watch the little scene, as one will who has nothing better to do! when he again looked _ back at the peasant girl, he noticed that the lit- first plans for her happiness, believing that | except to get rid of the time comfortably, and | to see as much of the country as was conve- | nient. He had been over the ground ‘more than once before, so that nothing had the charm | of novelty. He had purchased a pocket edition | _of Goethe in the German, and enjoyéd the read- ing of one of his favorite poets as he glided gently up the Rhine. Toward evening he left the boat, allowing his baggage to go on, except | a small traveling-bag which he had sent up to the quaint old inn of the quaint old town where he proposed to spend the night. He had a pleasdht sunset hour in which to examine the cathedral, and another more dusky one in which to rove about the place looking at everything different from the customs of his own country, with keen eyes; his long walk gave him a good appetite; he ate a solitary supper with a zeal which would have astonished James at home; slept well under the quilts of down which heap- ed the high bed in the comfortable but old- fashioned chamber of the inn, and awoke the next morning, rather dazed as to his where- abouts, out of a dizzy dream of a pair of velvety black eyes opening softly inside a Quaker bon- net, The hours began to drag in the dull old town before it was time to expect the steamer in which he was to resume his trip up the river} he sauntered down to the little stone quay to see the arrival of the boat from above going down. He had his bag*in his hand; for he had settled his bill at the inn and was ready for a start. The passengers coming off were a common- place lot of Germans; but, on the deck, Red- mond observed, as the steamer lay at the dock a few minutes, were some picturesque tourists, as well as some terribly stupid-looking ones, Quite by herself, on one of the benches on the deck, in a timid attitude, as if she shrunk from her own shadow, sat a peasant girl, young and pretty. The sparkle of a tear in the sunlight, as it fell from her eyes to her hand, first drew the attention of our idle traveler to her. tle rosy mouth was pale, and the slender figure seemed to wish to sink into the deck and es- cape all human sight; the fingers folded lightly | over the handle of the basket had broken it in the sudden, convulsive movement which passed over them, For a moment, as the arri | gentleman disappeared under the gangway, she arose and looked about with an air of such dis- traction, such terror, that the observer on the dock expected to see her rush to the side of the boat and cast herself headlong into the water. As the head of the new arrival emerged above the floor of the deck, on his way up, she sunk back again despairingly, drew her hat still fur- ther over her face, opened the lid of the bas- — ket, and took out a cushion and bobbins over which she bent as if deeply engrossed in work, The bell of the steamer sounded the signal to - draw in the plank. One would have to be in just such a frame of mind as Redmond Rhodes to appreciate the impulse which came over him at that critical, moment—he was tired of everything, longing for something to arouse his interest, time was of no consequence, he had no settled plans— . and so, as the bell jangled, he set his foot on the plank and sprung into the gangway. To do him full justice we must also admit that the chivalry of a most generous nature had been touched by the sight of the evident terror of the young lace-maker, “Tf she needs a friend, why not I, as well as any one?—I am bound to see this little by-play through.” And there was our haughty aristocrat, who, at home, held himself ‘too good for human na- ture’s daily food,” going back down the glcri- ous, romantic Rhine on the same track he had yesterday passed over, just to see what was the trouble with a foolish peasant girl, who had | dropped a tear, and broken her basket-handle in a spasm of sudden fright! Redmond would not have done such a thing had there been any who knew him to observe it; but, being quite free to act out his natural impulses, he was not abashed at the nobility of his intentions nor ashamed to do a good act. Going on deck, he placed himself at some dis- tance from the peasant girl, took out his copy of Goethe, and began to read and watch. In a few minutes he heard a suppressed ex- clamation; the gentleman whose appearance on the dock had so startled the girl had been walk- _ ing up and down the deck, with a hideous leer _on his countenahce, looking narrowly at the _ peasant every time he passed; she had not once She | wore the costume of a Belgian peasant, except | that her hat had a broad brim which so shad- owed her face that Redmond could only make out a delicate chin, a mouth like & rose, and the tip of a dainty nose, “That is no peasant’s face,” he idly mused; “above all things, not the swarthy face of a Belgian girl,”*and then his eyes roved to the smali white hands clasped over the handle of the basket which held her lace-work; and from thence to the fairy feet in the wooden shoes— soft, fair, dimpled, rose-leaf little feet, without’ * | remarked, in an undertone; looked up, but held her head bent low over her work, Seldom had Mr. Rhodes seen a face so utterly repulsive to him as that of this man; it was old, without any of the benignity of age, a wrinkled page covered over with the ineffa- cable records of a mean and sensual life; the loose under lip was significant of the character of the man, as well as the small, crafty eyes. His dress was that of a seedy exquisite; his figure bent and low.. While the American mutely wondered as to his name and standing, he heard two English tourists sitting near him , begin a discussion of the very subject, which enlightened him considerably. One of them va , haw ee ee ets AAS ee. oo em CA oe: : a es a ji beget A
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wy per, ‘‘he is coming. ““'There’s our old friend, Sir Israel, again. I wonder what heis after now. Something of importance, or he never would have jumped | out of that cab in such haste.” “Ten to one it’s that pretty Belgian peasant! Do you see how he eyes her? When Sir Israel Benjamin is in a hurry you may know that he | is either after a pretty woman or a rich fool. There! I told you so! the tourists laughed. It was just at this point that Mr. Rhodes had heard the girl’s smothered cry; and now he noticed that her hands-trembled as she remov- ed the lid from her basket and allowed Sir Is- rael to inspeci its contents. The haronet said something to her—made quite a long speech, in a voice too low fur*-Redmond to. catch a word —added, in a louder tone, that he would buy a cravat of her presen tly—-and passed on, evi- dently desirous of avoiding the suspicions of | ‘those on the boat who might know him. The girl sat for some time after the baronet left her as if in astuwpor. Then she pushed her hat a little up from over her eyes and looked about on the people, It seemed as if she look- ed for some one who might befriend her. When her glance at last rested on Redmond, a slight flush came into her pale face; her eyes passed on, but they came back to him, question- ingly, again and again. His curiosity and interest/increased. This was no peasany girl ‘lwo hours passed on without any incident, except the occasional call _ of the little steamer at some village dock; the passengers were called to dinner in the cabin; Sir Israel, the tourists, the commercial travel- ers, all went—except the common people who ate their bread and cheese on deck, the peasant, and Redmond Rhodes. Redmond remained where he was—he had breakfasted late, and he | longed for an opportunity to speak alone with the girl She did hot wait for him to address | her; no sooner had Sir Israel disappeared than she arose and came over to the bench where he | was sitting, holding her basket open as an ex- ceuse for addressing him. “You are an American, sir?’ she asked, in a trembling voice. ' “JT am—and you?’ ‘Oh, yes! and in trouble. I am not—not- Iam running away in this disguise, sir; but. indeed, I am not to blame for it. If my mo ther could know how I am situated !—oh, et as an American and a gentleman I appeal to you!” “ Be calm, my dear young lady, and tell me what you wish, asif I were your brother. »Con- | sider me as such; ask my assistance in any way} I shall be only too happy to serve you.” “Oh, if I could tell you all! I trust you, sir, for your face tells me that it is safetodoso, I hoped to reach the steamer and sail for New York, before my pursuers discovered me; but, alas, oné of them is on this boat with me, and I am suffering all the horrors—” “ Hush,” interrupted Redmond, in a whis- No, my girl, I do not care to buy. Iam no judge of lace” The girl looked over her shculder, at this hint, and there stood the grinning baronet, so close that his breath touched her cheek—so close that she shivered with terror as she saw | the cold triumph, the gleam of snalice, in his crafty black eyes. CHAPTER XVII. THE SNARE HOLDS AND TIGHTENS. Wuen M. Goldenough turned away from the ‘gaming-table where he had lost in {wenty-four hours all that he had gained in four weeks of | extraordinary good luck, and encountered Sir israel at the.door, with a question as to wheth- er he knew where his daughter had gone, he found the baronet in an ill humor. “Curse you and your daughter,’ too, mon- sieur; if you’re going to play in this reckless manner, Yd better keep out of the family. You - will ruin yourself, sooner or later, and then — what will I get with my lady, but her good , _ looks? She’s deuced handsome; but one must — look out for his interests, you know, for he. can’t expect another to look out for him. TP’m ten fathoms see in love hod ee eae ’ d a 2 E 4 es Se , - * Mien oy Ae eS a BLACK He is about to purchase | -a piece of lace—for a pocket-handkerchief,” and but soft words butter no parsnips; what is iar ' dot and how secured?” M. Goldenough took Sir Israel’s arm and | hurried him away to a quiet spot on the prome- ~nade; then he faced his friexd, and with a sul- _ len smile, asked him, curtly: | “Did you ever chance to hear anything of the estates of the D’Eglantines, in Caen?” “An immensely wealthy family,” answered the baronet, smacking his lips at the very thought of estates far exceeding his own, “Well, now, I will confide a fact to you, You can act on thé knowledge of the fact as you think best. My daughter Violet has ne | expectations whatever from me; but, on her mother’s side, she is the sole prospective heir to every acre of those estates, every dollar of _ their income. Her mother is a D’Eglantine, _ and now sole owner of all the property. Vio- | letits her only child, and indisputable successor. | Judge for yourself whether it be worth some | trouble to secure for a wife a young lady with such prospects.” Sir Israel’s eyes twinkled like sparks that have been stirred, “Has mademoiselle returned to your hotel?” he asked, with sudden interest. “That is what Iam anxious to ascertain. Will you come along?” The reader knows they did not find the vic- tim of their ~chemes there, In the pursuit which followed the baronet | proved himself a perfect ferret, The business seemed perfectly congenial to his peculiar talents. Then, urged on as he was by the fear of los- ing an keiress, the very prospect of whose riches made him half delirious with joy, he was | better than a dozen hired detectives. Tha poor child had small chance of hiding herself from such pursuit, Before dark they were in the secénd-hand clothing-store, where the woman at first lied ob- stinately from fear of losing the beautiful gar- ments over which shé had been gloating; but | when assured that she would remain unmolest- ed by the law, and was offered a handful of | silver besides, she soon described the costume which the young lady, had adopted, and told | tion. | M, Goldenough felt.so sure of soon overtak- | ing the fugitive that he would make no use of | the telegraph or officers of the law, preferring to conduct his family affairsless publicly. The , two men had given chase; but the timid crea- | ture they pursued had some wit to elude them; she had doubled on her track, and finally taken to the steamer, after actually seeing her father and the baronet on the train in a car of which she was sitting. | They had discovered their mistake too late to rectify it immediately; and had then rer solved that M. Goldenough had better proceed to Bremerhaven and remain there on the look- | out, as they had decided that she was making her way there, to sailfer America. » Meantime, the baronet, who had grown very uneasy over their mistake, undertook to overhaul the steam- er at some landing-point of her passage, and keep his eye on mademoiselle until her father claimed her. We have seen how well he succeeded. _ When first addressing the pretended lace-ma- | ker about her work, he was informing her of ' how delighted he was to have the opportunity | of once more paying his respects to his fiancee | and of the pleasure it would be to M. Golden- ough to greet his daughter when she stepped from the boat. - “Monsieur Goldenough is not at all angry with your playful masquerading, mademoiselle; but it confirms him in his opinion that you will be safer with a husband than with a father; and -he has promised to hand you over to my keep- | ing before twelve o’clock to-morrow.” | And Violet, feeling the toils tightening about her, was still conscious of one stpreme resolu- tion of her heart and soul—to die before per- mitting that creature to touch her hand. But how? She knew that it was not so easy to die ona wish. She must have the means at hand. Selon’ enn she looked at the blue water. If sho Pooted <y' S <a cy rye et FU ale, af =" i. Py how she had directed her to the railway sta- , EYES AND BLUE. “gk abterapit to drown eset and be feacta: she knew very well that a marriage or a mad- house would be her puishment. While think- ing over the whole ground her desperate eyes: had roved about in search of one kindly hu- man being to whom it would seem tolerably safe to appeal. She saw Mr. Rhodes and rec-. ognized him as a fellow-countryman. Some- how, he seemed to inspire her with courage. Did some subtle, inexpicable influence from the mother who had so lately associated with him on board the Germania still linger about him, that Violet should so trust him at first glance and feel as if she had found a defender, who would believe her story and not swallow the’ fiction that she was mad, as soon as a wicked man chose to accuse her of it? She would have told the stranger all; but the ever-watchful baronet, fearing that she might do something so rash as to throw herself over the side of the boat, had concluded te go dinnerless and returned in time to thwart her * ‘ attempt at confidence, Stealing softly on the pair he overheard enough to convince him that mademoiselle was about to appeal to this gen- tleman, who was also an American, and he re- | solved that an opportunity should not again oc-: cur. | The hours of the afternoon wore slowly away, and the boat approached the end of her journey. In vain Redmond Rhodes sought to interest. himself in his favorite poet, The young lady ' in the peasant garb had taken a seat as near to him as she could. The baronet had joined the ' group; he tried to open a conversation with the American, as an excuse for remaining near, but got brief replies, and finally settled into- silence, amusing himself with watching, with malignant pertinacity, every look and move- ment of the embarrassed and suffering girl, It was with difficulty Mr. Rhodes controlled him- self, so strong was the impulse of the gentle- man to chastise the bully who could thus stare out of countenance a lady. The lovely dark-blue eyes finally fixed them- seives on Redmond’s with an anxious, strained, terrified appeal in them, which he felt that he must respond to. What is it, my child?” he asked, in his king manner, feeling that he must wait no longer for the baronet to get out of the way. “It you need a friend, I will be one te you—you are & country woman of mine, and I cannot submit to see you persecuted.” “T do not see what you can do for her,” in- terposed Sir Israel, drawing a card from his breast-pocket and handing it, with a polite bow, to the stranger. ‘Allow me to assure you, sir, whoever you are, that it will be dan- gerous for you to interfere between a father and his child—or a young lady and her affi- anced husband. “T am not siesta to him,” spoke up Vio- . let, quickly‘ I bate, abhor, dread him, be- yond any man on the face of the earth! My father is determined that I shall marry him— I put on this disguise and ran away, because my father is cruel to me, and wishes to make me wretched for life by forcing me to accept this nye, * vhom I detest. If.1 could reach my home’ and friends!—but, oh, sir, I fear I am quite in my father’s power; ‘and he was cruel te my mother, and has no love for me.” There were no passengers then in that vicin- ity who unde stood Euglish, and the three could.talk without exciting any especial notice. Sir Israel tapped his forehead significantly, and smiled. “Her father is a gontleman against whom no one will venture a word. He is kindness itself to his daughter, who is one of the sweet- est of her sex, except that, occasionally—when not so well as usual-—she has, let us say, exag- ger ated fancies about things which render her in—” “He means you to understand that I am more or less insane; that is a part of my fath- er’s avowed plan to compel me—in this foreign country, away from all who know me—to marry this man. Ob, do not believe them! do not allow that suspicion to poison your mund toward me! Do you, sir, blame me for , shrinking with horror from this old man, who ,
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RS eae oo BOK Ry Be ARNIS BL IEC has not one virtue to compensate for his burden of years? Would I not be insane to consent to such a union? Yet my father wants to hold me a prisoner, to force me into the arms of. this withered roue/ I am so mad, that I will die by the first death that offers before I will yield. If to be eager to-kill myself .to escape Sir Israel Benjamin, be madness, then I am mad, indeed!” Sir Israel waved his hand deprecatingly, with ‘a pitying smile. “ Will you not save me from them?” she ask- ed, turning to Redmond, with clasped hands; ** surely you can do something!” ‘*T wish I knew what I could do,” answered Mr. Rhodes, thoughtfully; he was too experienced in the difficulties of the law, to feel willing tc make the attempt tointerfere between a parent and child, even had he possessed the least. pow- er to do so. 4 “Do something—something for me, if you have any humanity?’ she pleaded. ‘I would leap into the water, but I know they would save me, and 1 shall be. worse off than before. Sir, will you give mea scrap of paper out of your note-book, and a pencil, for one moment?” Redmond tore a leaf out of his diary and handed it to her, with the pencil she had asked for. She immediately wrote a few words and handed paper and pencil back to him. The face of Sir Israel turned a sickly purple with rage and jealousy; he shook his long forefinger at the American, saying, savagely: “Sir, this interference on your part has gone as far as I shall permit. When we reach our stopping-place, I shall hand you over to the police.” “On what complaint?’ asked Redmond, coolly. “No matter about that; I will invent one. I will swear to.whatever is necessary to get rid of you, sir.” ‘‘ What a fine sense of honor! But let me beg of you not to perjure yourself on my ac- count. Rather than drive’ you into such a sin, I will abandon the young lady to her fate, We Americans are ridiculous cowards.” ‘The old dandy could not decide whether the stalwart gentleman, whose broad shoulders loomed a foot higher than his own, was thak- ing fun of him, or not. Redmond arose and went to another part of, the deck, where he read the few lines the girl had written, twist- ed the torn leaf carelessly and tossed it over. board. From that moment until the time they landed he did not once look toward her; and the baronet sagely concluded that his threat [ had really frightened the puppy of an Amer+ n. ‘ > tlader this belief he recovered his, equanimi- ty, making himself so agreeable to.the pretty lace-maker in the wooden shoes that every one on deck was smiling at the spectacle. When the boat finally came alongside the dock which was the terminus of her day’s journey, the. rich purple ef twilight had robed the distant mountains, and night was settling slowly over the strange town. Mr. Rhodes was in no hurry to disembark. Hestood where he could watch the others do so, waiting for the first pressure to be over. Looking down ‘upon the dock, where two lamps already glim- mered, he saw a handsome, portly, eminently- respectable appearing personage, of his, own nationality, eagerly scanning the passengers. Then, he saw the old baronet signal this person- age, who immediately made his way on board and up to the spot where the young lady, dis- guised as a lace-maker, sat trembling. What between the two he did not at- tempt to overhear; but now made his own way quickly down upon the quay, where he purpose- ly concealed himself behind a small mountain of freight, waiting and watching until the gen- tleman returned, with the pretended peasant girl on his arm, They entered a carriage, the baronet went in another, and both were driven off atarapid rate, Rapid as it was a third carriage followed as swiftly—for gold will work wonders, and Mr. Rhodes had triple-feed the cabman. : The father did not take his beautiful daugh- ter, dressed in her peasant clothes, to any ho- _ tel; but into the oldest, oddest part of the town, / close down by the shipping, where the carriage drove under the ancient porte-cochere of a tall, tumble-down building, and disappeared in the court-yard; an old building, standing forlorn in a sort of decayed grandeur, in the midst of.a crowd of very different buildings, wdre- houses, tenement-houses, steamboat-offices, and the tag-end of a market. Mr. Rhodes summoned his own driver to stop at a safe distance from the other two ve- hicles. , ‘“ What house is that whose court-yard they entered?” ‘* A lodging-house, monsieur—in a poor part, but clean and respectable. It was once very fashionable; but these latter years it is occu- pied chiefly by the clerks in the warehouses ’round about.” * Do you suppose I can obtain a room there fora day or two?” “Oh, undoubtedly, monsieur. Iam told the bedding is clean and the place quiet. But Mon- sieur le Americaine should go to a finer place.” ‘‘Give me the street and number, please.” The cabman gave it, and Redmond wrote it down. “Now drive me to some office from which I can dispatch a telegram.” A drive of some length brought them to a | handsome quarter of the town, where Mr. Rhodes sent his message, took his supper at a restaurant, and was driven back to the vicinity ‘of the house where his acquaintances of the boat had taken refuge. It was by this time quite late in the evening. Dimissing the cab, he proceeded on foot, and rung the bell at the court-yard gate, The por- tiere made his appearance. “Can I have an apartment here for a day or two?” “ Undoubtedly. Will monsieur walk in? Come this way—I will introduce you to the proprietress.” He was led across the court into the parlor of the little widow who had the letting of the apartments. She could give him his choice of several beautiful, charming suites; and she took up a candle and led the way up a neatly- kept, but somber and ancient stairway. “Give me rooms as near as possible to those - of the other Americans who arrived this even- ing,” said Redmond, as he followed after her | up the foot-worn stone stairs, dimly lighted by the one flaring candle which preceded him. ‘¢ Ah! monsieur,” rejoined the widow, paus- ing at the first landing, and sighing heavily, © “those people disappointed me cruelly. They looked at my rooms, but they were not suited, and went away, after 1 almost felt the price of them in my palm. I hope monsieur will not treat me so badly.” Fooled! Redmond Rhodes drew a long breath, but checked the inclination to swear, as this certain- ty was borne in upon him. Those two men had been more cunning than he, Foreseeing that he would track them, they had led him off on a false trail. “Do you know where they went to find apartments?” ; “I have no more idea than I have of heaven, monsieur. But you will not disappoint me about the rooms?” “If they suit, I will remain here for the present,” a resolution on which Redmond after- ward congratulated himself! CHAPTER XVIIL AU REVOIR. DESERTED! Terrible word for the wife of six weeks! When Florence came out of that deadly swoon, she saw, through the blackness which stiil par- tially obscured her vision, the cold, heartless glance of Madame Florian fixed upon her, and _ to such treatment! “5 rashly as piteously, could not be hers for the asking. By her own vanity and folly—-though — not by any crime—she had opened the door to a long train of evils likely to pursue her through the whole of a life as yet so fresh and young. She had done wrong in coming to New York as she did—done wrong in meeting Fra-’ ser Harold surreptitiously, as she had done— done wrong in marrying him when she saw how he hesitated about making her his wife. The last fault was the most forgivable, because “she loved much ”—that she did. love her hus- band truly and with the whole of her ill-gov- erned, passionate nature, was her redeeming virtue, “T hope mademoiselle will make an effort to control herself; as, if she feels well enough to attempt it, I must insist on her leaving my house to-night. She knows that, had I not been imposed on, I should neyer have allowed her to take apartments here.” ‘Why do you call a married lady mademoi- selle? And why'do you speak to her in that insolent manner?” demanded young Ward, an- grily: he had waited, in anxiety and distress, for Florence’s recovery from her swoon. “She can answer that question better than I can. When her protector leaves her, because of the visits of another getitleman, I think I am justified in giving the lady warning.” “That man, who should have been her pro tector, and is not, is her husband, madame; and I am an old friend of her family who have known her since she was a child in frocks, I came to. her to bring her word of her mother’s death. Beware! there are courts where foul- mouthed slander is punished; as I, a lawyer, chance to know. That her husband should have gone off in a fit of jealous rage, because he saw me here, without waiting for an ex- | planation of my visit, shows him to be—what | heis. But it does not make it safe for you to insult this lady.” “Very well, sir; I have no wish to insult Her, as you call it. You will not. deny my right to ask her to vacate my apartments, after the gentleman who engaged them for her has told me that he will no longer be responsible — for the price of them?” ; “Certainly not. But,” after a minute’s re- | flection, ‘‘they are paid for in advance; you cannot turh her out to-night; and I do not pro- pose to seek another place for her at am un- seasonable, suspicious hour,” “They are paid for by the week; there ara yet two days remaining. I did not think of that; I thought only of the reputation of my house,” quickly rejoined the. wily: madame, afraid that this gentleman might find out the truth, viz ; that Mr. Fraser, as he met her in the lower hall, had tossed a handful of bills:to her, saying; ‘‘ Here is a month’s pay in advance; allow Mrs. Fraser to remain here that length of time;” for Harold—who had all the baseness of his class—had also their scorn. of meanness, in money matters. “Oh, Charlie, Charlie!” moaned the deserted wife, again.striving to lift her head from the cushions where she lay, like some. splendid flower which has been gathered, admired, and tossed aside to, wilt and die, ‘this is horrible! Do not let that woman look at me—speak +6 me! Oh, to think that Fraser can subject me Charlie, it is more than I can bear! It makes mehete him! As it made , me hate my father, to find out what he. was and how he had treated my mother, it makes me hate Fraser. Come! I will go away from here to-night. I will go in the Quaker dress and bonnet in which I came to.this wicked city. I will not wear a thing he has given me —I will not eat another mouthful of food for which he has paid! Never! I will not! I will not!” She had staggered to the floor, and | stood there, in one of her old, characteristic at- shrunk from it as from the sting of a reptile, | reclosing her eyes and sinking back on the satin cushions of the sofa where she had been placed, with the one wish that she might never again have to open them and face a weary, wicked world. } But the boon of death, so often prayed for RY) | therly friend to whom I could take you.” titudes, stamping her tiny foot, while the dark eyes blazed in the white face, “T don’t wonder you feel so, dear Florrie,” said Charlie, soothingly, gently forcing her to sit down, ‘and you shall go away from here as quickly as possible; but not to-night. It is al- ready aiter ten o’clock. If Madame D’Eglan- tine had not gone abroad, I should have a mo- !
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t 4 = 420 those eyes. ' clock—it was nearly eleven. shuddering. “Yes, to her. I know that she would gladly be a mother to you—and. Violet asister. I only wish they were here,” Florence turned her face to the wall: she had cherished a feeling of resentment, dislike, envy, toward those two; to accept favors from them would be intolerable! Her own mother was dead—she felt herself utterly friendless on the face of the earth, except for Charlie Ward, whom she half despised. Her situation, in her own eyes, was even more terrible than it was in reality, though unhappy enough at the best. To die—to diel—that was all she wanted, in the first bitter hour of her mocked love, her in- jured pride, her desolation. She’ turned her face to the wajl in silence, rejecting the very idea that Violet, or Violet’s mother, could be any help to her. “Well, I will say good-night, Mrs, Fraser,” added Charlie, after waiting in vain for her to speak. ‘I will call at nine in thé morning, and to-morrow I hope to find some safe and pleasant home for you—even if you have to re- turn to Lycurgus to obtain it,” and he went away. ye -night, Mrs. Fraser; I hope you feel better; and if you are ill, or need anything, call me, and I will be ready to serve you,” and Madame Florian, thinking she might have been unwisely in haste to get rid of her patron, went out with a less insolent air than she had worn on entering. And so the deserted bride was left to bear, as she might, her sorrows. “Return to Lycurgus! accept aid from Ma- dame D’Egiantine! friendship from my half- sister! a dower forced from Madame D’Eglan- tine by the machinations of my father! poor, foolish Charlie!—you do not know the one you thus seek to comfort—comfort, by heaping coals of fire on, my head and heart! No one understands me!” muttered Florence, and, then —whether it was merely from habit, or wheth- er she thus came into closer communion with her best friend, herselfi—she arose, staggered to one of the tall mirrors and stood looking at her own' pale face—into her own great, burning, sleepless eyes, “(No one understands me,” she repeated, to TY cannot act like others. I can- not be tame, self-repressed, patient, prudent. I must do all, dare all, risk all, feel all, wheth- er I suffer or am happy—live or die. I mar- ried Fraser Harold at my own risk. I knew the perils that awaited me—perils of weari- , ness, loathing, desertion—but I loved him ang I chose to take the chances. I trusted to my beauty to hold him; the brittle chain of flowers | has snapped; and we are parted. “ Am I to sit down in a corner and weep out my days? NotI It was a miad game, from the first—a mad, reckless game; and it shall be played to the end in the same way it was | 4 _ down, despite his sympathy for Florence, A bottle of wine, which she had ordered in | anticipation of a visit from her husband, was | sitting on a small stand close at hand. She poured a little into the slender glass beside it, coming over her. Then she threw herself into an arm-chair to think, She had not sat there five minutes before she sprung up, went quickly , and drank it, ior a deadly faintness was again | - into her bedchamber, from which in a short | time shé emerged, wearing the Quaker garb in ! which she had first left home. now in her possession. She glanced at the Slipping ncise- lessly down-stairs, she let herself out at the hall door and walked rapidly on until she reached a car which would take her to thé vi- cinity of Fraser’s club-house. As she drew near the building a party of gentlemen were ing down the steps; the one she looked for was among them, and she withdrew around the corner until they had passed, when she walked softly after them, so near as to overhear their conversation. “Then it is arranged that we take the seven ¥. M. lightning express, to-morrow evening?” asked her husband’s voice. . ¥. At his last visit | “ Fraser had forgotten his latch-key, and it was | ‘ « ¥f you can be ready, that will be agreeable to us.” t “ Oh, I can get ready. arrangements, I can complete my outfit in St. Louis, You say we shall be gone two months?” “‘ At least—perhaps ten weeks, We have a famous guide engaged to meet us at St. Louis. We ought to press on, at once, so as to have the whole of October and November for our sport.” “Well, you may count on me. I shall meet you at the train, to-morrow evening, if I do not see you through the day. I made the most of my purchases to-day; but have still a few things more to look after, Good-night,” and the group broke up, going its various ways. So! he had planned to leave her, even before he came and got up that scene because Charlie was giving her back her ring! He had “ made most of his purchases” already! If any one could have seen the little face under the Qua- ker bonnet then, its expression would have startled him, Such flashing orbs, such vicious little teeth pressed into ruby lips, were seldom seen under the prim shadow of that emblem of peace, In half an hour Florence Harold was safe in the shelter of her apartments again. The first thing she did when she had thrown off her bon- net and drab shawl, was to take from her dressing bureau the little box in which she kept her money and jewels, and to carefully count her loose cash. Then she walked up and down, up and down, with a velvety tread, like some beautiful panther in its tiresome cage, until she had worn herself so completely out that when she did fling herself on her silken-draped bed, sleep came/and gave her rest. Charlie Ward. meanwhile had gone on his way with mingled feelings of sorrow and joy. Deeply sympathizing with the injured wife; | indignant with the rich scoundrel who had sac- rificed her to his caprices; sorry that she had | so wrecked her bright and promising life, Char- lie could not but have, also, a feeling of glad- ness that he had discovered Florence, and could so telegraph to Mr. Vernon on the morrow. It was his intention to also notify Mr. Goldsbor- ough’s agent; so the prospect was most prom- ising that he should, very soon, have tidings of Violet, as Mr. Goldsborough had assured her friends they should have when Florence was found and the sum secured which he had de- manded. How much delight this prospect gave Char- lie would hardly be inferred from the patience with which he had worked and waited. But love like his, unselfish, deep and enduring, is the love on which it is safe for a girl to build her enchented castles of future happiness, The | thought that, in a few weeks, Violet would re- turn in her mother’s company, and he could show her his hand without the ring, and make to her a full explanation of how he was tricked into wearing it, made his spirits light as thistle- He was back at, Madame Florian’s at the ap- pointed time. Early as it was, Mrs. Harold was dressed and ready to receive him, She was elegantly attired, in carriage toilet, hat and gloves already donned. She lookedia little pale and heavy-eyed, but more beautiful than ever, Charlie mutely wondered, as he feasted his eyes on her, how any man could be indif- ferent, much less cruel, to this lovely little lady. ‘“‘ Charlie,” she said,.as soon as he entered, “you can do nothing for me until I have seen what I can do for myself. I am going—as soon as the carriage arrives for which I have sent—to call on‘ Mr, Harold’s family. I know where they reside, I shall tell them I am Fra- ser’s wife. If they receive me kindly and honorably, offer me a home with them, and ' promise to use their influence tohave Fraser do right by me, I shall remain with them until his return from the West. If they do not believe my story, or treat me with indignity, then—I have another plan. Will you excuse me, now, and call again at five o’clock this afternoon?” “T think you do. well to assert yourself to his family,” answered Charlie, ‘They must be made to admit your rights, I was about to _propose that you should vo to them, first.” If I fall short, in my | BLACK EYES AND BLUE. “Oh, not to her, either!” cried Florence, ’ The clattering of the carriage on the stones below warned them of its arrival, and he led her down and her in it, Au revoir,” she said, with a sudden smile on her pale face. : “Shall I not go with you?” he asked anxiously. ““No, no. I prefer to be alone. Farewell, ‘till five o’clock,” and he shut the door, and gave the sign to the driver to. proceed. The day seemed a long one to Charlie Ward; he went to see Mr. Blank, sent off his cable | dispatch to Mr. Vernon, following it by a long letter; and still there were hours to dispose of before the time for calling again on Mrs. Har- old. He admired the courage which had en abled her to go alone, with only her youth and beauty to support her important claims, to the haughty family of her husband; and he won- dered, with vivid interest, what the result of the interview would be. At five o’clock, to the minute, he was at Ma- dame Florian’s door, A servant met and in answer to his request, tola him that Mrs, Fraser had gone away from the house, two hours previously, with all her baggage. “ But she left a note for you, if you are Mr, Ward.” Charlie took the missive which the servant handed him and went down the steps in a sort of stupor. It was some minutes before he broke the seal, and, standing out on the inhos- pitable pavement, read this brief note: “ Dear Coartie:—The Harolds treated me as an er. There is but one thing for me to do— follow my husband. I can not accept charity from Madame D‘Eglantine; but, if it do Violet an iii you can inclose this note to my father, wit. earnest request that he will cease to trouble her, and my assufance, that, being the happy bride of a wealthy gentleman, I do not need the dower he is so Sa as to try to secure for me! God bless you, harlie—you have beens truefriend. And may He Tell him I forgive and hope we shall meet in Heaven, if not here. Do not fret | about me. Iam only going to Fraser. our friend “PLORENCE GOLDSBOROUGH HAROLD,” CHAPTER XIX, TOO LATE! Mr. RepmMonp RHODES—a man eminently cautious, reserved, exclusive and haughty—be- gan to feel that he had made a goose of him- self at the very least, as he found himself alone in one of the two gloomy rooms he had ‘been so rash as to take, more out of compassion for | the little proprietress than because he any | longer expected anything to come of it to the | advantage of the unfortunate young lady who , had appealed to him for assistance. | He had ordered a fire to be made in the | ancient fireplace, and an extra wax taper or | two to be placed on the shelf above it; so that * he was not as dreary as he might have been; ' gtill the old place contrasted unfavorably with the gayly-furnished rooms of the grand hotel where he should have been. “Tt is not often I get betrayed into an ad- venture so thoroughly Quixotic as this,” he murmured, more than half-vexed, as he sat in | a great chair, covered with moldy leather, be- fore the small but cheerful fire, “If I am mis- taken in my surmise I shall have made a most egregious fool of myself in telegraphing to Ma- dame ‘D’Eglantine. Why did I not ask the girl’s name? Then I should not have been act- ing on an uncertainty. “Poor thing! She asked me, in that note, for poison! Would I contrive to get her some? A most piteous appeal! No wonder, after all, that I felt bound to follow and inter fere in her behalf, ‘What a face is hers!—so pure, so delicate, young and sweet. The most wonderfully lovely, seraphic face I ever saw!l—not dark, vivid, glowing, enchanting like hers whom Fra- ser Harold married only to neglect, I fear— not a face like that, to dazzle and infatuate a maan, to wile him out of his cooler judgment and win him onto all sorts of rashness—not a . face like little Florence’s—but so sweet, spirit- | nelle, It would appeal to any man who was | truly a man of honor and chivalry. So why | should I be ashamed of the impulse which , urged me to follow and try to help her? bless papa, too, i , Heaven knows I would tramp the streets of this ' x 4 *
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__ He stared into the fire, seeing pictured there the appealing eyes which had turned to him that day—seeing the delicately-rounded chin, the rosy, trembling mouth, the peasant’s dress, the little feet in the big shoes—thinking of the despairing request of the poor maiden, for poi- son to put an end to her innocent life, before it should be soiled by conthct with that miserable old roue into whose arms an unnatural father was forcing her. “T cannot sleep, I wish I knew what to do in her behalf,” he muttered, rising to his feet, and walking up and down in front of the hearth in great agitation. If it were my own sister I could hardly feel more concerned.” He pulled out his watch—the hands marked eleven, At that moment a knock sounded at his door. He hastened to open it. The proprietress stood there, fidgeting, embarrassed. “There is a lady wishes to see monsieur. I know not if it be proper—” the speaker was thrust aside and the peasant-girl of the boat stood before him, transformed into an elegant young lady, dressed in light silk, but hatless, gloveless, with a traveling-shawl only thrown on over her rich dress—a young lady pale a&she would be in her coffin, panting, wild-eyed, but struggling to keep up an appearance of calm- ness, lest this woman snould say, with others, that she was mad. “ Sir!” she cried, addressing Redmond, quick- ly, ‘did you do what I asked of you? Have you the poison ready to give me? Ah, if you have it not,” shrinking and trembling, ‘“‘ go now, this moment—before it is too late—and bring it'to me. You must not refuse me! I got away from them. But they will discover my absence in a few minutes and will overtake me,” “My dear child,” answered Redmond, tak- ing her two cold hands, ‘“‘I dare not do what you ask of me. I should be particeps crimines to a murder. Impossible! But I will protect you, with my life if need be.” “You have no power. My own mothér coula not prevent my father from taking pos- session of me. How then can you? He will be here in a few minutes, and then I have the choice of marriage, in the morning, with that odious baronet, or of a life passed in some mad- house to which my mother will never be able to trace me, Death, surely, were preferable to either of these—why keep it from mo? You are cruel—cruel!” and she burst into tears. “No, [am not cruel. ButI am not as ex- cited as youare. Give me your name, address, something of your history; so that I can find your mother. Refuse to marry the baron, Your father will find it impossible to hide you in a mad-house in a country so well-regulated as this. I will put your friends on the track— only give me their names—” he took out his tablets and waited for her to speak. “My adopted father is Mr. Vernon of Ly- curgus/ New Hampshire; but he is now some- where with my mother, who has a divorce from my father and goes by her own family name of D’Eglantine—the two are searching for me, I have no doubt—” ; “Nor I!” exclaimed Mr. Rhodes, cheerfully, “they came over, with me, in the Germania, landing three days ago. They are looking for you. I sent a telegram to Baden this evening to Madame D’Kglantine, saying that I believed you to be the daughter of whom she wag in search, and to come on as quickly as possible. Still, she may not be in Baden; the message may not reach her. Yet it will comfort you to know that it cannot be many days before she overtakes you; and you have my assurance that you shall be immured in no asylum, or other dark ‘place, without my knowledge, If I cannot prevent your father doing as he pleases T can put detectives on his movements, so that his steps will be all known to your mother, So, now, my dear girl, be of good cheer; defy the hideous old baron; let your father perse- cite you as he may for it; he will be watched ait not ellowed to do you serious harm.” All this time the proprietress stood, glaring / hs soe uneasily at the couple, unable to understand their language, but certain that something startling was transpiring, and afraid for the reputation of her old tumble-down house. Mr. Rhodes comprehended her trepidation. He realized, too, that this was no place for the young lady to remain over night, should it be that her father failed to look for her. ““Madamp,” said he to the woman, in French, “have you no quiet, respectable female friend with whom this young lady can take refuge for the night, without being compromised? I will answer for it that you are well paid for your | trouble; and your friend, also. Money is no object. Mademoiselle desires to escape a suitor whom her father favors; you saw him—the ugly old baron!” “Yes,” said the proprietress, with a laugh, | “tis no wonder mademoiselle flies from such a | lover—ah, bah!” shrugging her shoulders. “T can provide her with lodging where she will be secure—but, monsiour must know it 1s not my business to get myself into trouble!” with an- other shrug, “Yell her my mothér will make her rich for life,” murmured Violet, hastily, ‘‘if she will only promise— Ob, what is that?’ and she began to scream and to run to the further end’ of the room. Up the dim staircase, with a great flaring of lights, came the father, the ancient lover and two gens, d’armes—enough, in all conscience, to secure one poor, trembling girl. The flame of the candles they bore flashed out over the wea- pons of the tall police-soldiers—over the suave, malicious smile on the parent’s face, and the anxious little grin and frown on that of the old milord, whose whole wicked soul was stir- red by the fear of losing a young, beautiful wife whose estates stretched far and broad un- der the sunny skies of France. ‘This is the abductor of my daughter—ar- rest him,” commanded Ethan Goldsborough in his broken German, pointing to Mr. Rhodes and the gens-d’anmes immediately laid a strong clasp on both of Redmond’s arms. In vain the prisoner expostulated and ex- plained; the fellows had their orders from the chief, and dare not disobey them, A stranger, like Redmond, was ata terrible disadvantage with an enemy like Sir Israel, who had lived years in the country, who was known every- where as a rich milord, and was familiar with all the processes of the law. He had managed the affair, and stood by, grinning like the an- cient Lucifer he was, while Mr, Rhodes strove to convince the men that they were all wrong —would be punished—that the consul of the port should know, ay, the United State minis- ter, These soldiers were but machines who did the bidding of others; they shook their heads gravely, said nothing, pulled and pushed their prisoner along; while the proprietress, all her sympathies reversed by the sight of the gens- d'armes, wrung her hands, volubly urging her lodger to go peaceably, and not ruin a poor widow by quarreling in her house with the sol- diers, And so our fastidious Redmond Rhodes, who avoided everything sensational as he would avoid the small-pox, passed the remainder of the night in a dreary room of the city-prison. He was angry and mortified, ‘This pays me for meddling in other peo- ple’s affairs!” But. his feeling of humiliation for himself was nothing compared with the anxiety, the | positive wretchedness he felt in being hinder- | ed from doing anything for Miss D’Eglantine. Every moment of the night he saw the look of terror in her eyes when he was dragged away. He counted the hours, the minutes, until his miserable breakfast was brought to him. He had an appeal ready—scrawled on an old let- ter—to the United States consul, asking him to come immediately and interfere in his be- half; and this he gave to the attendant who , brought his meal, accompanied by a gold piece | which made the fellow’s eyes glisten, and an order te have the message sent without de- lay. He expected a visit from theconsul within an hour—or two, at the furthest—for the refer- ences he had given as to his position at home ¥ . \ : q : were such as that personage would not be apt- to slight; but the whole morning crawled on ati @ snail's pace; noon came, with its dinner of bread and cabbage soup; but no consul. The jailer swore that the letter had been delivered; that the consul had promised to come imme diately; that he had no idea why he had not kept his promise. The truth was that bribery had been at work outside, and the energetic ap- peal of the prisoner still reposed in the jailer’s pocket, “When shall I have my call to appear before the court, then?” ‘Some time to-day; it cannot be long now.” | The whole day passed, darkness fell, and the prisoner had not been summoned before . the civil authorities, Cool and well-governed as was the temper of Mr. Rhodes, he was in a fe- ver of anger and despair by bedtime—anger for | himself, despair for the lovely girl whom he had failed to help. How powerless ske must be 80 easily been trapped! His tortured imagina- tion pictured her in two scenes, constantly—in | one, she was the doomed bride of the grinning _ baronet—in the other, a corpse, slain by her | own hand to escape that doom. The thought of | Madame D’Eglantine added to his uneasiness. | | And so the second sleepless night wore itself slowly away. | About ten o’clock of the second day his pris- | on door opened, the gens-d’arme waited to con- ' duct him before the magistrate, where, as the | complainants did not appear, there was no case ‘against him, and he was soon dismissed. Mr. | Rhodes knew his accusers would fail to appears doubtless they were many miles from there bee _ fore this—and their unhappy victim with them; _ as soon as he was free, he burried to the con- | swi’s office to demand, indignantly, the reason | for his letter having been neglected. He had | just learned that it had never been received, when a lady walked into the office, and throw- | ing her vail from her face, revealed the deli- cate, high-bred features of Madame D'Eglan- tine. | When she saw Mr. Rhodes she uttered a half- suppressed cry, rushed to him and wrung his hand. ‘Where is Violet—where is my child?” she eagerly demanded. “Alas! I would that I could inform you, Madame D’Englantine! Iam horribly afraid those villains have succeeded in making you and | your daughter miserable for life. You must near this lady’s story, and give us what aid you can,” continued Redmond, turning to the con- sul, who very willingly listened to what they had to say, promising all the assistance in his power; but very dubious as to his power to af- ford any under the circumstances. While the three were anxiously consulting together, a messenger came into the room, in- quired for Monsieur Rhodes, and handed him a sealed envelope. ’ ; .Redmond hastily tore it open; a slip of paper | fell out. He picked it up, and read, written in | be that of the baronet’s: “Tf Monsieur Rhodes wishes to ease his mind let him consult the register in the church of 8t. Joseph's.” , “They are married! That is what he means?’ shrieked the unhappy mother, ‘ Where is this church? Let us fly to it at once and put am | end to this terrible suspense.” “Perhaps she is dead!” thought Redmond, but did not say it. The consul hunted in the directory for the | address of the church, while Mr. Rhodes called | & carriage, | ~ In five minutes he, with Madame D’Eglantine, | pale as a corpse, silent as a corpse, beside him, | was being driven rapidly in the direction of St, | Joseph’s, Tt was a Protestant church; but the sexton was in the vestibule. “Was there a marriage—or a funeral—in this church yesterday?” hastily inquired Red- , mond. ; |. “ There were two marriages and three fune- | Yals,” answered the man, looking at him as if | he doubted his sanity. ; ‘‘ May we look at the records?” was the next: a7 to resist the will of those two men, since he had ° a cramped, trembling hand, which he took to”
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28 1% question, accompanied by a thrust into the sex- . mus bound about the waist with a long milita- , ton’s hand of that key which unlocks most doors —the key of gold. : “ Follow me,” said the man, leading the way through the solemn aisles of the dim cathedral, and oninto a small room to the right of the grand altar, where he opened a large book which lay on a high desk, and pointed to the last page of writing. Redmond made way for the lady he conduct- ed, who bent a moment, with white cheeks and strained eyes over the volume, then pointed with her finger, looked up into the kind face bending above her, with a glance of hopeless, dim misery, tried to murmur the words which her lips refused to form, and slid down to his feet, fainting under the shock. He raised her on his arm, and looked at the page, where she had pointed—there was the register of the marriage of Violet Goldsborough, daughter of Ethan Goldsborough, of the United States, to Sir Israel Benjamin, baronet, of En- gland. The signatures were appended—were authentic, beyond a doubt; he recognized both | the cramped hand of the baronet, and the deli- cate, tremulous chirography of the girl who had written him the note on board the steamer. CHAPTER XX. ‘Eirm, LIVED AND OVER, IN HALF A YEAR.” “By Narcissus, Apollo, and ali the other lovely youths of fable, that’s a gloriously hand- some boy who has attached himself to your ser- vice, Harold!” exclaimed one of the Englishmen of Fraser Harold’s company, as they one day jogged along, under the red November sun of the misty and amethystine Indian, surnmer, over an endless prairie, covered with the short, coarse buffalo-grass which gave food to the huge creatures of whom they were in pursuit. “* A gloriously handsome boy! He reminds me of the pages who followed the knights in the old, romantic days of chivalry.” “Yes,” answered Fraser, throwing a back- ward glance at the lad who rode behind him on a stout little mustang, whose proportions seem- ed in keeping with his small, slender rider, ‘‘ he is an uncommonly pretty little chap. Not of much use, however. He begged so hard to be allowed to accompany us that I did not think it worth while to.deny him. How such a flower of a boy happened to grow up in Kansas is a ‘mystery. Idid not believe he could keep up with us, riding all day as we do, I hope-to _ take him safe back to his mother in Leaven- worth.” ** Melted diainonds could be no brighter than his eyes! Wouldn’t he be a _heart-smasher among your Kastern girls?’ “His eyes remind me of my—of a young Jady’s in whom I was interested not long ago,” said Fraser, and then he added: “‘ Heigho!” and ’ Jooked sentimental for a full minute. “Perhaps that is the reason of your allowing im to follow you.” “ Perhaps—yoet, hardly. That little affair with the lady is off, you know; and once we let them go the more completely the better.” “Aw, certainly,” responded the English swell; “it is cruel kindness to keep them dan- giing, you know—better cut the golden cord at one fell stroke. way,” and he stroked his mutton-chops with one hand, the other being engaged with the rein, Every word of this edifying conversation fell on the acute ears of the boy who rode a few paces behind. The speakers would have | been astonished had they observed how it af- | fected him. Vye served too many that | ry sash wound two or three times around; and a hat with a broad band about it, and a, wide, slouching brim to keep.off sun and rain. There was a knife in his belt, but no pistols; nor did he carry the rifle like every other member of the party. He had avowed his ignorance of the plains and of hunting when asking to be taken along; declaring that he had a passion for a wild life, and wanted to take his first lésson. *¢ Sl be as good as an eddication to go long with you fellows, when you’ve got such a man guide and leader, one of the hero-hunters of the plains. ‘I'll pay fur my own fodder, an’ help _ cook yours besides;” and so far, Floss—that was the lad’s name—had kep' his part of the bargain; he was always ready to hold a horse for Mr. Harold, black his boots, wash his dish- es, make his bed, pack his traps, although he asked no pay for such services, The hired guides and servants found that he surpassed them all in making coffee or broiling a buffalo steak. Everybody liked him, despite a certain reserve and sadness not apt to be ap- | preciated by the rough hunters who accompa- nied the amateurs, | With that dagger-gleam still darting from his | bright eyes, Floss touched a silver spur to the tough side of his shaggy mustang, and the horsé bounded forward, the boy touching his slouched hat respectfully as he passed the gen- tlemen, and pressing on until he had overtaken the leader, who was riding two or three hun- dred yards in advance, “Hullo, my little chap!” said the hunter, looking kindly at the boy as he rode up. “Want anything?” “Yes,” said the boy, his large eyes glowing | like fire under his hat-brim; ‘‘I want to know, | Bill, if there’s going to be any real danger dur- | ing this excursion?” “Why?” 3 “Coz if there is, I want tobe in the thick | of it.” “Oh, youde!} What fur, I wonder?’ ‘Coz I’m tired of life, Bill, Ij’ined in hopes | that suthin’ would take me off,” and here the | fire was quenched in sudden tears which rolled ‘over onto the swarthy cheeks. ~ “Sho! jist you h’ist that, my boy—’twon’t do,” and the brave hunter, who had killed his | forty men, to say nothing of red-skins! reached ‘out a slender, supple hahd, not much larger than a lady’s, and laid it gently on Floss’ shoul- |der. “But, as to the danger you ask about— hum! that moughtn’t be so fur away. The | tracks o’ them pesky red-skins is about as thick, ‘this morning, as the houses o’ them prairie- | dogs. They’re over thar, somewhar, waitin’ | fer us,” and he pointed toward a range of low ‘hills, lying against the horizon, and shrouded in a purple haze, so that one who lid not know | Could not tell whether they were ten or fifty ‘miles away. ‘“‘I reckon I ought to tell my friends, an’ give ’em their choice ’twixt losing | the bison altogether or having a bout with them red devils.” “Indeed, they should be told at once,” said Floss, decidedly. And then he fell to thinking. It would not be a pleasant death to be scalped or tortured by Indians—the bare idea made his very soul | shrink with terror—yet he wanted to die. Ay! _ he even fancied that he wanted some ottiers of that gay company to die, too—say the two gal- , lant gentlemen who Had avowed the sentiment | | that when they were “off” with a love-affair, the more completely they were off the better! At first a deep flush had mounted into his | 4+ times he thought he could himself murder swarthy cheeks; this was followed by a livid | paleness as Harold spoke lightly of the “affair | . being off;” a glow, like that of a dagger in the sun, leaped into his black eyes at the remaining | sentences, | ~ He was, indeed, a handsome boy, looking about fifteen, but small for his age—slight, ‘graceful; with crisp little black curls all over his head, small features, fine, dark, expressive eyes, and a smooth skin almost as copper-color- . ad as an Indian’s. He had silver spurs on his boots, wore blue ‘leggings, fringed and embroidered; a blue wam- | | that Mr. Harold, who carried himself so finely and so jovially, from day today. Then again, his heart turned traitor to his purpose. Floss rode on, with drooping head, thinking very fast and hard indeed, for a few minutes. Whether or not he wished to die, or desired the death of others, the issue was not, at present, in his own The guide had stopped his horse, waiting un- til the whole company, of fifteen gentlemen, three other guides and helpers, and the boy, made a group about him. He then’ disclosed the fact that Indians were lurking in the vicin- ‘ a aes BLACK EYES AND BLUE roe i er prc ity, and asked the question whefher the hunt was to be abandoned or whether they were to proceed. 7 The retreat could doubtless be safely made, for nearly the whole day was before them, and an attack would hardly be made on the open plain in broad daylight. The blood of the de- scendants of the heroes of ancient chivalry was up, and they positively refused to ride back | without a shot either at the game they came to | seek or the foe who hindered their pursuit of it. The cheek of many an English beauty | would have paled, that day, could she have at yer head ”—for the party had secured, as.’ heard, from afar, the discussion held on that sea-like plain and the resolution which ended it. It was decided to advance; for if there were tracks of Indians, there were tracks of bison, too. The Indians might be only peaceable ' hunters like themselves; though their leader scouted this theory. By a craft learned only | by long experience he made himself certain that the party was at least double their own _ternoon. Ever and number—that they were warring red-skins— and their object murder and pillage. The little party of eighteen hunters and one | boy rode on, under the mild, hazy sunlight, keeping well together, their weapons in fault- less order, their keen eyes glancing about them, and their spirits more exuberant than ever from that consciousness of possible danger which excites just enough to exhilarate. Floss fell back to his place behind Fraser Harold. His black eyes no longer glinted like daggers, but were filled with a yearning, troubled ex- pression which would have puzzled the gay cavalier had he unwittingly surprised it, Not an hour had passed when leisurely mount+ ing a slight, billowy incline they saw before them a small herd of bison, leisurely grazing. The temptation was irresistible. The hunters were to the windward, They widened their belt and advanced with all pos- sible caution in a half-circle, coming within al- most shooting distance before the leader of the herd perceived his danger and gave the alarm. The instant that the troop signaled danger, and broke, bellowing, into their lumbering gallop which made the earth tremble and shake, the , hunters dug their spurs into their animals’ sides ; and dashed after them, swinging their rifles | into range asthey galloped. Their guide would not fire a shot. If the game was to be killed the amateurs should have all the glory. In another half-hour three slain buffaloes cumbered the plain; the rest of the herd had disappeared in the purple mist of the Indian- summer day, which was now gone past high noon; the successful hunters, in good spirits and with fearful appetites, gathered about the youngest of the three slain monsters from whose carcass one of the guides was cutting tempting steaks which another thrust on to pointed sticks and tossed over the coals of a fire kindled from the ruins of a cottonwood. The aroma of coffee mingled with the odor of trampled grass and the pungent fragrance of wood-smoke. ‘The tired horses were plunging their noses into the coarse but green grass which showed a little brighter along the edge of a brackish stream. The chief guide threw himself down on the highest point of land, keep- ing a sharp look-out that never entirely relax- ed its vigilance, he haying seen to it, at first, before anything was done toward dinner, that the rifles were all reloaded, and that each man held his weapons close at hand. / “‘T don’t like this smoky weather,” grumbled the chief; ‘‘a red-skin can creep within a hun- dred yards and we not see him. A hull cloud of ’em mought be hanging over thar, an’ we none the wiser.” He kept his uneasiness, however, pretty well to himself, and the half-famished hunters made a jolly meal. Floss ate his bit of meat, his cracker, and drank his tin cup of coffee in si- lence, near his master. He had two ship’s bis- cuits handed to him, which he did not need just then, and so thrust them into the pocket of his wammus; for he knew, by experience, that it might be late before they found 2a suit- able place to sup. f He rode very close to anon he a ‘ \ see eg 2 , al et? Fraser Harold that af- cast apprehensive |
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glances toward the long, low range of hills which seemed as far away as ever. He had wanted to die, and he had desired the death of his master—but, ah, not that way—by those hands}--and he,shuddered. The sun lay low on the bosom of the west like a copper shield—the hills were entirely hid- den from view by a purple curtain; the gal- lant hunters had begun to cast longing. eyes about for some sign of a stream beside which to encamp. “Boys!” suddenly yelled Bill, the leader, ‘ try fer yonder gully—it will partially. shel- ter us--the red-skins are swooping downon us, ) not a hundred rods away.” In fifteen minutes the whole brief, thrilling ' episode was over—the young English snobs had been in a genuine skirmish with the Indians— | @m experience as novel as it was undesirable. Not one had showd the white feather. Their New York friends—the dandies of the clubs—had borne themselves with equal courage. Oh, that the delicate-faced beauties peeping from behind the lace and silk of Fifth Avenue windows at certain elegant dawdlers sauntering by could have seen those same lisping dandies behind cover of the gully, taking aim at the yelling savages with the same coolness that they took aim at.a new singer with their opera-glasses—their teeth a little set, their cheeks a little pale, but their»eyes flashing dauntiless fire, their fingers steady on the trig- ger. : / That providential gully alone saved them from destruction.. This gave them an advan- tage so great that the attacking party, four times their number, soon drew off, taking with them fifteen dead: comrades. Of our gallant band ‘‘not one was injured,” thought Bill, look- ing about bim in triumph. He was mistaken. A moment after he had made his count some one reeled on his horse and fell to rhe ground. jt was Fraser Harold. A cry of dismay went up from his’ friends, mingled with the wild, ringing, frantic shriek of the boy, who flung himself from his mus- tang, darted to the side of the fallen man, cast himself down and raised, the drooping head— ‘the beautiful, proud head, now falling from wei to side like some: broken flower—on his ee. “ fraser! Fraser! oh, God! he is dying. Fraser {” At the sound of his name called in that pierc- ing, passionate, agonized voice, the wounded man opened his darkening eves. ‘Fraser, Iam here. Itis your little girl— your poor little girl. Do not die—look at me —speak to me—my darling!” | “ Florence, is this you?’ the words came with difficulty. “Yes, yes. Do not be angry with me, my husband. Did you think I could keep away from you? let you go off. here, into danger— Ah, heaven! he will die, in spite of all. Help! can none of you help him?’ she piteously ask- ed, turning her great dark eyes, full of misery, uon those who stood about, listening in won- der and agitation to the words of the tv o. ‘Stand aside; let me see the wound,” spoke the authoritative voice of the guide, kneeling on the ground beside the dying man and be- ginning to tear away the clothing from over his breast. Harold feebly shook his head, and made a motion with his hand to indicate the flask in the hunter’s helt. Bill understood, and poured a few drops of brandy between the whitening lips. All of a sudden Harold raised himself to a sitting pos- ture, speaking quite distinctly: “Good-by, friends. I have just a word to say. This lady ismy wife. She is entitled to your consideration. Tell my parents to—take care—of her. I leave her all my effects—tell themso. My dear wife, I am sorry for you. Dy- ing is not very hard”—he sunk back into Flor- ence’s arms, turned his glazing eyes upward to the broad heavens and expired, with a faint Struggle; no more than the shivering of a leaf in the wind, and a human life was at an end. Poor, poor, passionate, vain, undisciplined little Florence! oe 4! BLMCK. EYES AND: BLUE: * Six months before she had dreamed her idle, girlish dreams of life, as she hung over the rus- tic bridge of her native village. Here she sat now, far, far from home or friends or any familiar thing, in the midst of a band of strange men—a widow. Life, lived and over, in half a year! Oh, the red rose she had placed, with trem- bling hand, on the window-sill! Oh, the sum- mer moonlight among the trees of the park— the voice that whispered—the lips that kissed! Oh, the bliss of wifehood, too brief, foo min- gled with shame, suspense and anguish. Oh, the whispers of vanity, telling her she was fair —the stings of desertion hissing that her power was over! And now—this was the end of all —this dead face smiling on her knee, and she —a widow. CHAPTER XXI. A MEETING UNDER RAINY SKIES, CHARLIE WARD passed several tiresome, dull, unhappy days after the flightof Florence. He had nothing to do but wait—the hardest of all work, He felt uneasy about Florence and rest- less' to hear from Violet.. Every pulse of his heart tingled with impatience to once more see, or hear a word from the fair girl to whom he had given his affections, In his worst imag- inings of the persecutions to which Ethan Goldsborough might subject her; he had never conceived of anything;halfso bad as the reality. But he knew that: she must be lonely and,il) at ease torn from those she loved, and he longed to hear from her. His joy was great, then, when, a week after his own dispatches had been sent, he received a brief message: ‘Come over, if possible, by first steamer. “Will meet youin Paris,” and signed by bis tutor; Mr. Vernon. The dispatch reached him on Friday; the following day he sailed on a French steamer -r Havre. During the voyage, which was rapid and prosperous, his moods were about equally divided between exaltation and de- spondency. He might have been sent for ‘be- cause of misfortunes—he might have been sent for to share in their good fortune: Thus the scale-ran up and down, while the days passed, until that memorable one on which he present- ed himself at the landing-office in Paris most frequented by Americans, and was just inquir- ing for the address of his friends, when Mr. Vernon came up to him and silently seized and pressed his hand. Mr. Vernon, pale, worn, with an expression of the deepest dejection—the very sight of whose smileless face made Charlie's bounding heart quiver and stand still with a sudden, sharp certainty that something horrible had come to pass, ‘What is it?” he asked, turning white, poor boy! “Come out on the street. bench in this garden. presence of others.” Charlie followed silently by his side; his tongue was tied by a dreadful suspense—for the world, he could not have asked another question, They sat down on a rustic seat un- der a tree, with joyful children and coquettish bonnes only in their vicinity; the lawyer took the young man’s hand again in his own, and bursting into tears, sobbed out: “Our darling girl is dead, Charles, Sbe had nothing but trouble over there, and she killed herself.” “Killed herself!” mechanically, ; ‘Yes, Her unnatural father took delight in making her miserable. Finally, to spite her, her mother, all of us, he forced her into a mar- riage with an old Jew baronet—the most de- testable creature that ever coveted a pure young girl for his wife—she could not escape the two—” “‘Oh,” moaned Charlie, ‘you are killing me, too, Mr. Vernon, with this story. Oh, I can- not bear it.” “Man, that is born of woman, is prone to trouble as the sparks are to fly upward,’” con- tinued Mr, Vernon. ‘Try to be a man, Charles, my dear boy. ,Her mothe‘ has had to endure 'it—and I. They dragged her to.the al- Let us find a I cannot tell you in the ty 29 tar, ina strange city, and forced her to sign the marriage register; then hurried her on board the Dover steamer, to take her to En- gland, where the old baronet proposed passing the honeymoon. Knowing her to be desper- ate, and apprehensive that she might attempt to destroy herself, they would not leave her alone an instant. They had taken the evening boat, the day of the marriage, and about nine o’clock, as they sat, at her request, on deck, she, appearing very resigned and docile, with a lightning movement, leaped over the guards. into the turbid waters of the Channel.” Charlie moaned and hid his face in his hands, [t was several minutes before Mr. Vernon could proceed. “They stopped the steamer and sent out all the boats at command; but the night was dark, the sea rough—they did not find her.” “Charlie,” asked his companion, after a. time, “would it be any comfort to you to hear that the bad man who had leagued with her fa- ther against our poor Violet was drowned in the effort to rescue her?” “Oh, I don’t know,” was the shuddering re- ply. ‘‘I have no right to feel in that way.” “True: ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.’ We dare not, be glad of hig punishment; but he was punished—fearfully! He insisted on getting into one of ‘the boats, with three sailors, capsized it by his awkward- ness, was carried under the ship, and could not be found. Their comrades had a time to save the sailors, as it was,” “How is Madame D’Eglantine?”’ Charlie in- quired, after another long pause. “ She is ill in bed; but she will not refuse to see you, my boy.” They arose and walked slowly out into the gay boulevard, The sun still shone, the chil- dren. still laughed and romped, the bright leaves fluttered down from the trees, the sky | was blue, the world moved on—but to Charles. Ward night was over everything. The passing | of the crowd was but a funeral march; he | walked on beside his friend, drearily, caring: for nothing. The meeting between him and Madame D’Eg- lantine was mournful, “Ah!” she sighed, pressing his hand, how: gladly would I give my girl to you, were she here now. Once I thought her too fair, too. good, for any one short of a fairy prince. How happy would I be, to sce her sitting by you now, your Promises wife.” It: was more than a day before Charlie could: bear to ask all the particulars of their loss, or: to hear them, Gradually he learned, in addi-~ tion to the main fact, that they had first re-- ceived the tidings from Mr. Goldsborough him-. self, who had sent. a telegram from Dover to: Madame D Eglantine, whom he knew to be in the port they had left, in close pursuit of them, He had followed the telegram by a printed ac | count of the disaster; and she had also had a long letter from him, giving particulars, and. asking about Florence, ‘““ Where is he?” asked Charlie. ‘‘We believe him to be in London,” “T am going to try and find him, and have: a personal interview. I must tell him all I know about Florence, and garner every scrap of information about this—this accident,” “‘T wish you would, Mr. Ward,” sighed Ma- | dame D’Eglantine; and Charlie left, that night, for London. _.“ What a comfort—-what a help—such a son | would be!” exclaimed the bereaved mother ' with a fresh burst: of tears, after he left her. Charlie arrived in London on a wet, dark, dismal December afternoon. The lamps were tezhted at three o'clock, and burned dimly in wae thick atmosphere. Where to go—what to do—he had not decided. He only felt pushed oa by the hand of an irresistible fate to find | Ethan Goldshorough. The only thing which presented itself to his mind to do was to con- | sult the registers of the leading hotels, and to. visit the American banking and exchange office, As he stumbled out of the railway carriage on- to the platform, in the mist and drizzle, and, stood an instant debating what hotel he should. try his chances with, a tall, broad-shouldered, ) portly, handsome American gentleman of mid-- , A”) Saeed oa
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ae eee watked quickly past him, with a lady - If Charlie had inadvertantly come in con- tact with an electric battery he could scarcely _ have been more shocked. “ Ethan Goldsborough!” he cried, but not in eae an audible Voice, for he had no wish to alarm ~~~ that person, before he could speak to him. oe Who was that with him? i ret Despite of the waterproof cloak vailing the + tall, slight figure, there was something about it ay _ familiar to Charlie. His heart leaped into his pat _ . throat, He could have sworn, afterward, that elt the clouds parted, suddenly flooding the De- ; eember world with June sunshine; thotigh no such phenonomen occurred. He did not pause to think, to hope, to fear—to observe proprie- ty—to avoid a scone—to do anything wise, cautious, safe. He just sprung forward after the hurrying pair, came up with them on the lady’s side, reached out a quivering hand, and fled. “ How dare you, ruffian?” “Oh, I dare anything, Ethan Goldsborough! How dare you?” ; For Violet, with a scream of joy, had flung - tperself upon her lover’s breast, and was cling- ing to him in the very street. ; “ Ay, how dare you lie to us, by telling us _ she was dead?” Mr, Goldsborough replied to this passionate que of Charlie’s with a diabolical smile, which revealed his malicious intent more fully than words could have done; though he added, - “Tt was always a pleasure to me to do any- thing for her mother’s happiness.” ‘Heartless scoundrel! But tell me, Violet, were you really married?” _ Yes,” she answered, blushing, and turning half away from him. oes “You may like to draw a crowd—TI do not,” _. . dnterposed the father. “I propose to escape ‘ into a carriage. Come, Violet.” He hailed a coachman and the three entered | the close carriage; for Violet had clung to - QOharlie’s hand, and nothing less than death could have made him lose sight of her. _ Did he tell mamma I was dead?” the girl azked, as the vehicle rattled on over the muddy nes, _ “Yes—you, and—and—the other one: the _ man you married.” ‘ _ “Sir Israel Benjamin is dead,” spoke Violet, _ solemnly. \ . God, Violet, * J cannot be sorry to “Thank lie, he deserved it—yet it was And he died in the attempt to rescue “Then you did throw yourself overboard from the steamer?” ‘¢-Yes—to escape Sir Israel. He came after =e me. The men picked me up, as by a miracle, It was thought I was dead for more than an Se saved—and he—was swept under the vessel.” She shuddered, and grew silent. Charlie _ could see, even in that faint light, how wan, ‘how almost ghastly, the sweet face had grown, side. Tothe young man he appeared like an inquisitor, torturing his victim to death, by aes slow degrees, and enjoying the process. His 7 ' heart almost burst with indignation; he could - . . hardly refrain from laying his hands on the large white throat of the man and squeezing _ some of the badness out of him. The carriage drew up before a fine hotel. - “Do you propose to inflict your company ‘upon us?” asked Mr. Goldsborough, insolently. “Yes, sir, for a little while. I talked with your daughter Florence less than three weeks ago. She is a wife, now; and senta message toyou” _ ' The smooth face of the scoundrel changed. He loved his daughter—there was no mistake _ about that! a ; hy ota my little girl a wife?’ he said, _ huskily. “Come up to our parlor, Mr. Ward, and tell me about it.” A SA Ae ‘lie entered the hotel with them, accom- panying them to their private parlor on an up- a a Sa Reng a ns set eee ~ tt Be STR he Fee See Serene ve o wn B LACK EYES AND B tore the thick vail from the features it muf- | hour; but a physician finally revived me, I was | Her father smiled grimly, as he sat by her | ‘per floor. Mr. Goldsborough ordered dinner to be served in the room, immediately; and, while the meal progressed, listened to what bis guest had to tell him about his child. Charlie saw fit to tell only the favorable part of the story. : “Demme, I might have known her bright eyes would catch her a rich husband in no time,” commented the father, drinking glass after glass of champagne. Finally, coffee was placed, at the host’s request, on the table; the ‘elder man turned and stooped to pick up his , ‘napkin—the waiter had been dismissed with the ‘appearance of the coffee—and Charlie seized ‘the opportunity to drop a powder into his cup, which he had for some time been holding ready, in the hollow of his hand. | wine, and the powerful but not dangerous opi- ate thus deftly administered, closed the eyes of | | the scheming banker in a profound sleep. “Come, Violet; this is our opportunity. | Your mother is in Paris, I will take you di- rectly to her. Dover, if we leave here immediately. Will be yourself to me?’ “Will I trust an angel of light, Charlie, to save me from a demon?” | Burdened with very little baggage, light of heart, bright of countenance, with a delicious consciousness of coming bliss for which they were quite willing to bide a proper time, * These lovers fied away into the storm,” leaving the wicked father to labor with his m-dreams. . '« ] was given that powder for the toothache, months ago,” explained Charlie, laughing, when the train was once in motion and the young pair felt comparatively safe. “I would not take it, but placed it carefully in my wallet for | future emergencies—andlo! ‘there is a time for everything under the sun.’ ” message is more swift, and twenty minutes be- | fore the London night express arrived at its | station in Dover, the chief of police at that point had received an order by the wires, read- | ing thus: ‘Arrest a young couple, eloping, | the lady about seventeen, fair complexion, blue _ eyes, an America; the young gentleman, brown | eyes, hair ditto and curling, an American, | name Ward. Detain the lady at least, on or- der of her father, who will go on for her by ‘next train; she is not of age, consequently sub- ject to his control. The young man can be ‘allowed to proeceed;” and signed by the /head | of the London detective force. | timely slumbérs in season to strike his veno- mous fangs once more, with a last desperate effort, into his innocent victims, CHAPTER XXIL EXEUNT OMNES, An old chateau by the sea. | It is one of those sunny, slumbrous days that love to brood over France in summer—a _ day that would be oppressive in its languorous | heat in some vicinities; yet here, by the sea, | the air is as crisp as it is blue and bright. A delightful, romantic, magnificent old place! The chateau is large, rambling, picturesque, bearing traces of having been erected during | the splendors of the reign of Louis XIV., with | many modern additions. | "The red-tiled roofs, quaint towers and chim- neys, and quainter windows perched in every inable spot, appear as solid as they are | | venerable—the whole tone of the gray and | dark-red mass of buildings, standing on their | green terraces, “eye. too artificial, perhaps, after the French style, | but still very lovgly, on the south side; lawns, | groves of limes, mulberry and orange to the | ‘north; vineyards and sunny fields teeming with ‘grain stretching away on all sides, but the | west—there the glittering, softly-rolling, deep- _ blue sea, | Onto the stone terrace that overlooks the | ocean—the long, gray terrace with its heavy, ‘carved | , against which shines the |dark-green of creeping tiyrtle and the wind- fe 5 Ee aig 3 SOW he eS se Sr It was not half an hour after this before the | We can gain the night train to | A railway train is swift, but a telegraphic | Ethan Goldsborough had aroused from his un- | is warm and pleasant to the | There is a lovely flower-garden—a little | xs en See Ie Eee Nes BETAS SO sun ‘melts rosily into the far waters and the light breeze rushes in from the gold-tipped _ waves with a gayer freedom—comes a lady, and walks slowly up and down, looking wist- fully—with great, solemn, luminous, beautiful eyes—over the sliding, shimmering seas. She is a little lady, dressed in black, without an ornament about her except the large gold eross which gieams. on her bosom. ‘Her sien- der, almost childlike figure, gains awomanly | dignity from the length of her sweeping train /and the grace and ease of her movements. | Her hair gnd eyes seem to have gone into | mourning, with her dress, they are so purple | black and the eyes so sad and wistful. But | youth has refused to join in the sacrifice, and hung his srimson banner on the dark cheeks ~ | and love-curved lips. } | Youth and health have conspired against | grief; so, that if the lovely eyes are soft with | a vague melancholy, the red blood kindles in | the vivid face and on the little scarlet mouth. | There is to be a wedding in the old chateau | on the morrow. | It is full of retainers, going busily about, ar- | ranging garlands and vases of ‘flowers, hun- dreds of wax tapers; and confections and viands of the most superb quality and va- riety. | Bvery one of the hundred paneled, gilded, carved rooms wears a festal aspect. In the grand dining-hall the table is laid for dinner for but a few persons this evening; but a band of musicians from the city wait in the great window to discourse enchanting melodies dur- ing the repast.. - In the window of an upperroom a gold-hair- ed girl of nineteen—tall, elegant, of the most refined and spirituelle beauty—dressed in soft — robes of flowing white, with rosebuds in her hair and bosom—stands and watches with — | blushing eagerness the white line of dusty road | that winds among the fields and vineyards— _ | watches the approach of the carriageand-four — , which she already sees thundering along at breakneck speed in the distance. . | Now the carriage whirls. nearer and enters | the chateau gates, a quarter of a mile away. She leans from the open window; at a break ' in the avenue of trees she sees a handkerchief waving as the vehicle comes nigh, and she ' kisses her dainty finger-tips, and then suddenly | darts back from the window, blushing furious- | ly, and pressing her hand to her heart. to still . its throbs of shame, joy, happy love, | In a few minutes more a servant knocks at ! | q the chamber-door and tells the panting beauty what she already knows—that her young mon- | sieur has arrived. She goes out, tardily; slips slowly, with lingering steps, down the broad staircase, and enters the immense drawing- room to the left. Here a happy-looking, hand- some young fellow, who has been gnawing his lips with impatience, darts forward and catch- es the sweet, palpitating ghost to his breast. * Violett” ; “Charlie!” A young couple whoare expecting tobe mar- — | ried in the morning do not care for inquisitive | reporters at their meeting; so we will cross the ' great hall toa smaller room—a sort of ladies’ _ boudoir, on the other side—where the host and "hostess of the chateau are welcoming an unex-— pected guost. ‘‘Mr, Rhodes, we are perfectly delighted! — Your presence gives the last pleasure we coul have craved. How good it wasof youtocome ~ ‘all the way from New York with our dear | ! | | boy, to keep him company and be present at his wedding!” “Ah, Mrs. Vernon, I must hasten to own that I am not so unselfish as I appear. I had | an object—an object of the greatest possible im- — | portance to mel—in coming here with Char- — lie.” ‘ | . | Murder will out. Redmond Rhodes has call- — | ed our old friend, Madame D’Eglantine, Mrs. | Vernon, and that is who she is and has beon | for the last six months. Itis Violet’s adopted — | father—at last with the right to be called her — / father—who stands beside the fair owner of © the old chateau, her contented husband.
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a in England when the detective waited toarrest _ our lovers ere they should flee across'the Chan- nel, Ethan Goldsborough had a double object A in bringing his'daughter back to London—first, 7 to further torment ber ments: cm. | mother; and second, and most important, to bring for- ward her claims against the great estates of Sir Israel Benjamin, deceased, As the lawful ' wife of the baronet, her share of his possessions ; would be large; she, not being of age, would : _ be controlled by her father, and he would reap arich harvest out of his devilish poe and scheming, which had resulted in the baronet’s death. ioles. was dragged back to London and restored to Mr. Goldsborough by the of- ficers. Charlie went-on to Paris with his won- derful good news, which was, with due cau- tion, imparted to Madame D’Eglantine, and had the magic effect to restore her to health— for “‘joy seldom kills.” Violet persistently, obstinately refused to have or touch a pound or a penny of Sir Israel’s _ money. Her father, finding that the baronet’s , Telatives were determined to make a desperate » fight—to ferret out all the circumstances of the marriage, and even to accuse him of foul play—threatening to make him prove before ; an English jury that he did not connive at Sir Israel’s death—concluded that it would be wiser , to compromise with them. They, on their part, were glad to have the wife and her father sign off from all future | claim, for the sum of ten thousand pounds, “a With this in his pocket, Ethan Goldsborough sent Violet back to her mother, with an insult- ing message, and the declaration—which they | were only too happy to hear—that ‘‘ he washed his hands of them forever.” ‘ ~The desperate man made no attempt to re- turn to America to look after his daughter Florence. Perhaps he intended it—for he still loved her with a passionate, blind, animal fi- delity—but he attempted to reach the United States by way of the gambling-hells of the Continent. ae.” ‘Demme, I'll double my snug little fortune } for Florence's sake!” he resolved—and attempte zealously to do it. In other words, he became a confirmed gam- bler—losing and gaining—losing and gaining— but always averaging more loss than gain; and unable to tear himself away from the perilous fascination; until, not more than atwelvemonth from the time of his return to the various Spas where he could indulge his on—play being then forbidden in Baden-Baden, where he began it—he found himself . penniless, friendless stricken with disease of mind and body, gnawed by deg op opera by hope—and blew out his brains in t ence of the stolidcroupier who had raked in his last kreutzor. : Long before this catastrophe, Madame D’- Eglantine had gone to America, at Violet’s ear- nest request, to look after Florence; for Charlie ~ had confided to them her poor prospects of hap- piness with the man of pleasure she had so rash- iy married. Mr. Rhodes chanced again to be their com- pagnon du voyage on the way to New York. he reader may infer how it still further in- creased the warmth of their friendship to find that he had befriended Florence, as well as spent ide mart re pe papas ge jus at the utiful, imprudent gi ) had sheltered and protected wan tbe. Vory, whom they were in search of. » simply when se 3 were all talkin together, Of course, he gave them Fraser Harold’s address— or that of his family—and to their house Violet and her mother went at once, night from the fatigues of the voyage, bey found the family in deep mourning— heard, with a fresh shock, the news of Fraser's death and the manner of it; scarcely recog- nizing, at first glance, the pale, quiet, broken- hearted little lady, in widow’s weeds, as Fi ence, - “Oh, take me with you, Madame D’Relan- tine,” she pleaded, her pride all broken c= r. Vernon and Violet, Charlie and even : re seem so much nearer to me than these do, They are kind, but they are cold as icicles; I’know from their manner they feel that I am in some way to blame for their son’s death. I used to ba, jealous of you, Violet,” she added, rn 3 piteously at her fair balf-sister, u t one came about very after resting one or- ‘*T was hate | NowTlam only a whose faults, I band’s grave,” _ ‘wan. cheeks. “You are my sister, by blood and by affec- tion, answered. Violet, weeping with her. _ “We will love you aud cherish you, as never to you, willful, vain, spoiled. poor, broken-hearted woman, hope, are buried in her hus- and the tears stole, down. her a ‘ 5: TE ros 7 Sistée rah toved Md cared for. “M. all uot Florence go home with us—be your child’ ‘ = = > amma, shall as much as I am?’ ‘* Yes,” said Madame D’Eglantine—and so it was. Bake passed the remainder of the winter in New York, having delightful apartments, their business cared for by Mr. Vernon, and Charlie being scarcely a more constant visitor than Redmond Rhodes, In June they went to France to remain, Mad- ame’s vast estates there requiring her and her ps pee he personal supervision. Violet and Charlie ard were engaged before they parted, with the understanding that Violet was to spend a year at a celebrated pension, in Paris, while her mother was refitting and refuraishing the old family chateau by the sea. It could not really be a regret to the family when they heard of the miserable end of their persecutor; though Florence did mourn for a father who had never shown her any but bis good qualities. - The esteem and confidence which had gore up between Mr. Vernon and his client, finally culminated in marriage; which delighted Violet and made her, as she declared, ‘‘ the happiest girl in the world.” : And now her own wedding-day is but a few hours off! She sits by her lover’s side, while the golden rays of the setting sun pierce the quaint dia- mond panes, leaden-framed, of the drawing- room windows, and her eyes, falling before the fire of Charlie’s gaze, dreamily follow the trac- ing of the fading, but exquisite needlework of the silken tapestries upon the wall. All are happy except poor, desolate Flor- ence. She paces the stone térrace, looking off wist- fully over the blue sea, where the sun has dis- appeared. The flowers, the tapers, the music, the feasting, the sight of the bride-elect in her fairness, vex the Reon little soul of one who is not yet made perfect through suffering—though her character is vastly improved. ; She thinks of her own brief courtship under the June moonlight—of her rash marriage—her brief joy—her. bitter, overwhelming sorrow. Of the monotony of her life here, where she is loved, petted, cared for by kind friends, but where all is—to her—so monotonous, 80 little like the life of active joy and triumph her na- ture craves. : It seems to her as if she could never go back into the house and wish them happiness, while | she is so sad and lonely. She stops in her slow walk, turns her face to the illimitable sea, and cries out, with'a passionate sob; “Oh, how forlorn! how forlorn!” : ‘* Mrs, Harold—Florence!” speaks a deep, ten- der, trembling voice, ‘‘my darling! you shall be forlorn no more, unless it be from your own choice.” She turns, and by her side stands Redmond hodes. In all the stateliness of his middle age, and his natural reserve, he stands there, so tall that her head only reaches to his heart; but his eyes shine down upon hers with a will that she has no power to resist; she allows him to take and keep her trembling hand, and to bend and press on her purple hair a lover’s “T have loved you, little one,” he said, “ever since the night when I washed the wrinkles from your child-forehead. I came back from Newport, that night in the long ago, to tell you so. I found Fraser Harold before me, and I gave youup. I have waited patiently a good while, and now I want you to answer me at once if I may have you?” “With all my faults?’ sobbed Florence, humbly. ; ** Yes, darling, with all your faults. I would not wish you to be perfect.” “You are very good and wise, Mr. Rhodes. I dare say you will make a better girl of me.” “When may I begin my attempts to reform you, sweet? To-morrow? Remember, Iam not a boy, and Ehave waite®two years.” here was much demurring and much argu- ment, as they walked up and down the gray terrace, in sight of the twilit sea, quite oblivious of the banquet which was waiting; but the mas- ter carried his point at last, and on the morrow . there was a double wedding. + THE END, pe af a 2 alte SER Or Hae Be he Pore Oh kant PR eae aha oe RL a AS hy TE I: See Mat a Se ae Raat es ates Re athe Sy be BEADLE & ADAMS, % Watiam'S2.,.N, ¥. i ° A We ae ’ vik ae ay é Wea rs a | re = we eth ge? #4 - rROR : i 4 * } . + br " 73 STANDARD DIME PUBLICATIONS. Speakers. ag. ‘ 11. Dine Debater. 22, . Exhibition Speaker. # 24. Dime Book of Reeitations and These books are replete with choice School-room, the ition, for Seg etc. 100, Declamations and Recitations in jeces for the Fe thor HO tooo ae Dialogues. «a q The Dime Dialogues, each, volume 100 pages,em. books, viz.: ‘Fe brace thirty Dialogues No. One. 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The Mesked B ide; or, Will She Ma p Him? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. nati 2 Was It Love? or, Collegians and Sweet- hearts. By Wm. Mason Turner, 3 The on ch Wife ; or, The True and the False. re Aaet Fa, cour yell. aN rave earl; or, Startlingly Stran cs Arabella Southworth. co “i 5. Bessie Raynor, the Work Girl; he Quicksands of Life. By William Maxon M. 6 agian MD: teeenes or, A Duchess in # a ite of . eee ea - Sara’ oe ; wehter of Eves or linded -by Lov By Mrs. Mar Reed Crowell sf 4 8 Heart to By Ara’ zhe Young Man’s - "By the author of * Clifton,” “‘‘ Pride rt y ” te. ; 10 a ser = os 3. or, The Emerald or, The rOorane im 5 3 or, The Woman in By ey Ginato ae Re ance eks inion W 1d. Bartley 'T. Canphe 1. " vgronlve'y 16 Trnets Mier Not; or, A True eee te By t Leicester. 17 A anaene Lover, or, The Last of the Grims- ’ pam! Southworth. sigan Ar q 8 Taol; or, The Ill-Starred Marri B ; Mary Reed Crowell Perea kad ie > Broken cBetrothals se, Love versus ride of an Actor3 4 or, or Divan from de author of ‘ Alone in the World,” he Clifton, 23 Leap Year; or, Why She Proposed: By Sara : 24 ‘Her mene Was Mier Fortune. By Hlea- ' nor Blaine. 25 Only a Schoolmistress ; a Her Untold _ Seeret. By Arabella Southworth. rt a. Kleart; or, Walking on the By Colonel. Préntiss Ingraham, } as She a Coquette ? oe - ‘Btrange 28 ate By ente G Thac acnees Yen ; Petr ietA or, am er’s ife. B s ae é tephens. x Sy Dear Aes or, Saved From Him- $ ‘or, A Million of Money, arria or, The Iron Will. pa. se. $ BY a i) ree Bride; or, id Queen of His | Heart. By Arabella Southwort’ irs rhage Cousin; or, ri is not Gold se Kennedy His. Own “A a , ph Trust "Her Not. By __ Arabella be cea A Girl’s Good Name. y Jac Tiatoed (R ph Royal.) Ple “lato carey 3 or, In e's Bonds. én or, Love ainst the World: “By Atos Wein 4 ud Love. By Arabella Southwort th, 438 ane Leona Sag Ha iil 3 or, The Rival Half- Claxi ane aughter ; or, Brother a, ainst “4 - Love ont, Alice Fleming . 5 Her. tatdaen Foe; oh Love At All Odds. By Arabella Southwort 46 Whe Little eieirces' By Mrs. Mary A. Denisan ¥ Because She Loved Him; or, How Will It End? By Alice Fleming. vhs Spite or Herself}; or, Jeannette’s Repa- tion. By 8. R. R. Sherwood. s Heart's Wistress; or, Love at First . $i ent, By’Arabella Southwort rth, Cuban Heiress; or, The apuek of ae By Mrs. A, Deniso: ian. By bn dary Fleraine, or, The Bride’ of an ‘Th ‘ear e@ Messenger os, Risking. All The Winge Sy Mee Mrs, Mary Reed Reed 58 Agnes eta Actress are or, mx sent Lae aumnen, ushman. . 84 The Laurel Bush. Beatrice, the Beautiful; 3. or, His Second: or, Under a Cloud, - 54 One Woman’s Meart} or, Saved from the Street. By George S. Kaime. 55 She Bid Not Love Jatin 5 or, Stooping to Conquer. By Arabella Southworth. 56 eg megs or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced and Wm. Mason Turner, M.D. 57 A cave sirl; or, Sunshine at Last. By Alive Fleming. 68 The Ebon Mask}; or, The ie a Guardian. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 59 A Widow’s Wiles; or, A Bitter Vengeance. By Rachel Bernhardt. 60 Cecil’s Deceit; or, The Diamond Legacy. By Mrs, Jennie Davis Burton, 61 A Wicked Hteart; or, The False and the True, . By Sara Claxton. 62 Whe Mahiac Bride; or, The Dead Secret of Hollow Ash Hall. By Mar garet Blount 63 pic Creole Sisters}; or, The pay of the ys. By Mrs. Anna B. Porter. 64 wee ieplomay. Did; or, The Heir of pronsey, grange y Alice Fleming. 65 The Wife's Secret; or, 'Twixt Cup and Lip. By Col. Juan Lewis. 66 A Brother’s Sin; or, Flora’s Forgiveness. By Rachel Bernhardt. 67 Forbidden Bans; or, Alma’s Disguised ce, By Arabella’ Southworth. 68, Mieewcts and Weft or, ‘‘Love That Hath beat His Net.” By Miss M, KE. Braddon. 69 Cam Dok. or, The Fate of a Coquette. By Alexandre Dumas 70 The Two Orphans. By D’Enery. 71 oy: Poke Young ife. By My Young Wife's 72 The ‘Two Widows. Annie Thomas, 73 Rose, Michel 5_or, phe rials of a Factory irl. By Maud Hil 74 Cer Sdidematies anges he or, The Story i idered Shield, By 75 The ‘ ack Lady of By J. 8. Le Mrs. Rowson. 716 Charlotte Tem le. B q7- Christian Oakley’s istake. By the . author of John Halifax, Gentleman,”’ etc. 718 my Young Husband; or, A Confusion in the Family. By Myself. V9 A Sih, te een Amongst Women. By the or of ‘Dora Thorne,”’ etc., etc. 80 Roe —e and Master.’ una, By Florence By the author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.” 85 Led Astray, By Octave Feuillet. 86 Janet’s Repentance. By George Eliot. 87 bot dy Romance of a Poor Wouns Man. y Octave Feuillet, 88 AP ‘rerrible Deed or, All for Gold. By Emma Garrison Jones. 89 amine ate Sim. By the, author of ‘Dora 10FD. 90 Me. "author's Daughter, By Mary 91 The whit. By Charles Reade. 92 Eileen Janna; or, the Dawning of the Dar: By Dennis O'Sullivan. 93 Love’s Victory. “By B.L 4 The Quiet Heart. 95 Lettice Arnold, . Farjeon. Mrs ORnnant, 5 6 Haunted oe a Wugh Meltom, By Katharine King. 8 Alice Learmont, By Miss Mulock. 9 gs ee Fi Bruee’s Lovers. By Mary atric 00 Through Fire and Water. By Fred- : pean, t. Mees Sah annah, ss ock. 102 Pe ew deen o Charles Reade. 103 A Desperate Deca. y Erskine Be d. 104 Shadows on the Snow, By B 105 igtus Great Hogegarty Diag ond: By W. M. Thackeray. 106 From ge to Waking. Lynn. Linto! ; 107 Poor ‘heph! By F. W. Robinson. 108 The Sad Fortunes Naga Kev. Amos Barton. By rge Hliot, 109 Brea aan aoe and Kisses. By B. L. Farjeo 110 he Wandering Meir. By Charles e. 11 The Brother's Bet; or, Within ~ Six Weeks. By Emilie Flygare Carlen. 112 A Mero. By Miss ¥ ulock. 113 Paul and Virginia. From the French of Bernardin De St. Pierre. 114 pears In Trafalgar’s Bay. By Wal- er Besant and*James Rice. 115 oe: Maid of Killeena. By William 116 HMett By He Kingsley. : 117 ae ‘wayatde ‘€ Orons ats or, the Raid of 118 The on By ree ie wikenas: By Oliver Goldemtn of 7 9 9 9 9 9 1 1 . Far- (144 A Stran By 7 Rachel Bernhardt, By EH.” ae "American Copyright Novels and the Cream of Foreign Novelists, Gnabndeed:3 FOR FIVE CENTS! The Cheapest Library Ever Published! F 119 WKaud Mohan. By Annie Thomas. 120 ‘Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss Jane : Porter. 12 Fa King of No-Land. By B. L. Far- eon 122 Lovel, the Widower. By W. M. Thack- | | ray: i 123. ap Island Pearl, By B. L. Farjeon. 124 Cousin Phillis Leila or, The. Siege of Grenada. By Ed- ward Bulwer (Lord Lytton). When the Ship Comes Home. By Walter Besant and James Rice. 127 Gne of the ea By James Payn. 128 Khe Birthright. Mrs. Gore 129 Motherless 3; or, The arian a eereetbonit. By Colonel Prentiss Lib ih mmc 130 Homeless; or, Two Orphan Girls in New York. By Albert W. Aiken, 131 Sister ope. Sister 3 or. Hearts. ry Ree 132 Sold for Gold. By Mrs. M. 1 133 Lord Roth’s Sin, By Georgiana Dickens. 134 batt Wie Love Her? By Bartley T. Camp- 135 Sinned Against. By Lillian Lovejoy. 136 Was She His Wife? By Mrs. Mary Reed well. 137 ‘The. Village on the Cliff. By Miss 138 updor Valeria! The Broken Troth. By Margaret Blount. 139 Margaret Graham. By G, P. R. James. , 140 Without Mercy. By Bartley T. Campbell... 141 Moneor Bound, By Lillian Lovejoy. 142 Fleeing from Love. By Mrs. Harriet. Irving. 125 126 or, 148 Abducted; or, A Wicked Woman's, Work. By Rett Winwood. © Tmaret nah hs Jokn Foster’s "Li Lillian Lovejoy By! Mrs. Mary Reed ; Heiress, 145 Two Girl’s Lives. Crowell. 146 A Wesperate Venture; or, For Love's. Own Sake. By Arabella Sou worth. 147 — War of Hearts. By Corinne Cusb- . 148 ‘wh ich Was the Woman ? or, Strangely Misjudged. By Sara Claxton. 14 ey Ambitious Girl; or, She Would Be . Actress, By Frances Helen Davenport. 150 dvd Keg of All; or, In Her Own at Last. By Alice May Fleming. 151 A wild Girl. By Corinne Cushman. 152 A Man’s Sacrifice, By Harriet Irving. 153 Did She Sin. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 154;He Loves Me Not. By Lillian Lovejoy. 155 Winning Ways. By Margaret Blount. 156 What She Cost Him; or, Crooked Patbs, By Arabella Southworth, 157 & Girl’s Heart. By Rett Winwood, 158 A eee oy, Young Girl's Folly. By Bi ye Te Lady Helen’s. wow % or, e Mother's wight Soar By the Late Mrs F. Ellet, 160 mevabeat a Heart, By Lillian Lovejoy. 161 Pearl of Pearls. By A. P. Morris, Jr. « 162 A Fateful Game; or, Wedded and Parted, By Sara Claxton, 163 AMS Creole Cousins; or, False as Fair. Philip 8. Warne. gf Se pete Orde or, May Langley’s ae Mad Marriage. By Mee ‘Georgiana Dickens. - ’ 165 A Strange Girl. By Albert W. Aiken, 166 A Man’s Sin. By Rett Winwood. “167 The Hand of Fates or, The Wreck of Two Lives, By Arabella Southworth, 168 Kwo Fair Women. Z| Wm. M, gpa 169 Kempted Through ove; or, One Women’ ’s Error, By n Lovejoy. 170 Blind Barbara’s Secret. By Mary Grace Halpine. ; 171 A Woman's Witchery; _Much Tribulations. By Sara Clax 172 Black Eyes and Blue, Cushman. 173 The Cost of a Folly. Diekens. 174 The Pretty Puritan. Daughter A new issue every week. or, Through By Corinne — By Georgians By A Parson’s Tae WAVERLEY Lrprary is tor sale by all News dealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on re Pets ceipt of six cents each. saith oo ee ; BEADLE AND ADAMS Publishers, as 8 Willian street, New York. | >