Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 93) (1881 08 23)
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The Only Young Ladies’ Library of 7 a rm : i m Tra HS Benue ae $2.50 a year. First-Class Copyright Novels Published! Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mail Rates. Price, but 5 cents each. — August 28, 1881. No. 98. VOL. IV. Love's Victory. BY B. L. FARJEON, ihe | SCENE THE FIRST. : IN THE BANKING-HOUSE. CHAPTER I. CHAPPELL, CHAPPELL, AND CHAPPELL, BANKERS. THe great banking-house of Chappell, Chappell, and Chappell, was known, and favorably known, far and wide, and had been established for as many scores of years a8 you can count upon your fingers. In the money world it was famous, and outside the boundaries of that Tom Tiddler’s ground it. commanded respect and admiration, Not only where the English language is spoken was the name known and honored, but where French, Dutch, Prussian, Italian, and German are the native vernacu- lars. On the Exchange it was all-powerful; in bank and mart it was regarded almost with affection; and foreign tongues, after their respective fashions, murmured it with veneration, It had taken root, as it were, and Chappell, Chappell, and Chappell across or at the foot of an oblong slip of paper, was a thing to conjure with. So potent. was it, that one might have been pardoned for. the fancy that if. he had traveled with it into the bowels of the earth, and presented it to the genii who reign where. the rough, bright gold lies hidden in reef of quartz and soil allu- yial, he would have been re- ceiyed with obsequious atten- tion, instantly loaded with bags of treasure, and sent up te earth rejoicing. Time was nati when the firm was known by a eT the one simple name of Chap+ i} pell; but.as the business grew and increased, so the impeort- ance of its proprietors grew and increased. It was, therefore, quite consistent. with this growth of personal importance that when a descendant more pompous and self-impressed than those who preceded him came. into the firm, he should desire that his name should be © added to the old one; and this being done, the firm became Chappell nd Chappell. It is to be hoped that common persons had a sense sufficiently delicate § and fine to distinguish between - Uf PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N. Y. ‘LAURA RIGBY, PRICE, 5 CENTS the Chappells who aired their pomposity among them, and the Chappells whose pomposity (with bated breath be it spoken), had been aired by the worms, and sifted into dust long years ago. As time rolled on, the feathers of another pompous Chappell were fledged, and he, with a similar laudable desire for the recognition of his individuality, insisted that his name should be added to the firm, which therefore became Chappell, Chappell, and Chappell. And so, in accordance with the ambition of successive pomposities, Chappell might, to use a metaphor, have been piled on Chappell till the crack of doom —supposing the firm to last to that indefinite period—but for a. glim- mering idea that the thing was already overdone, and that a farther redundancy of Chappells might possibly cast a shadow of ridicule oyer the great House. Which, almost above every other consideration, was a possibility to be jealously guarded against. Almost, but not quite above every other consideration; there was one other which was sacredly paramount; the honor and credit of the House: That a word should be whispered against the good name which the House had borne from the first year of its existence would have tortured the souls of the living Chappells, and might have animated with serious un- easiness the very dust of the departed. © Above all other considerations was the good name to be maintained, un- shaken; untarnished. And this was done religiously. Ifa word had ever been whispered against it, it had faded as utter- ’ ly and effectually as the breath which might have been breath- ed upon the polished door- plates. which bore the magic ‘ title of the firm.. The House had played its part in troub- lous times, and had played it with unfaltering credit. Older firms than it, wealthier, firms than it, had tottered and fal-’ len, and passed out of existence?’ but nothing had ever shaken the, credit of Chappell, Chap- pell, and Chappell. Thrones had crumbled into dust, dynas- ties had been destroyed, the liberties of people had beer. juggled with; the scaffold had been busy with the high and mighty, but Chappell, Chap- pell, and Chappell remained unscathed, unsullied. It stood firm. and erect. through alt these changes. Those whose worldly wealth its coffers guarded, slept in their beds with easy minds as to its safe- ty. So thorougbly imbued were the members of the firm with a nice and strictsense of honor, that the judgment they passed upon men whose business conduct. would not bear the light is easy of com- prehension. A. defaulter in money was, in their eyes, a vile and abborrent creature,
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2 LOVE'S VICTORY. If they had written the fifth commandment, i would haye read: ‘‘Honor the bills which Chappel Shape and Chappell have discount- ed for thee, thy days may be long on the earth which the Lord thy God giveth thee.” To lighten the intense and somewhat ponder- ous respectability of this description, and to show how jealous the House was of its name down to the very smallest detail, a cirenmstance may be briefly mentioned. At the death of one of the Chappells a tradesman was employed to cut the record of his virtues on his tombstone, To the indignation of the living members of the firm, he spelt the name with one L, and there was not.room on the stone for another....The stone was returned to him, and when he ap- plied for payment it was refused, on the ground that the order had not been properly executed. ‘With some show of humor he offered to-deduct from his account a proportionate sum for the omitted L, and when, even with this deduction, payment was still refused, he in his turn. grew indignant, and revenged himself by indulging in the grim and not original joke that surely one Lwas enough forany man. Needless to say that from that moment the firm looked. up- on. him as a pestilent member of society, It had happened in the course of the firm’s long business career that men whose names were not Chappell had been admitted into part- nership, but not one of them was ever known to. the world, in his business connection, by any other name than Chappell. Now and again changes had taken place in the proprietorship, but they were few and far between, and had not affected the character or the, stability of the House. At one time a great Chappell had swallowed up all the lesser Chappells, after the. fashion of the old Egyptian serpent; atan- other, half a dozen Chappells held nearly equal interests, but the business. was conducted steadily and safely through all these variations, and at the opening of this history there were but two representatives of the 1name—Chappell father Chappell son. The son had not yet been admitted into the firm. It wasa long-established custom with the House not to give the younger branches of the name a share in the business until they reached the age of thirty, by which time it was assumed that ene ary ped are the lead- ing element in the education of the young men f a certain class are pasta sown. Fred- erick Phones) was but twenty-eight years of | two good years before him in age, and which to complete the acquisition of that kind of knowledge which is popularly supposed to be so essentially necessary tg men who are des- stined by the fortune of bi lead- ‘ing positions in society. In the mean time he ‘was liberally supplied with money by his father—but still not so liberally as his needs re- quired—and went through the farce of calling at the banking-house every day, and idling away an hour or two there, with the air of one whose presence was necessary to its well-being and erity. The younger clerks looked up to fim with admiration, and in their humbler to occupy circles copied the fashion of his clothes. He was in every respect an elegant young man, much sought after by mothers in society who with indulgent ears, and received with indul- ent smiles, accounts of certain youthful follies fa less pleasant term might be used, but one might as well be out of the world as out of the fashion) of which he was the hero. “Youth must have its fling,” they said, with amiable looks, and with a decided disposition to sympathize with youth, if in the course of its fling it was put to any inconvenience. CHAPTER II. WR. OHAPPELL SENIOR RECEIVES AN ACCOUNT OF A STRANGE VISITOR. On a certain morning in May in the y when the chestnut-trees were in blossom- cumstance which has nothing whatever with this history—Trail, ® confiden: thoughts into words, ‘What is her name? Laura—simply geable daughters, and who heard and what not, who waited upon Mr. Chappell senior during business hours, was awaiting the arrival of his master in the coziest private room of which the bank could boast. Two smaller rooms were accessible only from this private sanctum of the head of the House, and when Mr. Chappell senior was closeted in one.of these, his most.intimate friend was not allowed to in- trude upon his privacy. Possibly he kept his skeleton there. Outside the bank, in the.social circle of which he wasan ornament, Trail was known as Mr. Reginald Trail, and-was a person of some importance, and letters written to him by friends and uaintances were invariably addressed Reginald ‘Trail, Esq. Once upon a time an esquire was a shield-bearer, bore arms on his escutcheon, and frequently flowered into knight; in these commoner day she may be a greengrocer. Inside. the bank .Mr. Reginald Trail was a person of no social importance; he was simply Trail. Reginald was out of the question ; Mr. equally so; Trail served the purpose well and appropriately. The room was handsomely and comfortably furnished, and the modern character of the fur- niture was an indication that the firm of Chap- pell, Chappell, and Chappell was moving with the times. Indeed, within the last ten years, the building in which the bank transacted its business had been entirely rebuilt, and, in no- table contradistinetion to its former dusty and old wooden appurtenances, was now decorated with marble pillars and polished counters. Ey- ery thing in the room was in its proper place. The newspapers were carefully arranged and unfolded, so as to show the Money article; Mr. Chappell’s correspondence was on the writing- table in‘two symmetrical piles; Mr. Chappell’s chair was in its usual exact: position; and the black-marble cloek on the mantel-piece. ticked the moments soberly and respectably, as if aware that time was money—as it really is in the matter of interest. The clock marked at this moment ten minutes to eleven. Although there was no fire in the grate, Trail, from force of habit, stood with his back to the fire-place, and his one disengaged hand stole in- to its orthodox position under his coat-tails. Trail was meditating upon a letter, which he was regarding with curiosity. Putting his they run somewhat in this wise: — ‘You are up to some of your tricks again, Mr. Frederick. I must take the letter, a a ra. Cunning young gentleman! Whatare m ctions ? Miss Lanse willbe at rehearsal at eleven o’clock, andI am to goto the stage- door, and say that the letter is to be delivered immediately to Miss Laura. Iam to wait for ananswer, Ifthe young lady herself comes out, and asks questions, Iam to lead her to suppose that the letter is from the old gentle- man. Very well, very well. iy) act- resses are remarkably pretty girls, If I were a young man—— ever mind; can’t eat your pie, and have your pie. I shall go to the thea- to-night, and see Master Fred’s Miss Laura. og ome arate T had a cousin — Penne Trail, ing inthe course of his musi: withdrawn ti dicen gaged hand from his mae, dox position, had been pnp the letter with busy and curious fingers, and at this point, whether by accident or design, the envelope became unfastened. He looked surprised, and in a tone of gentle remonstrance said: ‘*Dear me! How careless some persons are in sealing their letters! There can be no harm in looking. H’m! Only two or three lines. ‘Mr. Chappell will feel obliged if Miss Laura will call upon him at the bank, at one o’clock this morning, on a matter of importance,’ Short, polite, and mysterious,” continued Trail, sealing the letter from the gum-bottle. ‘I thought he was up to one of his tricks again, No business of mine, thou I never trouble my head with other people's affairs. That's the old gentleman’s step.” —- Y | Chappell, with a frown at the card. pocket, and stbmissively received Mr Chap- pell’s hat and overcoat. “* Has any one called?” asked Mr. Chappell, seating himself at the table, and beginning to open his letters. ** Your son, sir, Mr. Frederick.” ** Not forme; he knows that I am never hero until eleven o’clock.” ‘“No, sir, not for you; he merely looked in and glanced over the papers.” ‘Any one else ?” ‘A young gentleman, who seemed very anx- ious to see you, sir.” ‘¢ On business ?” ‘*He did not say, sir. When I told him you would be here at eleven o'clock, he said be would call again. He left that letter” (point- ing to a letter which Mr. Chappell had not yet opened), ‘‘and his card.” Mr. Chappell glanced at the letter carelessly, and then at the card with closer attention. Above the name written on the card was a rough pen-and-ink sketch of two figures. ‘‘Mr. Richard Barton. I do not know the man. Has he been here before ?” ‘*T have not seen him, sir.” ““What do these figures mean ?” Trail looked at the sketch with a properly se- vere air. It represented a god and goddess, in native costume. Asa man with a family, Trail had a proper respect—within limits—for mili- ners and dressmakers, ‘When I asked the gentleman ”—— ‘‘A: gentleman, then?” ‘* Well, yes, sir; middlingish. WhenI asked him for his. name, he sat down and wrote it upon a blank card, and drew the figures there.” ‘Saying nothing ?” *‘ Oh, he was very chatable, sir, and very free in his ways. He said first, ‘I think Tl wait,’ and he sat down for a moment. Then he jumped up, and said, ‘I think Pll go.” Then he asked me how old I was, and how many years I had been in the bank; then he asked me if [had ever traveled, and gave a whistle when I said, ‘Yes, I’ve been to Margate.’ TI asked his pardon, and begged him not to whistle here, and he said he wouldn’t till the next time. Then he asked me how f liked not being farther than Margate; and when I said I liked it very well, he whistled again, though I begged him not to. Then he'asked me if I could breathe well in London; and I said yes, pretty well, I thanked him. But I beg your pardon, sir, for telling you these things.” **You had better finish, Trail,” said Mr. **An inso- lent fellow, I should say. Did you not attempt to stop his chattering? This is scarcely the place for such a conversation.” ae **T told him so, sir; I tried to stop him, but I might as well have tried to stop a windmill by to it. I made bold to try and get rid of him when I found out what he was; but he wouldn’t be got rid of. He laughed at me, and ked me in the ribs—he did, sir, though I egged him not to. His manners were very familiar, sir. I don’t think he was quite right here”—Trail touched his forehead—“ his man- ners were that familiar. Then, what he said. One thing in one breath, another thing in an- other. He asked me what I thought of West- minster Abbey; ‘and when I said it was a nice place, he cried, ‘It’s glorious, glorious, glori- ous!’ Three times, sir, and very excited like. He asked me if I would like to be buried there ; I said I had no wish to be buried; and ho laughed that loud, though I begged him not to, that I felt ashamed and uncomfortable. Ho said London was a fine city—then he said it was a dreadful city. He said he would like to live here all his life—then he said he’d like to go away to-morrow.” » “* Not es gerne then ue m ‘Oh, yes, sir, quite an Englishman. but strange like. He told me what those figures on the card were.” ‘* Ah, indeed.” ; _ Yes, sir, He said they were Venus and us, and asked if they were not good like- in his| nesses. I said I had never seen the persons. a
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Love and jollity he said they were, with another jaugh, and was proceeding to go on in exempli- fication—in exemplification, sir,” repeated Trail, with an air of pride, ‘‘ when I begged him not to; and he didn’t, and bid me good-morning, quite affable, and said he would come in again in an hour or s0.” ‘‘Pshaw !” exclaimed Mr. Chappell, tossing the card and the letter aside. ‘‘ The figures are vilely drawn. When he calls, do not show him in.” “Yes, sir.” ‘* He can leave word with you what his busi- ness is.” . * “Very well, sir,” said Trail, walking to the door; but suddenly remembering something he had omitted from his budget, he turned back. ‘*Oh, I forgot, sir, in the excitement of this young man. Mr. Armstrong called.” The name did not act as a sedative upon Mr. Chappell’s nerves. ‘* What did he want?” he inquired, abruptly. **He came to know, sir, if we had received any news of the Golden Mariner.” Mr. Chappell turned upon Trail with—in that gentleman’s opinion—unaccountable irritation. ‘And of course you told him there was no news.” : ‘Of course, sir,” replied Trail. “Of course, sir” echoed Mr. Chappell, his irritation increasing. ‘‘ What do you mean by that?” “J ‘told him, as you said, sir,” said Trail, submissively, ‘‘that of course there was no news of the Golden’ Mariner. .That is all, sir. This is the third morning that. Mr. Armstrong has called to. make the same inquiry. _ za ‘For a moment. it appeared as though Mr. Chappell were about to give further vent to his passion, but he controlled himself by a strong effort. « That will do,” he said, more calmly ; ‘* you! And be good enough to indulge in no! can go. more conversations in) this room such as you have described.” _ With a servile bend of the head, fairly indica- tive of the. relationship which exists between English master and. English servant, Trail left the room, and Mr. Chappell proceeded to look over and-read his correspondence. But his mut- tered words denoted the uneasiness of his mind. ee OF course there is no news, and he knows that I have underwritten the ship for sixty thousand. pounds. Ten weeks out, and not P ahege with; but there is plenty of time yet. iven if the worst should have happened, months must elapse, in the absence of authentic intelli- gence, before I am called upon. What causes people to speak of it already? I heard the ru- mor for the first time yesterday. Can Arm- strong, for reasons of his own, have set it afloat? I hate him—this Armstrong the Ameri- can, as he takes a pride in calling himself—I hate him, and I tremble before him, Some- times I have a. fear that he suspects my real position—that he sees the precipice upon which Istand. Pshaw! It can be but a fear; there cannot be foundation for it. Yet if the ship be lost, for him a golden haul; for me’’-—— Mr, Chappell geeted and covered his eyes with his Pee as though by that action he could see his way more clearly; presently he removed his hand and said, impatiently, ‘‘I must not think of it; it umnerves me.” His hand at this mo- ment fell upon the letter which Mr. Richard Barton had left for him. Mechanically he opened it and commenced to read listlessly ; but he had not read a dozen lines before his listless manner changed to one of eagerness, and his eyes brightened. ‘‘ What is this?” he cried, << And now we have much pleasure in. intro- ducing to your favorable attention a friend and young client of ours, Mr. Richard Barton, one of our most wealthy colonists. We have for many years had large and important transac- tions with his father, who'died but lately, leay- ing this only son the whole of his property, ‘The: young gentleman, contrary to our advice— for landed. property here: is daily rising vahie—insisted’ upon realizing his estate, and is, to our certain knowledge, worth atleast a, | dreams—failure must come, -dis 1n* LOVE'S VICTORY. hundred thousand pounds. “Having been born and educated in the colony, he is an utter stranger in London, and it is with much pleasure we introduce him to you.’ ” The letter was from valued correspondents of | the House in Australia, and Mr. Chappell read | it a second time with a heightened color in his face. ‘*Mr. Richard Barton!” he exclaimed. ‘* Why, that’s young Venus and Bacchus!” He took up the card again which the young man had left, and examined it with interest. ‘‘ Beautifully drawn, too! A stranger in London, and a young man! —inexperienced, impulsive, generous probably. A hundred thousand pounds!” He touched the bell, and in his excitement rose, and paced the room. ‘Trail presented himself almost immediately. ‘Oh, Trail, said Mr. Chappell, ‘‘ when Mr. Barton calls, do not let him wait. Show him in at once.’ Do you hear?” “Yes, sir,” replied Trail, much mystified by this change, but too good a servant to exhibit astonishment. ‘Admit him the moment he arrives.” Trail bowed, and closed the door behind him, and Mr. Chappell continued to pace the room. ‘*Good!” he murmured, rubbing his hands. ‘‘ Fortune smiles upon me still. This young colonist, with his hundred thousand pounds, will be of use tome. He comes'just when he is most needed. I‘can advise him, speculate for him, At all hazards the credit of the House must be sustained. Great Peruvians fell yes- terday one and a-half, and I dare not make a move. Lynx eyes are watching me on every side, and closer than all am I watched by this Armstrong the American, because of the stake he has with me. But time—time is all I want. It is to me what courage is to a soldier, what virtue is to a woman. Peruvians must rise again; the Golden Mariner must gét safely into port. Yet if it should not—if every chance should melt away—if every hope to which I cling should slip from me into the land of e- must comé, and then— Tut ! tut! I am‘growing old, and am frightened at every passing cloud. | If the world were to see me like this, how low should I fall!” He looked about him‘ fear- somely, and wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead; but he could not wrest his thoughts from the gloomy groove into which his fears had driven them, and he sank into his chair with a heavy sigh. ‘‘My good name trembles in the balance. It hangs upon a puff of wind—upon a chance rumor—upon 9 word lightly spoken—and Iam hopeless and impo- tent, trembling at the ghosts which rise from the grave of my ambitious schemes!” — CHAPTER TI. ' RIGBY, THE HALI-~PORTER. So absorbed was Mr. Chappell in his reflec- tions that he did not hearia soft knock at the door. It was a knock of timidity—a knock deferential and submissive—and it was re- ated several times before the sound reached r. Chappell’s ears; when it did, he raised his head, with the air of one to whom the uncer- tain and hesitating plea for admission was fa- miliar. He did not reply immediately, and | P the timid knock was again repeated. Occa- sionally a man’s heart gets into his very knuckles. ‘‘Come in,” said Mr. Chappell. There entered Rigby, the hall-porter of the establishment, whose spare and shrinking figure was familiar to all the customers of the bank. A man who, as he sat upon his stool, pale, and sad, and bent, seemed ever to be wrapped in the retrospection of a life out of which all hope had been crushed long years ago. . Between Ri and his master there couldnot haye been a year's difference in age, but a greater contrast than that which existed between the two men could not well be imagined. Rigby loeked at least fifteen years his master’s senior; his face was furrowed with wrinkles and deep lines and bore also. some marks of dissipation; in his eyes dwelt a spirit of suffering; his clothes were shabby, aid his hands were anxiously restless : | altogether a worn and broken man, At the time of his entrance, his features bere an cx~ pression of mingled shame and triumph, of hu- miliation, and of a hope fulfilled which had long been deferred. His lips trembled, and he fhpsr scarcely utter the words he attempted to speak. ‘*Mr. Chappell—sir,” he said, and then was silent from agitation. ‘Well, Rigby ?” replied Mr.. Chappell. ‘‘T took the liberty—the liberty, sir” Mr. Chappell wheeled his chair suddenly to- ward the hall-porter, and after a moment’s stern observance of him exclaimed in a severe tone: ‘‘Tam sorry to see you in this condition, Rigby. Are you not ashamed of yourself ? ‘** Yes, six. But you are mistaken; I am not —not drunk, six.” The laugh to which Mr. Chappell gave utter- ance plainly expressed his disbelief in his ser- vant’s sobriety. The old man’s cheek flushed, but in a moment was white again. “‘It is true, sir. Lam not drunk.” ‘*You have been drinking; and yet are not drunk, eh? That is what you wish me to be- lieve.” ‘‘T had one glass before I came in, sir—only one.” The banker, sleek and smooth, carefully dressed and trim, a church-going man who.oc- cupied one of the best pews (which pews are nearest to heaven, I wonder?)—in brief, a gen- tleman, as all the world and his wife knew and acknowledged—threw himself back in his arm-~ chair, and laughed again—a laugh which would ° have raised the anger of any person but one thoroughly crushed an@' broken down. All that Rigby did in response: was to raise his hand, feebly and despondingly, as though to ward off a blow, and to plead timidly. ‘* You may believe me, sir, you may indeed.” “*As Ihave believed you before, eh, Rigby, and with the same result ?” ‘*No; sir; I know my failings, notwithstand- ing that I have been unable to conquer them. I had one little drop of brandy to give me cour- age. I was compelled to take it. I should not have been able to stand in your presence, and say whatI have to say, without it. You ask me if Iam not ashamed of myself. Iam, sir, But I haye been ashamed ‘ for many years, and if it had not been for a lit- tle brandy now and then, I should not have’ been able to bear my load. I should haye gone™ mad.” ; — ‘*You would wish me to believe, I ari “awed ; said Mr. Chappell, in an insolent and accus- tomed tone of superiority, “that it was a good and a wise thing for you to take a drink?” “Tt was neither good nor wise, sir,” replied Rigby, very humbly. ‘‘I do not wish you to be- lieve anything, sir—that is” (correcting himself aay ‘‘anything it displeases you to believe. - there is a difference of opinion between us on any point—pardon me, sir, for placing myself’ by your side even in this way—you must be right and I wrong. I know it, to my shame and sorrow. Our lives are the best proofs of it.” “That I am right and you are wrong on this articular point could not be more evident than it is,” said Mr. Chappell, complacently. ‘‘ Why, look at the difference between us—you seem old enough to be my father.” “Yet, sir, we were born in the same year, and went to the same school, if you will par- don me.” (Mr. Chappell received the record of this coincidence with a lofty motion of the hand, which expressed: ‘‘There really are some circumstances in our lives for which we are not accountable.”) Rigby proceeded: “I wish to speak to you on a matter of import- ance. ‘« Be as brief as you can, Rigby.” ‘“*¥ will, sir.” The old man placed his hand en the back of a chair, to steady himself ; he. was in a state of great agitation, and his words did not come freely, ‘‘May I beg of, you to, carry your mind back to a time—ah, how many. years ago !—when you, I, and my brother” ——" Mr, Chappell interrupted him with astrang j
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Saar T= Ts « LOVE'S VICTORY. fierceness,:' ‘* How dare you refer to him, Rig-| swiftly, and with increased humbleness pro-|emnly. ‘‘Shame sleeps sometimes, but never by?” heveried. — ‘‘ How dare you ?” ceeded : dies. We cannot bury it out of sight. It rises **I doubt if Ishould have had the courage to do 80, sir,” replied Rigby, meekly, ‘if I had not taken a glass of brandy. Now you can understand why I did it, sir. But I must say what I have come to say.” ‘*Go on, then,” said Mr. Chappell haughtily. ‘‘ Well, sir, at that time we three young men —you, I, and my brother—were fellow-clerks in this bank. We were all equal then—were equally trusted—were equally ambitious to rise—and had equal chances in the world. I had my day-dreams, then, sir; I built my cas- tles, if you will deign to remember, for we sometimes talked together of the future. My castles soon dissolved—yours were built upon a surer foundation. Yet I have since thought that mine might have proved to be something more than air had a dread misfortune not fallen upon me. I loved my brother, and he loved me, I think. Whatever good fortune came to either of us, the other was to share. In my mind, at that time, there was no one comparable to my brother—shrewd, clever, and ‘ood, as we believed, I saw his future clear and right before him. You know how it all turned out, sir.” ‘Shamefully! shamefully!” exclaimed Mr, Chappell. ‘“As you say, sir, shamefully, shamefully ! One fatal day—fatal to me and to my hopes, fatal to him and his ambition—defalcations were discovered in his department, and shortly after- ward he stood in afelon’s dock, charged with embezzling money of the bank. The evidence against him was clear, and he was transported for life.” ‘‘Disgraceful circumstance !” “Tt was, so, sir; and his offense was aggra- vated by his after conduct.” ‘In what way, Rigby,” inquired Mr. Chap- pell, with the air of one who had but an indis- tinct recollection of the details. ‘In this very room—you were not present, sir, and may not have heard of it, althongh it was known to many—the head of the House offered to Seay] my brother, or rather not to rosecute » if he would make a full and ee confession of the crime. I begged him to accept the merciful offer. He replied with a strange and bitter laugh, that he had nothi to confess, and the police were called in. Whai became of the money no one knew, and he refused to tell. He did not drink, he did not gamble ”—— ‘**So far as we know, Rigby,” interrupted Mr. Chappell; in gentle correction. ‘‘A man may have vices which he conceals from his friends... . : ‘ . “It is true, sir.. He might have speculated, hoping to win a fortune quickly, when he could replace the poner. It was a large sum, sir, if you remember, Butnoword ever fell from his lips that gave a clue as to, how it was disposed of. At that time he was engaged to a girl whose father’s circumstances were not good, but it is certain that they did not benefit by his crime.” Again, Mr. Chappell gently interposed. .**Can we be certain of that? Does my memory. serve me aright when I say that this girl disappeared shortly after the trial? Or is it a fancy? There were so .many rumors afloat.” ~*~ “You are correct, sir; the girl did disap- pear after the trial, but she may have been glad to fly from a spot fraught with such bit- ter memories. I think that she and her father were ignorant of the crime until my brother was arrested.” - i: We never know, Rigby, we never know. It is so easy to assume a semblance of innocence. Do we not see this every day of our lives ?” “You are right, sir, unfortunately. But I have never forgotten the despair and agony of the poor girl when she came to know if the news was true. She had a sincere love for him—but all who knew him loved him. They could not help it, his nature was so frank, so generous ”"—— The cold look which Mr. Chappell cast upon him checked him here ; he corrected himself “Tam not pleading for him, sir; I have nothing to say in extenuation. He wrecked his own happiness—hers—mine—and I, his brother, admit that his punishment was just. He was banished for life from the country in which he hoped to win a name and position ; I remained, broken down by his crime and his dis —for who would associate with the brother of a felon ?—and yon, sir, the only one of the three, rose, as you deserved to rise, and became the head of the House which my brother and I, through him, had wronged.” ‘*My good Rigby,” said Mr. Chappell, in a softened tone, and with a gracious wave of his hand, in token that his servant had amply atoned for his previous warmth. ‘« After the trial,” proceeded Rigby, ‘‘the principals consulted as to their course of action with respect tome. I understood that no sus- Picion existed in their minds that I was im- plicated in my brother’s crime : others were not as just in their opinions. But although the partners might not have suspected me, I was a disgraced man, and they decided that they could not retain my services. I was on the point of being dismissed from the bank with deserved ignominy, when, in charitable memory of old times, you begged that I should not be thrown upon the world. At your in- tercession the partners were merciful. It was impossible that I should be allowed to remain in a position of trust, where money would pass eroage my hands. They removed me from the office desk and gave me the position of hall-porter.” ‘Which you have held ever since,” observ- ed Mr. Chappell, cheerfully. ‘‘ Which I have held ever since, as you say, sir. Which I might hold, I have no doubt, until death took the poor hall-porter from your bank door. I have come now, sir, to resign that situation.” Mr. Chappell sat bolt upright in his chair, in astonishment, ‘Resign, Rigby!” he exclaimed. ‘‘ Nay, nay, I am perfectly satisfied with you. If I have spoken irritably to you lately—I have been much worried, and I may have done so unconsciously—forget it, and do not do a fool- ish thing. You must not throw yourself Fea the world at your age. Think better of it.. You are not yourself just now.” “T have thought well over it, sir ; I place my resignation in your hands, and I hope you will find.a faithful man to fill my place.” | Mr. Chappell shrugged his shoulders, . You} and know best, Isuppose. How are you to live?” ‘‘ That is provided for, sir.” “« Well,” said Mr. Chappell, in a tone of in- difference, ‘‘if it must be, it must be. You have good reasons, doubtless, for your ac- tion,” ‘«T have, sir.” . he The banker turned to his papers with a busy air, as though the matter was settled, and the intérview at an end. But Rigby still lingered, waiting for Mr. Chappell to give him his atten- tion, ‘“¥You have said all you have to say, I pre- sume,” observed Mr, Chappell presently, in the midst of his occupation. 2 at “No, sir. ‘There is something more, if you will kindly hear me.” ‘Be speedy, then ; I am busy.” ‘*T will not detain you long, sir. I want you to believe that I have never forgotten your kindness to me. After my brother left this country, a felon, I had but one purpose in life —to repay the money he had embezzled, and thus redeem, in some measure, the honor of our family—for it was an honored name, as you know, sir, until that fatal time.” It was impossible for Mr. Chappell to as- sume. indifference in presence of the simple earnestness of his old servant’s words and manner, and it was in a kinder and more sym- are tone that he said: andinn “Nay, nay, my good Rigby, do not say any- thing more on ithe sities: It is buried and forgotten.” _' “Tt is neither, sir,” responded Rigby, sol- from the grave like the ghost of remorse, and compels us to look into its eyes. In the dead of night, when no sound can be heard, when. no being can be seen, it steals to our side, and whispers to us. I have heard it—I have heard it! I have seen it, with darkness all around me. My brother’s shame cast it shadow. over me, and made me—what I am. Condemned to bear the burden of this shame, with all eyes. gazing at me. I was strengthened by one in- tense and earnest desire ; a desire to pay the debt, if Imay be pardoned for calling it so. Animated by this resolve, I pinched, I lived sparely, I almost starved myself to save. But what could I lay _by out of the wages of a hall-porter? It. would have needed ten lifetimes to save the money. I was in de- spair ; but still I contrived to save a little—a very little—and had the intention of leaving it. to the bank when I died. Suddenly, as though in answer to my prayers, help has come—how and from whom I am not at liberty to say ; and before twenty-four hours have passed over my head—this very morning, perhaps—I shall be able to pay,into your hands the sum which my brother embezzled.” ‘Mr. Chappell reflected in silence upon this unexpected statement. The money would be useful to him, but the manner of acquiring it was so strange, and he had, in truth, been so: much affected by his old servant’s story, that he was moved to an act of magnanimity—for it was magnanimous even to jeopardize, by a few words so easily not spoken, the receipt of this unexpected windfall. “There is no occasion for the payment of the money,” he said ; “it is not you who owe it. Besides, the debt is canceled—it was writ- ten off the books a score of years ago.” ‘‘But it is not written off my heart!” cried Rigby, with fierce eagerness, ‘‘Do you think I have not suffered during my service to the bank? Do you thinkI can enjoy peace, if it. ever come to me, until the bank books show that there is nothing standing against the name I bear, and until it is known that I, a broken- down old man, have wasted my life in endeay- oring to make reparation? If you will not re- ceive the money, I will take it to the counter and pay it. in, as, having the means, I would pay any just debt. I will not be robbed of what is my due! There are men in the bank at this present time who were boys when we were boys, and who know the story of my dis- grace, They have talked of it to their wives childr whispered it. about in public places. not heard them, but the words ‘which never reached my ears have burned their wa my heart! I have been pointed out to the young clerks as the man whose brother robbed the bank. The lads avoid my look ; they shrink from me, whispering t6 each other, as a. creature unworthy of association. Imust be cleared of this—I can endure it no longer! 1 must be able to look these youngsters in the’ face, and say to them, ‘I have atoned for my brother’s crime by the wreck of my ambition, of my happiness, of all my dearest hopes. Pay me now the respect which is my due!” The pent-up passion of the mati was a won- derful revelation, It was as though all his life he had been compelled to keep: it under re- straint, and now for the first time could give it free play. But it had a singularly distinctive characteristic of its-own in the circumstance that the man never once raised his voice akove | its ordinary level—due, doubtless, to long hab- its of humbleness on his ‘part. Again Mr, Chappell paused before replying, and it was Reg from a motive of delicacy that when e did speak, he averted his eyes from the hall- porter’s Biods “Very well, Rigby,” he said: ‘let it be as” you have decided.” All the eager fired d out of the old man’s manner; all his passion was gone. — “Thank you, sir, humbly,” he said, meekly, ‘for this and all your other kindneggeg.” He was shuffling away, when Mr, Chappell’g voice arrested his steps, en, over their fireside; they have Ihave- into.
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‘« When do you wish to leave, Rigby ?” “ Soon—soon. This week if you can find a erson to fill my place.” ‘‘ E know of one. Youcan leave to-morrow.” ** Tt is like you,” said Rigby, with a grateful tend of the head; ‘‘ ever kind, ever considerate.” Mr. Chappell rose, and held out his hand to his old servant. Rigby gazed at it fora moment, in doubt whether this mark of courtesy andsym- thy was intended for him. The next moment e took the hand, and bowed over it ; then, with a proud and grateful sob, as though the simple action repaid him for all his years of shame and suffering, he left the room. CHAPTER IV. RICHARD BARTON PRESENTS HIMSELF. As recalling a remarkable incident presumably Jong forgotten, it was natural that thisinterview ‘should leave a powerful impression upon Mr. Chappell’s mind. It was natural, also, that the ‘thoughts which it engendered should be of a melancholy nature. To be suddenly wrested from the realities of the P sagan to the contem: plation of a time in the di , when life was ‘at its fairest, and when the pulses were quickened by hopeful anticipation, is something of a shock toaman. Great philosophy or strong faith is required to enable one to bear sucha shock with ‘equanimity or resignation. Mr. Chappell was ‘remarkable for neither, and his contemplation of ‘the;past wasin its nature most melancholy and sad, And yet he had been a successful man. In his youth he had thirsted for wealth and po- sition; he had gained both, and after the first flush of enjoyment, all the light and color had died out of them. Pride was still left to him, ‘but the pleasure which is comprised in this ey iad little ri eee in it. A slip of paper which Rigby had left upon the table attracted Mr. Chappell’s attention.” Fre re- membered that Rigby had placed it there, and had made no reference to it; there was writing on it which he had glanced at carelessly, but his attention had been Siverted from it at the time. Now he took it up and read it; the words were ‘few, and were simply to the effect that on the 15th of May of the year 1870 there would be ‘paid to the firm of Chappell, Chappell, and eeppel the sum of two thousand eight hun- dred and twenty-two pounds, in settlement of a liability incurred in May, 1836, ' ““ There must be some mistake,” thought Mr. Chappell, touching the bell; ‘‘ the sum was but twelve hundred dear Bring me,” he said to the clerk whom he had summoned, * the ledger for the year 1836, letter D.” Ina few minutes the clerk entered with the ledger, and Mr. Chappell, opening it, found the record of the embezzlement—an exact sum of twelve hundred Hae duly written off, and consigned to the limbo of the profit and loss ac- count. With his finger upon the record, the sight of which brought a frown to his face, he considered for a little while, and then, taking a book from one of the drawers of his writing- table, turned to the interest tables. He found what he searched'for. Twelve hundred pounds at four per cent. simple interest for thirty-four years, swelled to the exact siim of two thousand eight hundred and thirty-two pounds. “And Rigby has been scheming all his life to repay this money,” he thought; ‘singular infatuation !” The money really would be useful to him, great banker as he was, He had been spe- culating heavily lately, having moved with the times, and he was in some fear as to the result of his speculations. He would haye justified himself readily enough to any one who ques- tioned the wisdom of his conduct, if any per- son had been in his confidence. The House of Chappell, Chappell, and Chappell could not afford to be left behind in the race which all the world was running. If it desired to hold its Place and not be jostled aside, it must move with the times, and moving with the times Meant speculation, increased risks, the keeping up of a greater establishment than had hitherto been deemed necessary, For Mr, Chappell had LOVE'S VICTORY. a grand and fashionable lady for his wife, who sult Mrs. Chappell. Member of Parliament fot also felt it to be her imperative duty to move | Burlingham !” with the times. So many common persons had grown rich within the last few years, and were spending their money lavishly: in ostentatious display He leaned back in his chair, and indulged in pleasant anticipation, with a smile on his lips. For a second time this morning he did not hear a knock at his door. There was but slight ex- that it behooved a lady in Mrs, Chappeli’s | ©use for his not hearing it, for the knock was a position—a position to which she had been | loud one; there was something cheerful and born, and which she had not filched, as it were | bustling in the sound. It was not repeated. —to teach these presumptuous persons a lesson, and to show them they could not have it all The door was opened, anda entered, and it was not until he was fairly in the their own way. Not very long since, Mr. Mer- | '0om, and was speaking, that Mr. Chappell was cer had bought the lease of a house immediatel adjoining hers, and was now living there wi! his family in great style, giving magnificent and frequent entertainments, and receiving the best in the land. Six years ago Mrs. Mercer kept a milliner’s shop, and was glad of Mrs. Chappell’s custom. Mr. Mercer had made his money by speculation, and now his wife some- what looked down upon Mrs. Chappell, and took a pride in eclipsing her in the Park and in the drawing-room. This was not to be ; Saag borne. Mr. Chappell, who was ruled by his wife, agreed with her, and agreed with her also in the declaration that the firm of Chap- pell, Chappell, and Chappell had done a great deal for the country, by its name and unblem- ished reputation, to say nothing of its vast monetary operations, and that it was high time its principal representative received a ba- ronecty. The accomplishment of this ambitious desire required expenditure; political influence was necessary, and political influence could not be acquired by one who kept his purse-strings closed. Never in the world’s history was money more potent than in the present decade; it simply accomplished all things, and with fair tact and | - preseverance, and a -certain amount of ef- frontery, could purchase all thin This fact was recognized by Mrs. Chappell, and it was robably owing to confidential outpourings of her an a this subject to her husband that he had drifted into speculation. Certainly there was no doubting his wife’s declaration, that no persons had a right to hold their heads higher in society than those who represented the House of Chappell, Chappell and Chappell. This, in brief, was the position of affairs at the opening of this history. On Mr. Chappell’s writing-table was a later edition of the Times than that he had perused over his breakfast-table at home... He looked through the paper for fresh items of news, and soon lighted upon one which he read with fever- ish haste : “Tue GoupEN Mariner.—Certain rumors with reference to the safety of this ship have been flying about the city during the last day or two. Upon inquiry we find there is not the slightest foundation for them. The vessel is not yet due at its destination, and there isno eause for alarm in the circumstance that she has not been spoken with. The rumors have most probably been circulated by insurance speculators; it is difficult otherwise to account for them, The cargo of the Golden Mariner is exceptionally valuable, but that is not.a-reason- able ground for fears regarding the safety of the vessel, which is one of the finest now afloat.” ; Mr. Chappell read these lines with intense satisfaction, and a sigh of relief escaped him as he laid the paper aside. ‘Certainly there is no cause for fear,” he mused, ‘notwithstanding Mr. Armstrong’s anxious inquiries. This morning promises to be a fortunate one.’ There was. still one letter unopened, and he turned his attention to it. His sparkling eyes roved the truth of the adage that it never rains ut it pours. ‘At last!” he exclaimed. ‘‘ From Mr. Wake- field. An invitation to stand for Burlingham ; Conservative representative not expected to live many hours. Sharp work—but Wakefield is a shrewd man, always takes time bythe forelock. It must be done; it will cost money, but the chance must. not be lost. Wak>ficll is a safe man, too; his judgment is so::ad. Eh COR | aware of the intrusion. “‘T expect you did not hear my knock,” said the intruder, in a brisk, confident tone, ‘‘so I took the liberty’”—— ‘It is a liberty, sir,” interrupted Mr. Chap- pell, haughtily. ‘‘ You should have spoken to the attendant outside.” ‘*No one there, I assure you; but if itisa liberty, T’ll say good morning, and go away. First, though—are you Mr. Chappell ?” “Tam, sir, And you?’. “My nameis Richard Barton. Ileft a let ter’ —— ‘* My dear sir,” cried Mr. Chappell, rising in haste, nd cordially holding iat hile hand, ‘‘a thousand thousand pardons! I am delighted to see you—delighted to see you |” CHAPTER VY. RICHARD BARTON BEGINS TO MAKE FRIENDS. ‘*Wetcome to London, my dear sir, welcome to London!” continued Mr. Chappell, before his visitor had time to utter another word, ‘I am ashamed to have given you so much trouble.” ‘Don’t mention it,” said Richard Barton, seeming at a loss to know what trouble was re- ferred|to. ‘‘ No trouble, I assure you.” ‘*Pray sit down. A thousa welcomes. Mrs. Chappell will be charmed to. know you— charmed,” roar te He gazed at his visitor with such an ex- = as might come to one whose cup of appiness was filled to the brim, Richard Barton was delighted with his reception, and shook the banker’s hand cordially again and again. The entrance of this young man was like a puff of fresh country air in a place which had been pent up for years. There wasnothing of city life about him—neither craft; nor de- spondency, nor care. His sun-browned, hand- some face sparkled with pleasurable excitement ; his clear, outspoken, brown eyes beamed with honesty—nature dwelt in them. His features were emphatically laughing features. He had a trick of looking pleasant, which was natural to him. His was a face which women and children would trust instinctively. ‘Well, now,” he said, ‘‘ this is hearty of you; T like you.” ‘That is right, my dear sir,” rejoined Mr. Chappell, with a frank smile; ‘‘we want you to like us, We'll make you like us more befors we’ve done with you.” ; ‘“ Why,” exclaimed Richard Barton, “until this morning I was beginning to think that I ha-t traveled sixteen thousand miles over the sea to be frozen into an icicle of conventional polite- nese, and to have every drop of cordiality squeezed clean out of me. Tell me—do you see anything strange in my manner?” “On the contrary, my dear sir, on the con- trary.” ‘* Then whaton earth makes people stare at me 80? Igo into ashop to purchase somethi , and directly I make a remark to the shop-man, the other persons in the shop turn and stare at me. If I smile at them, they shrug their shoulders and turn away again. I look pleasantly at a man in the crowd, with an idea that he would like me to doso, and he scowls ferociously at mein return. I tread upon a gentleman’s toa by accident, and when 3 apologize to him he swearsat me. The uncivilized bears! , And I was led to expect something so different; I was told that the people here were most polished, and that it was I who would be found to be rough and uncivilized, ‘You must be on your besk
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= ser LOVE’S VICTORY. behavior,’ said a friend to me over the water; * you must mind your p’s and q’s.’ I have had oné or two experiences, though, for I have de- layed rather in delivering my letter of intro- duction to you. I have been in London a week. Lwanted to taste the sensation of being in a great city where there were hundreds of thou- azands of people, and where your very name was not known: Would you like to hear one of my pleasant riences!” _. “I shall be delighted.” eo Well—Ha, ! ha! ha! I can’t help laughing, for the life of me, when I think of it. I’vehad ~~ picked.” ] . Chappell could not exactly understand what pleasure there could be im this reminis- cence ; but as he was anxious to please and con- oo his visitor, he smiled, as if he really saw it. i » “The cleverest trick,” contintied Richar Barton. ‘I was walking along the Strand quite comfortably, when a. gentleman, tapped me on the shoulder. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, ‘but this is your handkerchief, I believe.’ It was mine, and‘I took it from him some- what abruptly. “A young rascal,’ he said, not noticing | my rudeness, ‘was picking it from our pocket when I snatched itfrom his hand, e made off at once. These common pick- ckets know how. to make good use of their eels.’ He raised his hat, and almost before I had time to thank him and apologize he turn- ed down a street,and I lost sight of him. Iwas sorry for it, for I felt that I had behaved un- ¢ivilly. Then comes a policeman— way, did you ever see a London policeman smile?” ” “ “JT have never remarked it.” ‘«They do smile sometimes, I suppose, when niobody’s looking. Well, then comes a police- man, and points to my watch-chain: It was hanging loose. I clapped my hand to my waist-coat pocket, to find that my watch was gone. The clever rascal—quite a gentleman, 'T assure you—had firsttaken my hankerchief from my pocket, and while he handed it back to me, stolemy watch. Sharp trick, wasn’t it? Upon my word, I’ve almost made up my mind if I meet him again, to make him a present of the chain.” . Certainly,” thought Mr. Chappell, when he heard the adventure related asa pleasant ex- perience, ‘this young gentleman isan oddity, and requires a friend.” ‘‘You have had other pleasant adventures, you say,” he observed with a slight cough. ‘‘Not adventures—experiences.” But here Richard Barton blushed, and said, ‘‘Ah, well, perhaps I had better not tell you. You will only laugh at me. You won't? It’s only a face ” ‘* A face !” _ «There! I ought not to have spoken of ‘it. Why not, though? There is no harm, in it, It was a face I saw in a theatre.” °.... ‘A girl’s face, of course,” observed Mr. Chappell, with an indulgent smile, ‘Yes, a girl’s face, fair and beautiful.” ‘« Dangerous places, the theatres—filled with sirens, ware of them.” ‘“‘ This one is no siren,” said Richard Bar- ton, in asoft tone, ‘in the sense that you mean, She is as good as she is beautiful ; am sure of it. You will understand me bet- er when I tell you that I lost my mother when I was very young, and that I have but a dim, sweet remembrance of her face. This girl’s face resembles hers, That is all. I hope you will not think me foolish for mentioning so triy- ial a circumstance.” “Think you foolish, my dear sir !” exclaimed Mr. Chappell, with ready sympathy, pressing his visitor’s hand warmly. ‘‘ Your sentiments do you honor. Asa father, I am proud to hear them from the eve of a young man.” «“Thank you,” said Richard Barton, simply and quietly ; ‘‘I am glad you did not laugh at me,” - Mr. Chappell changed the wing ead “Then you begin to like London, after all?” “JT am not quite sure. There are a great wmany people in it, but they are all strangers. Do you ever find it lonely *” By-the-| after “Lonely! Why, the streets are crowded ! Where you come from”—— “Ay, whereI come from, the streets compared to your London streets, are deserted. Yet here I walk among the crowd, and feel lonely, devil- ish lonely. Where I come from it is, ‘How are you, Dick?’ . ‘Good day, Barton.’ ‘Fine morning, old boy!’ and I receive the grip of a friend’s hand every hundred yards—hands with hearts in them, mind you. But here nobody gives anybody a pleasant. look; everybody looks upon every other body as an interloper, as something to be hustled about and pushed aside ;, everybody is in every other body's way. Why, to me the very houses seem to be jealous of their neighbors, and to be poking their el- bows into each. other’s ribs. Iam glad to be here, though. I wanted to look with my own eyes upon St. Paul’s, and Westminster Abbey, and Hampton Court, and. the Crystal Palace, and all the other wonders, so that I might be able to talk of them by-and-by. I wanted to see the theatres and. the great actors I’ye read so-much about. I would give much for the privilege of shaking by the hand some great authors. whom I could name, and for the oppor- tunity of thanking them for the many hours they have made pleasant for me. I want to see if they are like their works, But they must be, they must be; they could not write else, Do you know any of them, sir?” ‘* Yes, and so will you when you mix in soci- ety.” (Mr. Chappell had it on his lips to say, ‘“You. will find them very ordinary persons, all;” but he thought it wiser not to at- tempt to dispel the young man’s illusions, He had a feeling of both admiration and con- tempt for his visitor’s freshness.) ‘‘ Mrs. Chappell will be most happy to study your wishes in this respect. -You will come to my house to-morrow evening to dinner—a few friends after—a little music—quite a simple affair. My wife will be delighted; she has a passion for celebrities, and’ I dare say one or two lions will drop in in the course of the even- ing. Then my son Frederick will show you about; he knows every inch of London. I shall not wonder to hear you say, after a little while, that it is the only city in the world worth living in.” “‘Tam sure Iam quite ready to think so; it has brightened considerably since I have been in this room. Now, what do you think I came to London for?” Somewhat surprised at the question, after the young man’s enthusiastic outburst, Mr. Chappell replied, ‘‘'To see its wonders, and to enjoy life as a young man of means should do.” ‘*No,” said Richard Barton, with a different kind of earnestness ; there were both sorrow and sternness in higstonesnow. ‘‘ Notwithstandin; what I have said, it is doubtful whether should have crossed the seas, but for one other settled and specific purpose. Born in the colo- nies, and living the free life many men lead there, I think I should have been content there to live and die. It is only Englishmen who yearn for England, and it is right they should, Four-fifths of those who are now in the colonies pe of the Old Country as home, prec for e reason that they were born here, and thou- sands look forward to the time when they will be able to return. This feeling is growing weaker, certainly, every year, and is not shared in at all by us who were born in the fair South. We taste pleasures that you in crowded cities do not dream of. No; I have come to England to perform a task in which justice made a slight mistake; but a mistake which blighted the hopes of a life. When I send in my card to the person I am in search of, it will not be embellished with the figures of Venus’ and Bacchus. Inthe performance of my task Imay ask for your assistance.” ‘«You may depend upon it, my dear sir,” said Mr. Chappell, ch y; ‘‘you may depend upon it.” ‘“Thank you. In the mean time, as I do not wish my money to lie idle, I shall be glad to take your advice in the matter of investments.” ‘‘T shall be most happy to give it,” replied Mr. Chappell, rubbing his hands. - SE ae oe es ™ in ae While these last words were being exchanged, a short dialogue was taking place outside the door, Frederick Chappell, Mr. Chappell’s eldest son, had sauntered into the hall, and before en- tering the room, paused to exchange a few words with Trail. Mr. Frederick justified the confidence which the young clerks of the bank placed in himi in the matter of dress. He was the very pink of fashion, a model of ease and elegance. A handsome young gentleman also, with fair hair seripulously arranged, and the skin as white and smooth asa lady’s. Some+ what of a contrast to the young gentleman now closeted with his father: Richard Barton had brown hair and an embrowned skin, and was nothing of a dandy. ‘‘ My father in, Trail?” asked the young ex- qnisite. : ** Yes, sir.” ee _A shadow expressive of disappointment passed into the young man’s face, ‘There's a gentleman with him, sir,” pro; ceeded Trail; ‘‘a singular gentleman—very. singular. From foreign parts, I believe,” This being a matter of small importance to Frederick Chappell, he made no comment on it, With his hand upon the handle of the door, he was about to enter the room, but paused to say carelessly. ai “You delivered my letter ?” ‘*To the young lady, Miss Laura, sir— Oh, 6s,” ' “Did you see the young lady herself?” “ Yes, sir.” ‘Was there any answer to the letter ?” These questions were put ina tone of utter indifference, ““The young lady seemed surprised, sir, but | she said at would come.” ““Very good. Seemed surprised? Whatelse did she say, then ?” ‘Nothing else, sir. prised.” Frederick Chappell nodded, and again was on the point of entering the room; but although he made a show of turning the handle, it re- mained motionless ‘within his hand. ‘‘Oh, by-the-way, Trail,” said Frederick as though about to say something of little importance which had accidentally escaped : I meant she look sur- him, ‘‘if she happens to call when my father is in, you will say that he is busy. If I am in, you will admit her, You understand ?” Trail’s understanding being strengthened through his palm by contact with a piece of sil- ver, he replied that he understood, and added that the young lady had said she might be a few minutes late, as she had a long rehearsal to go through. Then Frederick Cha np. turned the: handle of the door and. entered the room. . “Ah, here is my son,” said the banker. ‘Let me. introduce you to each other. Fred- erick, this is Mr. Richard Barton, just arrived from the colonies, with a pocketful ot money, and in sad need of a friend to pioneer him. through the mysterious labyrinths,of London life, I want you youngsters to be friends,” The young men shook hands, ‘‘With such an introduction,” said Freder- ick, with a light laugh, ‘‘I shall be very happy to be Mr. Barton’s guide, philosopher, and friend.” «‘That’s right, that’s right,” said the banker, briskly. ‘‘ Mr. Barton is quite a stranger in London, unused to London ways and man- ners, Which are somewhat strangeto him. You must show him about, Fred.” ; “shall be very happy to do 80,” replied Frederick, airily, “‘‘ What do you say? Shall I be your courier? A kind of index, to which you shall refer in all your difficulties? You must proyide me with a oes uniform.” ‘« No, no,” cried Richard Barton, laughing, “a friend in real, right-down earnest. That's what I want, and shall be er of.” “It’s a bargain, then. Iam to be your mentor, I should dub you Telemachus.” «Let me see,” observed Richard Bartcn, with a certain air of thoughtfulness upon him. ‘‘Te- lemachus was advised to go to Sparta fio seek Well, I shall want information of his father. fH ' ‘s with assistance, Weare friends, then,”
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come to-morrow evening. LOVE'S VICTORY. 7 a cordial look toward Frederick Chappell. ‘Ibis a bargain.” © » ‘‘ Though,” observed Frederick, ‘‘ you have no need to. desire, friends while your pockets are lined with gold. That guarantees you a welcome everywhere. Friends will fly to you like iron to a magnet, and will stick to you as close while the attraction lasts.” ‘‘That is true in many senses,” said Rich- ard Barton; somewhat sententiously; ‘*it is the way of the world, I know.” . ‘¢There’s no danger of Mr, Barton losing his attraction,” said the banker, entering into the humor of the conversation; ‘* he has too much ‘of it,” *‘Can’t have, dad. I wishI were in his place. Look.” With an air of comical distress, he pulled out the lining of an empty pocket, and extended it for observation. between two fing- ers. ‘‘ For the credit of my name you. might give me some money, dad. If I were to be searched it would be a lasting disgrace to the House, for I haven’t a shilling.” “You forget,” interposed Richard Barton, that I have a pocketful.” : ‘No, I don’t.. I'll borrow of you by-and- vA which all the gentlemen laughed in con- cert. . Mr. Chappell senior sat down and wrote a check, and gave it to his son, saying good- humoredly, ; ‘‘ Here, you extravagant scamp.” “Thank you, dad. Now my mind is easy. If all fathers were like you, and all sons like me, what a happy world this would be !” ‘‘ For the sons,” replied the, banker, dryly. “You lads can amuse yourselves, I have no doubt. Ihave business elsewhere. Help me on with my coat, Fred. Good-day, Mr. Bar- ton, You will excuse me. Do not forget to Make my house your home while you are here. Wedine at six, and you will always find a knife and fork ready.” . And with these and other words as cordial, Mr. Chappell senior, shaking hands with Rich- ard Barton, and bestowing upon him many a kindly look, took his departure, and hailing a cab, was whirled in the direction of the Stock Exchange. CHAPTER VI. FREDERIOK OHAPPELL AIRS HIS VIEWS ON THE SUBJECT OF ‘‘ WOMAN.” Freperick CHAPPELL was by no. means. in- clined to disregard an introduction, under such favorable circumstances, to a wealthy, inexpe- rienced, and impulsively generous young gen- tleman. Some twoor three years older than Richard Barton, he was immeasurably older in experience in thé world’s ways and wiles, in all that savored of life’s wisdom. He had matricu- lated in the crooked paths, and was. learned in them. When he said he would borrow of Rich- ard Barton by-and-by, he made the statement in all sincerity. He was not averse to borrow- ing, being nearly always in need, notwithstand- ing the handsome allowance his father made him. To bein debt did not trouble him; it was fashionable. He owed with an easy mind —the very reverse of Richard Barton, with whom to owe what he had not present expect- ancy of paying would have been torture. But I need not proceed with my analysis; the char- acters of these young men and of others in this story will be developed by themselves, through their words and actions. Havingan hour to spare, Frederick Chappell was quite willing to evote it to his new friend. : The first thing he did when his father left them was to examine the outside of Richard Barton with a critical eye. 4 What tailor is responsible ?” he asked. ‘‘For my clothes?” replied Richard Barton, who noticed the observance, and was. amused by it. ‘They were made in the colonies.” | ‘‘T thought so; they are vile outlandish, “Don’t abuse my native land,” said Richard, ith a smile; ‘‘I am mutch attached to it.” | ‘‘Tam ready to believe that it is the happiest spot ander the sun; but they can’t cut trowsers and coats there. Abuse your native land I will not; abuse your tailor I must.” ‘Are they so bad?” asked Richard, looking at his despised garments. ‘«My dear fellow, you mustnot go into so- ciety with such surroundings: You have a po- sition to maintain, I shall takeyou to my tai- lor, who will make a man of you. Where are you stopping?” ‘“ At a hotel.” ‘Bad form. You intend to stay in London ?” ‘*For some time at least. “Twelve months 82) '& ¢ ‘* Probability is, if you stay twelve, you will stay twelve twelves.. I make an appointment with you. To-morrow at twelve we goto my tailor’ ‘*Can I exist till that time ?” “Try. Itsa boreL know. Any special grief on your mind ?” ‘‘A terrible one—just fledged.” Richard struck his breast dramatically. ‘‘ Have been, hatching it all my life, and it has only now pop- ped its head out. A grief full-feathered.” ‘Gonfide in me, Telemachus.”’ “‘T ask you,” said Richard, with a sly smile, ‘¢can I exist until twelve to-morrow to be made a man of ?” tr: ‘*T will help you—with my society.” ‘Do. Heaven knows what will occur to me if I am thrown upon the burden of myself, with this new grief to weigh me down.” Richard Barton was evidently devoid neither of animal spirits nor a certain kind of humor ; and Frederick Chappell was disposed to be tolerant of any eccentricity im one so well ac- credited. ‘* Be consoled,” he said; as he lolled in his father’s arm-chair; ‘‘I will come to you this afternoon, wé will dine together, and go to the theater afterward, Agreed to?”, ‘“ With pleasure.” ‘* Ever been behind the scenes ?” ‘‘ Never,” replied Richard, eagerly. ‘‘T will take you,’ said Frederick, calmly. ‘“We will go and see the mysteries and the glories of the new burlesque, ‘Mythology in a Stew.’ I'll introduce you to the author, with whom you will be disappointed, and to the ac- tress who plays the leading part, with whom you will be enchanted. I promise—what with grandees in paste, and milkmaids, and feathers and silk tights and high-heeled boots, and other modern pleasantries, to say nothing of a de- ficiency of drapery—to show you a very pretty congregation of sinners. I will tell them you are worth a million a year, and they will all worship you. ‘They will prostrate themselves before your Moneyed Highness, and lick the dust from your feet.” Richard Barton, delighted at the programme prepared for him, laughed heartily at his com- panion’s vivaciousness, which, it must be stated, was displayed only in the matter, and not at all in the manner, of his words. On occasions suchas this, Frederick Chappell affected a slight drawl, though he could be earnest enough when occasion demanded. ‘¢You have been to the theater, of course ?” be asked. “Oh yes, but not to see the burlesque you speak of. I have been to_ two or three, On the first night I was in London I went. to see a new modern comedy, and I must confess to being somewhat surprised at its tone. Everybody said and unkind things of everybody else. It was as though an assembly of cynics were speaking, who had no belief in goodness. All that was best in human nature was set up as a target, at which every actor in the play shot arrows of ridicule and derision. The people in the theater seemed amused, certainly, for they laughed and applauded; and a lady near to me observed more than once to her companion, ‘How splendidly epigrammatic!’ It did not strike me in that way, I must confess. As for the drawing-room conversation, I expect if such were indulged in in society off the stage the speakers would be shown to the door with very scant ceremony.” ‘My dear fellow, in society we are never rude, We do unkind things odicadionally, :loine they are always done politely. You: have made» me almost forget our to-morrow’s appoints ment. At twelve, then, to the tailor, to be made a man of; afterward to look at: some chambers I know of. » They are'im Pall Mall, and will suit you exactly... They are very close to my own set.” ¥" th a ‘*You don’t live at home, then?” . ‘Occasionally; not as'a rule. Can't be bored. We will drop in upon a friend of mine on the way—oneé , an American, Eccentric fellow, Armstrong. Americans go in’ for eccentricity, it seems to me—especially rich. ones. Look at Peabody. ‘But money covereth. a multitude of sins; social and other, and Arm~ strong is as rich as Croesus.” 9) so ‘‘A common mistake that,I take it, was not @ rich man.” ** Nonsense.” ‘* Not nonsense. What man is rich ?” ‘That man wh6 has enough money.”’ ‘*Has @ man enough who. is not contented? , Fair play, now.” ‘ ‘“Of course he hasn't,” replied Frederick, &, little surlily, seeing the trap. ‘* Croesus ‘was not content... Therefors Croe- sus was not a rich’man. A man with fifty pounds a year and contentis richer than Croesus was with all his millions,” ‘*A colonial philospher, | by. Jove!” cried Frederick, with just a shade of sarcasm in his. tone. ‘You will be a success—-when you are, properly dressed. I prophesy that in a month, from this day you will be one of the chief lions in London. All the girls will be running wild. after you.” ‘¢ What for ? my philosophy ?” “Pr : acuneas Come, now ; a syllogism,» ‘*No,” said Frederick, with a laugh. ‘‘ Your money.” i ‘* All the girls ?” ‘Every man Jack—I beg their pardon, every woman Jill of them.” Richard Barton did not reply immediately, Some cynical chord in his companion’s manner, jarred upon his nerves, When he spoke it was slowly, and in a soft tone. ‘I don’t believe in flippant expressions to- ward women. That kindof talk is too common nowadays, unfortunately.” es ‘* Verdant youth !” thought Frederick ; buthe did not utter his thought, aloud. ‘* You will not mind my saying this, I hope,” proceeded Richard, earnestly. ‘‘ Put it down. to my wipes | lived out of the great world, or to my being old-fashioned.” Revise ‘‘ All right, old fellow,” said Frederick, with easy condescension, ‘‘ You will know better after you have been in London a few weeks.” ‘‘T sincerely hope not. I think I should re- ' pret my trip to England all my life if this kind of knowledge were to come to me, and I grew to believe in it,” - ‘* Upon my soul,” exclaimed Frederick, ‘‘ you. talk like a married man, with a family of virtu- ous daughters. Are you?” ‘*No,” replied Richard, with a smile. ‘*In love, perhaps! I have heard it attacks some men in the same way, you have been speaking. You caught me just now with a syllogism. Answer me. In love?” Richard Barton parried skillfully. ‘‘A deli- cate question. Confess yourself, first.” ‘‘My dear fellow,” said the young exquisite of twenty-eight, “T commenced to love so long ago that I cannot remember the date. I have been in love a thousand times.” ‘Then if you had married all your loves you would have more wives than Solomon—ought to have had.” 5. . rte re an hi Songer And what a col- ection they would make! Dark and fair, tall and short, thin and otherwise. Even Salt 3 Lake would be too hot for me, with such a mixture.” ‘For my part,” said Richard, reflectively, “T think it a pity men don’t marry younger.” “The woman’s champion !’’ cried erick, with a loud laugh. ‘‘Keep to your programme, and my prophecy will come true to the letter, By Jove! the women will be mad about you~
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7 acs “ssingle. Long may ‘you live so, LOVE’S VICTORY. especially the single girls. You will be held up asian example ~ aii Good wa Be es Base capital letters: ‘ Your photograph will be hung in every maid’s bedroom; there will be reams of letters written about you. Mothers will take -you into:their confidence—-while you are single. Daughters will dress for you, and smile npon you “How they will adore you! They will vote you a statue; and every single daughter of Eve -and every match-making mamma shall throw in their contributions. ‘They will festoon the statue with plaits and chignons, and work, in yellow “hair, device, ‘ Behold the Maiden’s Friend!’ _All this shall happen td you--while you are and may your shadow never grow less!” Frederick laughed heartily at this description, and said presently, in a more sober toné: ‘‘Butiof course, my vir- tuous friend, you would not have those men who can’t afford it.” ‘Certainly not,” said Richard, scarcely knowing whether to feel amused or offended at this kind of badinage. 3 yon teh , ‘Then comes the question,” continued Fred- erick, “the, allamomentous | question, the ques- tion of questions, Who can afford to marry? A wife is an expensive luxury ; and we can’t go in for expensive | 1xuries without serious consider- ation, Then divorce is so dear. If one lived in the United States, where Ihave read you can get a divorce for a few dollars, the affair would | ' wear a different complexion. But here it is no wighing matter. Besides, my dear fellow, en you Marry you must marry a woman, and woman is‘ deception. She is made up to please the eye; she is all paint, and powder, and stuff ing} ‘she is like the cheap cotton prints which are warranted to wash—at the very first trial, all the color eomes out of them.” Richard Barton had now almost made up his mind as to his new friend's ‘opinion, supposing his words to be a faithful reflex of them. He contented himself, however, by saying :’ ‘ RL .** You surprise me.’ ‘¢Fact, upon my word,” said Frederick Chap: pell, who, it'may be stated, was thoroughly in earnest, ‘every word of it. You will soon find it out for yourself. A modern woman has ‘an- other peculiarity. She is like a puzzle—can be taken to pieces, and put together again.” ‘* Well,” said Richard, ‘‘some day I hope to meet with a” — ae «Paragon ?” questioned Frederick, interrupt- inghim, | “With a woman, replied Richard, in ‘an earnest tone, “‘ who will not need to be war- ranted to Wash, and who cannot be taken to nieces, and put together again.” PreeWhat of ue hope for, my dear fellow, and none of us get.’ With money, of course ?”’ “‘Not “with nioney of course, although I should not object to-it.” Well,” said Frederick, who, having aired his views upon woman, now gave her the benefit of @ finishing touch, ‘‘ when I marry [must marry money. It would be too infernally inconven- ient to marry @ poor woman.” ‘¢ And love, virtue, goodness’ —— ‘‘Qan -all be! bought with money, my dea fellow ?” .OYRG 1's **Then the want of money must indeed be an ‘Fnconvenience,” said Richard Barton, somewhat —_— CHAPTER VIL ale A. BATTLE OF WORDS. ke) RFS) muOLeS 5 Ts turn which the conversation between the two, young-men had taken did not promise well for future, friendship. As in chemistry there are bodies which fly violently from each other when attempts are made to bring them together, s0 among men there are natures which it is im- possible to bring into unison. “Even when, not- withstanding that their inclinations urge them to regard each other with aversion, they strive, for one reason.or ozher, to overcome their antip- athy, the attemptis invariably a failure. No | power can make their opposing natures har- monize. The mere presence of one grates upon | the other, and it might almost be said that, with: their eyes closed, they could detect the baleful influence. It is often a singular feature in this instinctive repulsion, that the parties know no ill of each other. Asin the present in- stance. Here were two men of equal fortune, presumably of equal standing in society, who but a quarter of an hour since were absolute | strangers to each other’s existence ; and although they meton friendly grounds, with no known | motive for anything but friendliness, and with | every outward circumstance favorable for‘ the cementing of cordial relations, they were, with- in those few minutes, very nearly on the brink of a quarrel. 1 Perhaps it is unnecessary to be precise. If they had a quarrel, Richard Barton would have been the open ssor. Hé was the more impulsive and hot-blooded of the two—the more sincere and out-spoken, the more inexperienced. Fred.- | erick Chappell was too well versed in the usages of polite society to commit a breach of good manners when his. passions were not strongly excited; and as,. in consequence of a decided laxity in his:moral nature, he was not-so quick (as. Richard: Barton to take offense in such.a manner as this, his cue for aversion was some- what uncértain. The’ situation may be thus briefly described. | Richard Barton, hurt and indignant, at the flip- ancy and apparent heartlessness of his compan- ion, was yetvery angry with himself for show- ing temper; and beingin a new world, of whose social laws he considered himself ignorant, was not: sure that) he himself .was not in the wrong. Then, his innate love and sense of justice whispered. to him that he was un- generous and uncharitable.. This over-nice sense of the moral) affections is a great torment to aman. It is like wearing a porcupine’s skin, with the points turned inward, A kind of accusing ‘conscience is forever on the alert to prick the soul with doubts and to make every nerve quiver. Frederick Chappell was not thus afflicted, Over the velvet skin of his moral affections all questions of morality and its opposite glided smoothly, no notch being in the way to discompose him. He was, if any thing,’ amused at Richard Barton’s ‘‘inno- cence,” as he would have termed it, and was but slightly ruffled by either his. companion’s tone or words. He had decidedly the best of the situation. The danger wasaverted by a timely diversion. | A visitor was announced in the person of Mr. Armstrong. “The ‘very man I was speaking of,” said Frederick Chappell to Richard Barton ‘ Mr. Armstrong, the American. I can introduce you here ; you will like him.” Mr. Armstrong entered; a tall, spare man, with clear, sharp-cut features, slightly furrowed by thought, blue eyes, large, shapely hands, and with no hair on his face. I mention his hands, because they were eloquently expressive, and were in some sense an index to his charac- ter. Every thing about him was indicative of power and self-possession. ‘“Mr, Chappell not in?” he asked, as he en- tered, looking around for the banker, ; ‘“‘No,” replied Frederick ; ‘‘ I am left in pos: session.” | Mr. Armstrong nodded carelessly, and his eyes rested upon Richard Barton, who was re- | garding him with some curiosity. “T regard this meeting as a very interesting one,” said Frederick, in his drawling manner. **Here we aré, representatives of three great constituencies, accidentally brought together, all speaking the same language, and having at least something in common. I represent Eng- land, which I place first, as the most important constituency of the three.” . ** England has cause to be proud of its repre- sentative,” observed Mr. Armstrong, caustically. ‘*T ought to have warned. you,” said Freder- ick, addressing himself to Richard, ‘‘ that Mr. Armstrong is a wit, and is privileged to. say smart things, Next to England, I place Ameri- ca, represented by Armstrong; you stand for Australia.” 201: i biswet deol ‘‘And I venture to state,” ‘said: “Mr. Arm- strong, ‘‘ that the representative of England is the only one of ‘the three who: would need prompting onthe score of good manners.” Frederick Chappell laughed good-humoredly, and took the hint, . p08. ‘‘ Mr. Richard Barton, Mr. Armstrong.” ** We really have something in common,” said Mr. Armstrong, shaking hands cordially with Richard—the young fellow’s bright face had an attraction for him—‘‘as we hail from new’ worlds. Have you been long in London ?” “Only a few days.” ) ** You two will suit each other capitally,” said Frederick, in.a baritering'tone. ‘I have already discovered that young Australia will believe anything.” Richard gently corrected him ; he had almost got over his sore feeling! ‘No, no; not any thing.” Os uf like a man who believes,” said Mr. Arm- strong. ‘‘ I would send all skepties and sneerers to a land of their own, where they could snarl each other to death.” Paks Frederick held up his hand; as though to protect himself from the words, His manner throughout the conversation was the manner of a man who was indolently conscious of his own superiority. ‘“‘Don't be. vindictive,” he said. ‘ Before you came in, I was sounding your praises. Tell us some news.” 5 UT “I went to the Cut-and-Come-Again last night. I didn’t see you there.” “The Cut-and-Come-Again,” said Frederick, in explanation, ‘is onc of our high-class thea- ters ; Mr. Armstrong is an enthusiast on the subject of the drama. -What did you see ?” ‘Tt was the first night of an original drama written by Mr. Clip” © Frederick again played the part of Chorus, “Clip is one of our best authors. An original Sipe That is news indeed. Really origi- nN oy 7 ‘Without a shadow of doubt. Olip took it from the French, who took it from the Span- ish. The French had no right to it, so Clip attached it. It is Clip’s clearly. Clever fellow, Clip—a genius. He has produced one hundred and ninety original plays. Long live paste and scissors !” ‘We, were speaking of the theaters,” said. Richard. ‘*Mr. Chappell has promised to take me behind the scenes to-night.” “Indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Armstrong, with a keen look at Frederick, who, in this instance at least, did not seem quite at his ease; “what theater?” Faroe **T don’t know,” replied Richard ; ‘‘ where a new burlesque is being played, and where he promises to show me a very pretty congrega- tion of sinners.” ~ eo sir ‘‘By which he means female sinners. Mr. Chappell, I believe, has peculiar views with respect to actresses. Yet why should I sa peculiar? He holds them in common wit many other young gentlemen.” ’ ‘Spare me! spare mo!” cried Frederick, in a tone of mock appeal. ; Mr. Armstrong paid no attention to the sar- casm. ,‘‘I never neglect an opportunity to speak in. defense of the maligned. As Mr. Chappell says, I take great interest in the drama. I loye theaters, and am acquainted with a number of good women on the stage. I know more than one who, in the illness or in- capacity of their husbands, work hard and cheerfully for food for their children, for the warm clothing which ,protects them from the eold, for the little boots. which cover their ten- der feet. Shall I be silent, then, when I hear them spoken of in a body as a pretty congrega- tion of sinners ?. The words themselves convey areproach which would hot be lessened by the tone in which Mr. Chappell is capable of uttering them.” a at . Frederick laughed ; ne that) Mr. Arm- strong could say seemed to discompose him. Mr. Armstrong continued, and now addressed himself specially to Richard Barton:
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LOVE'S VICTORY. ¢ ’ _ “T am an older man than’ you by many years, and, I doubt not, older in experience by a life-time, and. something in your ‘face em- boldens me to take’a liberty with you. In the world you are about to enter you will soon learn, if you have not learned it already, how common it is'to valué women only’ for those qualities which ‘are least creditable to them; you will soon learn how common it is to hold-up their small follies and magnify them into great vices, and utterly ignore their sweet and noble vir- tues. Do not fall into the fashion. Pay no heed to the utterances of our cynics and shal- jow-pated butterflies; for the world is ful’ of good women.” - “By Jove!” exclaimed | Frederick. ‘It’s enough to take one’s breath away. | What.a:cap- ital moral exordium! Mr: Barton, beware of the example of the Bad Boy of this little comedy, if you wish te make a friend of Mr. Armstrong. Be virtuous, my son, and you will be happy. And now, if your schoolmaster has finished his sermon, perhaps he will tell us some more news. You will never find our ‘schoolmaster at a loss, Mr. Barton ; he has always’something ready. I shall begin soon to think that he is ubiquitous, for he is everywhere and sees everything. A month ago I had occasion to visit Bow Street po- lice court, as a witness: in an assault case— deuced hard lines it was, for I was not mixed up with it in any way—and there was our schoolmaster sitting on a bench, watching the poor wretches who were before the magistrate for being drunk and disorderly with as much interest‘as he would watch the performance of the last opera bouffe.” ‘*T went into a police court last week.” ‘‘'Phere, Mr. Barton! did I not tell you? Now listen to his experiences.” ‘*Tt was inthe country, and one of your beau- tiful administrators of justice, in the shape of a justice of the peace, who knows as much of law as my little finger, was on the bench.” ‘* Understand,” interposed Frederick, ‘‘ that, as an American, Mr. Armstrong has a profound contempt for our English institutions, and in- deed for all institutions that are not Ameri- can.” “ Understand,” rejoined Mr, Armstrong, with a slight frown, ‘‘that I have a profound con- tempt for injustice, wherever it be practised. Country makes no difference to me; I judge by men and manners. Some of your justices of the peace would be a disgrace to any civilized coun pot . ‘*You have not been to America,. Mr. Bar- ton ?” asked Frederick. ‘“No,” replied, Richard, who followed- with interest this battle of words between his new acquaintances. ‘‘I hope to go one day.” “There,” said Frederick, ironically, ‘‘ you will find justice administered by immaculate men—men above reproach, beyond corruption. Unhappy nie! Why was I born an English- man ?” ‘‘ We have deep blots upon our systems,” said Mr. Armstrong, ‘‘ but we have the excuse, at all events, that we are comparatively a new country ; and you must bear in mind that we haye an enormous number of men of mixed nationalities, and | an enormous territory to govern. Why,sir, we could play dice with three Great Britains in a corner of America, and never miss the space !” ‘« Bravo! bravo!” cried Frederick. ‘‘You have-no such excuse for misgoverment in this country,” continued Mr, Armstrong, ‘as those I have adduced. You have had time, ripe experience, great intellects, a settled population, to perfect your institutions, which yet do not compare too favorably with ours. ButI must pick up the thread of my story. As I said, I went intoa country police court last week, where a justice of the peace was dispensing justice, he first case I heard was that of a gentleman who appeared to answer a charge of assault Upon &@ woman. He denied the charge, and said that the woman accosted him in the street—it seems that there had been a previous acquaintance be- tween them of not the most reputable kind— that he simply pushed her aside, and that she | chose to fall into the ‘road, so ‘that she might bring him, a gentleman, before a’ magistrate. However, the woman had“witnessés,’ who swore to a different version of the affair, and who said that the man brutally struck her. He was con- victed, and sent to prison for a month without the option of a fine. The next case “was that of s miserable-looking man in rags, who was charged with stealing a turnip froma field! The man was munching the turnip when the policeman ‘pounced upon him, and ‘he was taken red-handed to the’ station.” In ‘his’ defense the man pleaded that he was starving, and from his appearance this was probably true. To my mind his statement carried conviction with it: He pleaded, moreover, that the turnip was not in the field, that it had tilted over—as naughty turnips sometimes will do—into the common road, and that it was daniaged.’ Anyway, he was starving, and the temptation was not to be resisted. The stomach is a stern tyrant. He ‘was convicted and the justice fined him six- pence for the offense.” ‘Which you paid!” eagerly. **T did not say so,” replied Mr. Armstrong, gravely. “Well,” said Richard, ‘‘these éxamples do not prove that this justice of the peace was un- worthy of his position, The sentences were just ones.” ‘*You believe that I have spoken the truth?” ‘‘ Certainly.” “Then you will believe anything. You are a living miracle. I made a slight mistake, and transposed the sentences. The gentleman was fined five shillings for the brutal assault on the woman, and he paid the money with a smile, and walked out of the court with his friends. And the starving man was sent to prison for three months for the brutal assault on the tur- nip. Long live that justice of the peace, and long may he reign! And now I should like to ask what subject you young gentlemen were dis- cussing when I entered. You appeared to me to have arrived at an awkward phase of it.” Richard Barton turned red at the remem- brance of his irritability. “A great subject, a wonderful subject,” re- plied Frederick; ‘‘two, indeed—money and woman.” ‘You place them in the order of merit ?” ob- served Mr. Armstrong. ‘ ‘‘Undoubtedly. The first is the most stupen- dous.theme that I am acquainted with.” “‘Tam greatly disposed to agree with you. The theme is stupendous. Honesty, virtue, charity, and all the vices that lie beneath it, Truly, such an argument is illimitable. If you commenced it on a day that would last for five thousand ‘years, and talked till the sun was wrinkled and the moon came out on crutches, you could not do it justice.” Frederick Chappell yawned lazily, and said : “It is a good job for some of us, that we don’t live in the times when the devil used to tempt men. with money-bags.” ‘*You would have made a bargain with him.” “No doubt of it,” said Frederick, very read- ily. ‘For twenty thousand a year, and twenty thousand to bolster it up, I would sacrifice much.” ‘« Principles, even ?” ; ‘Yes; and every other virtue I may happen to possess.” “Strange,” said Mr. Armstrong, who for a reason of his own took Frederick at his word, and appeared to be not disinclined to wrangle with him—‘‘strange that men live who are not subscribers to your faith! Here is a case within my own experience, A firm (say in India), established for half a century—hon- ored, respected, reputed to be wealthy—sud- denly stops payment. Johnson, head of the firm, has grown old in honorable commerce. His partner, who has the direction of affairs, has for years been playing Old Harry with them to support his extravagance. Crisis comes; the defaulter flies, and is not heard of again. Johnson, the white-headed, sells every bit of property he possesses, and, with his exclaimed ‘Richard; ment which the law could’ not have touched, pays every liability of ‘the firm, and is’ left, at seventy years of age, a beggar, without a shil- ling, but not dishonored.” What‘is your opin+ jon. of him?” iz, 5 =; Oe or + 7 Frederick (shrugging his shoulders): ** He is a stupid old sap: He might have. stuck to his wife’s settlement: No one would have thought the worse of him.” "dt wou ‘eke * | Richard (enthusiastically): “Heaissd noble fellow. I should like to know him.”)) » |. ° Mr. Armstrong turned his owt the tn Fred- ard, say- wifé’s consent, gives up’ a handsome’ séttlé- erick; -and held out his hand to Rie’ Ie es. SOE Your verdict’s.a good one, sit, and Iilike - you for it.” i At Dabasoos- _ Frederick glanced at the clock; and wished that his visitors would,go., . Mr Armstrong, however, showed no disposition to: leave. “You two; fellows,” said. Frederick, ‘owe’ me eternal gratitude for making. you known to each other, You ran capitally together, But it’s rather good, Mr. Armstrong, to hear you speak ‘in that way of money—you who have the advantage.over us poor Englishmen, . You Americans are the smartest men in the world for making money.” ‘*L understand you. . It is the fashion tosay of my countrymen that they are. smart—that is, that they willdo any mean thing to make money, but do itin such a way that the law can't get hold of, them, That is your interper- tation of the word ‘smart,’ as it is applied to us, It is the fashion to say of Americans, ‘They're cute, theyare! ‘'They’resmart men, they are!’ . ‘They know how many beans make five, they do! And we all what sort of praise that is—such as mig) ake a man feel as Inean as a peacock in a thunder-shower.” ‘Or a donkey sitting on a rainbow,” added Frederick, who, in his calm imperturbability, proved himself very near: match for Mr. Armstrong. ‘But y ean to say that you arenot fond of y “No, sir, I don’t mean to say that. Iam so fond of money that I believe the sun, moon, and stars are all cut of the wrong pat- tern.” ‘““Why, what pattern would you have them ?” asked Richard. ‘The pattern in which it was originally in- tended they should be shaped—that of the al- mighty dollar.” fey f “That would do for the States,” said Fred- erick. ‘* What would you do for Engand?” ~ ‘* 7 would have the sun and the moon each fashioned ‘to the shape of a fat pound £, and all the stars should be cut into little s’s and d’s to represent the shilllings and the pence.” Both the young men laughed.at the extrava- gant absurdity of the notion, and Frederick said that; as the Americans were strong on pat- ents, Mr. Armstrong ought to take out a patent for his new scheme of the planets and constel- lations..._In the midst of their laughter, Trail appeared at the door and announced a new visitor, ; ‘* Mr. Fangle, sir.” “s Mr. Fangle, upon entcring, looked fussily around. He was a short, spare man, not too well dressed, whose joints seemed to be set upon wires. ‘“‘ Ah, Fangle,” said Frederick, ‘‘ we were just advising Mr. Armstrong to take out a patent.” And then. the young gentleman glanced again at the clock and rose nervously. His great anxiety now was to get rid of his visitors. ‘‘Patent!” cried Mr. Fangle, who was a humble hanger-on to the skirts of the rich, into whose society he had by some means worm himself. ‘‘ Patent for what ?” ; Mr. Armstrong answered him, ‘“ For always coming in at the nick of time—for causing the fruits to grow in the jam-pots ready for the market—for drawing people together at the ex. act moment they want to see one another—for bringing future generations into the -world upon a new principle” ——. “‘ Goodness cious!” cried Mr. Fangle, beating his hands together. ‘And for refining everything and every.
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aire, > 10 LOVE'S VICTORY. body to such a, state of perfection, that the only trouble in life a person will have in the world is the trouble of being born.” ‘* Bless my soul! you are joking, surely ! Why, that beats my invention. I have it in my 4 — No, no; what did I say?” And Mr. Fangle looked rather wildly around and clapped his hand to his waistcoat. in your pocket!” they all exclaimed. “« Show it, show it!” “*T daren’t, I daren’t; I’m under a bond. Besides, it isn't quite complete yet—wants one little screw.” ‘*A serew loose, eh ?” said Frederick, with a sneer. ; ‘T_T shall astonish the world, gentlemen,” proceeded Mr. Fangle, flushed and flurriedy| **And you will all be here to see it, I hope. ‘Then—then I can show my friends that I know how to appreciate past kindnesses. Fangle has a heart. Steam is nothing to it.” “To your heart?” inquired Mr. Armstrong of the little man, in a kinder tone than Freder- ick had used. ‘*No, Mr. Armstrong, no—to my. invention. Steam is nothing to it; electricity is nothing to it. When it is completed TI shall be a million- gentlemen —a millionaire! Mr. Arm- strong,” he whispered, ‘‘ will. you give me half | a minute of your time? Our friends will ex- cuse us: a matter of importance—of confi- dence.” - Oh, certainly,” said Frederick Chappell; and he and Richard turned aside. Then, with a look of deep anxiety, Mr. Fan- gle said to Mr. Armstrong: “TT went to your office, and I heard you were here. I took thf liberty of following you. You will pardon me.” My. Armstrong’s hand stole into his pocket, and Mr. Fangle. observed the action with a sigh. of satisfaction. ‘‘May I tresspass once “upon your kindness? I am in great peal lend me half a| sovereign ?” : pt We A slight smue played out Mr. Armstrong’s lips as he said: , _ “Half a sovereign! aire!* : -- “Some day, some day, perhaps—but till then —misfortunes of struggling genius” —— _. Say nomore, Mr. Fangle,. Here is a, sov- ereign. Owe me the change.” As Mr. Fangle received the money, upon which ‘his fingers closed, greedily, Trail once more made his. appearance at the door. Fred- erick Chappell went hastily to his side. >.“ The young lady, sir,” said. Trail—‘‘ Miss Laura ” And you a_million- 2 ‘ pines ox CHAPTER VIII. AN UNWARRANTABLE DIGRESSION AND A WARRANT- ABLE EXPLANATION. _ Tum persons who play their parts in this story are but little, if at all, removed from the common run of men and women. Of wonder- ful characters the world has but few; you can count them upon your fingers, and the chances are that, if you met one of these rare birds in society, and conversed with him, you would be ~wofully disappointed. Very seldom is it that pearls are distilled from the tongue—such - pearls, at least, as you would be on the lookout for from the tongue of such a man, That man is happy indeed who lives through his life with- out having his ideals shattered; and be assured, if that man breathes, he lives not in a crowded Citys Tne passions and emotions which animate the characters in this story, and direct their words and actions, are also of the common or- Adler, therefore it is unlikely that you will have the pleasure of reading in these pages any rec- ords of amazing adventures or hair-breadth escapes. Here and there a surprise may occur or an unexpected turn may be given to the in- cidents, but of these the author can not claim to be the inventor; they are but the natural outcome of the ordinary passions and emotions no need even in a story of city life, such as this is, to encroach upon the land of romance. The chess-board of the commonest lives presents strange and startling variations, and the old stories are being played over and over again, every day in the year—with constantly new effect, because the actors in them are new. Romance glows in courts and narrow streets, and those who gaze from a superior stand- point upon the common scenes from which they are removed, see not the mediate lights and shades which make up the sum of the lives of the dwellers therein. A strong light and a deep shadow they have the power to discern, and these, presented in an airy, attractive fash- ion, are alluring to a mass of readers who do not desire their authors to be too much in earnest. To them, earnestness, apart from the serious occupation of life—to wit, the making of money—is a bugbear; and business men out of business hours avoid it as, if they had the power, they would avoid a nightmare. We require our dramatists and writers of fiction to amuse us, they say ; we donot wish to be bored with an overabundance of earnestness... They may be simple, if they please; they may tickle us with a mystery ; but they must not make our heads ache with their earnestness. We have enough of that in our offices; -we want sedatives in our leisure. Notwithstanding which remonstrance, they are sometimes deluded into swallowing sugar- coated pills. And it is to be noted that many stories, simple in their construction, are found to con- tain tragic elements. . Simplicity, I know, is out of vogue, and yet how often do we, who, for the most part, live artificial lives, and poison life’s best and brightest leaves with fashion’s follies—how often do we tired-out men and women sigh for that simplicity which we turn so. religiously from our doors! There, we say when we are wearied ‘with tasteless hours, there is; true happiness unalloyed. With few wants ‘and fewer cares, that one from the country, with the roses in: her cheeks, with sunlight dancing in her eyes, tastes the sweet- est sweets of life, and enjoys them. They. pall not on her tongue; daisies and sweet- smelling flowers are strewn among her days, and she gathers joy and gladness from them. For it is always in the country, and from the country, that simplicity is said to live and spring. I myself have grown to believe that in crowded cities, where we knock each other down as we hurry along, where we push and squeeze with merciless disregard of our neigh- bor’s ribs, there is no room for simplicity, and that only in the country does it find a dwelling- place. How often have we heard that God made the country, and man made the town! » In plays the country maiden is brought to the fevered city, and the sweet, modest primrose is in- variably transformed into the gaudy, flaunting sunflower. Before you were thought of, this view of simplicity was preached and believed in. Being in a variable mood, I should begin to waver in my belief if I were to ask myself if this view is true; for the subject is many- sided, and presents different aspects from dif- ferent points of view. In this age of selfishly influenced action, the mental faculty is put to base uses, prostrated, degraded, as it were. I belong to such and such an order, therefore I believe that a certain thing is true; you belong to such and such an order, therefore you be- lieve that this same thing is falso. I am work- ing for such and such an end, therefore I see clearly that this is white; you are working for such and such an end, therefore you see clearly that it is black. This man is high-minded, noble, virtuous, I say; he is mean-souled, base, vicious, you say. What you hold to be sacred, I despise; what I admire, you con- demn. And in the main our judgments are influenced, not by calm ‘consideration, but by the circumstances -which ‘surround our selfish aims, and the positions in which we are referred to, which in their workings are surely | placed. - gufficient for any literary craftsman. There is Which induces me to remark that, although ne OO rao nw —[———$F£ ———— this is a pure digression from the story, it yet can be made to apply ; for numbers of persons would hold Frederick Chappell in high regard and esteem for the very qualities which render him objectionable to Mr. Armstrong and Richard Barton. Life is so full of astonishing contrasts—wed- ded in many instances—that you can evolve from it nothing more startling than the wildest imag- ination can invent. And it is suggested to me that in a certain newspaper of yesterday’s date, I read of a deed perpetrated in a quiet, happy-looking, little vil- lage which turned my blood cold... This modest little village, imbosomed in green hills, far away from the hot breath of cities, is just the place where, according to popular belief, simplicity should have its home; yet the worst passions have found their worst development there, and ‘- place is poisoned by more than one foul eed. Again: it was but the other night that I was walking home after a happy interview. It was a cold night, and the snow. was falling, but my blood was in a glow. I had oceasion to pass a quaint old church, standing by an ancient cemetery —strangely out of place in the locality in. which it was situated—and attracted by its beauty and peacefulness, which seemed to be:inharmony with my condition, I lingered there, and walked around it. twice or thrice, indulging in happy thought. The nextday I heard that a poor outcast woman had been found in this churchyard, lying dead in the snow, and that she must have died within a few minutes of the time I had lingered there so happily. One thought suggests another, and, like dogs in the leash, they are comrades following the same trail. I remember meeting one whom I knew and liked with a fair liking. ‘An old man was he, with ruddy face, merry tongue, always blithe and joyous, with a cheery laugh and a strong and sympathizing friendship in his horny fingers. For years I knew him, and went reg- ularly into the country, where he» had. lived since his boyhood, to see him and those he had gathered about him. ‘‘ Dear, simple, old man!” I thought, as I gazed upon his white hair, and venerable, honest face; ‘‘ You at least have had the talisman. with you all your days; yow at least have enjoyed through all your seasons the hap- piness which comés from simplicity of habits and character.” oth He died when he was seventy-eight years of age, and among his papers I, who was privileged _ to search, found letters with which this man’s life was enwoven, so terrible in their revelations, so overwhelmingly shocking, that all my admi- ration was turned to horror.. If the seal of se- erecy were not uponmy tongue, I could a tale unfold respecting thissimple, honest, ever-blithe and cheery old man, in the light of which the most startling and unreal I have eyer read would pale to insignificance. Nothing so tragic will be found in this story, although it will comprise something unusual in this prosy world, in the shape of an act of hero- ism—I think I may call it so—the natural evolve- ment of a splendid self-sacrifice. And now, my digression being at an end, I can proceed toa pertinent explanation of the state of affairs at this juncture. As aman of fashion, and one possessed of means and a good standing in society, Fred- erick Chappell was everywhere welcomed, Being a young gentleman of liberal ideas, he was not very particular as to the society in which he mixed; and one hour he would shake hands with a lord, and the next be hail-fellow-well-met to persons of very doubtful reputation, He was known on eyery race- course of England, and all the bookmakers were ready and eager to lay him the odds. Among his acquaintances he numbered two.or three theatrical managers and lessees, and he gained admission to certain green-rooms, and behind the scenes of certain theaters, where, as he spent his money freely, he was a favorite. Here he picked up an author or two, whose vanity he tickled by obtaining cards for them
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LOVE'S VICTORY. Fy rr . \ ane on rare occasions to his ambitious mother’s assemblies, who, as has been stated, was fond! ap patronizing celebrities. 3 It is probable, also, that in these places he added to his stock of wild oats, in the aceu- mulation of which he was so zealous an adept. He made jokes with the men, and indulged in conversation of a kind very common nowadays —as I suppose it was in days gone by when wits and bloods. assembled—but which. is scarcly fit. to put on paper; he flattered the actresses and paid court to them ; even, in_ his impattiality, to the lesser stars, who were delighted by his attentions; and for these and other reasons he was regarded as a welcome visitor, and was never denied admittance by the janitors who. sit in those queer little boxes by the stage-doors. Being in his wa something of a hero, and accustomed to tri- umphs, he was nettled and worked into a state of interesting despair by a series of rebuffs which he received from a very neophyte in the histrionic art. With a liking for new faces, he was attracted one. night,’ ashe. lounged in the stalls of his favorite theater, by a pretty girl who played a small part with grace and effect. Going behind the scenes, he learned that she. was new to the stage, and had only played for a few nights. The stage manager said he thought she would develop into a good actress. . It was sufficient for Frederick Chappell that she was young and pretty, and he paid court to her. His atten- tions were at first received with politeness, and even with gratitude, as it seemed to him, but when he,became bolder in his words, he met with a. check which “hurt his. pride. As is the way of men under such circumstances, her in- difference warmed. his passion,.and he became more ardent toward; her... But he never ad- vanced a step in her affections. He offered her presents; she refused them. He threw flowers to her upon the stage, and. she allowed them to lie at her feet... Whenjthey were brought.to her to the side-scenes; she received them with cold- ness, and invariably left them, in: the, theater. He made various attempts to discover where she lived, and every attempt was repulsed, . He { - “ - Richard Barton, having nothing view, expressed his pleasureat the proposition, rand the gentlemen were about to depart by the » door by which they éntered, and by which .. Trail was standing, when Frederick, who knew... that in that case they could not miss seeing the young lady, said hurriedly : ‘No, no; not that way. It) delicaey—of private importance—and the—-the gentleman does not wish to be seen. If you » would not mind amusing. yourselves in this room "—(throwing open the door of one of the _ inner rooms)—‘‘for a quarter of an hour, you would be rendering me—and my. father—a great service. Really, I amy very sorry.” _ “Well,” said Mx. Armstrong, ‘‘ we have only ourselves to blame for being made prisoners. Don’t keep us long.” ‘ ‘‘Not a moment more than is Sepa You will find books and papers, and by a littl is a matter of. persuasion you may induce Mr. Fangle to ex- -. plain the nature of his invention to you.” “‘A capital idea, Come along, Mr. Fangle.” ‘‘Not for worlds!” cried Mr. Fang for worlds! Wouldn’t drop a hint of it for un- told gold, until that little screw is right.” ‘We will amuse ourselves somehow,” said Mr. Armstrong. _ ‘‘ If we grow dull or quarrel- some, we will knock for you to release us. Does the—the gentleman wear a vail, Mr. Chappell ?” 5 Frederick Chappell turned scarlet at this perfectly random shot, and Mr. Armstrong looked at him keenly, and shrugged his shoul- ders. In the midst of Frederick's confased reply the three gentlemen retired to the inner room. Then Frederick, making sure that the door was closed, said, with a sigh of relief; ~~ ‘You can show the lady in, Trail,” ~ Yes, sir,” le; “not — (Arm=.0 ‘‘Come along, Mr. Barton» If:yous>. ‘bore «= better’ in a ae”
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In another moment his visitor entered. In that brief interval Frederick had contrived to could not be seen by her. Being the heroine of this story, she is, by legitimate usage, entitled toa detailed descrip- tion; but in pursuance of a certain rule which I have set down for myself in‘ these pages, I shall break’ through established custom, and shall content myself by saying that she was pretty, graceful, and lady-like, and scarcely twenty years of age. As handsome is as hand- ' some does, it will be hereafter seen whether she is worthy of the position I have assigned to her. She approached Frederick with timid steps, and said, in a low, anxious tone : “‘T received your note, sir, and I hastened here at the earliest opportunity.” Amovement on the part of Frederick brought his face to her view, and at the sight of it she re- * coiled in confusion. There was nothing in his manner to alarm her; it was eminently pleasant and graceful, He held out his hand to her, but in her agitation she did not notice the action. “I—I beg your pardon, I came to see your father.” ‘‘ He is not in, Laura‘”’ said Frederick; ‘‘will I not do as well?” Bey There was more decision, but still some anx- f iety in her manner, as she answered : oe “No, siz, I think not, unless you can explain | why I was sent for. I received a note from your father, saying that he wished to speak to me.on a matter of importance.” - Now Frederick for some time forgotten ' that the note he had sent to her was written in a disguised hand, and he had placed. construc- tion favorable to himself on her ready accept- ance of the invitation. ‘‘She cannot for a mo- ment suppose,” he thought, ‘‘that my father can have any business with her. She 1s play- ing with me still, the little witch.” He was armed for this interview, his weapons being the diamond brooch and ear-rings, which in their velvet case now lay upon the desk by his side. He had a steady va e on their efficacy. ‘“‘She has only to see them,” he thought. Laura, ing modestly before him, gazed at him with visible agitation, and did not in the least suspect the nature of his thoughts. With . a look of passionate admiration, he said: "Mee ‘Can you not guess, Laura, why you were sent for?” The tenderness of his tone was lost upon her ; the question, indeed, seemed to bring terror : and distress to her, and she answered, humbly -. and imploringly : ; ‘‘T scarcely dare to think what matter of im- portance your father can have to communicate to me; but he said so much in his note.” ie “The cunning little actress!” he thought. _. ‘She pretends not to know that I should be - here to receive her; but she can’t deceive SMe ot place himself in such‘a position that his face on “Take a seat, Laura,” he said, pleasantly, r and rest for a few minutes.” a “T cannot stay, sir, if your father is not Hi here.” She paused, and then said, with re- newed earnestness, ‘‘Do you know why he sent for me ?” | 2ay 1 “é : He answered her question by another: “‘And } you really expected to see him here, Laura ?” ; “Por what other reason have I come, sir? One o’clock was the hour named in his note. » Itis very strange! The attendant gave me to derstand that he was in.” “ae You asked for Mr. Chappell, I presume, \ Laura, and as I am my father’s son, we bear \ the same hame. If there is any mistake it is a -» yery natural one; but there is no mistake, Laura. I will be frank with you. It was I who wrote the note.” ‘‘You!” She took the note from her pocket and glanced at it. ‘*This, sir, is not your writing.’ AL is fair in love and war,” said Frederick, ’ with gay familiarity. “I really wrote the note, and disguised my hand. I was afraid --you might not come if you recognized my writing.” (Theselast words were prompted by the thought that it would be wise to flatter LOVE'S VICTORY. / 2 rance.) claimed ‘scornfully. ‘You knew I would not Conte HI 3° His confident air did not desert him; he was Satisfied that she was acting a part, and the circumstance of her not having shown, up to this point of the interview, any desire’ to leave the room, confirmed him in his’ belief, With his hand on the jewel-case, he felt that the vic- tory was certain. . ‘¢ One word, sir,” she said. © ‘* Can I believe you? Can I believe that your father does not desire to see me?” As aman of honor, he placed his hand upon his heart, and bowed... ‘‘ You can ‘place im- plicit belief in’ my statement: I should say that my father would not.know you if you stood before him, and, as he is not a’play-goer, I doubt if he has ever heard your name.” This assurance appeared to afford her great relief, and the expression of anxiety died out of her face. , «J was told that you are about to leave the theater,” he continued, ‘‘and I was desirous of hearing from your own lips that it is not true.” “Tt is true,” she replied; with an uneasy glance around. "Have you another engagement—and at what theater, Laura ?” ‘*T hope not to act again.” _ ‘The stage can ill afford to lose one so beautiful and talented. Idid not know how soon you might leave, and I was most anxious to speak to you. You are not frightened ?” She gave him a disdainful look, ’*Oh no am not frightened.” ‘*T knew of no other way of seeing you pri- vately. Your assumed coldness toward me lately when I came to the theater”—— ‘“‘ Assumed, sir !” she exclaimed, witha slight trembling in her voice. He waived the point, as became a man of gallantry. ‘‘—And the number of prying eyes around us made it difficult for me to ad- dress you with calmness, When a man’s feel- ings are as deep and sincere as mine are, the are not easy to control ; and you must admit that I showed every consideration for you.” ‘*T fail to see, sir,” said Laura, proudly, ‘‘in what way that consideration has been shown.” ‘‘There you are ungrateful, Laura. Did I not respect the quiet intimation of your wish that I should not be too conspicuous in my at- teutions? It was for this reason, and fer this reason only, that sometimes when I was be- hind the scenes I paid attention to other ladies in the company; but I never wavered in my devotion.” ‘¢You were free to do so for me, sir; you cannot be .ignorant of my sentiments toward ou.” With blind infatuation, he attributed these words to jealousy, and congratulated himself. «Tt pained me exceedingly to do so, I assure you. I heldoff entirely out of consideration for you, and waited fora favorable opportunity to address you. She turned’ toward the. door, but he placed himself in her way. ~‘‘ Nay,” he said, with some show of entreaty, and in his own opinion with a magnanimous exhibition of good nature, ‘¢you must not go until you have given me the opportunity of justifying myself,” He held the jewel-case in his hand, and glanced at it com- placently. ‘“Why did you return my note to the door- keeper the other night?” ‘‘T had no wish to read it, sir.” ‘“‘Cruel!” he said, his self-confidence being but slightly disturbed by her persistently cold manner. ‘And not even to deign to receive the parcel that accompanied it! That was scarcely like you, Laura, for it contained my justification. I know that Ihave not behaved to you exactly as I ought to have done, but you should not throw a fellow over without giving him a chance of setting himself right. ‘Will you read my note now?” — her by a seeming belief in her assumed igno- “You thought I would not come! she ex- ‘she afraid of him for her own: sake. case. © ~' “No, sir,” she’ replied firmly, but in great secret distress, for the way to the door was still barred by him. , COTG ‘Still obstinate! But you cannot, in com- mon fairness, refuse to hear me in my own de- fense. I have already said that’ I have not. behaved exactly right to :you—I own it frankly, and I want to give you reparation in deeds, not. in words. This is yours; accept it with my love, and make me the happiest of men.” He opened the ‘jewel-case, and offered it to | her, He expected looks and words of delight and admiration from ‘her ; ‘he received, instead, a look of scorn and words of contempt. The girl, young as she was, was not weak, nor was Still he kept his patience, and laid the case close to her, saying as he did 50: ‘* Perhaps my way of offering it displeases you. Well, accept it in your own way, to show that we are friends, ven, if you like—though it grieves me to speak so coldly—as a mark of . simple respect.” ‘* What respect can you have for me,” she re- torted, with flashing eyés, ‘‘ when you lure me here under a false pretense, knowing that Ihave no wish to see you ? What respect can you have for me when you detain me here against my will?” Somewhat sullenly -he replied, ‘‘ You might have gone before were you sincére in what you say.” ‘*T could not,” she said, with her hand upon her heart, which was beating violently. ‘‘I was deceived into the belief that your father wished. to speak to me on @ matter of importance, and it was for that reason I came.” Then he gave expression to the thought which had dwelt in his mind when Laura first entered the room. “Come, come, Iam a man of the world, and I know some of its ways. You cannot quite deceive me, Laura. And I am not deceived, unless you assure me of something of which I am at present ignorant. Are you’ personally acquainted with my father?” ** No, sir.” ‘* Has he ever written to you before ?” “No, sir.” ‘‘AndasI told you, Iam positive he has never seen you, and would not know you if you stood before him. ‘Well, then, what possible matter of importance could he have to communicate to you, when you are utter strangers to each other? No, no, Laura, you cannot quite de- ceive me. There is no reason in the world why we should not be the best of friends. Really, now,” he said, looking about him as though ap- pealing to an unseen audience, ‘‘I don’t think I have behaved so badly after all, and I do think you owe me a debt of gratitude for con- _ triving to see you in this quiet way, so that (if you have any such seruples) you might not be compromised.” ‘‘Have you. not. already sufficiently com- promised me ?” she asked, indignantly. ‘‘ Your servant brings me a letter from you.making am appointment with me which I accept ’»—— He interrupted her eagerly, ‘‘You surely do not think that in writing to you I was actuated by any feelings but those of love and devotion ? No, hang it, Laura! Give me credit at least for being a gentleman! My man did not know what wasin the letter, and it is the first time he has been employed upon such an errand. You need have no fear of him; he is discretion it- self. Ihave no desire to detain you against your will, but I did hope that you would have had some feeling for one whose heart is entirely yours.” She did not-hear his words. Her eyes were fixed upon the windows of the room, which looked out on the street... These windows were fitted with wire-blinds, which enabled those in the room to see the passers-by outside, without giving the persons in the street a correspond- ing advantage. Frederick Chappell’s last words were not well chosen ; they sounded artificially, even in his ears, and he moved aside so that He held it toward her, retaining the jewel-
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LOVE'S VICTORY. Fr 13 ‘tocare might reach the door without obstruc- | Fangle, holding up his hands to. ward off Mr. _tion.on his part. When he found that she did “not take advantage of this free passage, he was _ puzzled and flattered, and he resumed his former position. Laura did not observe his movements. Her attention was centered upon the figure of Rigby, the old hall-porter of the bank, which she could clearly see through the wire-blinds. The eld man was lingering in the street, as though undecided whether to enter ‘the bank; but although his manner betrayed embarrassment, there was an expression of -pride and joy on his face. Frederick also saw the old man, and noticed his manner and ex- ression. ‘‘ The old reprobate has been drink- ing,” thought Frederick ; ‘I wonder the gov- ernor doesn’t discharge him. He is a disgrace to the bank.” Then struck by Laura’s silence the was surprised to see that she was white an ‘trembling, and that her hand was resting upon | tiful. a chair for support. He set it all down to act- ing on her part, and began to think that he was ‘winning the game. ‘* You are as fickle as” (Cressida, he was about ‘to say, but he reflected that Laura would scarce- dy consider it a.compliment)—‘‘ as—a woman,” he said; ‘‘one moment hot, one moment cold, ‘Come—take my hand, and let us be friends.” For the second time during the interview she refused to take his hand. ‘This girl is difficult to win, he confessed to himself ;-all the more credit in winning her. . He scarcely had a doubt of his success, now thatshe seemed to be stay- ing in the room of her own free-will, but his ‘voice betrayed some slight irritation when he Spoke again. “Why will you not shake hands? Upon my soul, it is a little too bad! I remember the ‘time when you looked upon me as a friend,” The figure of the old hall-porter was still to be seen through the blind. She turned her back to the window, as_ though fearful that any one should see her in the room. ‘* At that time, sir,” she said, slowly and dis- tinctly, ‘‘T regarded you asa gentleman.” ‘** And now,” he asked bitterly. , She did not reply. Her silence mortified him more than her*words would have done, but he still managed to speak with a certain ease. ‘* May I ask in what way I have forfeited your good opinion? I had the pleasure of being in- ‘troduced to you at the theater, and not even knowing your name—for you yourself told me you played under an assumed name”—— ““Tt was my father’s wish.” “*T paid you every attention that devotion could fetes By what unfortunate chance, then, have [ forfeited your confidence ?” She glanced at the window. The old hall- porter was gone. Some spark of remorse entered the young man’s breast, and he said, with an earnestness he had not up to thismoment felt : ~ **Can I do nothing to win your esteem ?” “‘Nothing, sir,” she replied, her only anxiety being to escape from the room, now that Rigby was no longer to be seen; ‘‘allow me to pass.” But he still stood before her, scarcely know- ing that he barred the way. Seeing an- other door, and thinking it would afford her means Of egress, she made a step toward it and turned the handle. It was the door of the room to which Richard Barton, Mr. Fangle, and the American had retired, by Frederick Chappell’s wish. As she opened the door, she heard sounds of laughter, and she shrank back, dismayed at, this new danger. At the same moment the three gentlemen came out of the inner room, all dJaughing and talking together. —_———— CHAPTER X. APPEARANCE AT A CRITICAT RIGBY MAKES HIS P ; MOMENT. ““You have released us too soon,” ioniots ao Armstrong, in a merry tone, advancing into the room without observing Laura; ‘‘one minute more, and we should have wormed the secret out of Mr. Fangle.” “No, no, really—I protest ” expostulated Mr. ‘shares my impression, no doubt. took no notice of her. ‘‘ You must not believe it, Mr. Chappell; you must not believe it.” Frederick Chappel was too agitated to respond to this appeal. - ‘‘T submit the case to Mr, Barton,” said Mr. Armstrong, still in a laughing mood. ‘‘ Wasnot Mr. Fangle on the point of revealing the secret of that little serew when the door was opened ?” Richard Barton’s attention was not given to Mr. Armstrong’s words.. He had caught sight of Laura's white face, and he had eyes for noth- ing else. The young man was experiencing a keen pang of disappointment. The girl before him was the same he had seen at the theater, and who, he had declared to the elder Mr. Chap- pell, was, he was certain, as good as she was beau- It pained him deeply to see her in the room with Frederick, after having been made acquainted with that gentleman's opinion of actresses. Mr. Armstrong was standing in such a position that. Laura was hidden from, but following the direction of Richard’s gaze, he turned and saw her. ‘*My dear Miss Laura!” he cried, in a tone of surprise. And then, for a moment, a shadow rested on his face. But Laura had seized his outstretehed hand with a grateful sigh, and the shadow disappeared. He retained her hand, and looked at Frederick, whose manner was not remarkable for self-possession. As if satis- fied with what was expressed in the young man’s demeanor, Mr, Armstrong glanced at the jewel-case which was lying open on the table. The glittering gems spoke very plainly to the American gentleman; they told a tale that was not strange to him, and the glitter in his eyes outshone the glitter of the diamonds. “* Are those yours ?” he asked of Laura, point- ing to the jewels. The girl’s lips shaped ‘‘ No.” Mr. Armstrong smiled contemptuously as Frederick, in silent fury, closed the case with a snap, and pushed it aside, Frederick would have given much for the power of uttering words fitting for the occasion—words which would have placed him in a more advantageous position than that which this sudden discovery had forced upon him; but he was utterly at a loss; his false tongue refused to aid him. He mentally cursed his ill-luck in not allowing Laura to quit the room before Mr. Armstrong appeared. He would not have cared for Barton and Fanglo; they did not know Laura, and he could have easily thrown dust into their eyes. ““What brings you here?” asked Mr. Arm- strong, drawing Laura aside. Richard watched the progress of the scene with almost breathless interest. The young girl made no immediate answer; she had not yét recovered from her agitation. ‘Take courage,” said Mr. Armstrong, very gently. ‘‘ What brings you here?) This .is no place for you.” **T know it,” she replied, slowly and timidly, ‘and I should not have come, ‘But I was led to believe. that this gentleman's father wished to see me on important business, and I obeyed the summons,” ‘* Led to believe!” exclaimed Mr. Armstrong ; ‘in what way ?” All who were present heard the dialogue, and Frederick, aroused to action, addressed himself to Mr. Armstrong in a tone which was, and was meant to be, offensive. “Allow me to remind you that this is my room, and that any private matters you may have so talk about had better be discussed else- where.” ‘* We will relieve you of our presence present- ly,” said Mr. Armstrong, with quiet contempt. ‘*T was under the impression that your father's room was used for different purposes than those to which you would devote it. Your father In what way, Laura, were you led to believe that this gentle- man’s father wished to see you ?” ; ‘‘Treceived a note this morning, and I un- derstood it was from him, You wil know why Armstrong’s words, as though they were blows. He saw Laura, but, being a discreet. man, he such a summons would cause me anxiety, and why I obeyed it.” ““ Yes, I know ;. show me the note.” She gaye him the note, and he read it. ‘* Tt is clear, and you could not do otherwise than come. I do not recognize the writing.” ‘It is mine,” said Frederick, boldly. ‘* Disguised,” ohserved Mr. Armstrong. ‘¢A peor plot—but worthy of the inventor. I will eep the note, if you will allow me, Laura.” . ‘* I have no use for it. I can go now,.can I not? Will you please see me to the street- door ?” ‘‘ Certainly, But first let. me introduce you to a friend of mine, Mr. Richard Barton, who has just arrived from the Antipodes, and brings with him the freshness of a new world. . Bar- ton, you will be proud of the introduction when I tell you that I have never known a lady whom I esteem more highly.” Laura gave the American a look of gratitude. His words were well chosen, and comforted her inexpressibly. Richard's face had grown brighter at the explanation of Laura’s presence. ‘‘Thad the pleasure,” said Richard, as he bowed to Laura, ‘‘ of seeing you last night.” “You were in the theater!” asked Laura. ‘* Yes,” he replied, softly. Ss Mr. Armstrong had a purpose in introducing Laura and Richard to each other at this appar- ently inopportune time. He saw that Frederick Chappell could scarcely control his passion, and he wished to avoidan openquarrel. The intro- duction served to divert Richard’s and Laura’s attention from the young banker. Mr. Arm- strong stepped to Fredetick’s side, and gazetl steadily into his face. wom ‘“If you have anything to say,” said Mr. Armstrong, “‘ it will be as well to speak low, so that they shall not hear.” **T shall plone myself as to that,” retorted Frederick, but at the same time pitching his voice in a lowkey. ‘‘ By what right do you presume to dictate to me ?” ; Mr. Armstrong carelessly tapped the pocket in which he had placed Frederick's note, and said, ‘‘ Keep cool, Mr. Chappell. We have never been friends, but there is no reason, notwith- standing what has occurred, that we should not continue on the terms we have hitherto main- tained. ‘We will agree to mutually despise each other ina quiet way.” A smile accompanied this proposal. t ex ‘‘I may find another way to make you pay for this.” 2 ‘* Nonsense, nonsense !” said Mr. Armstrong, with imperturbable coolness; ‘‘in these days it would be considered brutalto administer to you the rough punishment you deserve. You know my opinion of your conduct, but I shall not con- descend to quarrel with you. ‘Take my advice ; T am an older man than you, with a cooler head. Say as little as possible about this affair. Té it come to your father’s ears it will cause unpleas- ant consequences inmore ways than one. If it occur to you to make amends by an apdlogy, uo 80, like a man, and in some part redeém your credit.” ie a But it did not so occur to Frederick Chappell, and after a short pause, Mr. Armstrong con- tinued : ; ‘* Understand me clearly. . lam desirous that what has taken place in this room shall not be carried to other ears than ours. Itis only for the young lady’s sake I consent to hush the matter up.” “So that you may play the nanimous hero in her eyes!. There is no fear of my misunderstanding you. I know now the reason why you were so often behind the scenes. I have interfered with your game, have I? But you are a. sly worker.” : : ‘* Place any construction you please upon my conduct,” said Mr. Armstsong, with iunmufiled temper. ‘My only anxiety at present is that the young lady’s name shall not be madethe oc- casion for light talk. There are only we four, and I will answer for the discretion of Mr. Bar ton and Mr. Fangle.” His apparent lack of passion infuriated Frede part of the mag-
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=u «You. seem to forget, Mr. au / \ LOVE’S VICTORY. _ erick. ‘‘ You will answer for yourself ,when I ’ eall upon you,” he cried. ‘* Certainly I will. But don’t call upon me. I am not easily roused, but when roused Iam dangerous.” ‘There was no possibility of mis- “taking the meaning of his words; they were uttered with a stern earnestness which contrasted _ powerfully with his previous light manner. '” Frederick Chappell laughed scornfully, and approached Laura. As a stranger Richard Bar- _ ton fell back from her, and Mr, Armstrong also -. stood a few paces away. Mr. Fangle felt him- “self in adilemma; he desired, for prudential reasons, to keep friends with all parties, and he * would gladly have given the sovereign he had \ borrowed from Mr. Armstrong if he could have ~ made a sudden disappearance through the pan- “els without any one being the wiser. “As he - could not escape, he was careful to see very lit- - tle of the awkward scene. ‘* Be merciful,” whispered Frederick to Lau- ra, careful that only she should hear him; ‘‘and - do not further humiliate me. It was the very ~ madness of my love that caused me’ to act in a manner so displeasing to ‘you. Say that you _ forgive me. ,Take my arm, and let me see you to the door. That is all I ask.” But she turned her face from him, and re- fused his offered arm, . _. During Frederick's last appeal to Laura; ; an-} “other actor appeared upon the scene. _ Rigby, the old-hall-porter of the great firm of Chappell, - Chappell, and Chappell, had entered the room “unobserved. The cruel blow which had fallen on the old man in his youth had stamped on his manner certain characteristics which it was - too late to hope could ever be effaced. Eyery “maovement bespoke the humbleness which Springs from the conviction that one. is. not “worthy of respect.- When he walked in the street, he walked close to the wall; when he spoke he never looked into the face of the person whom he addressed. If,\ by inadvertance he ‘raised his éyes, he cast them quickly down, as “though he had been guilty of an action which might be reasonalby resented. And yetin his youth he had been conspicuous for manliness of character; when, however, the blow fell, and people marked him as the brother of a fel- on, he accepted his position, and yielded with- outa murmur. But as he entered the room -now there was upon bis features the same sin- . gular expression of mingled triumph and shame, ride and humiliation, which they had wornwhen e had solicited an interview with the head of the firm 4 couple of hours since. It expressed a struggle to lift himself out of the depth into which he had been plunged. . He had expected to find the banker alone in » the room, and when he heard Frederick’s voice he would have retreated in as silent a manner as he entered, had he not by chance seen the figures of Laura and Mr. Armstrong. Then he stood as though rooted to the spot. - Come, Laura,” said Mr. Armstrong, ‘‘ we will go.” But Frederick was between them. Chappell, that the lady has asked for my escort.” ; - «And I have offered her mine.” ‘‘ Which she refuses. oa careful, sir. try my patience too far.” ae “apatlemen |” , cried Hichard Barton, interposing, while Laura shrank back in terror. 3 ooh ‘Be easy, Mr. Barton,” said Mr. Armstrong. ‘There is only one person who has forgotten ‘hi here.” bags mean me, sir,” exclaimed Frederick - but before another word had passed his lips, "Rigby slid between the disputants. At sight pfthe old man, Mr. Armstrong took Richard - Barton’s arm, and stepped quietly on one side. / There was something of caution expressed in the American’s action. Frederick Chappell glad that there was now ~ gome person in the room upon whom he could | You __-yent his passion with safety, savagely demand- ed of Rigby by what right he interposed. ; tity Have soa anything to say tome?” asked Frederick. pap To. you!” replied Rigby. ‘No, sir.” Atthe sound of his voice Laura raised her head, and uttered an exclamation of mingled joy and dismay: “Then what brings you here?” continued Frederick, with no abatement of his passion. With a trembling hand Rigby offered ‘the young man an envelope. ‘I have brought a te for your father, sir, in payment of an old ebt.” Frederick Chappell angrily took the envelope, and threw it upon the table. - ‘I will give ‘it to him. ‘Well (for the old man showed no disposition to retire), ‘‘ what are you waiting for? Leave the room.” “TI think, sir,” said Rigby, with a timid glance around, ‘‘that just now I have almost as much right here as you.” ‘You impertinent scoundrel! Are you in one of your drunken fits again?” He would have laid violent hands upon Rigby, but that Laura stepping swiftly forward, stood by the side of the old man and took his arm. ‘Do you know who'that man is,” cried Fred- erick. ‘*He is a' common ‘ porter—a convict’s brother ?” ‘‘Heis my father!” said Laura, in a voice of great tenderness, with herarm around the old man’s neck, ; SCENE 'THE ‘SECOND. IN BELGRAVIA. CHAPTER I. RICHARD BARTON IS MADE A HERO OF AGAINST HIS WILL. How Richard Barton got into society wasa mystery to himself. Before he had been in London a fortnight he had made fifty fashion- able acquaintances, and had exchanged cards with them. The name. of Chappell was as potent in socialas in commercial circles, and it was chiefly 'to Mr. Chappell senior that Richard was indebted for the most important introduc- tions. This patronage; and the knowledge that he was wealthy, were sufficient recommenda- tions, and he glided easily into the magic circle, and was cordially received and welcomed. Money and a good name will invariably bring about such a result, if you possess these requisites and desire to be so recognized. ' Men with much money, and not much character (of the proper sort), make great struggles to get into society—are making them to-day, but they rarely succeed. Society they get, and plenty of it, but not of the kind they yearn for. Poor, wretched mortals! How industriously they sow their cards, and what a questionable crop they reap! How few ears of healthy corn, and what a multitude of tares!__Looking for an unblemished reputation among the guests who throng their assemblies is like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay. To Mr. Armstrong Richard Barton was also indebted for the cordiality with which he was everywhere received. From the first. hour of their introduction they seemed to be drawn to- gether by kindred sympathies, and the founda- tion of a sincere friendship appeared to be firmly laid. The impulsive, generous nature of the young Australian was a pleasant experience to he more sober and somewhat caustic nature of the American. ‘‘You are like spring,” said the American, when he looked up from the morning papers one morning, and saw the bright, beaming face of Richard Barton. ‘‘ It does one good to shake hands with you.” The young man blushed ; this.kind of praise from a sag 2 had so much admired was very sweet to him. ‘* If but for one thing,” he said, ‘‘I am glad that I came to England.” ‘* You are going to pay me a compliment.” _ ‘Tam going to speak the truth. You remind me of my father, whom I loved.” . ‘Mr. Chappell tells ine your parents are not living.” ‘*My mother died when I was very young. It is more than twelve months since I lost my | father. In all the Australian colonies—the seven South Sea sisters—I have not, to my knowledge, a relative. If I hada brother, I should like him to resemble you.” wk “‘T am almost old enough to be your father. Come, let us stroll.” ; Such-like dialogues were not uncommon be- tween them. With Frederick Chappell, Richard was still, to outward observers, upon friendly terms. The scene that had taken place in the banker's room had set the stamp of a cold intimacy upon the relations between the two young men. Each entertained a contempt for the other. But the open expression of Frederick Chappel’s sen- timents was (as were his feelings toward Mr. Armstrong) restrained and kept in check by his father. Old Mr. Chappell, although he was much engrossed by his special anxieties’ and. ambitions, was not an unobservant man, and he saw clearly that there was a lack of genuine ¢cor- diality between his son and the young Australian, and he saw, also, that Richard and Mr. Arm- strong were becoming firm friends—a_ circum- stance which was by no means pleasant to him. He spoke to his son on the matter. ag ‘*“You and Mr. Barton do not seem to get along well together.” eee “He is a cad,” said Frederick, with contempt- uous emphasis. This is a common fiction with many young gentlemen in society—young gentlemen who are looked upon as ‘‘swells” mthe best.sense of the word. Every man they do not like is pro- nounced a “‘cad,” and this definition, in ac- cordance with their code, effectually disposes of him, and establishes his character. ‘He is necessarily ignorant,” remonstrated Mr. Chappell, senior, ‘‘of the usages of so- ciety. I had hopes that you would be friends. It. promised well.” ‘* It isn’t my fault,” said Frederick; ‘‘I would have put myself out of the way to oblige you, although I don’t care forhim, And we might have got on fairly enough if we had not been interfered with.” “By whom ?” us ‘Mr. Armstrong. You know my opinion of im,” Mr. Chappell senior frowneds ‘* They seem to hit it better than you have done, Frederick. -It is most unfortunate, but it can’t be helped, I suppose. But I lay my strict: injunctions upon you. I will have no quarrel- ing. This young man is rich, and his connec- tion with the bank'tnay be advantageous. You must behave well to him.” me bers my my best, sir.”’ % ederick was always properly submissive. to his father, He used to tell. os acquaintances. that he never said a word to make the governor: turn rusty. In this he was wise in his genera— tion, for he depended entirely upon his father, and had the supplies been stopped, even for a short time, it would have been awkward for him. The young fellow was in constant diffi- culties about money. Among the misfortunes by which he was afflicted was one which he had managed to keep from his father’s knowl- / edge. He was an inveterate gambler, and not: a fortunate one. What gambler is, unless he be athief ora bully? Place it to Frederick’s. credit that he was neither of these. A reference to this unfortunate infirmity (I use the mildest terms I can think of) was made by Mr. Arm- strong in a conversation he had with Richard Barton two or three days after the scene in the bank parlor. While Frederick had his father at his elbow, warning him not to quarrel with the young Australian, Richard had a similar friend, in the person of Mr. Armstrong, at. his elbow, working to the same end. Richard was for breaking, in the most unmistakable. manner, with Frederick Chappell. Mr. Arm-. | strong persuaded him to keep on ostensibly good terms with Frederick. ‘There are other interests to bear in mind as. well as our own,” said the American, ‘A lady’s: name is mixed up in the affair, and the world. is uncharitable. For her sake, then, we must: be silent. You are not aware that Frederick seers Ad has written her a letter of apology.” "ak
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Ji ye * Bevery = » sor nas, and I have seen it. He has had tht aeace, S xe would not have opened a letter ‘Yes ; if it is given seriously.” «Tn all seriousness, believe me. I don’t ask ou to be intimate with him, for I should not ike to see that come about. I havea worse opinion of him than you have, and still we shake hands when we meet. He has been to me, in a certain way, a kind ofstudy, and is not by any means a specialty. He is but the typeof a class, members of which you may see, loll in the stalls of fashionable theaters any night in the week. There are thousands of useless, negatively good and negatively vicious young men like him knocking about London —young men whose connections are rich, and who; being badly reared, do not recognize that life has duties. They are morally behind,and to be. of them you must deride goodness, and most especially, have a light opinion of wo- men, But Master Frederick is. playing with edged tools just now in other ways. Heisa gambler of such a confirmed type that he would toss. up. for a five-pound note with Tom or Jerry.. The consequence is that he is in the -hands of the money-lenders, and is sometimes driven to his wits’ ends—not far to go”—(this was accompanied by a light laugh)—‘‘to meet their demands. There, you have a fair sum- ming-up of his character. I have spoken plain- ly because I like you. and because I think” — -here the American looked at Richard with good humored frankness and shrewdness—‘‘ that in the estimate I have formed of your character I am not mistaken.” ' ‘‘T- hope you are not,” said Richard, with a frank laugh, ‘‘if your estimate isa good one. Thank you for your advice, and I shall follow it.” ‘‘That is right. Perhaps you will wonder ‘why, with these opinions, I keep on, friendly but not at present. terms with father or son. Well—I have my reasons. If I make you curious on this point you have retaliated, for you have made me cu- rious about yourself. Since the little difference we had with Frederick Chappell you have been to his house ?” Yes.” * And have accepted another invitation ?” ‘¢ Yes.” ‘‘And have opened an account with the bank ?” ‘‘ Yes,” replied Richard, with a little awk- wardness of manner. ‘‘I have my reasons as well as you. One day I may confide in you, [ have a task to perform first.” : ‘Well, I will not intrude upon your confi- dence, but I think I may promise that you will find me your friend.” “Thank you.” Frederick Chappell’s prediction that Richard Barton would, within a month of his introduc- tion into society, be one of the principal lions in London, was to some extent verified. Stories of his wealth were whispered about, and, unlike the rolling stone, gathered moss. It grew day - by day until it was multiplied by ten, at least, ever se rlight a pressure, ‘War ¢o be his humble servant. and he was reputed to be the pessessor of mil- lions. It is wonderful to observe how kind and gracious the world is to the fortunate. It smiled upon Richard whichever way he turned. Mothers looked at him with affectionate curios- ity.. The interesting millionaire was an orphan. Why should they not be a mother to him? iled upon him, and danced with him ereil epiimes with him, hanging languish- ingly upon his arm, and pressed his hand with and did all that beauty could “9 make him understand how good and reat and noble he was, and how saad hnauty 8 introduced to lords and ladies, and it must be reese that when he first pressed the tips of . and went to ‘he fingers of a duchess, a thrill ran up the Jerves-of his arm and brought a sense of the ‘manner of questions as to A’ / LOVE'S VICTORY. exalted honor into his face. He was asked all as to his property there, as to how many hundreds of thousands of horned cattle-he had; and when he lanighangly answered that he had no property and no horned cattle and no sheep there, his denial was set down to modesty. So- ciety settled it all for him, and conferred upon him cattle stations, with hundreds of miles of water frontage, over which roamed and pros- pered and multiplied vast ‘herds and flocks of living beef and mutton. He was puzzled to know how all these unreal possessions came to be believed in, and was not aware that it was to Mr. Chappell, senior, he was indebted for this great increase of wealth. Even had he become aware that it was Mr. Chappell who set these stories a-rolling, he would have been puzzled to know the reason why, But we who are behind the scenes are not s0 ignorant, and we know that it was of immense service to the great banker. The young millionaire had deposited all his money with Chappell, Chappell, and Chappell—at least, so went the rumor. Mr. Chappell was his’ confidential adviser in all his speculations, for rumor had it that Rich- ard Barton was a speculator, and a shrewd one, and that he scorned to wrap up his money and keep it'warm in the invalid blank- ets of the three-and-a-half-per-cents. He was a men of mettle and enterprise, and fashion bowed and intellect opened its arms to him. When the world sets up an idol, it paints it in rare colors, and invests it with rare virtues. Every day some new grace was betowed upon the young Australian ; every day some new story was circulated to shed fresh luster upon him, He himself was not. aware of the extent of his popularity, and ‘was blind to the traps which beauty set for him. It was for this reason, per- haps, that he escaped the snares, Had he seen them he would have been intensely uncom- fortable ; as it was, he was intensely happy. Mr. Armstrong laughed at him and with him about the stories that were set afloat. *T contradict them,” said Richard, “but I am not believed.” “All the better for you,” replied. Mr. Arm- strong. ‘Never dispute with the world when it speaks well of you. Timeenough to dothat when it speaks ill. Though then it is breath wasted. The world will have its way.” But excited and pleased as Richard Barton was with these new and flattering experiences, he found his sweetest pleasures outside the charmed circle of the fashionable world. He was in love, and not with one of the darlings of the upper ten, CHAPTER II. IN WHICH SOME COMMON PERSONS ARE INTRO- DUCED, AND SUMMARILY DISMISSED. OF course you know with whom. There has been as yet. but one lady introduced in these pages, and Ido not intend that there shall be any mystery in the affair. He was in love with Laura. These were early days to speak of his passion, and he had not yet deliberately ques- tioned his heart. That he became a frequent visitor at the house in which Laura and her father lived was due in the first instance to the friendly offices of Mr. Armstrong. Independ- ent, however, of the mediation of the American gentleman, he would have found his way there, for another reason which will before long be made apparent. But it was the American who first introduced him, and who behind his back spoke good words of him to Laura, and who behind her back spoke good words of her to Richard. To me, many of our most popular proverbs have always appeared false—for the reason, most likely, that they are the outcome of cynicism and ill-nature, That listeners never hear good of themselves would have been in this case falsified had either Laura or Rich« ard played the part when Mr. Armstrong spoke of one to the other. You may be disposed to give the American gentleman the credit of being | ‘cause, the falsifying of the proverb to this exceptional I shall not argue with you upon the point, for I like my American. ~ 1 In truth, he was most anxious to prove to Richard how thoroughly blameless’ Laura was in the matter of the interview between her and Frederick Chappell, and very soon after the | occurrence he proposed to take Richard to her house, intending that Richard should see her» in her domesti¢ capacity... Richard was de- lighted at the opportunity, and. received a modest and kindly welcome from both Laura and her father. They lived: in:a small house in the suburbs of London, and..everything in. and about it was neat and cheerful and homely; as is always the case when there is a good woman ina home. I ought. to.erase the last sentence, for I intended that Laura’s character should speak for itself; but. not much harm i done, so I shall let the words stand. ‘‘Mr, Armstrong’s friends. are..ours,” said Laura, looking with affection upon the Ameri- | can, who never, in her caustic speech. 3 ‘If I were a great man anda yain one,” said Mr. Armstrong, ‘‘I should ask Laura to be my, biographer. My vanity would be amply grati-. fied.” : oe Laura smiled sweetly yet gravely, and the conversation diverged into other than personal matters. | Before he left, Richard asked to be allowed to call again. He did not meet with a re- fusal, and after that he ‘found his way to the house frequently. He made another acquaint- ance there—Mrs. Fangle, a pale, sad-eyed lit- tle woman, who, Richard learned, was Laura's constant companion when she went to the theater. rhe ! “IT have had the pleasure of meeting your husband,” said Richard to Mrs, Fangle. Mrs. Fangle sighed, and sighed the more when Richard asked how the invention wag progressing. By the merest accident he dis- covered where . Fangle lived.. He saw her come out of a mean-looking house, and to her evident confusion he asked her if she lived there. She answered in the affirmative, but she seemed so much distressed and so anxious not to pursue the subject, that Richard, out of pity for her, did not continue his inquiries. But it surprised him to know that Mr. Fangle, who talked so confidently of being a million- aire, should reside in such a locality and such ahouse. He thought of the many instances. he had read of genius. struggling to make its way in the midst of te and he enter- tained. a sincere pity for the sad-eyed little woman. Wishing to befriend her, he inquired | of the neighbors—in a delicate way, you may be sure (but Iam inclined to regard his con- duct as somewhat mean, for what business had he to be poking hig nose into other people’s affairs ?)—as to her condition, and was amazed at the information he received. The house, it seemed, was Mr. Fangle’s, and Mrs.Fangle “let to_ lodgers,” as a neighbor said. She “let to lodgers” to such an extent, and there was ap- parently so greata demand for rooms in her house, that she, and Mr. Fangle, and the chil- presence, indulged in dren, all lived in the kitchen. The name of _ the little Fangles was legion. Richard never seemed to get to the end of them. They were all little, and all dirty, and were always play-— ing in the street—choosing the gutter, of _ course, as affording the most scope for pure enjoyment. Ithink Providence must have in- vented gutters solely for the amusement of the poor children of civilized nations; apro- digious amount of infantile pleasure is ex- tracted from mud. Which induces the refiec- tion (not original) that nothing in the world is made in vain. Everything has its beneficent use and purpose. wa Richard made the acquaintance ot the Fangle children in this wise: on his second visit to the neighborhood, he found the street in commotion. A child had, by some mysterious and ingenious means, got her head under a gate, which was locked. Having got thus far she could not get farther, and could not draw b: and imo, more than usually generous, and to set down } fair way of at ting ack, and was in a herself, When Richard . he re ees oe
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3 g LOVE'S VICTORY. appeared upon the scene, the excitement was | have been furious, and justly indignant, but ab its height. Some of the neighbors had tried to ‘push the child forward, some had tried to draw ‘her out, and thé limbs and head of the little thing had suffered in these attempts. Cooler and ‘more sensible than the well-meaning crowd which had gathered round the child, Richard sent at once for a blacksmith; this artisan soon "pried up the bar which imprisoned the child, -who was released, after all, with very little dam- age. Richard then learned that the child was a Fangle, and seeing her soon afterward in the «enter of a group of small children who were listening to an enjoyable recital of her woes, and receiving from her hands infinitesimal por- tions of sweet stuff which Richard had bought for her, he learned that they were all Fangles. ‘*Lord knows how many there is of ’em !” said the sweet-stuff woman. When Mrs. Fangle arrived home, Richard was in the house with her children, whom he had made happy, all around him. Mrs. Fangle turned red and white at sight of him, and her eyes reproached him for intruding upon her poverty. “‘T hope you will forgive me,” he said, with a smile, and in a tone which Mrs. Fangle after- ward declared to Laura, when she related the incident, were the sweetest and gentlest she had ever seen and heard. ‘‘It is not out of imper- tinent curiosity that I am here.” Then he narrated the particulars of the juve- nile Fangle’s perils with such effect that the little ones,,who followed his words with staring eyes and open mouths, did not know whether to laugh or to cry. His kindness and delicacy during this interview made so deep an_impres- sion upon Mrs. Fangle, that within a few min- utes she was sobbing for joy, and all the little Fangles were howling in sympathy. From that day Mrs. Fangle was bound to him heart and soul, and never missed an-opportunity to sound his praises. I feel that an apology is due from me for in- troducing such low and. common persons as Mrs. Fangle’s dirty children.im a story which treats of rank and fashion. I have no intention of continuing their history, and I make the best ‘amends in my power by dismissing them at once from the scene, and by promising that they shall be heard of no more.. I take the op- portunity of remarking that you would be sur- prised if youwere made acquainted with the estic lives of many of the men of genius (you see that I take Mr. Fangle at his own val- uation) whom possibly you may admire. Be- fore Ibecame as wise as I am at this present time of writing, I used to wonder why the great author, Mr. Dash, and the great dramatist, Mr. Blank, with whom I am very intimate, never -inyited me to their houses, and never introduced me to their wives. I meet them at clubs, enter- tainments, and cozy little dinners, but I am not on speaking terms with their wives and families. I wonder now no more. I have heard things, and I—hold my tongue. Well, then, I promise that you shall see no more of the Fangle children But I cannot make the same promise with respect to Mrs. Fangle. She has to play her part, and we shall meet her in fashionable circles. For her appear- ance there Mr. Armstrong is responsible. He, as well as Richard, was her friend, and presently, when Laura received an unexpected invitation to a grand entertainment, Mrs. Fangle was in- vited to accompany her. Mr. Armstrong de- lighted to throw dust into the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Chappell, for it was from this lady that the invitation came to Laura and her father. That any one of these three persons should have been invited to one of Mrs. Chappell’s assemblies was in itself surprising, but the expression of Mr. Armstrong’s wish that cards should be sent to them was not to be disregarded.» When the sub- _ § ject -was mooted, Frederick Chappell supported it warmly, for it would give him an opportunity of seeing Laura, of whom he was more than: ever enamored. Mrs. Chappell was’ inclined to xrefuse, but her husband had promised Mr. Armstrong that it should be done; and he was firm. “Had his lady known the exact cireum- Mr. Armstrong discreetly allowed her to remain in blissful ignorance upon the point; in secret, he had many a sly laugh.over it. I have said that. Mrs, Fangle was, bound to Richard heart and soul, and it was not long be- fore she discovered that he was in love with Laura. Like a good and kind woman she as- sisted him by every means in her power, without his knowing it, without his.even suspecting that any person could possibly have a suspicion of the state of his feelings—perhaps before he was fully aware of them himself. Mrs. Fangle was constantly at Laura’s house, being indeed paid secretly by Mr. Armstrong to act as a kind of companion to the young girl, and she gaye Laura and Richard every opportunity of being alone together.. When Richard called, she always had something to do in.another part of the house, and when he was gone she was never weary of talking about him—about his good- ness, his love for children, his manliness, his good looks, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, She never spoke of his money; she knew Laura too well to introduce that asa favorable feature. She noted Laura’s silence and Laura’s_ blushes with delight, and was satisfied that all was going along splendidly, and that the young couple would soon be avowed lovers. ‘‘I know the signs,” she thought to herself. But although she did not speak of Richard’s wealth, Laura did once to her, in confidence. ‘* He’s very rich,” said Laura, ‘‘is he not ?” ‘*T have heard so,,my dear,” replied Mrs. Fangle, cautiously. ‘“ And very generous,” added Laura. “* That I am sure of, my dear. A more gener- ous heart does not beat.” ‘*Generous enough, do you think, to do a strange and noble action ?” ‘‘Nothing would be too good and noble for him to do,” said Mrs. Fangle, with secret won- der. She did not know in what current Laura’s thoughts were wandering. ‘*A wonderful piece of good fortune has come to my father lately,” said Laura, ‘‘and I have thought—I have hoped ”—— What she thought and hoped she did not ex- plain in words. Yet présently when she looked up, somewhat shyly, into Mrs. Fangle’s face, that worthy woman said, with a significant and tender ‘smile. ‘‘T shouldn’t wonder, my dear, if you were right,” ; And then she kissed Laura. What caused Laura to blush is beyond my ken; but women often speak to each other in this kind of lan- guage. Mrs. Fangle knew from personal observation that a great change for the better had taken place in the circumstances. of her friends, and, being a curious little body, had speculated as to the means by. which the change had been brought about.. She was not able to arrive at a satisfactory solution, and as she could not re- press her curiosity, she threw out hints to Laura’s father that she was prepared to receive his confidence. But Rigby shook his head. ‘It is a secret between me and another per- son,” he said. Even after'the conversation with Laura, Mrs. Fangle was no wiser as to the particulars ; but she had discovered who the hero was, and she became more than ever enthusiastic on the sub- ject of Richard Barton. CHAPTER ITI. ‘WHO COULD HAVE SENT ME THESE BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS ?” Iam tempted to introduce still a few more words which passed: between Mr. Armstrong and Richard Barton on the first day of their’ acquaintance. It will be remembered that on that day Frederick Chappell had proposed to take Richard ‘behind the scenes of a theater, and that Richard had eagerly accepted the offer. Savage and sullen, however, at the-un- favorable light in which he had been placed in the scene with Laura, Frederick did not make optances of Mrs, Fangle’s home-life, she would| his appearance at Richard’s hotel in the after- Both Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Fangle noon. ong | were there, Richard having invited them to dinner. Over the dinner the subject was intro- duced, and Richard expressed his disappoint- ment. ‘*You would really like to go?” questioned the American. ‘* Indeed I should,” was Richard’s reply. ‘*T will take you, then.” ‘‘Behind the scenes!” cried Mr. Fangle. ‘* May I come?” ‘* Yes,” said Mr. Armstrong. Who knows? You might introduce some improvement in the present style of acting.” ‘¢ Certainly I might. Thank you for the hint. It will bear improving. Splendid idea!” ‘* Don’t say that to any of the actresses, Mr. Fangle, or they'll box your ears.” ‘‘Box my ears!” exclaimed Mr. Fangle, so ready to agree with his patron on any point that he scarcely knew what he said. ‘‘Certainly— certainly. Splendid idea!” Whereat they all had a merry laugh, in which Mr. Fangle, primed with wine and a good dinner, was not the least animated participa- tor. Mr. Armstrong took them behind the scene of the theater in which Laura was acting. “* Queer place!’ said Mr. Fangle, after a little while. _ ‘‘ Very kind of you, upon my word, to be so obliging as to bring me here. IT never was behind the scenes before in all my life. Queer people, too—very queer.” (Mr. Fangle was not aware that his wife acted as Laura’s companion. Mrs. Fangle was compelled to do many things without the knowledge of her husband, to sup- port her too-numerous brood, and it was fortu- nate for her that she was out of the way on this occasion of his visit behind the scenes. ) ‘“A kind of loose fish, eh?” said Mr, Arm- strong, in his usual vein of irony. : “Quite so—quite so,” assented Mr. Fangle with enthusiastic enjoyment, not seeing the trap which was open to receive him. ‘As to their morals, I mean.” ‘* Certainly—certainly. .That’s my meaning, too. Our views are the same.” ** But,” said Mr. Armstrong, ‘‘ IT am bound to confess that there are a few good persons to be met with occasionally upon the stage, and that there is a little goodness and virtue still remaining among them,” Then Richard said, very earnestly, ‘Mr. Arm- strong, may I take the liberty of asking if you are serious ?” ‘*TIn saying that there is still a little virtue to be found among these people? ~ Certainly I am.” **No, not alone in that; but serious in your. . remarks generally? There is a vein of sarcasm in your manner that puzzles me, and I some- times doubt whether you really mean what you say. Remember that Lam a stranger in a new world, and excuse my freedom in putting so blunt a question to you.” The genuine earnestness and simplicity of the young Australian had their effect upon Mr. Arm- strong, and thereafter—during that night at least —there was no irony in his words. a On another occasion, when the subject of conversation was the difference of manners in national character, Richard remarked that, were it not for the slightest peculiarity in the modu- lation of Mr. Armstrong’s voice, heshould searce- ly take him for an American. . Mr, Armstrong replied, with apparent carelessness, but with sincere. meaning ; ‘*You have repeated in a more graceful form what I have heard from many Englishmen, who are astonished that I do not chew tobacco, that I donot make a spittoon of the carpet, that I do not swear, that [do not comport myself in some absurd, eccentric fashion, and who truly believe that I am not a genuine specimen of my race because I behave in a rational manner, and have a hearty contempt for humbug and injus- tice.” This kind of conversation strengthened the bond of union between the two men, and it was not long before they arrived at a proper under- standing and appreciation of each other, To
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. ters. LOVE'S VICTORY. 17 Richard, indeed, it. seemed as though he had known Mr. Armstrong for years. . But other “men and other matters also claimed his atten- tion... Within a month of his arrival in London ~ he found himself sailing on a full wave of popu- larity, He enjoyed it, and when new friends and acquaintances pressed about him with their flatteries and compliments, and he was surround- ed by glare and glitter, he gave himself up. to the charm, as youth does naturally and invari- ably when the opportunity offers. The world had never been so bright to him, and he freely accepted the enjoyments it held out to him. Mr. Armstrong took note, with affectionate in- terest, af the experiences through which Rich- ard was passing, and of his manner of receiving them. At first he was doubtful whether the adulation which was showered upon the young fellow would not turn his head ; but after a time he became more satisfied, and contented him- self with gentle raillery, which Richard took in good part. It was usual for Richard to call upon Mr. Armstrong in the morning three or four times during the week. mn one of these occasions,*when. Richard had invited him- self to breakfast, Mr. Armstrong asked kim if _ he had any sing particular to do for the next few hours. Ric answered, No. -“*T did not know,” said the American, ‘‘ what demands upon his time the spoiled child of fashion might have.” ‘‘Not spoiled yet,” said Richard, with a smile. | ‘* Society is somewhat of a tyrant, and jealous withal. You still find its bonds pleasant?” * “Very pleasant.” i a have no crayings for the age of sim- plicity to come over again?” Richard shook his head. ‘‘ You will be wiser when you are thirty years older. You will then discover the vanity of things.” \ “J will wait till then.” ‘‘T heard yesterday that you had taken a large number of shares in the Great Extended Cop er Mine. Is it a fact, or merely rumor ?” 5 have taken five hundred shares.” ‘*By Mr. Chappell’s advice ?” ‘*He introduced the company to my notice. Ican’t exactly say that he advised me to take shares,” **You have been guided by me in many mat- Be guided in this. The shares will be at & premium to-day and to-morrow. Sell out to- morrow.” ‘*T haven't the slightest objection. I know you never speak without reason.” ‘Why do you speculate at all just now, Richard?” ‘Why does Frederick Chappell bet on horse- racing? It, is in my blood, I suppose. But have no fear. My eyes are open.” “‘T wish you would make a confidant of me in your speculations.” “‘T will do so with pleasure. Why did you want to know if I had any thing particular to -do to-day ?” \ “Tam going to See a young friend of ours, and I shall be glad of your company. It isa fine morning, and we can walk. Richard’s heart beat more quickly ; he knew that the young friend was Laura. On their way théy spoke of her, and Mr. Armstrong mentioned that he had received a note from Laura’s father, which he made the pretext for this visit. Mrs. Fangle opened the door for them. ; “Dear me!” she said. ‘*We were just speaking of you. Now I know why you two gentlemen have come in company. ages “Then you are indeed a wise woman, said Mr. Armstrong. “You have come to wish her many happy returns of the day.” . “Why of this particular day ?” ‘* Because it is Laura’s birthday. twenty to-day.” aula’ be | Soice- yo we were ignorant of it, but we are both glad we have come.” ©, They found Laura and her father together, and they offered her their congratulations. She is spects than one,” said Laura. ‘We have re- ceived an invitation, and we are puzzled what answer to return to it. ‘I see that you want my opinion,” said Mr. Armstrong. ‘‘ Be thankful that I am nota law- yer.. Whatinyitation is it, and from whom ?” ‘From Mrs. Chappell, and toa grand party. For papa and me.” ‘‘And you wish me to tell you whether you shall accept it ?” eC ‘‘ Accept it by all means.” Had she only her own feelings to consult, Laura would nave been thankful if Mr. Arm- strong had advised her to decline the invita- tion. She had many reasons for wishing this ; she was anxious not to meet Frederick Chap- pell, and she knew how wide a gulf there was etween her position and that of Mrs. Chap- pell. She thought her father would be dis- inclined to go, but, to her surprise, when she spoke of the matter to him, he showed a ner- vous eagerness to be received as a guest in the house of his late employer. It was, indeed, to him in some sense a vindication in the eyes of the world; he proposed, however, that it should be left. to.Mr. Armstrong’s decision, and when that decision was given unhesitat- ingly in accordance with his wish, he gazed with love and pride spon his daughter. It was for her sake, as well as for his own, that he desired to go ; it had been agonizing to him to think that his shame was reflected upon her. Now all this was cleared away, and he and the child who had been his only solace during his long years of suffering, would be able to hold up their heads with the best. Laura was no longer an actress; she had, under the more favorable circumstances of their position, left the stage, intending never to return to it. ‘*Of. course I shall do as you adyise,” she said to Mr. Armstrong. ‘‘ Will you be there ?” ** Yes, and Mr. Barton also.” ‘*Then I shall not be without friends ; yet it seems so strange to me to receive such an in- vitation, that I cannot help thinking there must be some mistake.” ‘“‘That’s scarcely probable. Perhaps they know that Mr. Barton and you are friends, and are anxious in this way to show their respect for him. Mr. Barton, let me tell you, is a person of some importance in society.” Hesaid this in a very kind tone. Laura looked gratefully at Richard, and the American gentleman was quite contented that she should believe that it was to Richard’s good office she owed this mark of respect. It did not matter that, Richard disclaimed any. pre- vious lnowledge of it; he was not believed — by one of the party atleast. Some little while after the two gentlemen had taken their departure, a bouquet of choice flowers was left at the house of Laura. Mrs. ! Fangle ran into the room with them in astate of reat excitement, holding the flowers behind her. rdinarily, Mrs.Fangle wasa sad and quiet little woman ; she had reached this state gradually but very surely, for when she was young she was a merry-hearted girl, full of life and ani- mation ; but an overdose of Fangle had changed her nature completely. Occasionally, however, the old lively spirit—which lay buried beneath the cares and worries of the world—peeped out as in the present instance. She held the flowers behind her, and merrily asked Laura to guess what she had brought her, Laura’s delight was unbounded when she saw the flowers. It was a day of glad surprises for her, ri whe could pave sor oe i she said. Papa,” suggested Mrs. Fangle, slyly. pgs iS 2 beam pate” cried. Laura. fe “ Of course—papa !” repeated Mrs, Fangle, mockingly. ‘Papa isin the garden. Go and ask him.” ret “Thank you, papa,” said Laura, kissing the old man. ‘“For what, my dear?” ~ ‘*For these flowers. Are they not beautiful ?” “Very beautiful. But they are not from me, my dear.” . ig Later in the day Mrs. Fangle surprised the young girl gazing at the flowers, with a soft and “Tt is an important day to us in more re-| tender light of happiness in her eyes. ‘‘ Who could haye sent me these. beautiful flowers?” exclaimed Mrs. Fangle, gayly, quot- ing from the ‘‘ Lady of Lyons.” And for the second time during the week she kissed Laura significantly, and again Laura blushed.’ No hap- me: ee then hers beat that day in all the wide wor, : CHAPTER IV. MRS. CHAPPELL’S PARTY. Ranx, fashion, and intellect were always to be found at Mrs. Chappell’s parties, and at the party to which Laura and her father were in- vited there wasa more than usually select and brilliant gathering. The occasion was an im- portant one, for Mr. Chappell could now write M. P. after his name, having been elected for Burlingham. There had been a severé contest for the representation of the borough, but from the first Mr. Wakefield, the Parliamentary agent, had been confident of victory. ‘Leave every- thing to me,” Mr. Wakefield had said, “and I will pull you through.” Mr. Chappell had left everything to his agent, and was duly pulled through ; all that he had todo was to ask no questions, to advance money as it wasrequired, and tomake a few set speeches. Mr. Wakefield did all the rest, and Mr. Chappell wis thé piper. When he footed up the figures he was rather serious, but he cheered up presently, and con- soled himself with the reflection that the money was well spent. To his wife the triumph was greater than it was to him. The Opposition candidate was her next door neighbor, Mr. Mer- cer, to whom slight reference has been made in the early part of the story, and who had risen from nothing. ‘*A nobody,” said Mrs. Chap- pell, ‘‘ whose wife used to sell caps and dresses, and who has made his money Heaven knows how! We must teach these persons a lesson.” The lesson had been taught, at a somewhat ex- pensive rate, but Mr. Mercer did not seem much the worse of it. No doubt, however, he suffered in secret, said Mrs. Chappell. The wives took much more interest in the contest than their husbands. ‘They looked daggers at each other, but spoke none, not being on speaking terms. There was talk of a petition against the new member on the usual grounds of bribery and corruption; Mr. Wakefield snapped his fingers and defied the defeated candidate, who very wisely saved his time and his purse. Mrs. Chappell was not only a fashionable but an ambitious woman, and she thought, now that her husband was a member of Parliament, that she saw her way clear to becoming Lady Chap- pell. In secret, she wrote the name frequently, to see how it looked, always tearing up the paper carfully into very small pieces, after she had indulged in this airy realization of her am- bition. On the day that Mr. Chappell was re- turned for Burlingham, when she received the telegram announcing his victory, she opened her desk and began to scribble, “‘ Lady Chap- pell presents her compliments ;” “‘ Lady Chap- pell has much pleasure ;” ‘‘ Lady Chappell. At ‘home; ‘Believe me, very sincerely yours, ‘Lady Harriet Chappell ”—no, that would not do; why should she not put M. P.'s after her name? It was not right that custom should deprive her of her honors. She destroyed two or three quires of note-paper in this way, and when the footman came into the room, was inclined to be angry with him because he did not say ‘ My lady.” With Mr. Chappell affairs had been going on in the usual way since our introduction to him. He suffered a great deal, but did not. let the world see it. . sionally came to him, and kept up his. spirits. His chief concern was still the safety of the Golden Mariner, in which he had so large a stake. Nothing had been heard of the vessel, and the ominous silence that, prevailed regarding it was almost worse than bad news. He had tried to insure apart, nay, the whole of his risk, and had failed, so that he was compelled to stand or fall by the ship. The extent of his interest in the Golden Mariner was not generally known; His speculations were not turn- — ing out fortunately, but little bits of luck occa-_ ~
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_ the matter. 7 18 LOVE'S VICTORY. | Mr. Armstrong and himself were the only per- sons who knew the full particulars of his trans- actions in that direction, and he hoped that the American, for his own sake, would not speak of Mr. Chappell was very polite, and attended to Mr. Armstrong, and did not, even to his wife, exhibit aversion to him... Mrs. Chappell herself liked the American gentleman, and was strongly attracted toward him for one special reason. She was much interested in spiritualism, and she believed in her heart that Mr. Armstrong was a spiritualist, and. could enlighten heron the subject... When, she. re- _ ferred to it, he generally evaded it; in truth, he was to a certain extent. a believer in mes- “merism, but he did not parade his. belief. ‘There were other reasons for -Mrs. Chappell’s _ liking for-him ; he was rich, handsome, clever _ and most attentive to ladies; besides the tone _of his remarks gave a piquancy generally to the ' conversation, and she knew how: important. it ‘was that her company should be amused. Then, again, she liked all persons who were both clever and rich.» “When Richard Barton’ made_ his appearance in -Mrs, Chappell’s brilliant. reception-rooms, ' the guests were arriving in quick succession, and e-scene was very animated. He. looked - about him for Mr, Armstrong and Laura, but “neither had yet arrived. ‘Mrs. Chappell was conversing with Lady . Barebones, who,. with her three’ marriageable daughters, had; a, rxe- _markable regard for eligible single young men. “Here is a great favorite of mine,” said Mrs. ? _ . Chappell, “‘a young Australian, enormously rich, only lately arrived home.” ¥ , ’ x 4 et P ” 4 ’ : r / Y 4, U > f. Se ee ee a a ee a ee a Pee a a a ee) ale eee oe eee a **T have heard of him,” observed Lady Bare- bones, putting up her eyeglass at Richard, who- was slowly making his way toward the lady of ‘the house. “ Single ?” “Yes,” replied Mrs. Chappell, who, having no . daughters of her own, could afford to be gener- 1_OUs. **Single and disengaged. I do not know -how many thousands of miles of sheep runs and ~ cattle stations he is the owner of. Iam told _ there is no end to his money.” The hearts of tne three honorable Misses ‘Barebones: fluttered in their breasts, and when - Richard was introduced to them, they made the most gracious of courtesies, Lady Barebones ~ took him in at a glance, and settled his fate for him. He should marry Millicent. [ should be afraid to say how many men Lady Barebones _had settled should marry Millicent; yet Milli- - eent was still a spinster. Lady Barebones was not a good general ; she took possession of the “men at once, and frightened them. by her violent method. She would have married them ‘to her girls by force if she had had the power. Those who had experience of her took care to keep their distance. The young ladies were “not remarkable for beauty, nor were they rich ‘in the world’s goods. Richard, however, was unconscious of Lady Barebones’s intentions, _and resently found himself in conversation with orman, with whom he had some slight “acquaintance. Mr. Forman wasa rising lawyer, with a brother in the colonies, and the conyer- ‘sation was therefore interesting to both the gentlemen. Richard was satisfied to be thus employed until the arrival of his friends, and he stationed himself near the door, so that he might gee them enter. “A strange case has come under my notice lately,” said Mr. Forman, ‘‘in connection with New South Wales. A very wealthy gentleman there, whose name it is not necessary to men- tion, being anxious to visit England, for the us on purpose of settling here with his family, I be- eve, con my brother—knowing that I am a lawyer—as to the best means of accomplishing his wish. You will understand that when he " ‘was a young man he was transported for life. He is now old and very wealthy, and the desire -to come home islikea disease in him. For the last three years letters have been passing between the subject, but of course nothing can be done. I believe the old man would give fifty ' thousand pounds if it could be managed. To satisfy him, I have made inquiries and applica- tions with no successful result: From a letter # A which reached me last’ week, I learn that the | disappointment is likely to be the death of the man. ‘Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage,’ and yet a country as large as Europe may become a hateful prison when you are forbidden to move out of it. Is it not so ?” *' Th48 go,” Richard Barton moved away with a strange thoughtfulness upon him. ‘The words the lawyer had spoken recalled him to the duty which lay before him. He had ‘not forgotten the purpose which had brought him to England—it was impossible that he could ever lose sight of it; but during the five weeks he had been in the country he had not prosecuted his inquiries with energy.. He reproached himself for it now. | Certainly he had not been idle , something he had discovered, and it had brought a sweet pleasure to him in the promise it held forth. And there was an excuse for him in the temptations by which he had been surrounded. But he would waste no more time in idle pleasures. A great duty was before him, and he would set to work upon it at once, In the midst of these reflections, a hand was placed upon his shoulder. He turned, and saw Mr. Armstrong. . ‘*T have been looking for you,” said, the American. ‘‘Have you been here long?” ‘* About half an hour.” ‘*We have a grand company here, to-night. But two-thirds of them will be gone in an hour or 50. There are two great: balls elsewhere to which most of those present are invited, I ex- pect.. See—a few are clearing away already.” ‘Laura has not arrived yet?” ‘*No; sheand her father will come in a few minutes. I thought it best that they should not be here too early. It is a trying ordeal for the old man to pass through, and Laura herself has been very nervous over the affair. Hark! the Hungarian band is playingyin the garden. Mrs. Chappell’s parties are always worth attend- ing. You may be sure of the best of every- thing—the best wines, the best company, the best singing. The Swedish quartette music, | are here; some of their glees are very sug- gestive. It was a good idea of Mrs. Chappells to station the Hungarian musicians in the gardens. Itisa lovely night; let us walk into the grounds. The music of these Hungarians is very distinctive. There is something wild and heroic in it, and if you look upon the musicians while they are playing, its character is not destroyed. See how the leader stamps his feet, and flourishes his bow. His body sways in unison with the strains. He feels what he is playing. Confess, my young barba- rian. Is not this worth coming to London for? The lights, the music, the beauty, the murmur of soft voices, the thousand and one fascina- tions that conspire to lure one’s senses, and steep them in a heaven of happiness, Pre- sented to us in such a scene are all the brilliant facets of human nature, shining and sparkling like stars. Not to be seen and not to be enjoyed anywhere but ina large city. You are silent. Do you not agree with me?” ‘* Yes,” replied Richard, abstractedly. ‘‘ You are right.” He scarcely followed his friend’s words; his mind was filled with but one subject. His thoughtfulness and abstraction were not lost upon Mr. Armstrong, who, however, made no open comment upon it. ‘*You see dark clouds in the picture, pro- bably,” proceeded Mr. Armstrong, ‘‘but why should they disturb us? ‘Let us enjoy the out- side of things. I confess that there are oc- casions when it pleases me to look no deeper. There are is and worse than peris standing on the aE wis of this paradise, we know; but we are here—let us enjoy it. I like to see human nature dressed in its best, as it is to- night. I like to see it when itis on its good behavior, nestling prettily in smiles and bright looks and pleasant speech. These fascinating experiences must have brought a new sensation to you.” : ‘“‘They have, and one so enthralling that I ee to fear I have been unwise in yielding it.” . “You will singe your wings to a certainty, if you have not done so already. Be thankful if you do not burn them off. Listen—the Swedish girls are singing.” They stood ‘in silence until the glee was fin- ished. ‘ ‘Neither of ug understand a word of the lan- guage,” said the’ American, ‘‘and yet I make a story out ofthe song. Standing herein the gar- den, I imagine'that at a little distance from us— there where the shadows are—stands a belea- guered city. ‘The inhabitants have risen in its defense, and every man is a soldier, armed with rude weapons. The besieging army lies before it, ‘and aroundit. The defenders watch through the night. Itis dark, and they pass their signals from one to the other. The women within the city listen to.thé sounds of their ‘men’s voices ; the ‘children in their beds hold their breath. ‘How goes it?’ asks a ‘citizen-soldier. ‘Ail is still,” answers another ; ‘ our foesleeps; we hear no sounds. Pass the word.’ Sentinelspeaks to sentinel, and ‘the words, ‘ All is ‘still; we hear ho sounds ; our foe is sleeping,’ travel onward, until they die away in the distance. The glad tidings breathe comfort into the hearts of the women and children ; their protectors are on the alert, and all may yet be well. The brief silence that follows the last dying strains of the sentinels is broken by the sweet nighit-song of the women, praying for theirmen and their land, The wives pray for their husbands ; the girls for their lov- ers. The citizen-soldiers, in their turn, listen to the prayer. ‘Sleep in peace,’ they sing, when the prayer is ended ; ‘we watch over you and our children.’ ‘God protect you,’ reply the women. ‘ Good-night.’ ‘Good-night.” — CHAPTER V. SECRET FOR. SECRET, Rrowarp listened to this description with won- der and delight. It was to him a new revelation in the character of his friend, Ee ‘You have charmed me out of myself,” he said. ‘*I am ashamed to confess that while those girls were singing I paid no heed to them. My thoughts were wandering to past times and distant lands, but your words brought every note of the song back to me.” ‘‘I charmed you out of yourself,” repeated Mr. Armstrong. ‘‘ Do you believe in mesmer- ism ?” “ No.” . ‘* At least inanimal magnetism—a more com- prehensible term ?” Sy. ‘*T believe in nothing of the kind. Do you?” ‘* Yes; toacertain extent, I have some faith in it.” ‘*‘ Had any person but yourself told me so, I should have doubted him.” _ ‘Why? Perhaps you have not given any se- rious thought to the subject. en I speak with more than usual earnestness, do you not listen with more than usual attention ?” “* Undoubtedly.” ‘That isanimal magnetism. I impress you with my earnestness. I did so by my descrip- tion of the Swedish girls’ glee, and I succeeded in my distinct intention to divert your thoughts from the current in which they were running. I don’t go far; table-talking, spirit-rapping, and spiritualism—which are at present the property of charlatans and dupes—I have no belief in.” ‘* Nor I, in those or any other quackeries, My wonder is that sensible men are gulled.” ‘All sensible men are not gulled; some few are. There never yet was @ delusion without its followers. I have seen cleverer men than either you or I sent into a mesmeric sleep, about the genuineness of which there could be no question.” ot 2h. «‘T stand by my opinion; it is a delusion from. first to last.” ‘*You prick me, I should like the opportu- nity of convincing you.” & ‘‘ T offer it to you,” said Richard ; ‘‘ mesmers ine me.”
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’ strong, with a smile, ‘ within our / LOVE'S VICTORY. vy ‘*Tf there has been a time,” said Mr. Arm- acquaint- ance. when you would be a favorable subject for mesmerism it is now, for I see plainly that you are excited. But Idoubt if under any cir- cumstances you could be affected according to the popular mode. You are too full of healthy blood; your mind is not sufficiently diseased ; _ you are not morbid. I know of no especial weakness in you that could be worked upon.” ‘*Ah, you want something of that sort. . Ig- - norance, credulity, imbecility—these are your mesmerists’ foundations.” _ Mr, Armstrong looked at Richard with closer attention. : ; ae s anything gone wrong with you?” c ‘ on ” ’ ~ You have heard no bad news?” «6 No ” “You said just now that you feared you were _ “unwise in yielding to the attractions which soci- ety has held out to you. Have you not found them pleasant ?” ‘Very pleasant.” “Yet you are disturbed and excited, appar- ently without cause. Iam almost tempted to make a shrewd guess that you are in love. Are i departs ies ’ Richard stammered confusedly, ‘‘ Yes—no— that is” —— Mr. Armstrong laughed in a kindly manner. **A suré sign,” he said, and added, earnestly, ‘*whoever she is, may she be worthy of you!” “*She’s more than my equal,” replied» Rich- ard, softly; ‘‘ wish rather that I may be worthy of her. And you, Armstrong? I have read ‘somewhere that love comes to all men. You ~ have moved much in the world. How is it that you have escaped ?” ‘¢ Perhaps,” said Mr. Armstrong, sententious- ‘ly, ‘tit is because I have moved much in the ~ world that I have escaped.” ‘*No, it is not because of that. I am begin- ~ning to know you, Armstrong. Those words v are not from your heart.” Mr. Armstrong did not immediately reply, -@nd when he spoke his voice was low.and ten- der. ‘*I am corrected; the subject:is too sa- o ered for light speech. Secret for secret, Rich- ard; I have not escaped. Love: comes to all »men, you say. After all these years it has _come to me, and, cynic and o.d worldling as I am, it has brought into my life its sweetest epromise. Ilive in the hope of a happy future ~ with the best and purest woman I have ever known.” Richard held. out his hand with cordial affec- tion. ‘‘Iam rejoiced to hear it: But I must -not allow my dream of love to cause me ‘to for- get the task, to perform which I came to this new world. A few words which were addressed - to me.to-night suddenly recalled me to a ‘sense _ofmy duty—a stern and sacred duty, Armstrong » and I was reproaching myself for neglecting dt when you came upon me.” , ‘Oan I assist you in any way ?” - * You can; I think. With the exception of afew words which passed between me and Mr. - Chappell, this is the only time that I have spok- en openly since my arrival. in England, and you must forgive me for my excitement. You Shall know all, Armstrong; I can trust you and depend upon you, for you are ajust man. Be- fore we part to-night I will tell you my story. It "is a story of bitter, cruel injustice committed _upon—upon my father, a man whom, if you had known, you would have loved and respected, as all did who knew him. Itis to remove a stain from his memory—for he is dead—that I am in England. | Singularly enough, the story of this bitter wrong is connected with the very bank of which Mr. Chappell is the head, When I was making arrangements for leaving the colony, it seemed to me like a decree of fate that I should be advised by my best friend there to come straight to Mr. Chappell’s bank.” ‘You have had some conversation with Mr. Chappell upon the subject? He knows your story, then, and your purpose ?” ‘*He knows nothing. Not a word of expla- nation has passed my lips, and the secret is mine and willbe mine until we leave to-night, | story to . terest and influence in a newspaper’’ | The first thing I have to do is to discover what has become of a man who wasa clerk in Mr. Chappell’s bank.” ' ‘* What is his name ? ‘* Charles Dayidge.” -In his excitement, Richard did. not see the startled look that flashed into Mr. Armstrong's eyes, nor hear the exclamation that escaped his lips. ‘IT must find this Charles Davidge, if he be alive. My fear is that he may be dead. Arm- strong, there are good reasons why I cannot go to Mr. Chappell and ask him openly for infor- mation concerning thisman. In return he would ask me for particulars which must not be known untilI have accomplished my task. But if this Davidge be alive, I will track him. I would give half my fortune to meet him face to face! I would give all my fortune to wring confession from his lips! You will help me?” “Yes, when I hear the full particulars of your story. Not until then, for I neyer work in the dark.” “IT do not ask you todo so until you hear my story. But that I haye’a purpose in re- maining here for a little while, I would beg of ou to come away at once, so that I might re- ate it to you. T would tell it to you now if ‘it were not too long; and I must tell it my own way, and without fear of interruption.”’ ‘** What was the’ nature of the conversation that passed between you and Mr. Chappell?” ‘“‘T simply told him that my principal reasozi for coming to England was to correct a mistake which Justice made. »I told him also, that in the performance of my task I might ask for his assistance, and he promised to give it to me.” ‘That is all?” w : “That is all. Now advise me in'what way I shall commence. I thought of putting the mat- ter into the hands of private detectives, but the idea seemed to me revolting. It is a degrada- tion to have to do with hired spies.. And I had another objection: I did not wish to tell my ers. . This is a. task I. am. per- forming for a dear father, and it will be more truly a labor of love to perform it myself and in my own way. If I knew a man who had in- Mr: Armstrong interrupted him with a smile. ‘** You do know such aman. He stands before ou;”’ «You, Armstrong! “What newspaper ?” “The Joon... The little Moon. Price one half-penny, with all the latest intelligence, and unknown correspondents in every part of the world. But this is a secret between us ; it must not be known that I am a proprietor.” ‘“There is nothing that you are not, Arm- strong. Ihave bought the little paper” ‘* Of dirty little boys and girls, who deal in Moons and matches. Both the same price. A box of Vesuvians and a Moon for a penny. There is a belief among some of our small rag- ged merchants that the Vesuvians are manufac- tured in the editor’s rooms; hence the connec- tion. When the Moon was first started, people thought it a strange name for a newspaper; I considered it appropriate, by inference. They dedicate morning and evening sheets to the Sun ; they also sacrifice to the Stars. Why should not the Moon have its literary altar? We publish a dozen editions a day, and the Moon shines by day as well as by night Now, in what way can the Moon serve you ?” ‘*T propose to insert an advertisement in the paper, without its being known that I am the advertiser, offering a reward of five hundred pounds for information concerning Charles Da- They entered the house,and stoodat the ~ door of the reception-room, watching the com y. ates’ ; e : ‘‘As I told you,” said the American, ‘‘ the company is thinning, but there are many no table persons present. You see that old gen« tleman, with the star on his breast. That i¢ Lord Beaumorris, an old gentleman whose 804 ciety is eagerly courted; He was a great buck in his younger days, and. the reputation at- taching to him is that he is a man of honor, whose word is law upon doubtful points. To be ‘cut’ by him after being on speaking terms. with him, is sufficient to hurt a man’s stand- ing in society.. He is a mapOns, conceited, high-spirited old lord, proud of his order and his dignity. - Mrs. Chappell’s bete noire. Mrs. Mercer, who occupies the house next to this, and whose husband made his money anyhow, would give’her little finger if ord Beaumorri would attend one of her assemblies; and this is one of Mrs. Chappell’s triumphs and consola- tions, Observe that young exquisite, who looks as though he had just stepped from the modeler’s hands. _That’s Mr. Frederick De Vere Saint Fitzfaddle, a great young man, very rich, with thirty thousand a year, and about twenty words. of conversation. Such young men as he, with their weak faces and their hair parted in the middle, inspire me with profund admiration for my species. There is Mr. Wakefield, the Parlia- mentary agent, and there is Mrs. Huntly, talk- ing scandal; see how the heads cluster around — her. Mrs. Chappell’s looking toward us; let us. go to her,” ; SO 05, SOM set ft sree CHAPTER VI. MRS. CHAPPELL IMPOSES A PENANOE UPON THY; AMERICAN, Mrs. Cuapprti held up a chiding finger as the two gentlemen approached her. ‘Throw your egis before me, : Richard,” whispered Mr. Armstrong; ‘‘mine. is battered. and full of holes.” > ‘You need no shield,” replied Richard, with a smile. ‘Your, weapdéns are quite strong enough for self-defense, and you know how to use them.” f ‘J have been consulting some of my friends,” said Mrs. Chappell, ‘‘as to which of you two gentlemen I shall visit with my displeasure.” She appealed to Mr. Frederick De Vere Saint Fitzfaddle, who was standing by her side, for confirmation of her statement, and he, finding nothing to say in his limited vocabu- lary, elevated Sis fair eyebrows, and bowed vacantly. ‘* As you are strong,” pleaded Mr. Armstrong, ‘be merciful; yet if you must strike, strike my friend. Iamweak and old. But you have not explained, my dear madam, in what way we have been unfortunate enough to displease ou.” ‘tte ‘In what way? By absenting yourselves — from my rooms, of which you are the most brilliant ornaments.” : Mrs. Chappell, like a diplomatic lady, was careful that these words should reach only the ears of the gentlemen she addressed. ‘‘T make you a present of that, Richard,” said Mr. Armstrong. ‘‘My humble ambition is to be useful.” aie x ‘‘Lady Barebones has been most anxious about you, Mr. Barton, and I have sent into every room to find you, without success. She herself peeped into the conservatory; you have made a conquest in that quarter, You vidge, once a clerk in the banking-house of | need not look around; she and her daughters Chappell, Chappell, and Chappell.” ‘*A shell,” thought Mr, Apes “straight into the enemy’s camp.” And said aloud, ‘‘I will manage it for you, Richard, but you must leave it to me to choose the proper time for its insertion. I promise that it shall appear be- fore many days have passed. In the mean- while, the fact that I am a proprietor of the pa- per must not be divulged. It is time we made our appearance in the house. Mrs. Chappell will remark our absence, and I dare say by this time Laura and her father have arrived.” have left.” ‘For these and all other mercies ”——murmur-_ ed Mr. Armstrong, ‘ ‘Hush, you naughty man !” on as “But three, my dear Mrs. Chappell!” re- monstrated Mr. Armstrong. ‘And such graces ! The triple blessing is too great for any man of woman born.” 4 : ‘““You are incorrigible,” ma te Nirs. Chap- pell, always disposed to receive Mr. Armstrong’s eccentricities iously. “We were listening in the garden to the ad-
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"90 “amirable music of your Hungarian band. It is; ‘Of its young—and flourishing—colonies.” “xéally you who are to blame for providing such: attractions at your entertainments.” “ What “~My, Richard Barton, a Oresus from the South Seas. The place he comes from is rather rough ”=— ~~ «One would not suppose so,” rede Mrs. _Chappell, shaking her head in gentle reproof at Mr. Bbthatfore: from Mr. Barton's manners. They have just that dash of open-hearted free- dom which would give a rare charm to the manners of our too-ceremonious and somewhat affected English gentlemen.” Richard bowed and smiled. ‘‘T really must protect you from the dreadful satire of your friend.” ~~ “Y do not mind it,” said Richard, with a “pleasant look at‘the American. ‘‘It does not sting.” ‘ cea t,” persisted Mrs. Chappell, ‘‘is because you are so full of good nature.” . “Then,” said Lord Beaumorris, statelily, - «what is country ? What does it matter—born ‘here orthere! Good blood—to be sure—a great deal in it—great deal. But good name—every- thi English gentlemen—ready to receiye— -with open arms—worthy representatives—and ~Gntelligence "—— ees .. “Set in a gold frame,” murmured Mr, Arm- sea ee Sar LOVE'S VICTORY. -In proof of which Lord Beaumorris presented his hand for Richard to shake. tat ai ““T have great hopes, my lord,” said Mr. Chappell, taking part in the conversation for the first time, ‘‘of inducing Mr. Barton to purchase an estate in the country, so that he may remain’ and become entirely one of us.” ‘* Shall be happy—to hear, sir—you have done so,” ‘*To a gentleman of Mr. Barton’s wealth and ability,” proceeded Mr. Chappell, ‘‘ no position is unattaimable. The Australian colonies have already supplied us with very able statesmen ; in Mr. Barton’s person, one might be added to the number.” ‘He would haye to. enter Parliament first,” observed Mr. Armstrong. “It would not be difficult,” said Mr. Chappell; that is, not very difficult. Mr. Wakefield here would put him in the way.” Mr. strong glanced at Mr. Wakefield, the Parliamentary agent, who had joined the party. When these men met, which was but. seldom, they always crossed lances. ‘“Mr. Wakefield will put him in the way!” repeated Mr. Armstrong. ‘‘ How?” ‘*Sir,” said Mr, Wakefield, pulling out his snuff-box, an invariable habit with him when he was about to declare war or accept it, ‘‘these things are not to be spoken of too freely,. They are understood without explanation.” ‘*Like the shrugs and inuendos which sonie- times accompany a speech, making what sounds fair objectionable.” ‘*¥ don’t quite understand you,” said Mr. Wakefield, offering his snuff-box. ‘¢T am very sorry, really,” returned Mr. Arm- strong, accepting the courtesy, and secretly ad- miring the Parliamentary agent's coolness. ‘*Don’t apologize, I beg. There are other persons besides yourself who make a clear com- prehension of their words desperately difficult by expressing their views in ambiguous lan- guage.” Impartial in his advocacy, Mr. Saint Fitz- faddle exclaimed, ‘‘Ah, very good!” ‘*You_ perceive, sir,” said Mr. Armstrong, “that Mr. Saint Fitzfaddle’s inclined to rival you in your want of comprehension.” ‘‘Let me compliment you,” returned Mr. Wakefield, with perfect. urbanity, ‘‘upon the skill you display in concealing your wit. One would be a long time discovering that you pos- sessed sufficient of it to make a tolerably good repartee,” ‘* Well answered. I admire the wit you dis- play in endeavoring to convert a defeat into a victory.” * Well parried. Compliment for compliment, you know. Ishall be happy to fence with you again.” ‘“‘The pleasure, sir,” said Mr. Armstrong, whom something in the Parliamentary agent's manner drove to the verge of madness, ‘ will be entirely on your side.” “T haven't the slightest doubt of it,” returned Mr. Wakefield, with unruffled temper; ‘‘ those laugh who win. Mr. Armstrong,” he said, ad- dressing himself to the others, ‘has good rea- son for being a purist in politics, for he hails from the country of political morality.” Mr, Armstrong did not wince at the blow, ‘* From which you may ‘be assured,” he said to Richard, ‘that if you really wish to enter Par- liament, it will be—for you—the easiest thing in the world.” ‘* But why the easiest thing in the world for me?” j Mr. Armstrong rapped Richard’s breast-pock- et lightly. ‘‘ You havea check-book, my dear friend.” Lord Beaumorris took up the ball, and said, with some asperity, ‘‘ Yes sir—happily—it costs money. Happily, I say, democracy has not a large banking account.” “Tf it had, my lord,” remarked Mr. Wake- field, ‘‘democracy would no longer be demo- | cratic.” ; Mrs, Chappell deeming it prudent to change the subject of conversation, questioned Mr. = — ; Armstrong as toa fete which it was whispered he intended to give. ‘*Tt is more than whispered,” she ‘said ; “it is actually talked about ; many persons have asked me to tell them all the particulars, and would scarcely believe me,” she added, with a fascina- ting smile, when I answered that I was not in the secret.” “You shall be my confidante,” said Mr. Arm- strong, ‘‘and my only one at present. Rumor, for once, is close to the truth. ~I do intend to give a kind of garden entertainment, and the arrangements are very nearly completed. In two or three days the cards will be out; and I hope to have the pleasure of your conipany.” ‘*Indeed, I shall be delighted to be there. A garden entertainment! What a charming idea! Tell me more.” ‘‘My -house and grounds will be open to my friends from three or four o’clock anti s ny hour in the night that they may please to honor me with their company. There will be a variety of entertainments—croquet, music, singing, con- juring, flirtation, and a few surprises. In the evening the gardens will be lighted up with ten thousand Slated lamps—(see advertisement), I propose to have dinner-tables spread in the gardens, and all I wish my friends to do is to make themselves at home and enjoy themselves without restraint.. _I am not sure whether the entertainment will be a success, it is so entirely new, and out of the conventional order of things, but I shall do my best to make it a pleasant af- fair.” “It must be a success, it is so charmingly original, and so like you, Mr. Armstrong. It will be the event of the season. May I men- tion it to my friends ?” ‘‘I shall be proud to have it known that you approve of my idea. Do not speak plainly of it, however. Surround it with a halo of mys- tery—it will make the affair all the more suc- cessful. I frankly confess, my dear Mrs. Chap- pell, that I am vain enough to wish that society shall be curious about it.” ‘‘Mr. Armstrong,” said Mrs. Chappell, ‘‘ are we on sufficient friendly—nay, I will say, inti- mate terms, to warrant me in putting a delicate question to you?” Hoe ‘“To be permitted,” replied. Mr. Armstrong, ‘*to reply in the affirmative is the highest com. pliment you can pay me.” : ; ‘*Flattered!” she exclaimed, tapping him lightly with her fan. ‘‘I shall take the liberty then? Why do you not marry ?” The American paused before replying. ‘‘ Even that wonder,” he said gravely, ‘‘may take place one day; but Iam not ina position to say more at present.” : ‘Thank you for so-much of your confidence. And now, as I am full of questions to-night, and as success makes even a woman bold, I am going to ask you a very particular favor. You have been very satirical within the last quarter of an hour to more than one of my friends, and I insist that you shall make reparation to me.” “‘Inflict any penance upon me you may think fit, my dear madam,” he said, gayly. ‘* You promise to perform it?” ‘Yes, if it is within reason. trust you.” “America is the land of spiritualism, and you are an American. One of my friends whispered in my ear that she was certain you are a spiritualist, and I am quite curious on the point.” ‘SA lady has scarcely need to tell me that. Nevertheless, your friend is wrong. Iam nota spiritualist. Curiously enough, Mr. Barton and I have had a conversation this evening upon mesmerism.” . ‘*T do not know the difference between them, and I have had my curiosity excited so strongly that I am dying to see something of it.” ‘¢ Spiritualism or mesmerism ?” © < ’«Bither. I do not care in what way it is shown, and I lay my commands upon you to give me some proof, at your delightful garden party, of one or the other.” **T cannot lend myself to trickery. As I told I think I may ©
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a | «ae ‘ * J _tohim. But in the light of a more LOVE'S VICTORY. 2%: { ee Een cv cS oS Se nn ener meeneonectaeere cneemeemannrmnes Mr. Barton, I have some belief in animal mag-' netism :” — vate : ‘¢ What’s that?” ‘« A form of mesmerism.” “ ‘Then my friend was right, notwithstanding your denial. These things will peep out. Now, mind; Ihave your promise.” ee _ “Indeed, «my dear madam,” said Mr. Arm- strong, much perplexed at Mrs.. Chappell’s pertinacity, ‘‘I do not see my way.” “And you an American! As though you could not do any thing you ‘set your mind upon! Iwill not be denied, and I shall keep you to your promise.” Mr. Armstrong was glad, at this juncture, to sée Laura and her father in the room; they had just arrived, and were looking around in search of Mr. Armstrong and Richard. ** What a pretty girl!” exclaimed Mrs, Chap- pell, putting up her eye-glass. Mr. Armstrong seized the favorable oppor- tunity. “*She and’ her father are particular friends of mine,” he said; ‘‘I shallesteem it a favor if you will welcome them for my sake.” And advancing to meet Laura and Rigby, he presented them to Mrs. Chappell. CHAPTER VII. MR. FANGLE TELLS THE LATEST NEWS. Mr. CHaprett took advantage of the conversation between his wife and Mr. Armstrong to draw Richard away. Lord Beaumorris chatted with Mr. Wakefield upon the deplorable spread of democracy, and Mr. Wakefield, who was in the Conservative interest, agreed. with his lordship, He propounded a theory that the spread of democracy was due to the discovery of the gold fields. It has made money more plentiful, and the working man, reveling in high wages, set himself up against his employer. “Jt is a bad state of things,’ said Mr. Wakefield, “when Jack considers him as good as his master.”’ Mr. Saint Fitzfaddle, being left to himself, took refuge before a mirror, wherein he contemplated without weariness the parting of his hair. “This is scarcely a time tospeak of business,” said Mr. Chappell to Richard, “but I may as well remind you that the share list of the United Wheal closes at noon to-morrow. Have you decided how many shares you will take ?”” “What do you advise ?” asked Richard. “My dear Mr. Barton,’ said Mr. Chappell, with a frank smile, I must not directly advise in a matter in which, as you are aware, I am so intimately interested. Icould not conscientiously doso. Where my own in- terest is not at stake, Iam always ready to counsel a friend. But you can see for yourself; the shares this afternoon are quoted at one premium. I have investi- gated the affairs of the company, and the prospects are really wonderful. The assays give from twelve to eighteen per cent. Thatisall I can say, and I would not say as much to any person but yourself. I shall invest largely in it. Now, you have a considerable sum of money lying idle, and the United Wheal guarantees six per cent. for ten years.” “Upon your recommendation, then,” said Richard ; but Mr. Chappell interrupted him. “No, no; not in this instance. I am Chairman of Directors, and am in a delicate position. I can only say that if I hada hundred thousand pounds lying idle, I would with perfect confidence invest it in the United Wheal. From present appearances, the shares will be at a high premium in a month, and were it otherwise, the investment is a good one.” “TI should not put any money into it as an invest- ment ; I should sell out in a week or two.” “ You have a famous head for business ; but Z should hold on. However, I'll not advise.” “The shares are at a hundred pounds ?” “Yes, you might take a hundred ora hundred and fifty with safety. I will use my interest, and any num- ber you apply for shall be allotted.” “Thank you ; I will take a hundred.” - « That's right. .Come into another room, and I will fill in the application paper. I am glad that you act on your own judgment in this matter.’ They went into one of the small retiring-rooms, and Mr. Chappell wrote the application. “Sign your name here. That’s right. You can let me have the check in the morning. I see you are anxious to join the ladies. I will excuse you.” When Richard entered the room with Mr, Chappell, he caught sight of Mrs. Fangle, and observing in her manner a desire to speak to him, he now went in search of her, A few steps from the door he came upon Mr. Fangle. "Do you know where Mrs. Fangle is?’ ; “Do you know where Mr. Chappell is?’ These questions crossed one another. Mr. Fangle answered in the negative. Richard pointed to the room in which he had left the banker, and passed on. “What can he want with my wife?” thought Mr. Fangle, looking after Richard. He was so much in the habit of neglecting his wife, that for any one to want her was a matter of surprise important matter, Mrs. Fangle faded from his mind. He had just hada few words with Mr, Magnum, 2 member of the Stock Exchange, who, finding no other person to talk with, . talked with Mr. Fangle. Mr. Fangle was in his glory. Mr. Magnum had given him some information, which: he was burning now to impart to Mr..Chappell, think- ing it would be agreeable to him. Mr. Fangle was a worshiper of rich men, and liked to rub against rich men’s coats. 1t was not as good as being rich himself, but it) was almost next door to it. “Bankers and mer- chants,” he said to himself, after his. interview with Mr. Magnum, “ are always eager to hear the latest mews —especially about ships.” : ; Mr. Chappell had at this period of his life arrived at a pass which compelled melancholy brooding whenever he was alone, He was continually engaged in some fresh venture, such as the United Wheal—desperate ventures ‘many of them, as he t6o well knew. He could’ not escape from them ; he snatched eagerly at every chance that presented itself, in the hope that one of them might turn up trumps, and that he might re- coyer his losses. He shuddered as he contemplated the risks which had accumulated about him he. scarce- ly knew how. Not one of them had as yet turned up trumps, and he saw the sword of ruin hanging over his head. Always, now, when he was “alone, his skeleton made itself visible to him, and whispering warnings of discovery. He was a miserable, unhappy man. If he could haye poured his troubles into a sympathizing ear, it would have been a rare comfort to him ; but he dared not confide even in his wife, and his torture was the more intense because he was compelled to wear a false face to the world, He envied many a man in his service who envied him, and thought how happy he would be if he could change places. with this one and that one. In this very company of the United Wheal, in which he hadinduced Richard to take shares, he had no real confidence. He stood to win a great stake’ in it, but, as a principal, he would be compelled to hold on to his shares, and he knew that the venture was not | sound at the bottom. The strain was. becoming al- most too terrible for his strength. Mr. Fangle had to cough two or three times before he could attract Mr. Chappell’s attention. Mr. Fangle’s cough was an index to the relations between the two men—it was a cough deferential, which expressed, “Excuse me for doing it ; I really feel it a great liber- ty.” The expression of care in Mr. Chappell's face vanished instantly when; the sound aroused him; he looked warily up, and his countenance cleared entire- ly when he saw who it was that had entered the room. “Ah, Mr. Fangle. Iam glad to see you. Mrs. Fan- gle’s with you, I hope.” -- “She is here, sir,’ replied Mr. Fangle; “ thanks to Mrs. Chappell’s kindness and condescension. It is a great privilege to come among the great and noble.” Mr. Chappell waved his hand with condescension. “My only desire isto live long enough to show my gratitude for all your generosity. When gentlemen in such a lofty position as yours, Mr, Chappell, stretch out the hand of friendship to struggling genius ”’——. Not knowing exactly how to complete the sentence, Mr. Fangle passed his hand across his eyes. It was unfortunate that it did not occur to him to borrow half a sovereign of Mr. Chappell, for this sort of homage was so agreeable to the banker, that he would have advanced the money without hesitation. “It'sa pleasure to us as well as to you,’ said Mr, Chappell. ‘Is your invention pro sing ?” “Tt’s getting along slowly, sir, but there isstill some- thing wanting.”’ “ Capital, Ishould say. If your invention be prac- tical, and likely to be valuable, I might induce some person to put a little money in it, subject, of course, to his approval of the idea.’ Mr, Fangle did not jump at the offer ; the proposition that he should part with any share in the invention seemed to make him nervous, “J think we shall be able to manage as it is, sir; I have a partner who is very jealous. Nothing can move him. Alittle more time, a little more time.’’ Then he changed the subject. “Icame to find you, sir. I have been conversing with Mr. Magnum, of the Stock Ex- change, and thought you would like to hear the latest news.” “You are very kind,” said Mr. Chappell, with an easy air. “Concerning stocks?” “Stocks! No—yes,” cried Mr. Fangle, correcting himself. ‘Ships come off stocks,” Mr. Fangle considered this rather a good joke. “Ships !’’ exclaimed Mr. Chappell. “What ships?” “The Golden Mariner. Some few weeks ago,if you remember, there was a rumor concerning her, and now the rumor is reyiyed—but itis not authenticated, Mr. Magnum said.” ‘“To what effect is this rumor?’ asked Mr. Chappell, with difficulty repressing his agitation, “They say the ship has foundered.” Mr, Fangle did not see Mr. Chappell’s: haggard face, or he might not have proceeded so glibly, ‘Terrible news, is it not? It is reported that not asoul is. saved.. Think of the widows and orphans ’’—— “Widows and orphans!” cried Mr. Chappell, unable now to restrain his passion. ‘Think of the money lost, and what its loss brings with it! The sacrifice of position, reputation ’’—— The startled look of amazement in Mr. Fangle’s eyes warned him that he was betraying himself, and by a great effort he controlled his.agitation, and spoke in a more subdued tone. ‘Forgive me; you must be aware in what kind of groove the thoughts of bankers are always running. Fora momentI was thinking only of those who might be ruined by the catastrophe. But what is their loss compared to the suffering of those who are gone, and the women and children who are left behind? Only a rumor, you say. Let us hope it is not true. Poor creatures! Poor creatures!” And he left the room, with his handkerchief before his eyes. : “Singular!” mused Mr. Fangle. ‘Very singular! I could have sworn he was in earnest. I’ll go and see if I can pick up any more information. The &, last edition: of Zhe Moon may contain some. I’lb Getrit,’tcn 5o¥ ioe Richard was: right in his conjecture that Mrs. Fangle wished to speak to him: She was deeply grateful for ‘his kindness to her and her children, and’she felt like a mother to him, notwithstanding ti.:t he was so rich, and she so humble. She had long ago discovered the secret of Richard’s love for Laura, and knowing that. Laura loved him, she settled it with herself that she ought to do something to hasten matters between them. So that when she and Richard came together ~ on this: night, she soon found a way to revért to the subject nearest'to his heart.. She spoke only of Laura. | How beautiful she was, how good, how kind, what an. admirable daughter, what an unselfish friend. Richard would have been content to listen for hours to the theme upon which Mrs. Fangle strung her tender ut- terances, and he drew Mts. Fangle on to speak of Laura’s’ childhood. Mrs. Fangléhad much to say, and she per- formed her love task in a manner that would have made Laura blush had she heard. “No woman everhad a truer friend than Laura has been tome. The children dote on her, and when they see her coming are wild with delight. Sometimes they say, ‘Here comes» Mamma Laura!’ or ‘Here comes Sunshine !’” tid In this way did) Mrs. Fangle debate upon Laura’ virtues with perfect sincerity, believing every word she uttered, She spokemuch of Laura’s devotion to her father, and of her sympathy with him, Mrs. Fangle, as you know, was ignorant of the actual story of Rigby’s life, but she had made one for herself out of a patch- work of guesses. é “They were always poor,” said Mrs. Fangle; “but. you don’t mind that.” “Not I,” replied Richard. “Iesteem her the more because of that.” F : “What an angel of aman!” thought Mrs. Fangle, and continued aloud, “‘Andfor a good many years a great trouble has been hanging over her father. That is all over now. I shouldn’t wonder’ (this with a sly look at him) “if you knew something of the story.” Y « Yes,”’ said Richard, with a little reserve, “I know something of it.” “Of course you do,” rejoined Mrs. Fangle, with knowing smile. *But not of Laura's part in it. What induced her to go on the stage, Mrs. Fangle ?”’ ‘Love your soul! What else but to try and assist her father out of his difficulties? ‘Mrs. Fangle,’ she said to me, ‘I want to earn some money’—dear, dear ft money always is at the bottom of all these troubles— ‘I want to earn some money, and Iam going to be an actress.’ I went tothe theater with her every night, and used to encourage her, for she was dreadfully nery-— ous, although she seldom showed it. But she was never in love with the stage, and when—through a friend who shall be nameless—her father got over his trouble, she left it.’”’ Then the kind-hearted gossip went on to say how often she and Laura spoke of Richard. “After she was dressed for the party this evening, she said to me, ‘Mr. Barton will not kiow me when he sees me.’ ‘ My dear,’ I answered, ‘Mr. Barton would know you anywhere, and in any dress,’ And you would, — wouldn’t you? There, now! I think I haye said enough —more than enough, perhaps. Laura would never for- give me if she knew ’—— “One moment, Mrs, Fangle.. I am sure you have - spoken with a kind purpose, and I thank you heartily. You have given me hope and courage. If you are not deceived ’—— : arte “Deceived, my dear!” The familiar words slipped from her unawares, but she was not afraid they would be resented, ‘Shall I whisper something to you?” she asked, looking up at him with shrewd kindness. He inclined his head, and she whispered a few words in his ear, When he raised his face it was radiant. The - appearance of Mr, Armstroug put an end to the conver- - sation, and Mrs. Fangle bustled away to find Laura. |. “A good little woman that,’”’ observed Mr. Armstrong.’ “You are a great favorite of hers. You haven’t seen — Laura yet ; she has been asking after you.’’ “Therewds another person I am surprised not to Bee—, Frederick Chappell.” . eR “ He will come in later, Lexpect. Ihave no doubt, if he had known that Laura was invited, he would have put in an appearance before this.” “He will be surprised to see her. Was it not through you, Armstrong. she obtained the invitation ?” } “Yes; I had more than one purpose to serve in ob- taining it. It is in a certain. sense a fine revenge for Frederick Chappell’s behavior toward her. Then it is . a great triumph for Laura's father. It would move you f to pity to hear that old man’s history. Laura is behay- * ing bravely. In all this fine company of born ladies there is not one to compete with her. Mrs. Chappell has been most kind to her, and when Lord Beaumorrig asked who that pretty girl was, and Mrs. Chappell pre- sented her, I saw her father’s face light up with joy. Lord Beaumorris talked to Laura tor quite five minutes; you would haye been amused to have heard what he said to me afterward about her. The old lord mumbled _ out that she was fresh and sweet, and hunting about for a simile, hit upon the original one of a flower, and called. her a fresh-gathered rose. From that moment I for- gaye him for his grand airs and pomposity, and I shall now foreyer look upon him as a fine and gallant old gentleman.” The American was very animated, and his face, usu- ally 80 grave was brighter than Richard had ever beheld it. With singular earnestness, he said to Richard, after er Richard, th “ Ric » this night may mark a bright and h era in my life.” : . 3 . obey. “In mine, also,” thought Richard, as he strolled through the rooms by the side of his friend. He had fully made up his mind to speak to Laura, and ask her >
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Di j LOVE'S VICTORY. to be his wife, if he could find the opportunity. Mrs. Wangle’s words were not to be mistaken. Laura loved him. His pulses were charged with joy and happiness. «Laura loves me; Laura loves me,” he thought. How sweet and beautiful life was to him! : LAURA'S DREAM. . Mrs. FANGLE’s conversation with Laura, after her in- terview with Richard, was short and to the purpose. Indeed, it can scarcely be called a conversation, for the good little woman had all the talk to herself. The arrangement of Mrs. Chappell’s rooms afforded ample opportunities for private conversation, and there were many conyenient nooks. and corners in which those who were disposed for flirtation could carry out their wishes. Mrs. Rusighe drew Laura into a retired nook, where they were free from observation. They stood mow by the side of a window which opened. out into the garden, and a pair of heavy curtains concealed them from the eyes of the guests. The recess was a large one, and that part of it which was farthest from the window was in theshade, At that end of tae recess there was a private door, which led into private rooms in the house. Mrs. Fangle and Laura, standing by the ‘window, could plainly see each other, for the night was clear and the moon was shining. Laura’s face was bright with happiness. ‘Can it be true?” she asked herself. ‘(Can it be true that he loves me?” She felt that she was unworthy of him; how could she make herself worthy of one so good and noble? She had thought of him, dreamed of him, from the first hour she saw him ; his presence had always brought delight to her.. Her father had not told her the name of the friend who, suddenly and unexpectedly, had so nobly assisted him and reinstated him in society.. “I will tell yousoon, my darling,’’ he had said: “at present my ips are sealed.”” She did not need him to tell her; her heart told her very surely who was their benefactor. Still, the mystery which surrounded the affair had at first engendered doubts, but these were soon dispelled by Mrs. Fangle. ‘*A man in love will do anything, my dear,’ Mrs. Fangle said, and in a hundred ways the little woman. encouraged. Laura in the belief to which she was only too willing to yield. And now, when Mrs; Fangle spoke out plainly, and told Laura all that had passed between her and Richard, the young girl felt thather happiness was almost too great to believe “in. “J can hardly believe it,” she murmured. ‘“ Are you sure, Mrs. Fangle?’” ‘Pop sure, my dear, unless there are two Lauras and two Richards. I know the signs well enough, although itis along time since Fangle and I courted., What a wonderful man I used to think him !—Fangle, I mean, my dear. Ah! courting is the happiest time!” “* You must not say that, Mrs, Fangle,” » “Well, no, my dear; but it is forsome of us... Not for you, Laura, for. every thing is.bright before you ; but if you were to ask for my adyice whether you should marry a poor man, I should say, No.” (Laura thought: “If he had not a penny in the world, and asked me to be his wife, I would gladly say, Yes.”’) «Fangle and I might haye been, happy if he had only a little money ; we can’t live all our lives upon air, my dear, But, there! why should I make you unhappy with my troubles! And your case is so different. It is a romance, my dear. Only think of his coming over the oéean such thousands and thousands of miles, and you two falling in loye with each other! It is like a play.” “ Hush ! Mrs. Fangle,” said Laura, placing her fingers on Mrs. angles lips. ‘ Some one is coming.” Mrs. Fangle peeped out of the curtains, “Jt is only your father, my dear. Ishall tell him you are here, and then I'll go and look for Fangle, Ah, what a different man he was before he was married! Quite handsome, my dear. But men do alter so after mar- ae in more ways than one. Laura is here, Mr. Rigby.” And Mrs, Fangle slipped away as the old man stepped into the recess. She did not goin search of her husband. She kept watch outside the curtains, so that those within the recess should not be disturbed; she kept watch, also, for Richard, to give him the oppor- tunity she knew he was seeking for, of speaking to Laura when she was alone. Rigby gazed with love and admiration upon _his - daughter, who, as she stood by the window, bathed in soft light, might have inspired a painter with a theme, - “*T have been looking for you, my dear,” he said. “Mrs. Fangle and I have been talking here for quite ten minutes, Ishould say, papa. Is it not peacefuland ‘beautiful here?” She drew him to her side, and he passed his arm around her. “What do you think of me, papa, dressed as a grand lady?” “You are a good girl, my darling—that’s better.” «“ Everybody wants to spoil me with flattery—even ou, papa. I never thought I should live to be flat- ered by alord; you have no idea what compliments Lord Beaumorris has paid me to-night. But I am de- termined not to be spoiled, so I shall only believe just half what is said to me.” «You may believe every word I speak, my darling. Laura, you have been a great blessing tome.” “Tam glad you love me, papa.” The deep tenderness in hor voice caused him to look at her more closely. : «Why, Laura, there are tears in your eyes!” «They are tears of happiness, dear papa—for I am, oh; sohappy! No,I cannot tell you why, except that everything seems fairer than it used to be. Tam not crying now, And so you are proud of me, papa!” “Proud of you, my darling!” he said, softly, kissing her. . -“ How differont everything. is with us now, papa! How different, and how much brighter. Think of our’ ‘being invited here, and your being reeeived wpon an equality among all this gay company! And but a little _ while ago ”’——= : “She paused, and in the sentence that followed mused upon the happy future which she saw before her. The current of lovers’ musing is: forever the same. As Richard had derived the most exquisite pleasure from the thought that Laura loved him,so she found the sweetest happiness and purest delight. she had ever experienced in the whisperings of her heart that she was loved by her hero. Her father’s voice broke upon her dream, but did not disturb it. i, mn you know, my dear child, to whom we owe all 3 Ld “Ah,” she thought, ‘do I not know?” but her words did not betray her. ‘‘ You promised to tell me, papa.” “JT have come to tell you, dear child. My lips are unsealed now, and I am authorized to speak. I can tell you to whom I owe it that I am able to raise my head, after all these years and look honest men in the face once more. It has come to me very late in life, my darling, but I thank God that I have lived until this time. Laura, my child,it is but seldom that we have spoken on the theme that has weighed me down dur- Ing all these years, but it is necessary that I should speak of it now. Even you, my child, who have been my only companion and solace, can scarcely know the daily agony I have suffered; even you can scarcely compass the depth of my gratitude to the noble friend who enabled me to pay the debt of shame and disgrace which blackened my name and stained my honor,”’ “Do not think of, it, dear papa!’’ she entreated, see- ing how strongly he was moved. —_- “Not think of it, child!’’ he exclaimed, unable to stem the current of these bitter memories. ‘ Before you were born, it poisoned my life. My hair has grown white in the one long thought of it which has filled my mind for more than a generation, to the exclusion of every other subject of human interest ’’—— She checked him gently here. ‘Dear papa, you thought of me.’’ “Forgive me, child; you have been my light. But for you Ishould not haye been able to live through it. Although so many years have passed, all is as fresh to me as though it had occurred but yesterday. I see him now, my brother, standing in the dock, calm and cold, not oppressed by a sense of his guilt—— Hush, child! he was guilty. Nota person in the court who did not pronounce him so, Everybody whispered it round about me, and commented upon the brazen_effront- ery, as they termed it, with which he bore himself. His own lawyer broke down in the defense. Denfense.! there was ho defense. His bare word that he was in- nocent—of what avail.was that ?’’ “Tf he were innocent, papa,’’ pleaded Laura, pity~- ingly, ‘‘ that were enongh.” ‘Dear child, while my head was bowed down, by shame, and darkness encompassed me, I tried hard.to believe him. I fought with my reason, with my sense of right and wrong, and said, ‘He cannot be guilty ; his word is sufficient.’ But the missing key was found in his office coat—the missing book at his lodgings ; and when these proofs were brought forward, and I heard the damning testimony of a fellow-clerk, the comments of the people, the reluctant admission of his own counsel that le did not see how.he could resist the evidence, and that all he could do. was to plead the extenuating circumstances of youth, and indiscre- tion—when I heard the summing up of the judge, and the rapid-decision of the jury, ‘Guilty ’—hope died utterly away, and I could no longer doubt the guilt of the brother I had loved so dearly.”’ « Byen then he declared his innocence ?’”’ “To the last. Before sentence was passed, he said proudly, in reply to an observation made by the judge with reference to the plea of his counsel for mercy, ‘I do not ask for mercy, my lord, for that would carry with it an admission of guilt. Iam asone in a web, and Iam powerless. But Iam innocent, as I hope for future mercy. ‘The judge rebuked him for his obsti- nacy, and sentenced him to transportation for life. I bas him good-bye as though he were on his death- be sage “Oh, father, it was hard!’’ “Tt was just. His last words to me were, ‘ Brother, the day may come when you will repent your injus- tice;’ and I told him that the object of my life should bo the restitution of the money he had embezzled, He made a gesture of despair, and we parted forever. Until that day I did not realize how terrible was the blow that had fallen upon me; but the knowledge came swiftly. The moment I stepped out from the prison-door, after that last interview with my brother, the world was changed to me. Every friend and ac- quaintance fell away from me, and would know me no more. Not one merciful word, not one kind look was given to me; not a hand clasped mine in friendship: I was tainted and disgraced; my brother’s infamy had made me infamous. You know the rest; you know how vainly I strove to save; and though you tried to help me, poor child, I might have died with the debt of shame still clinging to me had it not been for the noble-hearted man who, for your sake, supplied me with the means torepay the money my brother had stolen.” Both her sympathy with her father and her joy at the confirmation of her dearest hope kept Laura silent; but the unspoken words were in her mind, “For my sake! Boestill,my heart. For my sake!’’ Over the despairing story, what bright clouds were stealing to blot it out forever ! “Never again, dear child,” continued her father, in a quieter tone, “shall this story, with my own consent, pass my lips. Ishould not have toldit now but that it seemed to me necessary to show the generous kind- ness and nobility of our best friend in its true light. No words of mine can express my gratitude. Last week, tor the first time since I left the bank, I passed the bank-door as the clerks came out, and then I knew that the story of the restitution was known, and that my shame was wiped away. They raised their hats to me—to me, the poor hall-porter! The youngsters who used to avoid me clustered around me, and held out their hands tome. With the pressure of their young. fingers upon mine, with the music of their kind voices- singing in my heart, I—I could not help it—I cried for oO , ere were tears in his eyes now. Brighter grew the clouds in Laura’s dream. : § * All this has our noble friend done for me, for your sake, dear child. Through him we are here, honored» and respected. He has-restored to me my youth, for: your dearsake. I’m his debtor now, and you can repay him.” “How?” asked Laura, shyly, andin a voice so low that, had her head not rested on his breast, he could _ not have heard it, “ That is his secret, which he wishes to tell you him- self. But can you not guess how you can repay him ?’* “JT think I can,” she whispered. 2 “And you will, dear child?” «Yes,’’ she sighed, happily. “Lord bless you! What joy it brings to me to know that your heart isin your words. Ihave not suffered in vain.” The curtains were gently drawn apart, and another person entered the recess. ‘*See, he is here— our friend and benefactor—the restorer of my honor.” He kissed her with great tenderness, and releasing himself from her embrace, left the place. Laura stood - in blissful silence for a few moments, with night’s soft light shining on her face. Then turning her head, she saw standing by her side—Mr. Armstrong. CHAPTER IX. A DECLARATION OF LOVE. Iris not often that the dream.of a life is shattered in aninstant of time. Generally, the conviction that we have been living in a shadow-land made bright by hopes which are neyer to be realized, comes only by gradual stages, andin such a manner as to lessen the bitterness of the shock. We fight against our reason ; we question and doubt; we find and: invent excuses ; we are so tenacious of our treasure, so unwilling to be robbed and disenchanted, that we obstinately close our eyes to the fact. The woman we love is false. Who dares tosay so? We look with anger onthe person who first whispers the treason in our ears, and were it in our power to inflict a mortal injury updén him, we would do it without compunction, and find ustification for the act in his baseness. He was our friend; he is no longer 50. We uséd: to confide in him ; he is no longer worthy of our confidence! -Why, it was>to this © very man that we first confessed our love for the best and purest being the world contained ; it was to him we poured out our grief when, ungrateful that we were, we fancied she was cold to us—to him we poured out our joy when she spoke the: dear and precious words which made the days fairer and the flowers more beau- tiful, and which kindled in our:heart a star of love, and faith and truth, the light of which could never, never be dimmed. And now this falsé triend: has: play- ed the traitor, and has muttered black treason to us, Ont upon him! Never againshall our hands be clasped in triendship; the mask has dropped trem his treacher. ous tace.. Ho goes from our presence witha sad coun- tenance, and when next we meet we are strangers—as we should always have been but for our folly and trustfulness. Yet his words have left his sting and we feel the smart. They recur tous during the sleeples# night that follows his disclosure, and our brain is alive with uneasy doubts, But ever and anon through the restless hours they pale in the light of the star of love that shines in our heart. Her face, with a smile upon it, rises to his imagination, and gives him the lie. “Can you mistrust me?’ it éxpresses. ‘Look in my eyes for truth.’’ We look and find it. But the doubts arise again. We throw the blame of our suffering upon the false friend, and it intensifies the wrong he has done us. When we sce her again, her face seems toreproach us; but she smiles as she did yesterday, and her em- brace is not. less warm ; her hand lies in ours, her lips are soft and willing. f , The doubts have fled; we have lost a friend, but love and faith and truth remain. The starshines bright- ly. Yet within a week we are conscious of a change in her; what change and how it came we know not, but it is there. (Itis not only with the leaves of a flower that “He lceves me—loves me not,” is played; and men and women are seldom so single-hearted as Margaret as to play it but once in life.) The doubts revive, and the sting which we thought her constancy had plucked out, smarts again. And we hear other whispers. ‘We fight and struggle against them ; the fault is in our! selves, notin her, Yet we cannot avoid seeing that her manner is not the same. She is more beautiful than ever, but her lips smile less frequently. The grateful and kindly feelings toward our kind which our love brought prominently into play, are weakening; a beg- gar who stands at the corner of the street in which she dwells suffers from this. We used to give alms to tho beggar; to-day we pass him by without athought. We study the history of our be aren a 8 and our love; we dwell on the memory of words, and looks, and kisses which we have treasured in our heart of hearts. Undoubtedly she is colder than she was; her enthusiasm in our ambitions is fainter; our conversation does not flow as in the old days—already and unconsciously we adopt the phrase, “The old days.” And so, and so, gradually and surely, we learn the truth. The woman we loved is false, as all women are; truth and constancy are things of air, delusions, mockeries—to be found only in the dictionaries. Fool that we were, to believe in them! Life is tasteless. “Frailty, thy name is” woman.” The star of love shines no longer in our heart. The days are not.as fair, thé flowers are not as beautiful as they were. The world is changing for the worse. Our dream is shattered. ; echaak And a8 with love, so with friendship, so with faith in_ human “nature, so with other hopes and fond anticipa--
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~ LOVE'S VICTORY.. 3 tions that animate the shadow-land we conjure up around us. : But to Laura was not given a slow and merciful awakening from her dream, The presence of Mr. Arm- strong in the place ofthe man she loved, and whom she expected to see, awoke her suddenly and mercilessly, She comprehended it all in an instant, andin that instant she understood that the brightest chapter in her lite was closed, never ta be continued to the happy end- ing which her fond musing had written for her in her heart. The shock.was very terrible, and it was well for her that she was so placed that she could turn her white and terror-stricken from Mr. Armsttong, and hide from his sight the anguish depicted there. It faded soon, and left her sad, and in a measure resigned. The image of her father rose before her—her father whose life had been one long despair—rose and strengthened her for what was to come. Could she plunge him back into the abyss from which he had been raised? It was through her, and for love of her, that his honor had been restored and his life brightened. By whom? By aman whom she had long esteemed and admired, and whom she knew to be good and just and noble. And this man came now to ask for his reward, and she had promised to give it to him. At this crisis in her lite there came to Laura a courage of which no one who knew her would have believed her capable, but it is only on such occasions that the exercise of great quali- ties is called for. On one side stood Love; on the other Duty. It was for her to choose between them. Mr. Armstrong, when he entered the recess, was not the bold, outspeaking man we have hitherto seen. He had come to play his great stake, and his manner now displayed much. tenderness and some timidity. His love for Laura had not been a sud- den passion; it had grown out of his acquaintanceship with her, and it was based upon a sure foundation. When it suggested itself to him that he was growing to love her, it suggested itself also to him that he should either struggle against the feeling, or sce Laura no more. Then he asked of himself, for what reason? Why should he shut the gates of happiness upon him- selt? Leading a busy fe, and surrounded by aquaint- ances, he was stilla lonely man; and of a night when he entered his rooms, their silence palled upon him. “Tf Laura was sitting in that chair!’ he often thought, when he was alone. ‘If I could hear Laura’s voice about the place!” His thoughts did not end there; he carried it farther on into the years, and drew pic- tures which made his heart beat with new thrills of happiness. These sensations coming to him when the heyday of his youth was past, were all the more pow- erful because of that. He was emphatically an earnest man; in everything hoe undertook this great quality displayed itself; all his beliefs and opinions, all his impressions of men and manners, were founded upon a firm rock of earnest- ness, and this,in conjunction with a strong love for justice,in small things. as well as great, formed the nucleus of a character which the few admired, and the many either disliked or did not understand. It wasa notable feature in connection with his growing love for Laira that he found interest in a certain kind of litera- ture which he had hitherto disregarded. If he chanced to meet with astory in which children and good women were depicted with tenderness and effect, he read it more than once, and inyariably in some way associated Laura with it. Of this vein of newly developed senti- ment he made no parade; he enjoyed it.in secret, and wondered why he-had not discovered it before. So he allowed oe to take their regular course, not oppos- ing them, and giving himself up to the pleasant beguile- ment, He cowld not fail to see that Laura derived pleasure from his’ society, and his hope grew with his love. He was curious to discover the reason of Laura’s going on the stage, for he perceiyed in her none of that ambition which actresses display in one way or another. By this time he had established himself as her father’s friend as well as hers, and so considerate was he toward the old man that he won his confidence. He questioned Mr. Chappell concerning Rigby, and learned that the old man had been in the bank since he was a lad, but from the banker he learned nothing more. At length, however, he heard the story from Rigby him- self, and then he saw.a way to perform an act in per- fect consistency with his character. All this occurred before Richard Barton’s appearance upon the scene. _ And now Mr. Armstrong stood before Laura, prepared to play his great stake. eeving spoken to the father, and obtained his delighted and grateful consent, he, came to the daughter to make his confession. That she should turn her face from him when she saw him was to hima natural and modest action, for he knew that her father had prepared her for the interview. That she should be silef¢ “was also natural. It was for _ him to speak. For a few moments, however, no word was spoken. Frequently, when we are most deeply in earnest, the co edme. Your counsel washike wine tome. You gave me strength to battle with the difficulties—and they are great ones—that surround a young actress, But for you, I might not have had the courage to con- tinue the work, andI was grateful indeed that I had won so true a friend. But during those days I some- times ask myself, ‘Why does he do all this? What motive can induce him tu act so generously to one so humble as 1?’ ”’ “I do not deserve questioning was just.” “Then you became acquainted with my father, and came to our poor dwelling. I was happy and satisfied —more than satisfied, when I saw how your kindness affected my father, and what comfort you brought to him. He was never so happy as when you were with us. Sotime went on chee, wonderful thing occurred. My father was enabled to pay a debt’”’—Laura’s voice fal- tered here—‘‘a debt of shame, and to hold up his head once more. A change came over our life—suddenly and unexpectedly to me—and I left the stage, there be- ing nolonger any occasion forme toremain upon it. But these were not the only happy events that occured. Here, in this very house, to whose master my father was for years a servant, we find ourselves invited guests, honored and respected.” “ As you deserve.” “TItis but a few minutes since,” continued Laura, with deep emotion, “ that I learned to whom we owe all this—to you, most noble of friends! It is you who have renewed my father’s youth, and who have given to me the happiness of seeing him Iloye as Ilove to see him.” “Then you are happy, Laura?’ She did not hesitatein her answer. change that hascome upon us? Yes.” “Ttmakes me glad to hear you say so. your father told you nothing else ?”’ “No,” she faltered, ‘‘except—except”——_ “Except,” he repeated, with tender enceuragement. Her head drooped—“ That you had a secret.” “You shall hearit. I have come _ to tell it to you, hoping that you guess if, and not now for the first time. You said that during the first days of our acquaintanceship you some- times questioned yourself as to my motive for my conduct. Laura, I had but one. It was not long before the interest I took in you deepened into esteem—it was not long before esteem ripened into love. I confess it is for you, and for your sake, that I have helped your father. Selfish as it may sound, and selfish as it is,it is to this moment J have looked for— may I say my reward? No, reward is a wrong term. Lask for no sacrifice—although ”’ he said thoughtfully, in his determination to be just, “itis a sacrifice for you to accept a man so much older than yourself. Laura, Ilove you! You know me, and know what those words mean when I speak. them, as I do, in full sincer- ity and earnestness. They are from my heart. Believing that I can make you happy as you can make me, Lask you to be my wife.” She knew, indeed, what the words meant from him, She knew that she could trust him, that he would be faithful, true, and kind to her. “ Duty, gratitude, honor, my father’s peace of mind, all call me to him—and yet, your eulogy, Laura; but your “ Happy in the Laura, has oh,'my heart ?’”” The words were not spoken she thought them only; she could not muster sufiicient. self-control to speak aloud. . “It has been in my mind fora long time,’’ he con- tinued, tenderly; ‘to make .the confession to you—to ask you to bestow upon me the greatest. happiness which can ever be mine. Believe me, I would not ask you, if I were not, confident of the future—but that shall speak for itself. I have lived a lonely life, Laura, and have seen my youth slip past me without love, without thought of loye. . But when Isaw you, a new light dawned upon me. and I thanked God forit. I saw my Jife spreading out before me, fairer and more beautiful than I could ever have hoped it would be, with one by my side whom Icould love and cherish, Still, if I had not some flattering expectation, I should have been silent. I havea lover's feeling, although T am nota young man, and when upon your last birth- day—but a few days since—I sent you some flowers, doing—took it asa sign, and it made me happy.” and saw on the next day and the next that you seemed to find a pleasure in wearing them, I—forgive me for so With pain she learned that it was he, not Richard, who had sent her the flowers she had prized so highly. They were lying in her desk now. She had said to her- self that she would never part with them. What bright garlands for the future had she not woven out of the faded leaves? She had spoken to them, and kissed them, blushing as she did 80. “May I say more, Laura? In a low tone she answered his question by another. “Have you considered the difference in our posi- Not reluctantly, but as it seemed to him softly and ye ee as he would have had it, the answer came: “se es.”’ . ; On her part the sacrifice to duty was made ; on his part, the most precious won. Heinclined toward her with eager tenderness, and pressed his lips upon her hand. As he did so, he heard a slight cough behind him. It came from Mr, Fangle, whose h was between the curtains, and who saw the simplecaress. Mr. Armstrong went at once to him, and closed the curtains upon Laura, who, over- come by emotion, sank into a seat by the window. He at that at such a moment she would wish to be one. , *‘ Beg pardon,’’ said Mr. Fangle, with another cough, “but I thought you might be there, and I pop my a in. Hope you don’t think I intended to in- rude.”’ A = at all,’’ replied Mr. Armstrong, with a bright smile. “ Shouldn’t have done it, ifI had known ; but I saw nothing, Iassure you. Mum’s the word!” “Tfyou did see anything,I am sure you will not mention it.”’ ; Mr. Armstrong had no desire that what haa taken place should for the present be known. He had settled his plans, and had decided how andin what way he would make the engagement public. The garden en- tertainment of which Mr. Chappell had spoken would, he considered, afford him a fitting opportunity of pre- await until then. * Mention it!’’ repeated. Mr. Fangle, with fervor; it was. a fine thing to be taken into Mr. Armstrong's con- fidence. ‘‘ Not for worlds! Not for worlds!” gle in earnest conversation. Richard’s face was radiant, and Mrs, Fangle was furtively watching her husband and Mr. Armstrong. She was anxious that they should move away from the curtains,so that Richard might speak to Laura without attracting observation. Some- thing in Richard’s manner appeared to nettle Mr, Fan- gle, and he said, fretfully : “Mr. Armstrong, oblige me, and look at that young gentleman.” “Who? Mr. Barton ?” “Yes, sir. him ?” amused observance of Mrs. Fangle. j “I know it—Lseeit. Tell me, then, where justice is to be found.” ““Not commonly in a ball-room, I should say... But 1 do not quite understand you.”’ “Compare us. There — Money. Money is smiling, well-dressed, courted, idolized, while Brains is reduced to its dress-coat. Itis.a fact, sir ; I am reduced toit.. Ihaven’t another in the world. Be- ing the least worn; it has outlived the others.’ is completed ’”’—— “Ah, then; ‘of: course~but bothers me! I almost forgot. I knew where you were; that’s why Ipopped my head between the curtains. -Lthink he wishes, to speak to ‘that. little: screw still Mariner.”’ : be in thelast edition of to-night’s Moon.” ; “T have sent for the paper; it will be here presen “<I will go to Mr. Chappell.” ; «‘You will excuse me for that, little etat affair,’ paid. Mr. Fangle, nodding his head toward the curtain as Mr. “You may rely on my . Mum’s the — Armstrong was walking away. discretion. I saw nothing, believe me. word.” 3 CHAPTER X. _ A DECLARATION OF WAR. THE reyulsions of feeling through which Laura had passed during the last hour were so strange and start- They were sad enough, and her heart was aching v sorely, but she did not doubt that she had acted righ ly. This was the first great sacrifice she had ever been called upon to make, and she had made it freely and bape 4 from a strong sense of duty, Bitter as it was, it did notcompletely crush her. Her dream was over, and love had gone out of her life; but she would be strong, and live through her days bravely, and no one but herself should know the truth. She would do her duty by the noble gentleman to whom she was now irrevocably pledged, as she had done her duty by her father, whom he had raised from shamé. The thought ize the world contained was senting Laura as his future wife, and he resolved to A few yards from them stood Richard and Mrs. Fan-.. Have you observed how he has been - courted—idolized—how everybody here bows down to , ‘He is a great favorite,’ said Mr. Armstrong, with an Here — Brains. + “T regret to hearit; but surely, when yourinvention | Mr. Ghappell asked if - you concerning a rumor about a ship called the Golden - “If thereis any information about the ship, it should ling that she was grateful to be alone with her thoughts. © right- y da y You will be my wife?” jef | tions ?” of that generous act, and of her father’s joy at the * ei acougth carla to Sot But during the brief) “ut know,” he replied, simply,“ that you are far union, brought some comfort to her. Her rent fear “Your father has spoken to you, Laura,” said Mr. above me.” P dist igi ohn sé was that she should not be strong enough, an that her ‘Armstrong, somewhat diffidently. “You know the story of our dishonor,” said she, in | weakness would betray her. She determined to school « Yes,” a replied the same low tone. . and keep watch over herself, for her father’s sake and. ‘s eins told aad everything ?” “Your father has made me fully acquainted with the | for the sake of the man to whom she had given her ) 5s Has he told y @ much—oh, 80 much of your good- story of his life. I know that his brother was guilty of hand. Her honor demanded that she should do so. He has " weg : a crime, and that that crime blighted your father’s | She would cast aside all thought of self, and perform rin ae ery Laura. I have been actuated py | career, Your dishonor! It is mockery to call it so.| her part in the sad drama with courage and resigna- 1 ae rf iach that I have done.” Does justice demand more than its due? Because my | tion. Yet with all these high resolves, it was to be for- bear ~ Pt yd,” said Laura, her voice growing | father committed a crime for which I was not account- les her that she should allow her thoughts to dwell #) Airee ’ ier. = 4 was becoming “clearer to her every | ble, shall men shrink from me and avoidme as though | for a brief space upon the dream in which she had ‘in- - maihant) let’ us ‘speuk plainly.°-Nay, bear "me first, | My Presetice wereicontastmatton? ith | Guiged. Questioning herself, she was af first unable During the time we have known each other you have It is the world’s fas — said Laura, sadly, with | to decide whether she hoped that Mrs. Fangle was ‘treated me with such unwavering kindness that I | her father’s sufferings a er mind. wrong in the idea that Richard loved her. It would be fs should have been ungrateful, indeed, if I had not “Tt is crnel—it is unjust,” exclaimed Mr. Armstrong, | best so, she said, after some sad self-communing, and learned to—to esteem you, and to be proud of your! warmly. “If Ilive a pure life I am entitled to the re- yet it pained her to think it might be so. Them she friendship.” St spect of men. Not in this way shall the sins of the | wasangry and indignant with herself that she should Th 7 ye ¢ was in you, not in me, Laura.” father be visited upon the children. “See, Laura, how | feel pained to know this. Why should she wish him to be «“ When waters Aivee introduced, I was a poor actress, | your only objection has melted away. Never was my unhappy ? Why should she not be grateful to learn that cofistlending tay pre fession, and your kind words en- | life so bright as now. her heart had whispered false hopes to her—ag false as, 4 a ‘ t ‘ : é ~ “= “ J‘ ‘ a i =) Ea “ i 5 x ‘ ’ ‘ - y " Se SS ee ee: | See eo” ee eee | ” . Oe a a, are bs PS Oy - J a
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eS FO To SE Ts Se ee apr get a > VOHAPTER(XI.* sleaiine © nto) SOCIETY PASSES, JUDGMENT. UPON RICHARD BARTON. ig Wiri the exception of Mr. Fangle, all the principal ” persons who play their parts in this story, and who were by this time agitated by so many Conflicting emo- tions, were now assembled in one part of the reception- room. Mr. Fangle himself, with a paper in his hand; ” bustled toward them, and completed the list of” dramatis persone. He had obtained a copy of the last edition of The Moon, and was glancing through it as he approached the group. : “You scem interested in that paper, Mr. Fangle,’* ” observed Mrs. ‘Chappell, with condescension. It was but seldom she noticed so small a personage as Mr. Fangle. ‘“ What.paper is it ?”” “The Moon, madam, The Moon—most extraordinary little paper? Comes’ out every hour With a phiz-z, Ought to be called the Little Splutterer,” “Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Saint Fitzfaddle, with ‘his usual contribution to the conversation. ‘“ Very good !”’ ‘Tg there anything particular in it ?” Mr. Armstrong took the paper from Mr, Fangle, and running his eye over the columns, said: . “This appears to be the most important paragraph : ‘At the last moment of going to press, we are informed, upon the best authority, that there is not the slightest foundation for the rumor concerning the foundering of the ship, the Golden Mariner.’ ”’ ‘loge He‘handed the paper to Mr. Chappell, who read the paragraph with a feeling of intense relief and satis- faction. “Is there any reason, Mr. Armstrong,” inquired a “for special anxiety concerning this ship ?” ‘Some reason, my dear madam. It has been a long time out, and nothing has been heard of it. Its cargo is very valuable, and it is heavily insured.” : “J haye heard,” said Mrs. Chappell, “that these | small papers occasionally print the wildest things. To ° make them sell, I suppose.” “ They certainly like to'spice their dishes. the people’s papers, you must bear in mind.’ I can’t understand what the people want with such things. They ought to be abolished, Do you not agree with me, Lord Beaumorris ?’’ “They do no harm, madam,” said the old lord; « they do—no harm. So long as society—keeps itself within bounds—everybody in his proper place—such papers as The Moon do no harm. The people—the people re- quire—to be amused.’’ Frederick Chappell saw his opportunity. “Everybody in his proper place, my lord, And if when a person gets into the wrong carriage ?” “Turn him out—turn him out. He has no businkss there. IfI got into a third-class carriage—I should de- serve to be—turned out.” “The journalists of such papers as The Moon,’ said Frederick, “are continually hunting after the sensa- tional, and, as Mr. Armstrong says, they like to spice their dishes. I know of a dish, however, which re- Q wires no spice to make it palatable when it gets into @ papers.” », ‘Indeed, Frederick,’ said Mrs. v7 the story oe : a ig At “You will admit that itis an interesting one,” re- plied Frederick, who, by his pointed thansig! had a tracted the full attention of the circle. It is the story of a person—a young man—who came to London from a colony which was once a penal settlement. Having money—how gained is not known—he managed to in- trude himself into fashionable society. By his plausi- ble manners he made himself a favorite, and was much courted for atime, until—and here comes the point of the story—until it was suddenly discovered that he was the son of a convict ’?—— “The son of a convict?’ exclaimed Mrs, “How shocking |” “Ah |” said Mr. Saint Fitzfaddle. “Very bad? “He had concealed this tact,” continued Frederick, ‘from his new friends, dreading the consequences, per- haps. Possibly he thought, because he had a well-filled > purse, that, even if discovered, society would overlook | his degraded position. At leigth exposure came, and then—but I am not privileged is disclose more at pres- ent.. Tam waiting with curiosity to learn the end of the story, which has just reached the stage at which I break off.’’ “You know this person, Frederick?” asked Mrs. Chappell. “Oh, yes; and so do most of those pregent,” “Tn parliamentary. fashion, then, we call, Name mae i ‘ > “Wait. Iam curious to hear your is will the story end ?”’ sae ah ; — ; “There can be but one. result of the exposure,”’ said Mrs. Chappell. “Sucha person must be at once ex- pelled from the society of ladies and gentlemen. Eh, Mr. Chappell ?” “Undoubtedly,” asserted the banker ; “no lady or gentleman can associate with the son of a convict,” Laura placed her hand on her father’s arm. The old man at these words looked nervously around, and then cast his eyes to the ground as in days gone by, Mrs. Chappell spoke again. ‘‘ Whatis your opinion, Mr, Armstrong ?” “T reserve it,” replied the American ; “there are two sides to every question. I like to hear both before passing judgment.” r “There is but one side,” said Lord Beaumorris, with an air of great dignity, ‘‘to such a question as this. Mr. Frederick Chappell—in my opinion—bound to dis- close name—of this person.” i : bane story will soon become common enough, my ord.” : “We have at least one gentleman amon 2 3 Mrs. Chappell, with a flattering smile at Richard, ts hud listened in silence to the conversation, and who — They are Chappell, or
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LOVE'S VICTORY. 25 was standingdn such a position that his face was par- tially hidden from the company, “ who will not imitate Mr. Armstrong’s reserve. Mr, Barton is from the colonies. His opinion will be valuable.” : At this direct appeal all eyes were directed toward Richard. ; “T shall be surprised,” said Frederick Chappell, with distinct and cious emphasis, ‘“‘if Mr. Banton’s opinion vwpon this special case is not as curious as it is sure to be valuable. No one broke the silence that followed unti) Richard spoke, es What,” he asked, in a sad tone, “if this young man’s father was innocent ?”’ “Nonsense, sir—nonsense !” cried Lord Beaumorris. “Did you not hear—what Mr. Chappell has told us? This person’s father—was a convict—a convict, sir— anda verdict of guilty must haye been passed upon him. No man is innocent—no man—after he is found g Richard raised his head proudly, and looking steadily at Lord Beaumorris, said. “ My father was, my lord ! “Your father! stammered Lord Beaumorris. “Yes, my lord, my father. The story you have heard—though told for an unworthy end—is my story. It is J who, coming to England ‘under some such cir- cumstances as those narrated—with the exception of the lie that my father was guilty—have been admitted into society. But I did not force myself into it; un- asked, it wooed and welcomed me. No man is in- mocent after he is found guilty! Fitting axiom, my lord, for the law’s infallibility, whose unequal justice is sometimes administered by a tallible judge. Con- demned to exile for a crime he did not commit—it was embezzlement from Mr. Chappell’s bank he was charged with—my father lived and died in a distant land, torn from the dear associations of his youth, dead to friends, to family—a victim to pitiless injustice! He lived there a blameless life, and when upon his death-bed he told me his pitiless story, swore to right his dear memory—and I will!” ’ Notwithstanding the manly though sorrowful tone in which this confession was made, the guests, one by one, fell back from the speaker, and stood apart from Laura turned, sobbing, to her father. “Hush, child!” he murmured. ‘It is of my brother he is speaking.” “ Armstrong,” said Richard, addressing himself to the American, “when I promised to tell you my story be- fore we parted to-night, I did not think you would hearit thus strangely.’ Mr. Armstrong made no moye- ment toward him, and asad smilecame upon Richard’s lips. ‘Lord Beaumorris ’’—— “Sir,” said the old lord, haughtily, “we are strang- ers.’”’ “You took my hand a moment ago, my lord. Itisan honest hand. My father was innocent.” “Prove him so, sir, and I will tako your hand again, Until then, do not persume to address me.” “Mrs. Chappell—sir ’’—-~ Mrs. Chappell, with a freezing look, said: “You must be aware, sir, that your presence here is an intrusion.” “T will not trouble you much longer, madam,’ re- piles Richard, bravely restraining his emotion, ‘“ Mr. g y ppg TL “ Tshare your humiliation,’’ responded tho old man. “ Your father was my brother.” “T know it, sir; but I had resolved not to disclose myself until I had-established his innocence. Even you, sir, his brother, wronged him in your thoughts. Laura, you know all now; we are cousins.” He partly held out his arms to her, and in her love and pity she would have gone to him, but that Mr, Arm- strong’s restraining hand recalled her to herself. “Mr. Armstrong,” said Richard, his courage now al- most giving away, “‘You promised to help me. Are you like the rest of them ?” Still the American made no response. He was at war with himself. The manliness of Richard’s conduct, and the manifest honesty of his words, no less than the po- sition in which he was placed, appealed strongly to Mr. Armstrong’s just and generous nature, and he could not help entertaining a feeling of deep admiration for the young man; but Frederick Chappell’s statement regarding the insult which Richard had passed upon Laura held him back. In the midst of his doubts, Laura’s soft voice stole upon his senses, and he started as he heard his own words used against himself. : “Because his father,’ said Laura, “committed a crime for which he was not accountable, shall men shrink from him and avoid him, as though his presence was contamination ?” “You plead for him, Laura!” exclaimed Mr. Arm- strong, with @ keen and earnest observance of her. “You!” “Ah, yes,” she replied, taking his hand, “for my sake you will help him—for the love you bare to me!” She pointed to Richard, who, defiant and despairing, was standing alone. He could have borne all but the loss of his friend-—the man he loved and honored above all others in the world. | That he could desert him in this crisis, brought bitter pain and desolation to Rich- ard’s heart. ‘Shall the sin of the father,’ continued Laura, “in that way be visited upon the children? If he live a pure life, is he not entitled tothe respect of men? If you love me, help him to prove his father’s in- nocence—for my sake !’” She pare fare knelt to him but that he prevented her. Rich: and scornfully around. ig Ab Temata momen { Will aa oe stand by me ? The American flung away his doubts. ALA “Yes, I will!’ he aids ctepping to Richard's side, " A gasp of grateful joy escaped from Richard’s breast. But that other eyes were upon him, he would have found it impossible to keep back his tears. Laura bowed her head over Mr. Armstrong’s hand | Fleet Street. How often have the ladies talked over the and kissed it, sobbing : ** Bless you, Noble Heart !’’ —_ SCENE THE THIRD. AT THE GARDEN-PARTY., CHAPTER I. LIVING IN CHAMBERS. Hap Mr. Armstrong been uniformly polite, affable and suave, had he curbed the biting cynicism which he aliowed to force itself into expression, he would have been one of the most popular men in society. Butasit wss, many were frightened of him, and many absolutely disliked him. These latter were all men, and they dis- liked him because he was aplain speaker. With the women he got on better; he was nearly always gentle with them. But although he was not a general favor- ite, everybody was curious concerning him and his doings. He was reputed to be enormously rich; he was known to be exceedingly eccentric; and these were sufficient to cause him to be talked about. Then he was a bachelor, and a great prize in the lottery in which every single young lady in society hadashare. Had he been a hundred times more eccentric than he was, had he squinted, been deformed, been hideous instead of good-looking, black instead of white, it would not have mattered—he would still have been a prize in the lottery, and the ugly flame would have had plenty of etty moths fluttering around it. What a magician is money, and what fools are we who pretend to des- piseit! Asif those who are rich do not see through us! Carp as we may, money is the only thing in the world worth living for. Ifyou do not believe me, ask Mr. Million, to whom everybody ' bows and scrapes. So, my son (I should say if I had one); Ihave but one piece of advice to give you—make money, and keep on the right side of the hedge. Thatis the only true philosophy. All the rest is fudge. A fortnight elapsed between the evening on which Richard Barton was exposed by Frederick Chappell and yirtually expelled from society, and that fixed for Mr. Armstrong’s garden-party. The public announce- ment of this forthcoming entertainment created & great sensation. The most extraordinary ru- mors were circulated concerning it; it was to be brilliant, unique, a kind of fairy festival, tle like of which had never yet been seen. It was certainly, in society, the most important event of the year, and everybody who was anybody sighed for an invitation. Persons of consequence who were not invited condes- cended to intrigue for a card, and Mrs. Chappell, who was known to be on confidentially intimate terms with Mr. Armstrong, was besieged by friends and acquaintances beseeching her to use her influence with him. The task was congenial to her, and when she asked she did not askin vain; Mr. Armstrong readily complied with every request she madeto him. The house and grounds in which the entertainment was to be given had only lately come into his possession, and rumor was busy as to his motive for setting up so large an establishment. “‘ He’s going to marry,” said one. “Nonsense,” said another, ‘he is not a marrying man, Knowsa trick worth two of that. He has taken the house for show, and only for the purpose of cut- ting out everybody else. Just like an American.’’ “You know nothing about it,” said a third ; “he has bought the place on speculation. He'll sell it to Lord Slapdash before the end of the month, and will make a pretty penny out of it. That’s more like an Amer- ican.” These were men’s opinions; the women leaned decidedly to the matrimonial view of the question, and a score or two of mothers, who, with their daughters, were invited, were hourly and daily thinking of the trifling attentions Mr. Armstrong had paid their girls at such-and-such or such-and-such aparty. As they viewed these small items pate 9 very powerful mag- nifying-glasses, they one and all decided that Mr. Arm- strong “meant something.” Lady Barebones looked upon the matter as good as settled. After what had taken place, she quite gave up Richard Barton—she would have been monstrously indignant had any per- son ventured to hint that she ever entertained views in that direction—and the honor she had intended for him she now transferred to the American gentleman. She arranged tetas & comfortably as to the settle- ments, and resolved to havea good look through Mr, Armstrong’s establishment, to see that nothing was wanting. Ofcourse it was the eldest Miss Barebones— a maiden of thirty-five—Mr. Armstrong meant to pro- pose to, and Lady Barebones schooled herself to re- signation at the idea of losing her daughter, “But I will not desert her,” thought Lady Barebones; “he will have a mother-in-law.” She would have preferred amember of the English aristocracy, but the eldest Miss Barebones was “ getting on,” and one could not have all one wished for in this world; and Lady Bare- bones made up her mind that Mr. Armstrong should pay for the honor of entering such a family as hers, Other ladies who were. invited, and who had no matrimonial designs upon Mr. Armstrong, looked forward with eagerness to the pleasure of running over a bachelor’s establishment. I believe that a bachelor cannot give a greater pleasure fo such of his lady friends as have seen nothing of bachelor life than to invite them to his chambers—not to such an establishment as Mr. Armstrong’s, but to one of much more modest. pre- tensions, consisting, say, of three or four or five rooms, Three, I think, would be better than five, and should the invitation be given in London, I would fix the lo- cality somewhere between the Langham Hotel and life of their bachelor friends whom they like so much, and whose talk about this and that is such a delight to them! He knows everything about literary men, and actors and actresses, and is on terms of intimacy with many of these great persons. He tells them all thelittle tidbits, not stale and mouldy as a three-days’ cake in « confectioner’s shop, but fresh from the oven, with the gloss on the fruit. They retail these tidbits to their friends, who envy them their source of information. He belongs to clubs, and meéts So-and-so and So-and-so there. His lady friends arenot sure he is not just a little wicked or naughty, but they do not like him the worse for that, “Last night,” he says, ‘I went to the Cut and Come Again to see the new comedy, and after- ward I strolled into the Bohemians to smoke a cigar. Mr. Top and Mr. Mop, Mr. Bang and Mr. Slang were there, Crusty, the dramatic critic for the Snarler, was there, and Bluster, the new author, who thinks himself superior to Sheridan, and who was aw- fully cut upin the Snarler, happened to come in as Crusty was holding forth. They had a rare set-to. Bluster is always a bully with his tongue, and very rude ee He can occasionally write a neat epi- gram ut he never can utter one. He has to sit down to it, and trim it eff, and polishit up. He would not admit this. He tries to make people believe that he has but to strike his forehead, and the sparks rush out. Young pape came in and old Stager. We had quite @ roomful,’”’ In this way he entertains them, nursing his knee, as is the habit of many clever men, and at length, in an off-hand and er easant way, he asks them to come up to his place an musn’t expect anything,” he says, with an admiring look at Emma, whose face has flushed at the invitation (he thinks very often of Emma, and she of him, I doubt not). ‘You musn’t expect anything; only a rer of tea,” When the girls, with their mother and brother, ' knock at his door, he opens it quite unconcernedly, al- though he has been in a fever of expectation the whole of the day. Hecould have dispensed with the mother and brother, notwithstanding that he is fond of the for- mer—but thereare times! As the girls stand before him, with their bright eyes and pretty faces,he feels as though he would like to take them all in his arms ina bunch and kissthem. Both he and they must play propriety, however. They stand, and look at the chairs and tables with curiosity. They are not like other chairs and tables; there is an air about them that takes them out The knickknacks in the room, the pipes, the pictures, resemble no other knickknacks,no other pipes, no other pictures. As for the cupboards, and the corner where the screen stands, the mystery attached to these has . something Bluebeardish in its nature. Heaven only knows what she supposes the cupboards to contain,' what she suspects is behind the screen; but the mother is not quite sure, as she glances toward them, whether she was quite right in allowing her daughter to come tosuchaplace. The girls have no such doubts ; they are in a glow of delight and wonder, and he, gazing have acup of tea with him. “You of the common run of furniture. upon them, says to himself that his rooms haye never presented so bright an appearance. To the girls the room is like a temple, filled with strange relics ; they idealize the most familiar articles. The bachelor gives them 2 hearty welcome in well- chosen words. ‘‘Go in there,’”’ he says,‘ and take off your things.’”’ ‘ There,” is another room, a, prepared for its visitors, you may be sure, an a dubious pause for which the mother is responsible—{it behooves her to be careful, for there is no meres Ek may happen in so strange a place, where the s are so dark and the house so quiet)—the female kind go into the room, while the boy-brother stands with his hand in his pocket and plays the man. The bachelor hears the girls giggling. They have found on the drawers pins, hair-pins, and a puff and powder box, all new, which the bachelor has thoughtfully provided, in his impression that females cannot sustain existence for an hour without them. The mother is compelled to check the exuberance of her daughters’ spirits. She questions herself as to whether the bachelor,ought to know anything of puff-and-powder boxes, The window- curtains in the retiring-room are tied up and deécorated with blue ribbon, and Emma gives their host credit for exquisite taste, The girls aré a long time in the room. The mother comes out first, staid and serious, and n glances suspiciously at the screen; the girls follow her, ready forfun and frolic. ‘‘This is Liberty Hall,’’ says the host, and fishes out from odd corners picture-books and curiosities which never come to an end, he has so many of them, He does this carelessly,as though it has just come into his mind that they would like some- thing to look over and pull about before tea; but the truth is that all these things have been artfully ar- ranged beforehand. ‘ hen tea is ready (while the servant is laying the cloth, they stand at the window, which looks aut upon some gardens), he, half unconcernedly, half tenderly; asks Emma to preside and pour out the tea. If evera proposal was made to a girl in a roundabout fashion, this is regarded as oné by Emma’s sisters and mother, who exchange significant glances which Emma does not see, She is happy, and shy, and a little bit nervous, and is altogether a very pretty picture as she sits at the head of the table. Such wonderful tea, such amazin jellies, such sweet bread-and-butter, such rich cake an tresh fruit, were never set on her table before, and never will be again, for these girls. There are more Aladdin's caves soe one, and not all of them are stocked with precious stones. I know how the happy night ends, but I do not know yet how thestory ends, for the party I have been betrayed into describing was given only a few evenings ago. Let-us hope that it ends as most stories of this kind do—with Emma often pouring out the tea for the host, whogives up living in cham- Rate As settles down into a respectable member of society.
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26 LOVE’S VICTORY. | CHAPTER II. MRS, CHAPPELL EXONERATES HIM. Keren as was the interest evinced in Mr. Armstrong's party, Richard Barton’s atiair was not allowed to pass over in silence. _ 1t became, indeed, a fruitful theme of conversation, and. formed almost a nine days’ wonder. It was discussed in fashionable circles, and spoken of at every dinner-party and “‘At Home’ in Belgravia, and not an hour passed without a, new light being thrown upon it, or @ new piece of information being contrib- uted to the general stock. Many, among whom was Lord Beaumorris, regarded it trom a very serious point of view, That sucha person as Richard Barton should have forced himself into society, knowing how, vile he was, was.a scandalum magnum, au offense not to. be lightly regarded... When Lord Beaumorris left Mrs, Chappell’s house on the eventful evening, he left with a dreaded conviction that Mr, and Mrs. Chappell’s con- duct in placing him and the son of .a convict on a fa- miliar footing required explanation,. He was very in- dignant, and his parting bow to Mrs. Chappell was a very stately one. After all the guests had taken their departure, something like a scene had occurred between Mr. Chappell and his wite and son, ““What do you mean, sir,’’ cried Mr. Chappell, glanc- ing ‘hastily around to assure himself that they were alone, ‘by bringing disgrace upon this house—upon my name 2’ i ! Mr, Chappell’s face was very white, and his manner agitated, as he spoke, ig % “You take me by surprise, sir,’’ drawled Frederick, quite satisfied with the part he had played. “Iam not aware that I have brought disgrace upon either the house or your name.” "You have done so,” eried Mr. Chappell, violently, “ by reviving this shameful story publicly. , Would not a.private explanation between ourselyes—between our- selves—have contented you? Then all possible miscon- struction and implication would have been ayoided.” “ Implication, sir!" I tell you, Frederick, you do not know what. you have done—you do not know what you have done !’’ “If you were to say that I do not know what you mean, you would be nearer the mark. Until to-night I was a8 ignorant of the story as you were yourself. It came to my knowledge that a person was in this house whose presence was an insult tomy mother and her guests, and I considered it my duty to warn him that his true character was discovered. I take some credit, to myself for the way in which I warned him. Had he retired without joining in the conversation, no one but ourselves would have been the wiser ; but he: chose to brazen it out. You will bear in mind, sir, that I did not mention Mr. Barton’s name, and I had no intention of doing so. A ‘few minutes before the exposure I spoke to him privately, and gave him the opportunity of leaving the house. He refused, and grossly insulted me. Of course I could take no notice of an insult from @ man in his position. The manis a cad and a black- uard—I saw it from the first day you introduced him. - me, and I was astonished at your opinion of him. I forced myself to be civil to him only out of deference to your wishes.” Mrs. Ciuappell sied with her son. “ Frederick is not:to blame,’’ she said. “It isa most unfortunate affair, and very awkward, and I wish it had taken place in some other house, and with some other young man. Itissuch a pity! But I do not see how Frederick could have acted otherwise. Your good name, Mr. Chappell, is the first consideration, and you are properly sensitive concerning it. As for any disgrace attaching to it from this affair, it is out of the question. Frederick has vindicated it by his conduct, and we have all done what wecould, The unhappy young man intro- duced himself to you under false pretenses, and you were deceived by him—shamefully deceived—as we all were. The moment he is unmasked, you renounce him, as we all did’’—— : i wich the exception of Mr. Armstrong,” put in Frederick. - “Mr. Armstrong is an eccentric character. I don’t think you are on very good terms with him, Frederick?” — b) . “I certainly am not in love with him.” » “Men never will understand,” said Mrs. Chappell, with an air of superior wisdom, ‘how necessary it is to keep on good terms with one another” — ‘When they heartily dislike one another,” inter- rupted Frederick, somewhat maliciously. “No, men don’t understand it. It is only women who are thoroughly up to that game.” “It shows how much more sensible women are than men, Icannot take your side, Frederick, in the cool- ness that exists between you and Mr. Armstrong. He is a gentleman, despite his eccentricities. And for- tunately very few saw him shake hands with Mr. Bar- ton after the exposure. What was it he said to him?” “T did not hear.” “Well, you will see that he will cast this unhappy young man off, as we have done. Lady Barebones,” she added, with a laugh, although she was not in the humor for laughing, ‘will be horrified when she hears what has occurred.” On the following day Lord. Beaumorris called upon Mrs. pe Mer manner was more than usually grave. . Chap had not forgotten that she her- pell self had introduced Richard to'the old lord on the pre- vious evening in very:flattering terms, and she divined immediately that he had called for an explanation. Knowing how important an: ally he was, and how ne it was that she should enlist his sympathies on her side, she did not wait for him to throw down the glove. “Tam inexpressibly gratified to see you, a9 lord; I ‘have been wishing all the day that you would come. I want to consult you, and to talk to you about the sad affair last night.’ : “Tt waseworse than sad—madam,” said Lord SS Beaumorris, stiffly. ‘It. is a circumstance—I hope never again to see repeated—never again—in society.” “It grieves me more than Ican express. That such a persen should, by his deceit and plausible manners, obtain admission into my house, is a shock from which I shall not soon recover. But it is not for myself I feel—it is for you, my lord. . That I should ,have been the means of introducing this person to your lord- ship”’—— ; She put her handkerchief to her eyes. Lord Beau- morris was softened, “It is that that grieyes mé,” continued Mrs. Chappell. “ What can I do to obtain your lordship’s Jorgiveness ? I knew nothing, absolutely nothing, nor did Mr. Chap- pell. The unfortunate young man came’ from the colonies with letters of recommendation from persons of high standing there. Mr. Chappell had every reason te believe these letters to be genuine, and neither he nor I entertained the slightest doubt of the young man’s respectability. It. shows how careful we should be. Ihope you approve of my son Frederick’s conduct, my lord, His. suspicions were aroused, and he was determined that this person should not for one moment longer continue to occupy a. false position, in: society : he was determined that the exposure should be complete. It was a bold course to pursue, but a manly and honorable one... Frederick is somewhat im- petuous, and yery sensitive on all points of honor.” It did not require a great deal more to entirely satisfy Lord Beaumorris. Mrs. Chappell did not allow’ him to leave her until she was assured of his support and approval. Before the day was over he publicly ex- pressed his sympathy for Mrs. gay his lead was followed even by those-who were inclined to waver, and Mrs.Chappell did not lose caste because -she had been the means of introducing ‘Richard’ Barton into the best circles. Society declared that she was much to be pitied, and that under the circumstances she had behaved admirably. : CHAPTER Iil. FROM RICHARD BARTON TO/MR. ARMSTRONG, WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF THE EXPOSURE. ‘‘ Dear ARMsTONG,—The events of this night have so agitated me that I find it impossible tosleep. As a relief I take up my pen to write to you, intending to post my letter when itis finished, so that you may re- ceive it early in the morning. The emotions under which I am laboring are not all due to the scene which Mr. Frederick Chappell seems to have carefully pre- —_ and cunningly lead up to. My mind is agitated y other passions and doubts, which I refrain from ex- pressing at this moment. But apart from these, I earnestly ask you to believe that the memory of your whole conduct will never leave me while I have life, and that in the midst of more than one bitter sorrow and disappointment, I find comfort in the conviction that you are still my friend. Were you to desert me, Ishould indeed be surrounded by darkness. I cannot express to you the grief I experienced as Istood alone in the midst of all those false friends and did not hear your voice; and but that I was-prevented by pride, I should have sobbed for joy when I felt the pressure of your hand, and knew I had not lost you. I depend en- tirely’ upon you; I will be guided entirely by you, Iseem myself to be utterly powerless. “When I resolved to come home, I foolishly supposed that my task would not be a difficult one. It presents itself now to me in a very different aspect. I realize the difficulty of the task, and I see no way to its successful accomplishment. EvenifI discovered Charles Dayidge, I'should scarcely know what todo. He must, if he be alive, be an old man by this time, and beyond my father’s bare word, I have noatom of proof. But is not that sacred assertion of innocence sufficient for me? Would it not’ be sufficient for you? But who would take my word now? Who would listen to me? That you will really stand by me as you so generuusly de- clared, I do most sincerely believe; but if you doubted my truth or my father’s innocence, I would rather that you, like the others, should renounce me. “Forgive me for the apparent inconsistency of my words, I think that no greater grief has ever fallen up- ona man than has fallen upon me to-night. You do not know all. My dearest hope is shattered, I fear. “Tt occurs to me that I can give a distinct purpose to my letter, I shall not see . Rigby or Laura for a little while—perhaps never again, could not meet and converse calmly with thé old man while he be- lieyes in my father’s guilt. Is it not incredible that he should entertain this belief? But although he fell off from his brother, and followed the fashion of other men in raising his voice against the innocent, there was one —thank God! there was one—who clung to my father through evil as she had done through good report, and whose faith in him was never shaken. I refer to my mother. She loved my father, and was true to him. The story is a strange andromantic one, and I should wish Mr. Rigby to hear it from your lips. He was well acquainted with her when she was a girl, but I think he does not know what became of her. When my father was unjustly convicted and sent into penal servitude, he and this dear creature were engaged to one another. Iam telling you the story now as my father has told it to me more than once, with tearful voice and over- charged heart. A day for their marriage had been fixed, and they were ace forward to it with hope and love. Before that day ved, my father’s career in this country was blasted. In his cell, my father’s thoughts, day and night, were all of her. Did she believe him to be guilty? What would become of her if he was con- victed? Should he ever hold her in his arms again ? Ah, dear friend, I know how he suffered! Could you have heard him narrate the story you would have felt very tender toward him. On the day of the trial, he dreaded and hoped to see her in court; she was not there. She afterwards told him that she strove hard to obtain admittance, but failed. : ‘I pass over the story of the trial; the lying evidence was given, the unjust verdict was pronounced, and sentence was passed. The ship my father was sent ont to the colonies in he described asleaky and rotten, and on the day he stepped on board of her, and saw its con- dition, he prayed fervently that it might go down and put an end to his misery. What stung him more than’ all was that his brother should believe him guilty, and, that the little girl he loved should desert him. As he and the other’ prisoners were driven on board like a flock of dangerous cattle, chained to each other, he lvoked wistfully and. anxiously about. for her, face, and not seeing it, so deep a despair settled upon him that if was a mercy he did not go mad. He prayed. that he might, die—prayed mightily with all his heart. and soul that the morn’s light would find him dead. Let me here relate an incident. which, my futher often’ dwelt upon. He was’ chained to a convict who was, justly punished, being, according to his own confession, a cold-blooded villain.. The man had been born in crime, and had lived a life of crime. My father, with.a distinct intention in his mind to pray for death, strove, to kneel; but he could not kneel without the consent of his companion, being chained to him, and his com-, panion resisted. My father was the stronger, and pul-. led him down; and one prayed while the other cursed, . “The ship that was taking them out was taking out. also @ German surveying party, who occupied the. saloons, and who had stewards and cabin-boys to wait. upon them, When the ship had been out three or four weeks one of the stewards spoke to my father, and made, as though he would like to enter into conversation ;_, my father turned from him, and refused to answer him. He said that at that time he had made up his mind never again to hold friendly converse with any of his species, . In such dire straits men must often make strange re-. solves. But my father’s lips were unsealed by a cir- cumstance which rendered his life on board soniewhat more tolerable during the remainder of the passage. Not only among the convicts but among the sailors, _ were there some dangerous Characters, and these band- ed themselves together in a plot to murder the captain - and the survey party and seize the ship. . That the con- spiracy would have succeeded but for my father there is no reason to doubt. He waited for a favorable op-- portunity to reveal the plot, and. when it arrived he ragged his companion by main forée to the captain, and told what he knew. The danger was averted, and my father was taken from the convicts, and had a bet- ter berth assigned to him, and was better cared for, T think this saved my father’s reason ; his self-respect was restored to him,.and he found he could still be of use. “ And now comes the pingniat part of the story. My father dreamed one night that the girl. he pe came and bent over him and kissed him, He awoke in great agitation, thinking for a moment that it’ was not a- dream ; he saw Sa to convince him to the contrary, and he passed the whole of the night thinking of her. The ship was five months reaching its destination, and then my father dreaded that the real actual misery of. his life would commence. But within a week he was” allotted as a servant to a newly arrived settler, and he was taken with his papers to the log hut which his master had built. How often has my father spoke of° this wonderful day! The first person he saw was his. new master, who. proved to be the steward who had spoken to him on board ship, and whom he had repulsed, . and ‘the first va the steward did was to take off his whiskers and beard. Then my father saw that this man was his girl’s father. * You can almost guess the rest. Alice—that was my dear mother’s name—and her father had come out in~ the same ship as*the convicts, her father as a stew-» ard, Alice a8 a cabin-boy. They had to be careful on board ship, and not disclose themselves, for my fa~ « ther’s sake. If the truth had leaked out, there would; have been at difficulty in getting him allotted to them as their servant. The next minute my mother appeared, and thus strangely and under such adverse ’ circumstances the lovers were united. What my father thought was a dream on board ship was a reality; my mother, in her boy’s clothes, actually went to him while he wasasleep and kissed him. She and her father watched over this cruelly wronged man during the whole of that sad time. “Do you think that a man capsble of inspiring such love and devotion could have been guilty of such a crime? My father’s life was irreproachable—all who knew him loved him; and when he died no man in the South Sea colonies was. more highly esteemed. Was not a life thus spent a sufficient answer to the lyin charge that was brought against him in his youth? But loved and respected as he was, he was not happy; the stain that rested upon his pame poisoned his days. It might have been otherwise had my dear mother lived; her sweet nature and influence might have brought permanent peace to him. I believe that it was chiefly for my sake he grieved, and that the fear was upon him that he had transmitted tome a legacy which at some time or other in my life might be used against me to my shame. “T leave it to you to make Laura and ‘her father ac- quainted with these details; itis right that they should know them, Perhaps it will induce the brother to judge the dead more charitably. Your unhappy friend, “ RICHARD N.? CHAPTER IV. THE MANG@UVERS OF LADY BARERONES, Te preparations made by Mr. Armstrong for the entertainment of his guests were so perfect and gatis- factory that the event did not disappoint their expec- tations. For once in a way realization justified antici- pation. The great charm of the party was its en- tire absence of formality; everybody was free to do ag
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rouse to animation. LOVE'S VICTORY. 2% = 1 he pleased, to come and go as he wished, without awk- | wardness, and to enjoy himself in the way that pleased him best. Mr. Armstrong, indeed, had done wonders, and had proved himself'a good general, _ “It is like something out of a book,”’ said one. “Itis regularly jolly and Bohemian,” said another. This last remark became popular, especially aniong the young ‘ladies, who declared that if this was the kind of life Bohemians led, they would like to become Bohemians at once and forever.. Wherever the guests wandered, in the house or the grounds, they found some novelty to amuse them. Here were fountains and grottoes; here a cave with a gipsy who told for- tunes; here a theatrical booth, with a dramatic per- formance by really good actors; and other attrac- tions, which required seeking out, being . placed in out-of-the-way nooks and corners. It was: certainly open to the objection that it. resembled a public more than a private entertainment, but the guests were. not uncharitable enough to pause and discuss the point; they accepted their host’s hospitality as freely as it was. offered, and entered into the spirit of the affair with thorough enjoyment. Lady Bare- bones was critical and affable: she saw that such an en- tertainment could not be given by any but a gentleman of mgans, and having settled that a certain event was to our in her family before the day was over, was in astate of high satisfaction. She instructed her eldest Joy how to behave; told her she was'to hold off just a little, but not sufiiciently to jeopardize the proposal which Mr. Armstrong intended to make, “It is im point of birth, a misalliance,;”’ said Lady Barebones to her daughter, “ for nobody seems to know who was the man’s father; but he must’ be enormously tich. We must console ourselves! with that.’ ». . To the consummation of this important event Lady Barebones deyoted:her fiercest energies, ‘and she was forever on the trail of Mr. Armstrong, telling her daughter to look interesting, and now’ to stand here, and nowto’ stand there, and wait for the impatient lover to declare’ himself. It had been her daughters’ misfortune that their mether would not allow matters to take-their regular course, but would insist upon flinging them at the men’s heads, And the men wouldn't stand it; she had become a laughing-stock. The girls might have married fairly well but for their mother’s cleverness. All the men saw through: her. Certain bachelors who were in the habit of amusing themselves by observing her maneuvers, laughingly said to one another that Mr. Armstrong would be mar- ried before he knew where he was. “TI believe,’ said one of these heartless bachelors, “ that she has a Common Prayer-book, turned down at the marriage-service, in her pocket, ready to swear him.” F Another continued the theme, You now, before these witnesses, say ‘I do’ and ‘I will,’ and do you swear and declare that you will marry my virgin of thirty-five, and that you will endow her with— By the Lord! let’s get out. of the way. Here she is with her virgin, looking for him !” « Quite unconscious of the peril which threatened him, . Armstrong devoted himself to his guests, and was indefatigable in promoting their enjoyment. He was peewee bad successful, and Mrs. Chappell was loud in her ‘praises. ».“ You. have inaugurated something entirely new,’’ she said to him. ‘ Everybody is speaking with delight of your ingenuity. The young ladies say you are a mew Count of Monte Cristo. Ishould be afraid to guess for how many matches you will be responsible. There isa amount of flirtation going on.” “Then the mothers at least,” he replied, ‘will have ‘cause to be grateful to me.’ Mrs, Chappell’s prediction that Mr. Armstrong would Atop the acquaintance of Richard Barton ‘seemed al- ready fulfilled, for. Richard was nowhere to be: seen. She had’ debated. with herself whether, if the young Australian were present, it would be polite for her to remain, after what occurred. Not haying been able to niake up her mind, she had resolved to be guid- ed by ¢ircumstances, but the point was settled for her by Richard’s absence. For this reason she was more than usually gracious to the American gentleman, and more favorably disposed than she otherwise would have been to look leniently upon the presence of Laura and her father. She observed that Mr. Armstrong paid marked attention to Laura, who was pale and sad, and whom no effort on his part could Laura, indeed, was suffering very keenly. When the blow had first fallen upon her she thought that its bitterness would be lessened by time, but up tothe present she had failed to realize that hope. She had not seen Richard since the night of Mrs. Chappell’s party, but Mr. Armstrong had faithfully ful- filled the task imposed upon him, and had read Rich- ard’s letter to Laura and her father. Hurriedly and nervously written as it was, it made a deep impression upon both, and their tears flowed freely as they heard the son’s generous vindication of his dead father’s honor. It awoke in the old man’s mind the love which he had borne toward his brother; it recalled, with something of their old sweetness, the memories of sunny days in his youth, spent in the companionship of the man he loved; it forced him into a reconsideration of his belief in his brother's guilt, and he felt that his own life would haye been hapyina had he been able to believe in his inno- cence. There was no room to doubt Richard's truth ; Rigby knew thatevery word the young man had written came from his soul, and that his brother had made him- selfas much loved and respected in the land to which he had been exiled as he had been in England before the fatal charge was brought against him. The conclu words of Richard’s letter never left the old man’s mind: “ Perhaps it will induce the bro- ther to judge the dead more charitably.” Had he in- deed been uncharitable and unjust to the dead through all these years? His tongue had not been silent. To Mr. Chappell, to Mr, Armstrong, to bis own daughter, he had, then, vilified the man whose suffering soul was now at rest. It he hadjudged unjustly, what unmerit- ed torture had he inflicted. upon. himself—what cause- less shame had darkened his days! But the reflection that most deeply pained him was this: Supposing Richard’s father to have been invocent, what must have been the unfortunate man’s feelings toward his brother, his nearest of kin, the one who should haye been true to him in his great grief, but who, deserted him when most he needed and most deserved comfort and sup- port? ‘‘Conscious of his innocence,’ thought Rigby, “how bitterly he must have felt towards mel. How he must have despised me!, And now, he is dead, and I live unforgiven for my crime,’’ It,wasaerime to con- demn the innocent ;, his brother’s indignant denials of the charge came back to him, with terrible.force, and seemed to bring conyiction with them. Mr. Armstrong saw the old man’s. misery, and led him gently to un- burden himself, but he could give Rigby no consolation. Even when Rigby eagerly pressed him to say whether he believed in. the: innocence of ,Richard’s, father,;Mr. Armstrong did not express himself clearly. * In such a case,” he suid, ‘Seyery. man must, decide for himself. His judgment depends upon. his, own na- ture and character, upon hissympathies, upon whether he is prone to believe, upon whether. perhaps in other ways his faith hasbeen shaken. That Richard Barton is thoroughly sincere in his belief is certain, but then all his sympathies are enlisted in the case; and besides, he is naturally generous, and prone to take the side. .of the weak against the strong.” . “Laura suffers with me,’’ said Rigby; ‘‘ you have noticed how sorrowful she has been growing these last few days.”’ : ; “ Yes,” replied Mr. Armstrong, gravely;. “ I) have noticed it.” “ Yet you do not know the extent of her suffering. I have striven to induce her to open her heart to me, but she will not doso, Last night I stood at her bed- room door for many minutes, and heard her sobbing. When I called to her, she was silent. Can, nothing be done ?’ “ Wemust wait, and hope. What do you suppose would restore Laura to happiness ?”’ “To remove the cloud which hangs over her cousin —to prove my brother an innocent man.” “It is dificult—so difficult that I do not see a way. Richard was oversanguine when he came to England upon such a mission, .So many years have passed—the man. who suffered, justly or unjustly, is dead—no proofs exist—no be obtained. ere is not an honest lawyer inthe country who would take the case in hand; and. even if one could be found, no good end would be served. As I have said, we must wait and hope.” > Upon Laura Richard’s letter made an impression of a different kind, She had,asked Mr, Armstrong to leave the letter with her for.a day or two, and she read it so often that she could have repeated it word for word. Her thoughts dwelt almost solely upon the truth and constancy of the woman who had loved Richard’s father. Loving him, she had sacrificed every thing for him. She had stood fearlessly before’ the world, saying, “You have declared him guilty; I know him to be innocent.” She had given that wounded heart the shelter of her faithful love; it was true womanhood, true heroism. “Iam not capable ofsuch an act of sac- rifice,”* thought Laura. “ Richard has heard that I am engaged to be married to Mr, Armstrong; he contrasts my conduct with that of his mother, and he despises me.” From certain hints dropped by Mrs. Fangle, Laura more than stispected that Richard believed she had loved him, and, continuing her sad musings, she | h said to herself that he would think she had deliber- ately played with his feelings, and had cast him off because of the disgrace which was attached to his name, And yet how proud she would be to share it! She longed, yet dreaded, to see him. She doubted, if she offered him her sympathy, whether he would believe in her sincerity. She feared even to mention Richard’s name to Mr. Armstrong, least he should dis- cover her secret, : CHAPTER Y. LORD BEAUMORRIS MAKES A SPEECH, THE course of our story leads us to a pretty and somewhat retired spot inthe gardens, where a party, composed of Lord Beaumorris, Mrs. Chappell, Mr. Arm- strong, and some half a dozen others, had been dining, The guests were in the full height of enjiyinent, There was dancing in the largest room of the house, where a famous band was stationed. Night was coming on, and thelamps in the gardens were lighted. The attraction of a fountain where illuminated waters were playing had drawn away a large number of the guests, and the table around which Mr. Armstrong and his friends were seated was in comparative privacy. Avyail- ing himself of this privacy, Lord Beaumorris did, for him, an unprecedented ng “I take advantage,” said the old lord, rising, “of the absence of conventionality—so necessary an element— in all private gatherings—but so charmingly conspic- uous here—by its absence—to ask you—as a particular favor—fayor—to charge your glasses.” His request being complied with, Lord Beaumorris absolutely made a speech. He was, he said, ins: by the magnificent and princely hospitality of their host, a gentleman whose friendship he was proud to possess—(here he bowed in a courtly manner to Mr. Armstrong)—to perform what was at once a gaty and a pleasure, It was unusual, he was aware, but he relied upon their generosity and their sympathy to excuse him, if they considered he was committing a breach of good manners, Had their host been an English gentleman he might have hesi- tated, but the happy opportunity should not be allowed to slip of g the health of the nation to which pers from which astarting-point can |: Mr. Armstrong had the proud privilege of being a citi- zen—he referred, of course, to America, While he ex- pressed his admiration of the happy thought which made this delightful gathering so different from all other delightful gatherings, he expressed also the hope that the flag which—quoting from a song he had heard in his youth—has braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze, and the flag graced with the emblems of stars and stripes, would always wave side by side in peace and concord. ‘ Coming from any lips on such an occasion, these sen- timents would have been well received; coming from such a personage as Lord Beaumiorris, their reception was enthusiastic. The toast was drunk with cordiality, and Mr. Armstrong briefly expressed his acknowledge- ments, a : ; “How eloquently you expressed all our féelings, my lord 1’? said’ Mrs. Chappell, as the little party moved from the table. ‘Ah, what a happy privilege itis to be a man, if only for the purpose’ of being owed to speak as you have done.” -thetlvacon “The happiest privilege,” replied Lord Beaumorris, gah **a@ man—that is, a gentlenian possesses—m ar madam—is the being allowed—to pay devotion ks the sex—without whose presence we should be—hem't nothing af all’ And Lord Beaumorris really looked as if he thought he had said something very wise. . “Oh, my lord!’ ‘sighed Mrs. Chappell, résponding for her sex, and making a profound courtesy. . “T cannot sufficiently,”” said Lord Beaumorris, turn- a Mr. Armstrong, and" looking around wpon the animated scene, ‘express my admiration of this 'gather- ing. There is a—a—a halo—if I may be allowed to usé the term—about it—which renders it pleasant to a de- lightful—delightful degree.” “ “A very novel part of the entertainment is to come, my lord,’”’ remarked Mrs. Chappell. are. “Indeed, my dear madam, indeed 1” if “Mr. Armstrong has promised to give us some proof of his powers as a mesmerist.”’ : at Mr. Armstrong could not avoid looking annoyed at ae reference; he had given no farther thought to the matter. , owkn ‘I shall be delighted,” said Lord Beaumorris. ~~ “I thought,” said Mr. Armstrong, addressing himsel to Mrs. Chappell, “you had forgotten that.” are “Forgotten a promise! And Ia woman!” : A “They do sometimes forget, do they not?’ f “As the lawyers say, they reserve apoint. They only forget when it does not please them to remember.” _,, “You can scarcely callit a promise. You extracted. it from me under compulsion, and as I have in no wa prepared for it, fam sufficiently jesuitical to plead a meéntal reservation,” sug 4 Mrs. Chappell shook her head. ‘Mr, Armstrong en- deavored to change thé subject. “Mr. Chappell has not come yet, has he ?”’ ‘*He sent me a note saying it was an important day with him, and that he would be late. But indeed, in- deed, I will not be diverted from the subject.” “Let it drop, I beg of you.” " R “No,” replied Mrs. Chappell, with remarkable perti- naticy; “I intend to insist upon the fulfillment of your promise. My lord, I appeal to Nhs When agentleman gives a promise, however lightly, should he not per- form it ?” “Undoubtedly, my dear madam—undoubtedly.” “Unless,” said Mr. Armstrong, “the lady or gentle- bi to whom he unwittingly gave the promise releases. ‘m.’’ “In that case,” observed Lord Beaumorris, with all the gravity he would have given to a nice point of onor, *‘ he is absolved certainly.” - “But I do not absolve you,” said Mrs. Chappell, pleasantly. “We ladies like to exercise our power when we have the opportunity.” ‘ Mr. Armstrong was nettled at her pertinacity, but he had the good breeding to conceal his annoyance. He was not aware that Mrs. Chappel had privately in- formed two of her most distinguished lady friends who were present that Mr. Armstrong had, at her earnest solicitation, consented to give some exhibition of the power which she persisted in ascribing to him.’ ‘ “Remember, my dear madam,’ said Mr, Armstrong, “that Llay no claim to being a mesmerist. When L have spoken of the subject—which is but rarely—I haye merely stated that I have some sort of a belief in it. You give me credit for what I do not in the least serve,” “You are too modest.”’ “You forget that Iam an American,” * And cannot resist the temptation of turning the shaft of ridicule even against A gear I retuse to release you from your promise, Like most of my sex, the more difficulties there are in the way the more I am ee Mr, Armstrong is quite a magician, my ord.” ? “T might startle you.” “That convinces me,” said Mrs. Chappell, with an agreeable smile, shaking her finger at him, “that you are not ingenuousin your denial of your powers, I am in the mood to be startled.” Lord Beaumorris, by this time, had become interested in the conversation. “T do not think he,” he said, “ that you can our fair friend. Will you be kind enough—to exp: the matter tome? I do not qui uite understand it. Did I net read—some time ago—of a lady—a stout ria acbuinee Anda ox two ead) Runean Gena —to a house € or two away? § t air—chair and all !” % mt neomne “Those are the stories and tricks of charlatans, m lord, which dupes are led to believe in. Mrs, Chappell, Tam sure, does not believe me capable of taking part in such mummery. As I understand, the magic of which she wished to see a proof is may the effect produced by a strongly concentrated will over the weak or disturbed mental condition of another Given, circumstances favorable to such an exbj de- eTSOD. ition,
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38 LOVE'S VICTORY. & his is not very difficult of accomplishment. In a more ‘or less powerful degree almost every person can be so impressed. To that extent Iam a believer, but I should not care to pledge myself farther. offers, I will endeavor to oblige Mrs, Chappell.” “And if it does not offer,” said Mrs. Chappell, “you | must really make one before the night is over.” Mr. Armstrong shrugged his shoulders; he felt that ‘it would be useless and ungracious to continue the subject. Ms. Chappell came close to him. a bE oe require a friend,” she said softly. He loo at her inquiringly. “Not for yourself,” continued Mrs. Chappell, with an arch smile. “For some one else, perhaps." {do not understand you.” ‘She tapped his arm with her fan reproachfully. “You should confide in me, Very little escapes an Diep ae lady’s eyes, What makes that young lady 30 Via She pointed to Laura, who was. sitting alone, with her hands clasped in her lap, and her eyes toward the ground. “Task you because I have noticed you have paid her conspicuous attention. Have you really lost your heart there ?”’ Mr. Armstrong scarcely knew what reply to make. It had been his distinct intention to introduce Laura as his intended wife to Mrs, Chappell, and, through that lady, to make it known to his guests; but some- had held him back. “‘How would it be received,” he asked, “if it were so? ‘We are speaking in perfect confidence now.’ Mrs, Obappell nodded. ‘ What would society say?’ “T repeat, you will require a friend. Lady Barebones would be furious. But is it really so ?’’ “You shall know before the night is over. -In the ‘meantime’”’”—— “In the meantime I am discretion itself. I have two things to look forward tonow. Will you give me your arm, my lord ?’’ Mr, Armstrong approached Laura. She started almost tily as he stood before her. She had not been ‘thinking of him. The night was very lovely. Soft strains of music floated from the ball-room. “Does nothing here give you pleasure, Laura?” Her eyes filled with tears at the tenderness of his tone. She was in that state of tremulous sensitiyeness that a kind word was sufficient to arouse emotion within her. “When I planned this entertainment,” he continued, “T was yery anxious to know what you would think of this orthat. But nothing seems to interest you. Iam ' afraid my labor has been thrown away.” “Not thrown away,’ she said gently. ‘There is not a person here who does not appreciate your efforts. a ma enjoying themselves as much as you could wish.’ : “‘ All but one,” he rejoined, in atone as gentle as. her -own, “Ishould be content to see frowns on every faceif I could see a smile on yours. Ihave been called a magician to-night. I would I were one, for then I mlgps be able to exercise my art to make you cheerful, -and to bring the roses to your cheeks. Perhaps you ‘have not yet learned to fully trust me. Believe me, Laura, there is nothing in my power I would not do to amake you happy.” “lam not worthy of your. goodness,”’ she said, hold- ing out her hand te him. a “Nay, nay ”—— “Do not think me ungrateful. I am not well—I have not been well since that dreadiul night; I get tired so soon. But you must not be anxious about me.” “Sinee that dreadful night,” he repeated.. ‘ Your father has told me how you havesuffered. Is thereany- thing in your mind in connection with that night that Toughtto know. Be frank with me, my dear.” She could not, she dared not, open her heart to him. “It grieves me to believe’’— ‘But she paused, and hung her head. » “Go on, my dear.”’ * It grieves me to believe that people will think you chave made a mistake ’”’— Again she faltered. “Twill not affect to misunderstand you. ThatIhave Br e3 a mistake in asking you to be my wife ?” ** Yes.”’ His countenance brightened. ‘I know that I have ‘made no mistake. What shall you andI care for what people believe, so long as we believe in each other? Why, my dear,” he said with animation, “if you felt the slightest uneasiness on that account, we three—you, your father, and I—would settle in America after we were married. We can be as happy there as here— ‘happier, perhaps. In anew country your father would bea new man;Ican realize what a weight would be lifted from his heart if he moved among people every one of whom would be glad and proud to shake hands with him, for his own sake and mine. You did not know thatI have land and a house on the Hudson, where the scenery is at once the grandest and the most lovely in the world. Itis the house in which I was born, and my family is honored and respected there; old friends would cluster around us,and give a hearty welcome to my English wife: and we would liye our “Aives there peacefully and happily. Iseeit all, and you have but to say the word. I know what your father’s “answer would be if the proposition were made to him, and how rejoiced he would Le to. bid good-bye forever ‘to the place in which he has passed so many unhappy “years.” Hé spoke like a boy; the prospect was, indeed, °a' pleasant one tohim. “Thisisno dream that I am “indulging in, Laura; say that you would like it to be reality, and we willmake itso. My heart glows as I ‘think of if. But we can talk over this soberly by-and- by. “Let ws come back to the present. With regard to “wliat people would say, [hadit in my mind to make iene nittcno is public to-night, but it occurs to me ‘that Ihave no right to do so without your sanction. Shall I do so ?””. “Tf you wish—if it pleases you.” If an opportunity | “But then my guests must not see you sad and mel- /ancholy. I should like them to see you looking bright and happy.’ ‘I will strive to be cheerful.” She called up a smile to her face; he regarded her with earnest attention, and his voice was more sub- ; dued when he spoke again. “T have only your happiness at heart, child. You are thinking, perhaps, of your cousin.” ] ‘*T have thought much of him,’ she said, almost in a whisper. “If it will comfort you in any way, let me assure you I have not es gore my promise to him, This very day a step has been taken in the direction that he wished. Iask but this—let there be no cloud be- tween you and me, no doubt, no mistrust.” The appesrance of a servant with letters and a news- paper caused him to pause. : “The last edition of The Moon, sir,’’ said the man, “and some letters which I was told to give you at once.” Mr. Armstrong opened one of the letters, the writing on which was familiar to him, and read: “I have fol- lowed out your instructions, To-day I have closed my account with Mr. Chappell's bank.’ Then he glanced hastily down the columns of Zhe Moon, anda peculiar smile came to hig lips. : “Imust leaye you, Laura, he said, “ Ah, here is our friend, Mrs. Fangle.” Hecalled to her. ‘“ Mrs. Fangle, come and see what you can do to drive melancholy from our bird here. I give her into your charge; I will return in a few minutes.” “Alittle this way, my dear,” said Mrs. Fangle to Laura, with a cautious air. “ There’s that dreadful Lady Barebones—no, she has turned off, thank good- ness! Sheis following Mr. Armstrong. My dear, hé is here. You know who. He wants to see you. Poor entleman ! it wasI who deceived him; I told him you oved him” — ‘* Hush!” interrupted Laura, with an entreating mo- tion of her hands. ‘‘ Do not torture me, Mrs. Fangle, if you love me!”’ “You know I love you, my dear. Torture you, after all your kindness to me! But he has been kind to me, too—if you knew all he has done forme! Poor dear! He is so. heart-broken that Icould not tell him the tresh trouble that has fallen upon me.” “A fresh trouble, Mrs. Fangle! The world seems full of nothing but unhappiness.” “Thave found itso. When you come to my age, I hope your cup will not be so full of sorrow as mine is. But there! we must hope for the best, I didn’t come ‘here to speak of myself. Mr. Barton is determined to see you. Itisn’t for me to interfere, but I must say I think he has been badly treated. He asked me to give you this note.” Laura took the note mechanically, and with a sob which she could not suppress turned from Mrs. Fan- gle, and left that worthy woman standing alone, in a state of utter amazement. —_ CHAPTER VI. MR. FANGL#, FINDS HIMSELF IN A PECULIAR POSITION. Ir Mrs. Fangle’s amazement had found expression in words, she would haye soliloquized in the following fashion ; : “T can’t make it out. The whole thing is in a tangle, and everybody appears to be playing at cross-purposes. If ever a woman was led to suppose that a girl loved a man, I was led to suppose that Laura loved Mr. Bar- ton. It was as plain as a pikestaff, and everything seemed to be settled and likely to go on as merrily as marriage-bells. I tell him she loyes him, and he is ready to jump out of his skin for joy. I tell her that he intends to propose to her, and no girl in the world could look. happier. Then all of a sudden, within a few minutes, everything is at sixes and sevens, and the poor young fellow is as good as jilted. Thereis some- thing going on between Laura and Mr. Armstrong, but Laura has not confided in me; and when I have gently intimated that I would like to know, I get no satisfac tion. Mr. Armstrong is as good aman as ever wore shoeleather, but he isn't to be compared to the other. He is rich; so is the other. He is a gentleman ; sois the other.. There they are equal enough. But Mr. Barton is a handsome young fellow, and Mr. Armstrong is old enough to be his father. Why should she prefer Mr. Armstrong, then, when I know—yes, I am confident of it—that she loves Mr. Barton ? He called her his‘ Bird,’ that sounds plain. Ican’t make it out. Does the girl know her own mind, or doesn’t she—or are girls dif- ferent nowadays to what they were when I was a girl? I am afraid they are—I am afraid they are. The world isn’t'as good as it was. But I have enough troubles of my.own, Lam sure, without bothering myself about the troubles of others. Idon’tknow which way to turn. Things haye come now to such a pass that it would be a mercy if I could go to sleep, and not wake up again. But, then, what would the poor children do? It isn’t their fault, the innocent dears! Since Fangle went away this afternoon a bailiff has been put into the house for rent. WhatamItodo? There’s the man sitting at home, there, with his pot of beer and his pipe, and the children crying, and all the lodgers threatening to leave. I fold Fangle, weeks and weeks ago, that he must give me some money for the landlord, and he told me, as usual, to wait for his invention. His invention ! Where does he keep it? J’ve never seen it, all about? Nobody knows, and Fangle won’t say. He keeps on’ saying that he can’t get that little screw right. I wonder if eyerybody in the world has a little screw that he can’t get right—like Fangle! Here he comes, looking as if he had ten thousand a year.”’ At this point of her musings. and while she was waning her eyes, for she had worked herself into astate of What is it | her, with a paper in his hand—his fayorite paper, The Moon, ‘‘Mrs, Fangle!’’ he exclaimed, bombastically. ‘In tears 1” Mrs. Fangle, not being able to find her voice, went on crying. a Good heavens, madam!” blustered Mr. Fangle. ““What would people say if they saw you ?”’ “T—I don’t know, Fangle,’’ gasped the little woman. “You don’t know! ButIdo know. They would say — has been ill-treating his wife. Think of that, madam,’’ He looked virtuously and stormily indignant. Meek- ness itself when absent from the domestic nest, he was a perfect tyrant in it. This dual character, in the aspect here presented and its opposite, is played suc- cessfully by many of our acquaintances. And yet Mr. Fangle considered himself one of the best of husbands, and he had so subjugated Mrs. Fangle that she never dared to say in his presence what she had been heard to say in his absence—that she couldn’t call her soul her own while Fangle was in the house. “My character is at stake, madam,” he continued, “Dry your eyes, and look pleasant before any one comes. If you don’t do it instantly, I~I must run away.” He would have put his threat into execution if Mrs, Fangle had not mustered courage to lay hold of his coat-tail. “I can’t help it, Fangle,’ she said.» “I can’t look pleasant if I don’t feel pleasant. You don’t know what has occurred at home,’ “Good heayens! Is the place burned down ?”’ : “Worse than that, Fangle. The landlord called for his rent this afternoon.” Mr. Fangle put his hand before his mouth, and stifled &@ cough. : “Is that all!” he exclaimed, with assumed indiffer- ence. “No, Fangle.”’ “No, Fangle—no, Fangle |’ he iterated. “ Why can’t you speak plainly, instead of dribb! it out? t it's your way—it always was your way. You always were a dribbler. You’re enough to vex a saint, Mrs. Fangle. With what I have in my head, can I be expected to worry myself about these small matters? Think of the invention. The landlord has called for his rent before. Is that a cause tor tears? You told him to wait, of course.” “Yes, Fangle.”’ ‘‘And he promised to wait, of course.”” “No, Fangle. He said he had called so many times that he would be—you know what, Fangle—if he called again. He brought a man with him, and said (in the same way as betore) that he wouldn’t wait another hour. He went away, and left the man.” Mr. Fangle stared at her. “ Thé man was a bailiff, Fangle.’’ ; “Abailiff! Gracious powers! But did you not try to prevent this—this inconvenience ?” (*« Disgrace’”’ was the first word that occurred to him, but he substituted “inconvenience ”’ as less objectionable), ‘* Did you not tell him about the invention, and that there was only one little screw— ?’’ He ed “I did, Fangle ; I begged and implored him not to put the man in. I'll tell you exactly what he said. ‘I'll wait another week,’ he said, ‘if you will give me an idea what Mr. Fangle’s invention is like, I have heard him say’—the man’s own ‘words, Fangle—‘I have heard him say that it will bring in millions some day ; but I can't wait so long as that. Still, for such a big thing I don’t mind waiting another week, if you will give me an idea to live upon.’ What could I say to that, Fangle? Idon’t know what the inyention is, any more than the man in the moon. And when I answered that I couldn’t tell him, he said that—that ’?—_ “That—that what, Mrs, Fangle ?’”’ cried. Mr. Fangle, glaring at his wife.‘ This is no time for stuttering |’ “Iam afraid to tell you what the man said, Fangle.’’ “Tell it, madam, tell it.””. And Mx. Fangle folded hig arms sternly. “Don’t be angry. with me, Fangle. He said he ber lieved you were a Humbug, my dear, and he didn’t bee lieve a word about that little screw.” A guilty look shot into Mr. Fangle’s eyes; but still he contrived to say, with acomposure in his manner which he strove to make stately : « He called me a Humbug!’ * Yes, Fangle?’ . . Mr. Fangle drew a deep breath, after the manner of one who has receiyed an indignity, and who has no means of resenting it. «And you permitted it ?” “What could I do, Fangle ? J have begged of you to let me have somé money for the rent—and there are the children running about almost barefoot ’’—— “Money, madam, money !’> exclaimed Mr. ‘Fangle, looking arowfind to make sure he was not overheard, “Money is not the question, Is it possible that when this—this person said I wasa Humbug, you did not ask him how he dared—yes, dared, Mrs. Fangle—to vilify a man of genius, and your husband, behind his back ?” “No, Fangle, I didn’t ask him.” “And may I inquire, madam,” said Mr. Fangle, pok- ing his head forward, and glaring at his wife more in- tensely, ‘‘as your husband and the father of your chil- dren, may Linquire why you didn’t ask him ?” “Because, Fangle,” veplied Mrs. Fangle, now com- pletely overconie, and in sheer desperation speaking what was in her mind, “ because, Fangle—I—begin—to —suspect—that—the—man—was—tight.”” And then, afraid of what would follow this declara- tion of treason, Mrs. Fangle fled. The effect of her words av Pape Fangle—distilled as they were, one-by one, like bitter drops, with a pause between each—was. extraordinary. He ped, he turned white, he trembled, and seemed, little as he was, to shrink within himself and become less, Imme- diately before him, on a pedestal, was a statue, repre- arful nervousness, Mr, Fangle sauntered toward | senting a satyr, the figure of which leaned, forward, %
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with outstretched arm and mockizg finger. There was an tnby gets on the countenance of the statue, and Mr. Fangle, unconscious of the appropriate expression, looked straight into the face of the satyr, and uttered these remarkable words: «SHE HAS FOUND ME OUT. CHAPTER VII. OPEN CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL, “Yrs” continued Mr. Fangle, addressing the stone figure “ my wife has foundme out. Lama Humbug, and my invention js amy th, little screw and all! I haven’t in- vented anything, miserable man that Iam! If the world makes the discovery as well as Mrs. Fangle and the land- lord, I am a ruined man. For the world will forgive you for being a Humbug, and if you are successful will ad- mire you for it; but it will never forgive you for being found out. That is the world’s morality. The bailiff isin the house! I must get some money, some- how. But how—how—how?” ‘The grin on the satyr’s face seemed to broaden, and to become more distorted as Mr. Fangle gave utterance to his perplex- ity. “What is the meaning ofthe advertisement in to-nights. Moon offering a reward of five hundred pounds for information concerning Charles Davidge ? Five hundred pounds! Afortune! Now I know who Oharles Davidge is, and if the advertisement is not a hoax, I might earn the money, and with it hoodwink my wife, defy the bailiff. and snap my fingers in the landlord’s face? What does the advertisement say ?’ He veferred to the paper: ‘‘‘ A reward of five hundred pounds will be paid to the first person who will give information as to whetbera man, named Charles Day- idge, many years ago a clerk in the bank of Chappell, Chappell, and Chappell, is still living, and where he is tobe found. Apply by letter, to Vindicator, office of this paper.’ Vindicator! who is Vindicator, and what does he want to vindicate? I have always suspected that Mr. Armstrong has something to do with The Moon. Perhaps he knows something about the adver- tisement, and would advise me.” While he was debating whether heshould go at once in search of Mr. Armstrong, that gentleman him- self appeared, and laid his hand familiarly on Mr. Fan- gle’s shoulder, “Studying politics, Mr. Fangle?”’ **No—no, not exactly politics.” Being thus taken by surprise;Mr. Fangle scarcely knew how to commence. . : «Shall [guess what isin your mind?’ Mr. Fangle looked at him apprehensively. ‘‘A weightier subject than politics fills it, doubtless. You are puzzling your brain over your invention.” « Yes—partly—hem |” «And how is it really getting along, Mr. Fangle? Does that litle screw still refuse to come right?” - A dreadful fear took possession of Mr. Fangle. “ Has he, too, found me out?’ he thought. “ Would it be ad- visable to make a clean breast of it ?’’ He spoke aloud, in his perplexity, scarcely knowing what he said. “The factis, Mr. Armstrong, money is wanting, Iam short—always have been short, from my cradle up- ward.” .. +3 mp “Indeed,” observed Mr. Armstrong, with the air ofa man to whom a new view of an interesting question was unexpectedly presented. “‘Men of genius,’’ pursued Mr. Fangle, ‘always are short, I believe—short, thatis, of money.” - «If that misfortune be confinedto men of genius, they must be more abundant than I supposed.” “It is my unfortunate position, Mr. Armstrong.” “Not a novel position to you, I fear,” said Mr. Arm- strong) with the ‘slightest shade of ‘irony in his tone, and the doubt whether Mr. Armstrong, had made the same discovery as his wifeand his landlord recurred again to Mr. Fangle’s mind. «‘Unhappily, sir, itis not, I have been in a state of impecuniosity for more years than I would care to name... IfI thought you would befriendme”’—— “You may regard me as your friend, Mr. Fangle, in any reasonable way.” Thank you, sir, thank you. Ah, there are few hearts like yours in the world! You see me, sir, with The Moonin my hand. A great paper—a multum in parvo, The people, sir, haye adopted this paper as their own. It is within their reach’’—— ; “Truly, then,” interrupted. Mr. Armstrong, with graye sarcasm, “the.childis father to the man, Chil- dren, you know, ery for the moon.” Mr. Fangle laughed, as, was advisable, at Mr. Arm- strong’s facetiousness, He was always ready to laugh at the lamest jokes from the tongue ofa rich man, “When you came across me, sir, 1 was reading an ad- vertisenient in Zhe Moon. Gere it is, sir. Avreward of five hundred pounds’’—— “1 have seen the advertisement,” “We arein confidence, Mr. Armstrong. I pledge my- self that what passes shall not be divulged by me. I have lately heard that you have an interest in the Paper—-that you aro in some way connected with it.” t ‘T have influence with the paper, if you mean hat.’ . . ) “Tad mean that. Now, sir, who is ‘ Vindicator,’ and is this advertisement, for the discovery of Charles / a i avidge genuine ? J know who Charles Davidge 87 Mr. Armstrong became suddenly interested. _‘‘This is news ome.” “T know him, air. Perhaps you do not. I knew Years ago, but I never considered it of the slightest im- ortance. Why, sir, I could lay my hands on him at his moment. But I might get myself into trouble. If T were not afraid that this advertisement is a hoax"—— “You, a man of genius, afraid!’ Mr. Armstrong raised his hands in mock amazement. “It is a peculiarity of men of genius to be always a little bit timorous, I believe.” LOVE'S VICTORY. ‘‘But five hundred pounds’’—— “Ts tempting—to—me—just now. A man is occa- sionally compelled tobe mercenary. That little screw is still bothering me—to say nothing of Mrs. Fangle and the children.” “Of what importance can they be, compared with the screw?” . “Of no importance whatever,’’ replied Mr. Fangle, hastily, and as hastily correcting himself. ‘That is, of none comparatively.’’ “Tt appears, Mr, Fangle, that you would like my ad- vice in this matter,’’ “Tshould, sir—if you will give it. your ability !’’ ‘Not to be spoken of in the same breath as yours, Mr. Fangle.” “You flatter me, sir,” said Mr. Fangle, complacently ; “you flatter me.” “Not at all. How can 7flatter you? WhatamI? A simple speculator, a mere money-bag. What are you? Aman of genius, who will soon give to the world the result of years of thought. No wonder that, under such circumstances, you are oblivious of wife and children, What laurels will you earn when you make your invention known, Mr, Fangle! I have always thoughtit an injustice that the poet should monopolize the bay-leaf.” Mr. Fangle listened with no pleasant feelings to this speech, for it was impossible even for him not to detect its ridicule and sarcasm. But at the word “ bay-leaf,” which in his agitation he construed into bailiff, he es back as though a pistol were presented at his ead, “The bailiff !’? he muttered in dismay. ‘“ J have the bailiff at home, in possession of my chairs and tables. The poet does not nwonopolize the bailiff. I see it all.’’ He was no longer in doubt. Mr. Armstrong had “found him out,” There was but one course open to him. He would makeaclean breast of it, and would throw himself upon Mr. Armstrong’s mercy. He acted upon his resolution with feverish hate. ““Mr, Armstrong, I want to make a confession.” “But my advice first,’’ interposed Mr. Armstrong, “No, sir, no, I beg of you; my confession first.” “As you please. Iam all attention.” “You area humane man—you are a rich man. Ah, what a thing it is to be rich and removed from tempta- tiou! Youdonot know what poverty is, and to what lengths it drives aman. The confession I am about to make has been on my lips a dozen times, but I hive not had the courage to speak. May 1 beg you will keep the secret I am about to confide to you ?” “Certainly I will, if you desire it.” “You see before you, sir,” said Mr, Fangle, ina falter- ing voice, ‘‘a miserable man, with a wite and children in a chronic state of want. I pity them, sir, but I can- not ah them. Mrs. Fangle has given me the distress- ing intelligence that at this present moment a bailiff is in my house.” “Tam truly sorry—for your wife and children.” It is for them I feel, not for myself, for I alone am to blame. Thé fact is, sir’’—he glanced around cautiously, and approached closer to Mr. Armstrong—‘ I make the confession, with humiliation—the fact is, sir, I am a Humbug.” ““A what, Mr. Fangle!’”’ exclaimed Mr. Armstrong, with an amused twinkle in his eyes. “ A Humbug, sir—a Humbug!” The position was anew one to Mr. Fangle, and now that he had unburdened himself of his secret; he scarcely knew how to act. Should he weep, or clas his hands, or clutch at his hair? He compromise: matters by making a motion as though he would beat his breast. Mr. Armstrong watched him with a eertain air of enjoyment. : ‘ ee “Tt is a fact, sir,” continued the sinner. . ‘Do not despise me—do not betray me—do not forsakeme. I do not remember how my inventions first came to be spoken of, but I knew that it was first spoken of in a small ‘way, which gradually grew intoabig one. I traded upon it, f am ashamed to say. There was acharm about it; at first, but when it was too late I found I had created a monster from which I could not escape. It will be the ruin of me, sir, unless’a piece of great good luck falls to my share, for I cannot keep up the decep- tion’ much longer, My landlord has lost: faith in me, my wife and you have found me out, and I can see now that other persons besides yourself must be getting’ doubtful of my little screw.” ‘He did not find it so unpleasantas he had anticipated. It seemed actually as though a weight were lifted from ee ene then, hisflow of words was a consolation o him. “You astonish me,” sald Mr. Armstrong. When I discovered that I was, as it were, chained to my monster—when I found out that withont loss of credit and reputation it was impossible for me to es- cape from it, I tried to invent something. I bought some little magnets, and experimented with them upon a small iron wheel, thinking I might discover a new motor, or perhaps perpetual motion. Persons saw my magnets—my monster led me on to exhibit them in an off-hand manner—and they gave a fatal color to my professions. I. need not tell you I did not discover perpetual motion, nor anything else. It will surprise you to learn, sir, that Iam not a clever man.” : “Wonders will never cease,” said Mr. Armstrong, who could not help feeling amused at Mr. Fangle’s candor. , “T have confided in you, sir, and I feelrelieved. And now, Mr. Armstrong, as a proof that you do not entirely despise me, will you lend me halfa sovereign? ‘To give tomy wife, sir—to give to my wife, upon my honor, as, in some measure, an atonement. If I went to her A gentleman of a Regen I should not be able to look her in ‘the’ e.”” C : Mr. Armstrong, without demur, handed Mr. Fangle a piece of gold. a “Ah, sir, you touch me upon my tenderest point! All Fangle’s dreams are now at an end,” 29 You have not. “ Ah, “Not quite all, perhaps, Mr. Fangle. | listened to my advice yet.” Mr. Fangle’s manner became more animated. yes, sir ; about that advertisement.”’ “You want to put the bailiff out of the house?” “Yes, yes.” “And you say you know who Charles Davidge is ?"’ “Tam certain I do, morally certain—that is, if such. an impostor as I can be morally any thing.’ “Very well. Now, listen. The advertisement is not a hoax. Presently, when you see me, Mr. and Nirs. Chappell, Lord Beaumorris, old Mr. Rigby, and otiers together—I will contrive ‘the meeting—publicly )~ claim who Charles Davidge is, and I willinsure you ._ reward.” “You adyise this seriously ?”’ “Seriously. You will have to take my cue for the proper time for the disclosure.” “Tl do it, sir, I will watch my opportunity, and will doit. You aye, indeed, a friend. And then, sir, then,’ he said, with a jubilant air, “when I get the: five hundred pounds, no one but ourselves need know that' Iam a—you know what.”’ “ No one shall know it from me, Mr. Fangle.” Mr. Fangle rubbed his hands. “A million thanks, my more than benefactor.” “Although I shrewdly suspect,” said Mr. Armstrong, looking around cautiously, in imitation of Mr. Fangle,. “that it is known to many others as well as ourselves.’” “You don’t say so! ,Itis amystery how they could have discovered it. But it does not matter. If I get the money, I shall be able to bear the shock, I must. go to Mrs Fangle and tell her the rood news.” CHAPTER VIII. NEWS OF THE ‘‘ GOLDEN MARINER. Mr. FanGLe went one way in search of his wife, Mr. Armstrong went anotherin search of Laura, The re- membrance of his young lifein his parents’ house on. the banks of the Hudson—remembrances called up by his last conversation with Laura—had stirred him. deeply. He thought of those peaceful days bow, with something of yearning; for he had almost quite made up his mind. to settle again in the old ‘place, after his, marriage. London was filled with distressing associa~ tions to Laura and her father, and they would be hap- pier ina new country. ‘‘Ishall get used to it after a. while,’’ he said, ‘and shall be grateful to be away from the whirl and whirr of the fevered city.’’ He drew plans and pues of the future, which love was to sweeten and make beautiful. He felt like a boy again, and his heart glowed with gratitude and tenderness. toward the girl who had alg, Fy this sweet joy into his life. Until he met Laura he had never indulged in the hope which now animated him; sometimes he sighed to think that his life, to the end, would be utterly lonely, but he used to thrust such thoughts sternly from his mind. If it was to be, it was to be, and he must bear it the best way he tould. The idea - of marrying a woman he did not love simply that she might be a. companion to him never found a place in his mind, It is. probable that, he questioned himself, he would have decided that he was incapable of love—with — what a deep injustice those who knew him through these, pages will understand, unless I have drawn his character with an unskillful hand. But now all was changed. Love had come to him,and the. brightest chapters in his life were about to commence. | He had not proceeded many steps in his search for Laura when he saw Frederick Chappell. He would. have ayoided the young man could he haye done so ~ without observation, but Frederick, seeing him, ap- proached him with the intention of speaking to him. He received the young man courteously. Frederick’s face was flushed, and it appeared to Mr. Armstrong as though he had been drinking. { “Lam glad I have come across you,” said Frederick Tas * abruptly. ‘The governorasked me if I had seen you.” “T did not know your father was here.’ ; “He has been here for a quarter of an hour, and anice temper he is in, I couldn t understand what was the matter with him, until I found out for myself, with< out his telling me.” “Nothing has gone wrong, I hope ?” y “Lam indoubt as to what you call wrong,” replied Frederick inan arrogant tone; “our notions are some- what at variance.’’ Mr. Armstrong bent his head gravely. Standing in the relation of a host to his guest, his manner toward Frederick was ve been in any house but his own. ‘ “ Will you be kind enough: to explain?’ he asked, with grave politeness. At “Itis we who ought to ask for an explanation,” said Frederick. “I suppose this is not apublic garden, where anybody can enter by paying at the gates.’”. “J ‘suppose it is not,’’ returned Mr. Armstrong, calmly. . f different from what it would have © “Tt looks something like it, I'must say,’’ said Freder- « ick, with a sneer. : “ Have you been drinking, Mr. Chappell ?’”” “Thatis a nice question for you to ask—here, J have tasted your wine.” “TI beg your pardon,” said Mr. Armstrong, biting his lips; “I am propery rebuked. But really yourman- ner is so excited, and your words so strange, that there issome excuse for my forgetting myself. explain,’ “ All who are here are here by invitation, I suppose !”’ “No person should be here uninvited.” “There is a person here who has no right to intrude himself into the society of ladies and gentlemen; I sup- pose my father hasseen him, and takes a proper view of the matter--that is; unless the blackguard hag sneaked in by bribing the footman. In which case ] take it you will see that he is kicked out.” “Give the person a name, Mr, Chappell,” said Mr beg you te
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J 30 LOVE'S VICTORY. Armstrong, with a slight frown. ‘Then we shall bet- ter understand each other.” “The person’s name is Kichard Barton,” «Oh, Mr. Barton. He didn’t sneak in. him.” “Before or since the night of his exposure?’ de- manded Frederick, insolently. “Really, Mr. Chappell, I cannot see that lam bound to answer all your questions.” “You are bound, as a gentleman, to answer this, for itis a question affecting one’s honor and character. Remember, if you please, that Mr. and Mrs Chappell are hers, and that it was in my mother’s house this person was unmasked.” “Well, sir,I yield. Linvited Mr. Barton after that night.” t And do youintend to allow him to remain ?” “Certainly, if he wishes it.” ; ““What! The son of a convicted thief””—— “Nay, nay,” interrupted Mr. Armstrong, ina most decided tone. “There is no occasion for words over it. This is not the first time you and I have disagreed. I pray you to remember that you are my guest.”’ vi “ His presence here is an insult to your guests. “T lay restrictions on no one, Those who do not wish to stay are free to go.” : “TI understand the hint. But there is another view ofthe matter which perhaps escapes you. Miss Rigby is here also.” waaay a 1 Th heard whispers’’- “Since my arrival ave heard whi a sii dewling further conversation, Mr. Chappell. There are some subjects I will not permit myself to discuss ith you. This is one.” ; hy Rites please,” said Frederick, with a light laugh. «T know, however, that I would not allow the previous lover of the young lady'to whom it was reported I was paying my addresses to prowl about my grounds for the purpose of making love to her. ; He wonld havesaid more, but Mr. Armstrong’s man- ner warned him to desist, “Sir,” said the American, in a tone of suppressed passion, ‘‘you forget that the laws of hospitality are binding noless upon the guest than upon the host. Were it not for that—” Buthisemotion was so great that he could not proceed. Frederick Clmppell took up his words. ‘ Were it not for that, or the scandal attaching to it, you would probably commit some act in harmony with your character and that of your friend. Oh, you cannot frighten me. I shall acquaint Mr. and Mrs. Chappell with the fact which I considered it necessary first to communicate to you—hardly believing that you were an accessory to it—and we shail then see whether they and other ladies and econ who are here will con- tinue to accept hospitality accompanied by so gross an insult.” He was about to turn away, but checked him- self to say deliberately, ‘On another occasion within your remembrance I was successful in placing society on its guard. It may be that to-night I shall have to repeat the lesson.” He was allowed to depart in silence. So agitated was Mr. Armstfong by tumultuous thought that he could not trust himself to speak. The reference which Fred erick had made to Richard as Ldura’s lover was the cause of this, and he found himself suddenly battling in a sea of doubt, into which he had been plunged by two or three light words spoken by an enemy. But his nature was 49 3 such as could long harbor or ie ew suspicion. Relieved of Frederick’s presence, he flung aside the doubt as unworthy of him, unworthy of Laura. Then came indignation at the other portion of ¥rederick’s words: “It may be thatto-night I shall haye to repeat the lesson.” A disdainful smile curved his lips as he thought it might be in his own power this yery night to turn the tables on the insolent er. Aseryant interrupted his musings by hand- him atelegram. He tore it open, and read : «4 boat has been picked up at sea with two sailors in it, the sole survivors of the Golden Mariner. Their narrative confirms the rumors which were current some time since. The vessel was lost in a storm,”’ With s e@ eagerness, jie replaced the telegram in the ag ER and taking a pencil from his pocket, re-addressed it. “You know Mr. Chappell ?’’ he said to the servant. «Yes, sir.”’ “The elder gentleman, I mean—not the son.” “T know him, sir.” “Go and seek him out. You will find him in the house or about the grounds. Give him this telegram, and if he wishes to see me, tell him I am here.” The servant bowed, and went on his errand. “§o,” soliloquized Mr. Armstrong, “the blow has fallen at last, beyond the possibility of a doubt. How will he bear the shock? Is his bank strong enough to standit? Idoubt it—I doubt it. This day may live Jong in the memory of some of my guests. His thoughts were wrested from their groove “f the appearance of Laura. He would have gone toward her, but seeing that she was weeping, he did not carry out his intention. Another circumstance restrained him. He saw Richard Barton following her. Not wishing to play the spy upon them, he turned into a small em- bowered summer-house, one of many which dotted the gardens, thinking he should find an egress on the otherside. Most of the guests were in the ball-room, the young people dancing, and the elder ones lookin on, so that those persons who have played the princip parts in our story were in comparative retirement. I invited CHAPTER IX. LAURA AND RICHARD; Lavra knew that Richard had followed her, and was gtanding by her side ; but she did not dare to raise her eyes to his face. iy aid vit aq 7 “We are alone now,” he said ; ‘“‘may I speak ?” He paused tor a reply, but none came. “In what way have I offended you?’ he asked, sadly, “that you refuse to answer me.” **You have not offended me,” she sighed. “The more, then, does your conduct need explana- tion—unless, indeed,’” he added, drawing his breath quickly, “ you with the others, believe that the verdict which condemned my father to banishment and threat- ens to darken my life was a just one.”’ “TI pity and sympathize with you,” shesaid. “I feel with you that your father was innocent.” His countenance brightened some what. “Why, then, have you avoided me to-night? My note implored you to give me an opportunity of seeing and speaking to you; and I have, as it were, been compelled to thrust myself uponyou. Was this generous ?”’ “I had my reasons,’’ she answered. “I did it for your sake, for mine—for the sake of another whom I must not name.” “Tt will be for me to name him presently,” he said, bitterly. “ Your words give color to what I have heerd, and yet to me it is so incredible that I will not, L cannot believe it unless I have it from your'own lips. Laura— nay, we are cousins, and I may call you so—you do not forget the day we first met; itis not longago. I told you then that I had seen you on the previous night; but. until now I have not told you that,had we not met in the way we did, Ishould have been impelled, by the hope your face raised in my heart, to seek you out. But when we met, and when, to my delight and astonishment, I learned your name, I blessed the unhappy chance which brought me to this country. I knew that my father had a brother in England. In those sad days before his death, during which he re- lated to me his pitiful story, he spoke of his brother frequently, and of the love which had existed between them when they were boys ; but he had no expectation that we should ever meet, or he would, I am certain— knowing that he had not long to live, and out of his own heart’s tenderness—haye given me a message of love and forgiveness for him. Until that time I was ignorant of my father’s history. By his just and gen- tle lite he had wiped out all memory of the stain, and no ungenerous word with reference to his past ever reached my ears eyen froma stranger’s lips. When, then, in pursuance of my resolye to prove my father innocent of the crime for which he suffered, I came to this country and so strangely met you, I determined to keep my secret, until I had accomplished my purpose. Then I would say to you, ‘Laura, I am your cousin, and I love you faithfully, honestly, sincerely.’ I would say to your father, ‘You did my father an injustice by leaguing with the world against him; give me your daughter, whom I love, as an atonement.’ Iimagined myself relating to you the story of my mother’s deyo- tion to the man she loyed, and saying, ‘ There is but one woman in the world worthy to be placed by her side— that woman is yourself.’ It seemed to me that there was a fate in it, and I prayed and hoped—believing in my vanity, that I had reason for my hope—that all this would come to pass. Ihave asked myself since if I ba in Ao telling you thestory frankly at first’’— “No, no !’’ “But, now it is known, if there is atie that should draw us together, it is that. Laura, Il have come now to speak to you perhaps for the last time, and there- fore I must speak plainly. WhatI say now,I say with all the earnestness of my soul, As you value truth and virtue, and all that ismost precious to man and woman, I implore you to deal honestly by me. If after this interview you ask me never to see you more, I promise neyer, unless pure accident compels me, to woo Dees your face again. You believe me, do you no Lid “ Yes,” “My conduct in your eyes must beopen to no misconstruction. The world must misjudge me if it will ; one man’s weak word againstits judgment avails little, as I have learned to my sorrow. But you, the only woman I eyer loved, the only womanI ever shall love, must not doubt my truthand my honor. You of all others must not do me that injustice,” “ T haye not done so,” she faltered, trembling at his passionate earnestness. “In your thoughts you may not have done so; but then they are at variance with your words and actions. On the last night we met, Mrs. Fangle and I spoke of you, inconfidence, not for the first time. That good woman, who, I was led to suppose, was your confidante, had some knowledge of the feel- ings I entertained towards you, and in the kindness of her heart, and in perfect sincer- ity, gave me encouragement. She knew that on that peiocmaie) commenced so happily for me, and ended so bitterly—I intended to ask you to become my wife, Icame toyou, andfor amoment was confounded by your changed manner. Hitherto you had inyariably received me with bright looks, and. as though my pres- ence were not displeasing to you ; suddenly, without any cause or reason that I could discover, you repulsed me, and refused to listen to me. You spoke of Duty, and gave me to understand that it stood. in the way of Love. How—and in what way? Laura, you must deal plainly with me. All the happiness of my life is in your hands. You knew that I loved you—you could not fail toknow it. No woman is blind to a man’s de- yotion ; few women can fail to discover when that de- yotion se Sona free from taint—as mine was. You made me believe that you loved me ’’—— She held out her hands, as though imploring him to spare her, but he went on. ‘« Every time we met you told me so—not. in words, for you never overstepped the boundary of modesty, And yet you told’ me so, and my love was known to you, as yours was believed in and hoped for by me.” He paused here, for he could not but perceive that her emotion was overcoming her. The moon was ris- ing, and the griefon her face was plainly visible to. him. He gazed steadily and earnestly at her ; but hig purpose was fixed, and his heart was so deeply charged with earnestness tltat he could not rest until he had convinced himself of her truth or falsehood. He knew that he might never have another opportunity ot addressing her without reserve. “You have given me the right to speak, and 1 must speak. I may never see you more. If what I fear is true, I shall soon bid good-bye to England, leaying my happiness behind me. Let me take away with me the | comfort of knowing that you are not like some women | Ihave read of—women who have no regard for truth and honesty; who will play with a man’s heart, and plant therein the seed of love only to poison it, and rob it forever of its freshness. Let me at least continue to respect you.”’ “What would you have me say ?”’ she asked, faintly. He answered her with cruel directness. “That you do or do not love me.” The words roused her to strength. They brought her duty clearly before her. She thought of the man who loved her, and trusted her, and to whom she had given her promise, With soft passion, and yet in as clear a tone as Richard had spoken, she asked, os for the first time she raised her tearful eyes to his ace! ; “Knowing what you know, can I in honor ?”’ It may be forgiven him that this appeal to his manli- ness did not touch him as it should haye done. Other passions deadened for a time the better, higher feelings of his nature. : ‘Knowing what I know!” he repeated, slowly. ‘In what way am I to understand that? That you love me, and dare not say so; or that you do not love me, and are fearful of confessing you have played with my feelings ?”” : Silence was his answer. Had he been aware of the agony she was suffering, of the hard battle she was fighting with her heart, he would have pitied and spared her.’? “Then all is over between us,” he said ina hard tone, which it pained him as much to use asit did her to hear, ‘“‘and my life is embittered to the last day. But before I go, there is something to say: It will be the best that nothing shall remain in doubt. . You told me that you avoided me for my sake and your own, and for thesake of another youmust not name, J will name him. Mr. Armstrong. Answer me in honesty.” “It was he I meant,”’ “Then what I heard by. accident is true. He a BR liad lover. You are engaged to be married to “Yes “Once,” said Richard gently, after a pause, “when he and I were speaking together, and opening our hearts to each other, he said that love had come to him, and that it had brought into his life its sweetest hope. Knowing him, I know of what kind oflove he is capa- ble. Heis a true, earnest man.’ She looked at Rich- ard gratefully; he Baca a dagger in her bosom in return. ‘Do you Jove him?” pba” Hie “Is it generous of you to ask?” she said appeal- ingly. : “ I did not think of that,” he replied, bitterly, “I haye heard enough, and I will not betray you. Carry your false love to one whose every action bespeaks the no-' bility of his nature—to one whom any man might be proud to call friend, whom any woman might be roud to win and blessed to love, if she lo truly. ‘arewell.”’ ’ She laid her hands upon. his arm with gentle ——— She looked into his face with pitying, plead- ng eyes. : “Stay,” she said; “you have sought me, and have one bitter words. You must not leave me with thoughts in your mind which us both.’ He bowed, and stood before her in silence. 3 “Do not harden your heart to me,” she said; “listen to me with it, and pity and respect me. Thereissome- thing due to me as well as to you. Ah, you said rightly when you spoke of him to whom I have given my word. Any man might be proud to call him friend. Any woman loving him might be blessed in his love. But, dear friend, love, bright and beautiful though it be, is not the most sacred feeling of our nature. Buty is before us. Right-doing is before us He saved my fa- ther from disgrace—from shame for my sake. He nobly paid the debt which my father believed to be owing, but which we know now was never due—for the wrong was not committed by one ofour blood. Not knowing it was he who had performed this noble act, believing it was you ehh to reward with my love the man who had removed the stain from my father’s name, and the shame from my father’s life. To break that promise now would break my father’s heart ; my father, whose life, until the present, has been a life of misery and humiliation. Can I do this? Dare I do this? Should I not rather sacrifice my selfish passion, and strive not to think of the happiness which might have been mine in the consciousness that Iam per- forming a sacred duty? Aid me in this, as you love me! Assist me in this, as you know and see my heart | From this moment we must be strangers to each other. As you take away with you the knowledge that she you loved is parted from you by a higher duty than that o love, so give me the consolation of thinking that you approve, in the midst of your own unhappiness, the _ task I am pledged to perform, the duty I dare not shrink from! They shall never know. Striving to do right, e will come at last to youand tome, Now go, and may heaven bless and reward you |” She held out her hand to him, and he kissed it, with alook of love and reverence. Then she turned from him, and sank into a seat, exhausted by emotion. He also ba any to go, when Mr, Armstrong’s voice arrested his steps. 1 j ’ ;
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LOVE'S VICTORY. ‘ 81 CHAPTER X. BROUGHT TO BAY. RicHarp had no means of ascertaining from what di- rection Mr, Armstrong had approached him. He would have escaped if ne could, but Mr. Armstrong was too quick for him; the American might have risen frem the ground, so suddenly and silently did he appear upon the scene. ; “Where have you been hiding yourself all the even- ing, Richard?” said Mr. Armstrong. “I have been hunting everywhere for you.” He did not appear to notice Laura, whose face was buried in her hands. As he’spoke, he took Richard’s arm, and in a natural, unconstrained manner drew him a tew steps from where Laura was sitting. “Thad no wish to be seen,” replied Richard, not look- ' ing at his friend. Had he done so, he would have been startled at the expression on the American’s face, and puzzled to account forit. The hard lines—which, in the light of the glowing hope that animated him, had lately softened somewhat—had come out again, with more than their old intensity, the lips were firmly compressed, the forehead was wrinkled, and the eye- lids were contracted and almost hidden in their upward curve to the eyebrows; the entire face bore the im- press of stern, inflexible resolution, not devoid of a cer- tain sad sweetness. i “T have news for you, Richard. Mr. Fangle intends to earn the reward you have offered for the discovery of Charles Davidge.”’ Probably, in his state of mind, no other theme would have roused an active interest in Richard’s breast. * He is alive, then!” he cried, excitedly. oe Yes.’ , Richard’s nostrils dilated, and he looked around rest- lessly. ‘* Where is Mr. Fangle ?’”’ ‘* He will be here presently; we shall have a better chance of seeing himif we remain near this spot than if we went in search of him,. What will you doif you moet this man, as you desired, face to face ?”’ “Accuse him—denounce him! Oh, that I knew of a charm to wring confession from his guilty lips in your presence! How—how isit to bedone? If his fears could be worked upon—ifin some way I could strike terror to his guilty heart |” “ Be calm, Richard.” “Ah, itis easy for you to say that.” Mr. Armstrong smiled sadly. ‘No, no, Armstrong,I did not mean it. Not from me to you should come words that imply reproach. But tosee this man, whose false life has been one long shameful lie, and to hear him deny the charge I bring against him, although heaven and jus- tice are on my side !—it will madden me! it will mad- den me!” a ** You willlive these feelings down,” said the Ameri- can, “or you will learn by-and-by to bear grief with resignation. Life is full of disappointments, Richard. When all seems fair before us comes the storm in which our happiness is wrecked. Beneath the beautiful wa- ters over which our boat is calmly gliding, we see bright flowers and grasses, and we smile securely as we pass over them. But within that waving mass of color a rock lies concealed; we strike upon it, and our boat is shivered to pieces, Dismayed, we look back—the flowers have vanished. They were never there, Richard; our vanity and blindness conjured them up. The peace- . days are gone forever, never to return, and nothing is left us but resignation, or the comfort which comes from cold philosophy, or the hope which springs from the faith in a better time in the here- r. > The pathos in his tone brought tears to Richard’s eyes, and he continued the theme, but ins different spirit from that which animated his friend. _ “Or are these flowers shaped, these colors painted, by fate, tomock us? If we are wrecked believing in them, the faultis not ours, It was neither our vanity nor our blindness that conjured them up. Ihave not the patience of resignation, nor can I find comfort in phi- losophy. Butmy heart is too full to argue. Tam sick of the world. I would that I had limited my experience of it to the far away country in which I was born, and to which I shall soon return, bruised and heart-broken, robbed of all that could make life dear to me.” “You would have found your experience there, - Richard, had you never felt it. And you are. really go- - ing to leave us ?” “Can you wonder at it? Have I not proved that sweet words have a bitter taste, and the hand of friend- ship hasa sting in it?” “No. You have not yet proved that. You are too young to be soured with the world, and I was wrong in encou 8 you; I spoke out of my own heart, not out of yours. @ CO) Bes “Do not misjudge me, Armstrong. I believe in your friendship and truth. But when I tell you that my dearest hopes have been crushed, and that even in youl dare not confide, you will pity, although you cannot console me. “ Suffering is our heritage, To suffer bravely shows truest nobility. Again I say, take courage. I promised to be your friend, and I will not fail you.” -He ‘grasped Richard’s hand, and beckoned to Mr. _ Fangle, who was standing at @ little distance from them, and whom Richard did not for the moment see. “ T did not like to intrude upon you,” said Mr. Fangle, “but I wished to tell you that Mr. Chappell is coming this way. Perhaps you have not glanced through The Moon. Itis positively true that the Golden Mariner is lost. Everybody is speaking of the disaster, and Mr Chappell is almost distracted. I never saw a man in such acondition—talking to himself, and glaring about reer really as though he a Suns bit ’—Mr. Fangle Onched his forehead significantly. Mr. Fangle’s words are to inspire Mr. Armstrong with assdden resolution. He thought of what Rich- ard had said, ‘If his fears could be worked upon--if in some way I could strike terror to his guilty heart ! 4 « Hasten away, Mr. Fangle,” he said, in a very strange- ly stern tone, “and instantly bring as many of our friends here as you can find. The earning of that five hundred pounds depends upon your promptitude.” Mr. Fangle did not wait for another word. ‘ “ Richard,” then said Mr. Armstrong to his friend, “Iam tempted to make a strange experiment in your interest. ltmay fail, but it is worth the trial. The timé seems ripe forit. Do not be surprised at any- thing you may see or hear, and speak only when, in your judgment, the proper moment has arrived. I learn from what you have told me that your father be- lieved that this Charles Davidge, his fellow-clerk, was guilty of the crime for which he suffered.’ “He declared it most solemnly,” réplied Richard, «You willsee Charles Davidge presently,’’ added Mr. Armstrong, ‘and the opportunity will present itself of eliciting the truth.”’ He waved Richard back upon the entrance of Mr. Chappell, whose sight was so blurred by excitement that he did not perceive that other actors than himself and Mr.. Armstrong were present. His face was wild and haggard, and helooked about with the air of. a hunted animal. He had amplecause for his excitement. Before twenty-four hours passed over his head it would be known that he was a ruined man. The sudden withdrawal of Richard Barton’s ac- count, in conjunction with the disastrous collapse’ of an extreme venture in which. he had been for some time engaged, were sufficient in themselves to bring about the result ; and even lad there been a loop-hole through which he might have escaped, the confirma- tion of the rumors respecting the loss of the Golden Mariner was sufficient to effectually close it up. . To- morrow he would be not only aruined but a disgraced man, for he had tampered with money and securities upon which he had no claim, and there was no possible way of avoiding exposure. He had been playing this game secretly for years, trading upon the credit and honorable name which the firm had earned in its long and hitherto unblemished career ; but now the game was up, and he was bankrupt and dishonored. He had still another cause for fear. He had seen the advertise- ment in Mr. Armstrong’s newspaper respecting Charles Davidge, and the shadow of a great crime committed in his youth stole over his soul like a funeral pall, and seemed to shut out all hope. In a voice thick more from fear than from passion, he accosted Mr. Arm- strong. ““What is the meaning of this telegram you sent me, sir?” he cried, holding out the paper with a shaking hand. ‘Is it true that the ship is lost? You ought to know, sir, for you as well as I have a heavy stake in it. And what is meant by that advertisement in your paper, for it +s yours, notwithstanding your silence ’’—— His voice suddenly failed him. Mr. Armstrong’s stern gaze struck terror to his heart, and beneath its compelling power and his mental agony his strength gave way. He staggered and almost fell into a seat, seeing nothing distinctly with the exception of those glittering, accusing eyes which never left him, and upon which his own were fixed in speechless fear. Every moment that passed intensified the spell which seemed to be cast upon him, but which for the most part he really created for himself out of his own fears and despair. He was not aware that others had by this time appeared upon the scene, og agen his wife, Lord Beaumorris, Mr. Fangle, and y, who, seeing Laura standing alone, sad and pale, hastened to her side and passed his arm around her. Lord Beaumorris was the first to speak. “Deplorable news—deplorable |’’ he said, addressing himself to Mr. Armstrong. ‘“ Four hundred souls on board—all lost but two—paragraph in Zhe Moon—de- plorable! There is no doubt—eh, Mr. Armstrong—its hair The newspapers don’t tell—hem !—stories, do they ?” “Not intentionally, my lord, I believe,” replied Mr. Armstrong. ‘‘I am afraid that the news is too true, and that the Golden Mariner is really lost.’’ Mr. Fangle sidled close to Mr. Armstrong. “Wondertul paper, Zhe Moon,” he said, ‘‘ the people’s paper. Always something extraordinary init. On the very page containing the announcement of the loss of i the ship, is that curious advertisement’””—— Check- ing himself, he et to Mr. Armstrong, “ Is this the proper time? Shall I tell it now, and earn the money ?”’ “Yes,” said Mr. Armstrong, not stirring from his position in front of Mr. Chappell; “you can speak now.” “That curious advertisement offering a reward of jan? hundred pounds for the discovery of Charles vidge.” Mrs. Chappell started forward indignantly. “ Offering areward,” she cried, “for the discovery of Charles Davidge; Who has dared to be guilty of such an act of insolence? Do you hear, Mr. Chappell? You must discover the person who has presumed to put in such an advertisement and punish him. The Government should not allow these slanderous papers to be printed.” But Mr. Chappell did not heed her; his features were set, and almost rigid, and he did not appear to have the power to remove his eyes from Mr. Armstrong. Mrs. Chappell would have approached him closer, but oe by gently interposing his arm, restrain- ed her. “ Why does he not answer me ?” she asked in alarm. “Mr. Armstrong, why does he fix his eyes so strangely upon you?” : Attracted by the strangeness of the scene, some twenty or thirty persons were now gathered together, and stood in a semicircle around the principal actors. “T request all here to be silent,” said Mr. Armstrong, in slow, measured tones, ‘with the exception of those who are immediately interested in what is about to take place.” The spectators obeyed him, and kept their places in silent and curious expectation. CHAPTER XI. MR. ARMSTRONG REDEEMS HIS PROMISE. “Wins. CHAPPELL,”’ continued Mr. Armstrong, “ you pledged me to give you a proof of the power of astrong will over a disturbed mind. I am about to redeem my pledge.” ki “But not upon my husband, surely ?” “Yes, upon your husband. Without premeditation on my part, the opportunity has most strangely pre- sented itself of fulfilling the unwilling promise you extracted from me.”’ “You frighten me,’’ said Mrs. Chappell, imploringly, in an under-tone ; “Ientreat you to release my hus- band from the spell you have placed upon him.’’ ‘* Reflect before you ask me again. It may be out of my power to release him. Of what has actually brought him to this pass I have my suspicions, but no positive knowledge, But it is my duty to tell you that his honor. and good name may suffer if*you are not carefui.”’ ‘“His honor !’’ she exclaimed, proudly and scornfully; “who can touch that?’ “Himself only. Are you afraid that he can say any- thing to cast suspicion upon it ?’’ “You proclaim yourself not to be my friend by the question. I have been deceived in you.” “T haye a duty to perform, and I must perform it.’’ “Ido not understand you. I also have aduty to perform. I see a person here’’—she glanced at Richard, whom she now perceived for the first time—“ whose presence is an insult. Labsolve you from your pro- mise. If you will allow me, my husband and I will now take our leave.” . “You are my guest,’’ said Mr, Armstrong, court- eously, yet firmly, ‘“‘and Iam bound to obey youif you insist. But take heed; a shadow—a shame—rests upon the honorof your house. Istate this publicly. At this time, and at this time only, your husband can remove it by aword. If he and you depart from this assembly without the opportunity for denial bein given to him, that shame may rest there forever. rit that I shail do will be to ask him two or three simple questions, to which he must—ux must !|—return truth- ful replies.” “You shall answer to me for this !’’ exclaimed Fred- erick Chappell, furiously. He had but just pushed his way through the crowd. “I distinctly declare,” said Mr. Armstrong, not notic- ing the threat, ‘‘to those ladies and gentlemen who have honored me with their presence to-night, and who have heard what has passed, that it is imperatively necessary for the credit of Mr. Chappell’s good name that these questions should be asked. It is for you, madam, now to decide,” Mrs. Chappell saw in the faces of those who surround- ed her, and whose curiosity had reached the highest pitch, that she would be compromised if she did not yield. Why should she hesitate, indeed? She had nothing to fear. : “«My lord,” she said to Lord Beaumorris, “you, as a gratienye and a man of honor. will decide for me. 3 = a weak woman, and—a wife. What am I to re) Lad “You say, sir,” said Lord Beaumorris to Mr, Arm- strong, “ that this strange scene—is unpremeditated— on your part,” “Entirely so, my lord.” , “You give me your word—upon this as a—a gentle- man.” : ; “TI give you my word, my lord, as a gen “4 tom AR inh bowen. “and 8 say that the honor—the honor of Mr, Chappelli—who really looks— nary—hbad or was about as though something extrao —to take place’”’—— Frederick Chappell interrupted him violently. “I pio not,” he cried, ‘allow this to proceed any fur- er.”’ > “Sir,” said Lord Beaumorris, with a stately air, “Mrs. Shappall has placed herselfin my hands.” “Frederick,” interposed Mrs. Chappell. “I com- mand you to besilent, Our honor is safe with Lord Beaumorris,” ; “Exactly so—hem! It isa pointof honor. You say, Mr. Armstrong—that Mr. Chappell’s honor—hon : concerned in the questions—you wish to ask him.” “Those were my words, my lord, and I am ‘willing that your lordship shall afterward be the judge as to whether sufficient grounds exists for the present pro- ceeding. If you decide that I have committed an error, I will make any public apology or reparation your lordship may suggest.” “Tn that case, madam,” said Lord Beaumorris to Mrs. Gueppens “and as the matter—has gone—so far—I should, were Lin your place—give Mr. strong—per- mission. The proceeding—certainly—an eccentric ong —but Mr. Armstrong—if he will pardon me, himself eccentric—and his statement—seems to me—to render it necessary—gravely necessary—that he should be al- lowed—to put these questions.’’ “Proceed, sir,” said Mrs. Chappell, faintly. “ Rise,”’ said Mr. Armstrong, addressing himself in s stern and hard tone to Mr. Chappell, ‘and listen to bs gies ge pikes hear ?” ; , Chappell rose, like one in a dream, and bya sligh sage of his head indicated that his attanden was, aroused, ; “You have a statement to make, Mr. Fangle,” said the American. “With reference to the singular advertisement in to- night’s Moon. I supposed iP was a hoax, for I did not see whatis to come out of it. ButI am assured that the adyertisement is genuine, and I am naturally not, averse to earning five hundred pounds. What man ig? Noman, [| am not ashamed to say that my iuvention , gi
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LOVE’S VICTORY. has swallowed up all my available capital, and that five hundred pounds will about finish my little screw. Well, then—and I see no harm in making the statement: —Charles Davidge, of course, is our friend, if he will permit me to call him so, and forgive me for the liberty —Charles Davidge is our friend, Mr. Chappell.’”’ “He!’’ cried. Richard, coming now to the front, and standing by the side of Mr. Armstrong, who made room for him. His appearance, trembling as he was under the influence of passionate excitement, added a new tea- ture of interest to the scene to those who had not pre- viously observed him. “This man, Charles Davidge!” “Tnsolent!"’ exclaimed Mrs. Cnappell. ‘‘ You, then, are the author of the advertisement ! My lord, I claim your protection. There never has. been any mystery about the previous name of my husband. Had I sup- pee this person wished to know; I would’ have told im myself, upon his asking. When Mr. Chappell mar- ried, he took my father’s name. It was the desire of my father, who had no sons, that the family name should be preserved and borne by the head of the bank. You shall be punished, sir, for this trick.” “Then here I denounce him!” cried Richard, in a ringing tone. ‘“ My father suffered for his crime!” Frederick Chappell would have thrown himself wpon con alg but that one of the by-standers held him ack “Tt is false!”’ cried Mrs. Chappell. ‘Mr. Chappell ! Charles! Say that this vile accusation is false |’ No word passed Mr. Chappell’s lips. “‘Have you heard!” asked Mr. Armstrong, in a voice so steady and cold and stern as to afford a startling con- trast to the voices of the other speakers. It. was like marble by the side of molten metal. With difficulty the lips of Mr. Chappell shaped an answer. ‘‘Yes.”” Only those who were close to him could hear the word. “Upon his death-bed,” then said Richard, solemnly, “goon to be summoned by the Supreme Judge of men, and by Him to be judged, my father swore to his inno- cence, and to his belief that this man was guilty !” “It is a lie!” cried Mrs. Chappell. “A wicked lie!’ “Speak you the truth,” said Mr. Armstrong to the banker. “As you hope for a merciful judgment your- self, was this man’s father innocent or guilty? THE TRUTH, as you value your soul !” - Mr, Chappell shuddered, and the answer he most indistinctly and with difficulty, appeare wrung from him by an independent power. ave, al- to be . > “Trynocent !”’ Richard uttered a cry of joy, and turned his head aside to hide his grateful emotion. But now Laura's father came forward, and spoke. “Who, then, was guilty? Speak! Who was guilty ?” Not a sound was heard in reply. He stood there, self-convicted by his silence. Then, after a short pause, Mr. Armstrong turned his back upon the banker, as hough releasing him from any power he might have ‘held over him. “You have made him utter this lie,” pell, in a bitter tone, “to punish me for my wilful- ness. Say that you have done so, if you have a grain of mercy in your breast !”” © “You must question him yourself now, madam,”’ re- cio the American. “I have nothing more to say to Mr. Chappellin the meantime gazed. around in-a va- |’ cant manner, with the air of aman who had been snd- denly roused from sleep. =r “What has happened?’ he. said, passing his hand eS hiseyes. ‘““Why do you look so strangely. at me ” pé . “- - . He was dimly fearful that he had betrayed himself, or that his ruin and disgrace had already become .known ; his mind was'so confused and disturbed that he had no clear consciousness of what had occurred. Seeing Rich- ard and Mr. Armstrong, he shrunk back from them ; they were standing side by side, and he knew that they werehis enemies. ~ feeeiiy ~~ “Comie;”” he said to‘his wife; ‘let us go.”’ “You must ungsay first what you. haye. been cajoled into declaring.’” “ What have I'declared? “Why are you 80 excited ?”” ~ “You have declared here before our friends—oh, I can scarcely speak it!—that this person’s father, against _ whom you were the principal witness, was innocent of the crime for which he suffered,” ' “Nonsense !”’ replied Mr. Chappell, striving to’ be brave. “You must be dreaming, or I must have been. Who could believe such a thing ?” “Y, sir,” said Lord Beaumotris, speaking with stately distinctness. “I believe it; strangely as it has been _ brought about, you have spoken the truth, and your own condemnation. For the future we are strangers. I here declare,” he said, raising, his yoice, “my entire beliefin the innocence of this young man’s father. Sir, a short time since Irefused to take your hand. 1 ask you now to take mine. I welcome you to your proper osition in society, and I tender to you my sympathy for the monstrous injustice inflicted on your father.” “T am’ deeply grateful to you, my lord,” replied Richard. “T came to England to remove a stain from my father’s memory, and by God’s mercy I have suc- ceeded, Iknow thatI can do no more. The law. is powerless now for me or my cause. I leaye it to you and to other good men to make known my father’s in- re BT, 3 ou may depend . Bir, ¥: epend upon me ; I promise that the affair shall be made public in the wayyy ott would most desire. You are a good son, andI am honored in your ee Will you forgi “ey you forgive me,” then said Rigby, humbly, coming forward, “for the unjust thoughts ore ny bored against the man I loved, and who once loved me? Do not add to my punishment ; it is already bitter eae? eet ask pardon of the dead and of you.” Richard passed his arm over the old man’s shoulder. « i, father, sir, would have embraced you as I do, had he lived to see this day,” said Mrs, Chap-’ Rigby pressed Richard to his breast and sobbed. ‘““When he and I last met we were almost boys, and now he is dead ; and I—what can repay me for my years of shame ?”’ “ The sympathies of all just men will be yours, sir,” said Richard, gently. “Do not let the injustice of the past poison the sweets of the future.” He sighed heavily as the words passed his lips. What | was the future to be ? “The future!” sobbed Rigby, with a despairing ges- ture. ‘I stand upon its brink!” Laura, seeing her father’s agitation, drew him away, and spoke soothingly to him. “Tam ungrateful,’ he murmured, kissing her. ‘This day has made your future bright, and I repine. Dear child, forgive me.” ; His tears prevented him from noting the signs of un- happiness on her face. CHAPTER XII. LOVE’S VICTORY. In the meantime, the guests who had witnessed this strange scene hurried away in search.of friends and ac- quaintances to circulate the news, which very soon was in everybody’s mouth. The Chappell’s had disap- peared ; Lord Beaumorris had also taken his departure; only Laura, her father, Richard, and Mr. Armstrong re- mained upon the spot where the innocence of the dead’ had been established. Mr. Fangle and his wife stood at alittle distance from these four, and, in obedience to certain whispered instructions given to them by Mr. Armstrong as the spectators moved away, prevented strangers irom intruding upon the party. “How can I thank you ?” said Richard to Mr. Arm- strong. The American grasped Richard’s hand. “Has the grasp of friendskip a sting in it?” “You have been tome the truest, noblest friend. You have taught me a lesson, Armstrong, which I shall re- member with gratitude to my dying day.” “I will teach you another. After what has occurred, do you still intend to leave us ?”’ “No power can induce'me to remain in England.” “No power? Laura!” he called. “You have not yet spoken to your cousin. Have you nothing to say to him?” Laura came forward at Mr. Armstrong’s bid- ding, but did not raise her eyes to Richard’s face. Mr. Armstrong, standing between them, regarded them earnestly, and taking a hand in each of his, joined them and held them together.” “Thus I join you,” he said ; “you can at least wish your cousin well, Laura.” “T wish you well, Richard,” she said, softly. “That being said,” continued Mr. Armstrong, “the comedy is over; and thus I part you.” He unclasped their hands, and Richard turned away with a heavy heart. : **You know, Laura,” said Mr. Armstrong, drawing her aside out of the hearing of the others, “that your ‘cousin intends to leave England ?” “"Yes..” “When did you learn this ?”’ “ To-night—a very short time since.” “si aun have bidden him farewell, then ?’”’. rit: al ; “Laura, when I asked you to be my wife, you believed in the sincerity of my love ?” : “ How, knowing you,” she replied timidly, “could I believe otherwise 2’ ; P oe mae you believe in it still?” “e 0.”’ ?. > “You may, my child. I love you very truly—so truly that I would part with my life rather than make you unhappy.” ntats” “Lam sure you would: I-will strive to repay you fo your goodness to me—indeed, indeed, I will!” , “Yet your.tone throws a shadow of sadness upon the words. Not thus should the affianced wife sp to the affianced husband.” . _“ Forgive mé”—she pleaded, and would have pro- ceeded, but he gently checked her. “Child, there is nothing to forgive. In your slight knowledge of me—slight, because it is only when per- sons live together that their inner natures are revealed to each other—have you ever known me toswerve from truth or honor ?’’, : aria ; “Why do you ask me these questions ?’’ she said, gathering strength, as it were, from the sadness of his manner ; she felt that he was-suffering, and it-was her duty to comfort him if it layin her power. “You are A pang in my heart as the most faithful and truthful of men.’’, : He hid his face from her for a.moment. “There is no merit in me, my dear, except that which belongs to sincerity. Imayclaim that,I think. All the rest springs from your generosity and unselfishness, When we spoke together an hour ago, I asked that there poe gs be no cloud between us, no doubt, no mis- rust.” 5 “I donot mistrust you ;1 believe with all my heart in your faith and truth.” ‘So would I believe in yours.” ; The words brought a chill to her soul. She dared not ask him, “ And do you not?’ Shetrembled before him, not knowing what was to come. “Ohild, child,’ he said, ‘when I wooed you,I did not require a sacrifice from you. I believed that your heart was mine: I want to bring love’s sunshine into your life, not to. blot it out forever... If-I were to ask you what passed between you and your cousin at your last interview, on this very spot”’—— “Do not ask me!” she implored. “I dare not tell you.” ; : “Look up, my dear,” he said, in a kind voice. “Nay, look me steadily in the face.”’ ; She obeyed him, and her eyes, swimming with tears, rested on his. : oe "8 ‘‘God bless you, my dear,” he said, “and make your life a bright and happy one |” ' He went to Richard, and brought him to where Laura was standing. . aie 3 ‘Richard, this child, drooping before us, has promis- ed to be my wife.. Iraise her face to mine, and give her the first kiss my lips have ever impressed upon her cheek. And with that kiss—the first and. last—I re- lease her from her promise] I haye learned her secret and yours, and I make now the hardest sacrifice of my life—yet in that sacrifice there is a victory. Bear with me both, for there is unutterable pain in my heart. I think of the words she addressed to you, Richard— yes, I overheard them—‘Striving to do right, peace will come at last to me.’ As this dear child seemed to see her duty before her, and did not shrink from per- forming it, so do Isee mine, Take her. Richard. She is yours.” THE END. ‘Waverley Library. 8 Heart To Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 9 ALONE IN THE WoRLD. By Author of “Clifton.” 10 A Parr or Gray Eyes. By Rose Kennedy. ii Enranetzep. By Henrietta barre te 12 His Lawrut Wire. By Mrs. Ann'§. Stephens. 18 Mapoap, THE LITTLE QUAKERESS. By Cushman. 14 WuyI Marriep Hm. By Sara Claxton. ' 15 A Fatr Facu. By Bartley T. Campbell. i 16 Trust Her Nor. By Margaret Leicester, iy 17 ALoyat Lover. 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