Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 1) (1880 01 20)
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The Only First-class American Copyright ST THA TT TT PTTL ceeeeseoeeeeoeeteees Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Mail Matter. No.0. Vou 1. ds a ( ( ( AA ( \\iy ‘UNHAPPY MAN! WHO ART THOU THAT THOU SHOULDST COME A Pair of Gray Eyes; or, The Emerald Necklace BY ROSH KENNEDY, CHAPTER I. MRS, BUTTERBY’S BOARDER. A youna man, with an artist’s kit swung lightly over his shoulder, went Oey ce a valley road, admiring the afternoon of summer i ilding the hill-tops, and wondering where he should sleep that night, if fe kept wandering on at this rate, further aud further away from the ADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N.Y. eeepeaboeteseeontereen Wine January 20, 1880. PRICE, 5 CENTS. Copyrighted in 1880 by BEADLE AND ADAMS. HERE TO TROUBLE THE INNOCENT? WAS IT DESTINY THAT LED THEE TO THE ‘WELL AT THAT FATAL MOMENT, TO BLIGHT THE FORTUNES OF THE FAIREST OF THE PERCYS?”’ country village whose one hotel held watch and ward over his trunk anc box of painting materials. “I will rest at scme farm-house to-night,” he said, or thou ht, “and get upearly for a sunrise view.” Lingering along the rustic, seldom-traveled road, he came soon to just: such a spot as he would have coveted in which to spend a night in the valley. A stone house, a story and a half in hight, with a steep roof running down over a porch at one side, stood in a little wilderness of shrubs and trees. A large yard in front had numberless rose-bushes fy profusest bloom, and two round beds of verbenas lying in the bright grass. At the sideof the house, opposite the porch, an orchard stretebed away to wheat fields ripening between that and the hills. The size cf ' the sturdy apple-trees, as well as the moss upon the roof of the dwelling,
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2 and the sedate and tranquil air of all around, pro- claimed the antiquity of the place. Pennon stood a aoment to admire the scene, with his hand upon the latch of the gate. Around by the porch the grass was worn with the trampling of feet, and an old-fashioned well-sweep, with an “‘ old oaken buck- et attached, and smooth stones about the well- curb, looked not the least antique and peaceful of the accessories. . The thirsty traveler. longed to drink from the bucket’s brim, especially when he gaw a young girl trip lightly forth, and swing it down into the cool depths of the well. He could not see her face, and she did not observe him. Quickly and gracefully she drew the bucket up, peering down as if at her own features mirrored in its waves, Suddenly, while he paused by the gate, she uttered 2 low scream, the pole remained stationary in her hands, and she seemed transfixed by some. unac- countable sight of terror. Pennon flung open the gate, and. hurried through the yard to her side. Just as he reached her she burst into a light, silvery laugh. She was holding up against the warm light of the descending sun a string of the’ richest emeralds, which glowed and sparkled as they hung tremulous from her hand. ‘*T thought it was a green serpent when I first saw it,” she said, apologetically, to the stranger, whom she at that instant perceived, “and I am so afraid of them. Ishouldn’t have screamed if it had not have taken me so by surprise.” “You have fished up good fortune,” he_re- plied, gazing into her beautiful, earnest face. ‘That string of emeralds must be very costly. How did they come in the well?” ‘““T am sure I can not tell,” answered the girl. oe is quite wonderful,” he said, scanning them osely. . She remarked his artist’s kit, and the air which he had of being a traveler. “Did you wish to see my father?” she irquired. “Thave been wandering about the country, en- joying the lovely scenery, and have strayed far from he village where Ihave taken a room,”’ he said. “I thought perhaps the dwellers in this charming place would not refuse me a pnts lodging, that Imay be ale to sketch yonder hills in the mist and purple shadows of the morning.” “Tf you have walked all the way from Greenville to-day, you will indeed not feel like returning there this evening. My mother is in the house, and papa wil soon be here; I oe they will be glad to welcome you. Walk in, sir.” : She spoke with as much ease as simplicity. He was charmed with her manner and with her beauty. Both were peculiar, and not of the strictly fashiona- ble mold, but refined, and, he thought, much more exquisite. They had the freshness and sweetness of nature, as if all t .e quiet and yet glorious loveliness _of the scenery about her had made their impression pon mind and expression, She stooped to lift the bucket to its place; and as she did so her dark brown hair swept in heavy curls down her vermilion ehecks, and floated upon the breeze. Pennon ‘eee of Rachel, and wished mentally that he was Jacob. Then he blushed slightly to think that he had already dreamed of ing, that innocent - gyaouth, and reproved bimself for his guilt. _ “Jacob was sent by his father to claim Rach and, being a relative, he had a right to kiss her, ‘suppose. But this maiden’s lips [ will not profane by a thought.” “Clematis!” called some one from the house. “My mother is bce for the water.” He ‘ the bucket from her head, emptied its e@ontents into the tin pail she had brought, and car- ql ied it for her into the house. There he met a fine- ' Jo g woman, still fresh and fair, not quite as _ @elicate as her daughter, but with the dignity and eordiality of an old-fashioned lady. He Paeie his apolozies for intruding so handsomely, and his ‘ seconded his words so well, that she was not displeased to extend her hospitalities to him, though that she would have done to the humblest, for the stone house had sheltered many a forlorn one for gmore than one night. And here we will vouch for the truth of his state- yments by giving the reader a glimpse at our hero, as jhe sat thie city boarding-house, onl age days rs. Butter- revious to this, thinking how poor was fys best, for which he paid ten dollars a week, eompared with ‘‘ country cream,” carpets of grass _ and flowers, fresh broiled chickens, new-laid eggs, glorious sunsets, dew, distant views, rustic mowers ene grass, butter out of the spring-house, etc., aceording to the fancies of city people with which . they adorn in their summer dreams that otherwise aireary waste, the country. ~~ “To-morrow will be the first day of June,”” he waid to himself. “It is time to be thinking of a re- treat for the summer. This room has served me well for the past six months, but it is not so pleasing 4m its aspect under the rays of this glaring sun.” : He looked around dissatisfied upon the medley of which made of his one apartment —parlor, gressing-room, library, and atelier; yet there was a muingling of affection with his discontent, for he had - tteo warm a heart’ to bid adieu without regret to a, aptace where he had spent so many hours both of pleasure and weariness. Any four walls within ‘whose protection he had slept sweet sleeps, dreamed ‘fair dreams, which he had peopled with the crea- ions of his pon and pencil, and where he had felt wate from abocna and cold—any four walls within ~ which he had lived (and Pennon knew the full mean- - tng of the verb /o iéve), had a claim upon his regard. ‘With a kindly glance he surveyed those things to which he was aus to bid farewell; while tie sun, throwing the full force of his beams in at the win- ' dows, made the light and heat intolerable, ‘but you will see me again in the as sweet as those of that immorta : Not a Pe K: » Wreath of cool air could he woo down from amid the, fierce brick battlements which arose upon his outer view, driving him back to the contemplation of his books covered with dust, of the Pysches and Madonnas, Roses and Hebes of his canvas blushing in the broad day, of the soiled bed-cover, and of the worn-ou; slippers and faded carpet. The paints upon his palette smelled disagreeably; nothing seem- ed so senseless as the lines he had written an hour before for the —— Magazine, and which now Jay in torn bits upon the floor, All things had on thatcom- monplace expression which is so distasteful, causing Pennon to say to himself decidedly: “o-morrow I will go away from here.”’ Leaning back in bis arm-chair, he wandered away in thought to ail the retreats. he had. either seen or heard SP Greenland, Saratoga, Rome, the Source of the Nise, the Mountain House, Brighton, the North Pole. the Cape, the Sault Ste. Marie: Many other fashionable and unfashionable places he viewed in his reverie, as it was not until after the sun had set, and he had reposed in his arm-chair an hour and a half, that he chose from such a variety an abode to his liking. It would scarcely be proper to say that Pennon chose an abode, for in fact he had PE resolved to go journeying in a certain way, and allow his stop- sp to be a matter of chance, to be decided by ikings or events. Like many others of a turn of mind like his, and especially accompanied by the taste for sketching, he thought of making a ramblin expedition, partly on foot, down into a beautifu art of his native State, making some drawings for uture paintings, and amusing himself with any ad- ventures which might befall. Planning out some of the particulars of such an excursion, he relapsed into a deep reverie, from which he was aroused by a tap at the door, when the landlady thrust her good-natured face into me room, begging the young gentleman to come to “The bell has rung and rung,” said she; ‘the other boarders have all supped and gone away. should ’a’ thought you was not in, if it was not so often that I have known you not to hear the bell. I suppose you have been thinking up another of those beautiful stories which I hear people tellin’ of— though, law sake! I don’t get any time to read, for efforts to make my boarders comfortable.” Thus she rattled on as they descended the stairs soaeeP es for Pennon was her favorite, and the only one whom she would not have got out of tics with for keeping her table waiting. “Yes, Mrs. Butterby,” returned her est, “I up an excellent story this have been thinking time. It will take all summer to complete, but ie will come back and tell it to you next Novem- er.’ ° “Come back! You don’t mean to say you have intentions of leaving us, sir?’ and the laugh died out of the dimples in the landlady’s rosy face, as she seated herself at the board to pour out the “Tt is getting too warm to stay in the city, Mrs. Butterby.. Lam going into the mgr 8 to-morrow, ? Providenco permitting.” “Dear, dear! It’ll be lonesome without your bright face at the table. Howsomever, people 22// take notions that they must go to the country in the sum- mer. J never thought the country was much of a place—but every one to their taste. Don’t forget where we live when you come back, Mr. Pennon.’ He promised her that he certainly would not. forget. ; is tea was very sweet—he liked it so; and he could not help feeling a little flattered and grateful for the preference of the good woman who dispensed to him, he was aware, a larger quantity of the sweets of life than she did to any other of her board- ers. Her partiality for him was not owing to the fact that he alwa: d his bill, ti ad when it was presented, but that genial kindness in his voice and smile which won the hearts of all, both high and low. | - en he had finished his second cup, asked for his bill, settled it, and a few parting words of politeness with Mrs. Butterby, he returned to his room, and. spent the evening writing letters, Lect a trunk with books, clothes and so on; and also in arranging an artist’s portfolio and camp-stool com- bined—an invention which he had himself gotten up to suit his convenience. ‘ He went to bed ‘ae weary enough to have delight- ful dreams, which he took as good omens of his summer tour, woke up in the nee ee eager and joyous, impatient for his adventures. For, although ennon was twenty-six, he had almost the impetu- osity and freshness of feeling of a child. The world was not “weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable”’ to him; he liked it—that is, pretty generally, ‘ough of course there were times when he was ve sera- ble, as there must be with all impassioned natures end sanguine temperaments. This cular morn- ing he was as blithe as Shelley’s sky lark, and 'rilled several little melodies while cr his toilet, not bird, but quite rich and harmonious enough for a mere man with- out wings to soar “into heaven, or near it.” He went off in the early six o’clock train for the north, and breakfasted at a railroad station, swal- lowing the black coffee with an inward regret that it was not of his landlady’s make. eg, ben 2 start- ed upon his journey, it matters not how or where the first three days were passed, until toward the close of that third day he was wandering, camp- stool in hand, through one of the loveliest valleys ever seen, looking up at the near hills and the sunset _ clouds, and blessing the feeling of the cool soft grass beneath his feet. ne he Thus it was that Paul Pennon, artist, chanced to . *% i Vn ee - ae he interweave his own web of life with some links of the curious and costly emeral necklace which this unknown young girl Kad just brought from ‘its hiding-place. > { ‘*Look, mother!’ said Clematis, as soon as the stranger had been welcomed; ‘‘ see what I drew up, from the welll This gentleman says they are real emeralds.” With her first glance at the treasure the mother grew very pale, and waved her hand as if to move it away. iy oni do not know what you have done, my child,” she said. “Ill fortune waits upon the one ., who should first find the emerald necklace,” 17 “Why, mamma, what do you mean? I never heard anything about any necklace. Did you know that it was in the well? Does it belong to the, pag ni ; “No matter, now, my darling. You have found it, and I fear that the fulfillment of the prophecy must fall upon you, which Heaven avert! Tt was your grandmother’s.” ry 1 Clematis Percy was not superstitious; she would walk through a graveyard alone at night; but some- thing in her mother’s voice startled her, and she looked at the glittering bauble with considerable awe, It radiated light like the eyes of a living thing. bi Shall I throw it back in the well?” she asked, bh 5 By pEcse it would not alter the fate of your find-. ing it, if you did,” said the elder lady, sadly. f - Oh, well; then I'll keep it—it will be ) 50 charming to wear around my throat,” said Clematis, gayly- The thought of jewels, real jewels, had dispelled her awe; so she carried away the prize and returned to tea, all curiosity to hear its history, which her. mother refused at present to tell. t CHAPTER U. - THE HISTORY OF THE NECKLACE. othe Tar room which Pennon cate wre that night was | a : Spr aa itt apartment, and a most agreeable change from the square, dusty, commonplace chamber at Mrs. Butterby’s. It was scarcely high enough at twoof the sides for him to stand under, but was quite lofty in the center of the pointed ceil- _ ing. It was large and dim, with painted walls. Nearly in the center stood the bed, broad and high, covered with a silken counterpane whose embroid- | ered flowers were dim and somewhat frayed with wear, and the bed was shaded quite grandly with lace curtains. The whole furniture, including two or three pictures upon the walls, looked as if it might — ears before. Noth- | ’ have been arranged a hundred ing looked new except the absence of dust, Ng scrupulous whiteness of the linen, and a bouquet 0 fresh flowers in a vase upon a stand. A large | Gothic window, corresponding in architecture with the pointed recf, oceupied_a portion of one side of theroom. After looking about with great curiosity, the guest extinguished his light and sat himself by the window to enjoy the effect of the mconlight both within and without. : ; Immediately beneath, a flower garden sent up a hest of mingled perfumes to feast his senges, and all — about the ment were twined honeysuckles and reses, clinging to the cold stone with slender tendrils like fingers, and bending over to peep beneath or swing at ease cn their airy perches. A stream irdled the valley with a belt of silver; he could hear ue drowsy plash where it descended a little flowery | slope. jas : ennon was in cne of hispoetical moods, Whether _ the sweet face he had seen leaning over the well, — bathed in the rosy light. of sunset, or the uliar beauty of the place and hour had most to do in in- ducing it, cannot be said—prcbably both had their share in leading him on to dangerous dreams of fancy and sentiment. z ; “This will never do,” he murmured, as a clock in. the room beneath struck eleyen. “If I rise at four in the morning to make my sketch, I must be to bed betimes.”’ ; aoa Tes had been aloes biby = ay have erica rhymes upon a scrap of paper, e sugges light of the mcon, for the last half- our. “this Be thrust into his pocket, and resigned his seat by the — ye for repose upon the inviting, quaint-looking “3 Just as he wes sinking from conscious thought | into slumber, the sound of the clock, striking the midnight hour, fell faintly upon his ear. A same moment he became aware, as by some os aed influence, of the presence of some one in the cham- ber. He was wice awake in an instant; and turning his head he saw what, if his conscience had not |. been clear and his soul compcsed, would have — frightened him. J zr An old lady stood near his ted. He could not see her face disieene tee it locked very pale, though not severe. Her hair was puffed an powdered in the ancient style. A broad bar of niconlight Jay across her dress, and he could plainly see that it was of rich brocade, cut goreing, and plaited intoa | belt, upon which shone a handscme gold buckle in which ie ain a the glitter of jewels. As he gazed at her she spoke. Her voice was hollow, but, not unmusical. It had a mournful cadence, asof a voice burdened with too great a knowledge of sor- row. / “Unhappy man! who art thou that thou shouldst come here to trouble the innocent? Was it destiny that led thee to the well at that fatal moment, to blight the fortunes of the fairest of the Percys ? Be’ merciful, and go from here before destiny has its consummation. But that cannot be; fate is immuta- | ble—immutable—immutable!”? TT Her voice arose, not loud but shrill, like the thriek- ing of a summer wind, and before its accents closed ' is \ t 7 “ * y 5 — ne thE sir
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a ” ; ne 7 ‘ i* ee Saar sory ae i Ree ‘ae | A PAIR OF GRAY EYES she pie’ Silently away, save a soft rustle of the silk brocade. “ Well,” said Pennon, in a subdued whisper, after \ & Short silence, “this is really like an old’ romance. ; One might almost be persuaded that some witchery was connected with those green stones which that well, gave up to-day. Immutable! Can it be that I amin any way immutably connected with the fate of that lovely creature?” His cheek glowed at the thought, until he remem- bered that the prediction was of her sorrow. That was not so pleasant. / ““Pshaw! of course I was dreaming,” he ejacu- lated after a time, and being very sleepy, he dropped again into his slumbers. He awoke at four o’clock, and the first thing which he remembered was his vision of the nigh ' before. It seemed more realin memory even than in experience. If he had not had a contempt for the idea of ghosts, he would certainly have believed in the apparition. The more he thought of it the more it puzzled him; so he dismissed if as much as possible from his mind. — To get up or not to nd up thus early in the morning, is the question,” ho softly yawned, » Four hours of sleep had hardly rested him, and he was about to give up the idea of a sketch, when he eaught a glimpse of the hills through the window, . ; and they wore such a magic atmosphere, and the ' aty beyond was tinged so exquisitely, that the artist : awoke in his soul. He forgot his reluctance, and te sprung from his couch in a glow of enthusiasm, | In fifteen minutes he was on his way to a part of FF ‘the valley from which ‘he wished to begin his work. : He came back to breakfast none too soon; the j . family were at the ‘table when he entered. The . gave him a courteous greeting; that of Clematis & . was very slight in words, but a rapid hightening of Eat olor in her cheek a of interest or timidity. His drawing, which was done in water-colors, was looked at by ‘all and very much admired. “Tf we only had so good a picture of our dear na- ; tive valley, how much I should like it,” said Cle- n matis, and then blushed for fear the stranger would think she was asking him in that way to give it to er. Pennon looked up quickly to Farmer Percy. “An oil-painting will be more durable,” said he, “‘and if you do not feel that [shall intrude for a da er two, I will copy this in oil for your daughter. It / will be but a'small return for the privilege of stop- ping in this beautiful place.” Clematis turned her bright eyes upon her father with alook which asked him to accept the offer. This he was glad to do; and before the meal was te Pompieted, arrangements were concluded on. The farmer was going: to the see that morning for men to help him cut the n his meadows, and _ he would s aD at tho hotel and get the box. contain- “ing canvas, eté., at the samo time that he informed ’ the landlord of the whereabouts of his guest, and bado him take care of his other baggage until called kay Le oF) ms car 4) Shon. . ‘ Be That afternoon an impromptu easel was set up in Bs the rose-shadowed and rose-scented parlor of the - old farm-house. What pen could hope to picture while Pennon painted, talking at the same. time in his instructive, fanciful and original manner to mo- ther and daughter, a3 they sat, with their sowing, listening and answering more yy smiles and inter- ested looks than by words. Sometimes Clematis os sung, at his request, and then he painted with more ot wonderful swiftness and effect than ever—his ‘brushes seemed to fly of themselves, his colors to take on rare tints, until the picture glowed in an ethereal softness of atmosphere more beautiful than . the loveliest reality. : . Ah! the sturdy farmer did not guess, much as he was delighted with thoscene, thas giving him that '_ picture for a fow days’ board and lodging, was like giving him a costly pearl or diamond in return for a Aas y, basket. , . ee at ibid oe the fourth afternoon of his stay that at : tion, equal with her daughter’s, Mrs. we -Peroy gave the family legends cbnhected with the » string of emeralds which Clematis had found in the well. , , A soft wind was blowing among the roses, and dis- tant glimpes of the lan he was working upo ‘ pent! be had from the Cen windows. The ae rh. witchery of the present romance seemed hovering } ‘about the young couple, while the still handsoms “mother took up the romance of the past. “You must know,’ began the matron, with a look of pride not at all unbecoming to her, ‘that the Lh Percys are an ancient family, and that Clematis has Me pod | blood in her veins.” ~ “YT do not doubt, it,” thought the artist, with a lance at the peachal ke cheeks, so fresh and velvety, ere the rich veins glowed with the very healthiest _ and best of blood. ., ‘ But it is not on her father’s side alone that she is ~ ale ‘thus gifted; my own family was the r of the revs) in the good old days of Queen Bess, before Fs country was any more than a strange and un- familiardream. The necklace came into the family _ in 1595. Tt was presented by Mortimer Montieth to _ My beautiful ancestress, Lady Alice de Vere, on the day of her wed, to Jobn, Harl of Lester. __ Mortimer Monteith was’ a Scotch cousin of the ms Alice’s, who had once been a suitor for her hand, but who had been rejected. He was not a man.to inspire the other sex with tender sentiment. says the tradition; and he took his dismissal in that ih oe silent 6 h of way which no one knows how to inter- Fry Pong ‘owever, he was present at the w ang > feast, soe gave the lo bride the costly gift, Ls vy : , t about her white throat with own k _ bands 4 oft 4) i “Ty did, not wtise that jase vone-ve added arsed ourself,” cri ennon, if-angry at the mocking — soe ot senugnbet Yih eh a need Mavens nate production, yet oblige a mock- heroic conclusion she had tacked” on to the unfin- ished poem, 7 Sctes! “ You!" she exclaimed; ‘“‘you are the author, , then, are you? and of course | am the heroine.” “Of course you are! and the most beautiful of all the hundreds I have had, and the most willing to read and proclaim your own praises.” There was a trifle of malice in the last half of hi: BOnke Dee FED was provoked by an_ intuitive fee ~ ing that if Clematis had cared any thing about hii verses or his commendations, at least if she, had re- garded them with a shadow of tender feeling, shu would not thus have dared to make mirth out 07 them; she would have laid them away in her eser'- toir, or her most precious book of poems, and sai! : nothing about them. ; A irree UP sh Ne But the only keenness in his words lurkedinth: | first ones: ‘‘ He had sung the praises of a hundre:{ others. It was nothing new to bim to meet, lovely women and string rhymes together in their hone! . It was only an amusement.” " Thus thought Clematis, and suddenly lost he- — gayety. Pennon, too, was a little out of humor. F» ost his desire to spend any more time in the valle) ; — concluded he had been a silly fellow for the la: . three days, and that his baggage at the hotelinti.: — village needed attending to. He confined his cer - versation almost entirely to Mrs. Percy, was rv’- served but profoundly polite, and stole but an oce;.- sional glance at the beautiful girl, who sat wi! crimson cheek.and Cowncast eyes, busying herse.. with some trifling work. Ae Immediately after breakfast the next morning } was ready to say good-by. Mr. and Mrs. Perey warmly invited him to stop and.see them whenew he should pass through the valley, and he acce their invitation; he had now scme thoughts of 1. turning another eecaya fag eer thé nexty If the lip of Clematis trembled a little when s! . heard this, he did not see it; she was bright, ar | ; friendly, and calm when she gave him her handt+ = Pe = asks oe me Dts we res Se say farewell. aN ih ee So he went away; and Clematis erushed a burs- ing tear between her eyelids as she watched peg. 8 ; i ‘ ae . eis : : ‘ : =e Re 2“. RY = aa \ » Se A . 7 ~ san Lens Pd —
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a /Idid 8 think of that when I spoke. A the lace of the curtain at her window, and saw his form slowly disappear down the road. *T, living in this secluded spot, never before met @ man like him—as accomplished, gifted, accus- tomed to the world, and to admiration, too, no doubt --for how could he help exciting it?’ she murmured, with bitterness. ‘‘ But he has seen thousands of la- Gies not only more beautiful (nay, Clematis; look in thy mirror, child!), but in every way more fitted to win_his regard, skilled in the arts and wiles that worldlings prize; fashionably attired, elegant, versed _in the gossip of the day. But why doI care for that? Must I be admired in order to happy? Have I not my books and music, and my garden, and my clear father and mother? I wonder why it seems so lonely living in the country—it never did before.” Resolved not to feel lonely, she tied on her straw ‘hat and went down to the yard, forcing herself to sing #« gay ballad—'‘ Coming through the Rye.” When she came to the words, : “Tika lassie has her laddie— : Nane, they say, ha’e I,” soe broke down, and went on getting her flowers in silence, This silence was presently disturbed by the raising of the gate latch. She looked up and saw their mest re ing Up the walk, pale and aig po lean- ng Be ge a stick which he had picked ep As she has- tened to him, her ingenuous face spoke eloquently of the fear and interest she felt. ‘“* Are you hurt?” “T sprained my ankle in jumping over a fence. Tt was very careless of me. have d ed myself ‘back for half a mile, and must wait, I think, until some wagon which is going to my destina- tion. A foolish accident!’ he said, forcing a smile, _ though he evidently suffered. “Tam so sorry,’’ murmured Clematis, ‘‘Take my arm, do, until we get in the house, or leanon my #210) der. Mother will bind it up for you—she is very eak like Jane Eyre,” remarked Pennon, ar tone, as he accepted her offer. Iremember! And you are Rochester. But you have a good precedent in accidents.” “Tt does not ease the pain any, though, to ro- roember that others have suffered. However, this is a mere nothing. It does not hurt so much now.” Was it because he was peep 3 to the slender sup- port so sympathetically offered him? They reached the house, and Mrs. Percy’s skill was put to the ‘tost, “Tt feels. so nicely. Thank you a thousand times,” he said, after she had bathed and bandaged it, and he was extended upon the sofa in the parlor in an ea on. “No; I shall not hail any wagon,” returned Mrs. Porcy, in answer to something he had said. ‘You are a little feverish now, and it would increase very much if you endured the jar of riding nine or ten miles. Let your mind and body both rest, but do nob be afraid that you are troubling us. ‘We are glad to have you back, though we are sorry for your zisfortune.” “Do ek call, it Gfalaoristne, Lory EF Eeanon, ck OU © be content if you are. Pig hie bruised 0. wounded mortal that can be nursed in a place like this.” rought him his dinner with her own hands, After that she read to him an hour in Ten- nyson’s ‘* Princess,” and then left him to slumber _ for awhile. She félt very sorry for the pain he en- . dured, but she was happ’ hhearted in the shought qpure, © There was company to tea. Some relatives of Mr. Perey had come to spend a fortnight with him: ~There'was an aunt, a rather coarse-looking woman, tall as @ grenadier, who wore a dark-green lute- siting dress, a black silk apron, and three little twists of curls down either of her hollow cheeks. Ponnon almost shuddered at her yoice, for he was to serve him, and light- that she could confer plea- _ fastidious about ‘‘a low, sweet voice in woman,” fF, or aad hers was loud and creaking. He surmised that she had some kindness, if she could only have her - own way about sho it,in her self-willed heart. She was accom ied y her son, & oats gentle- man of twenty-two, who was away during a vaca- ‘tion from his college, and had come to see “‘if his cousin Clematis had grown as pretty as she prom- ised.” He had attempted to kiss her when she met _ him in the hall (Pennon heard it all), declaring that it was only a cousinly right, but she had rejected the salute upon the plea that “he was at best not raore than @ second cousin.” At I hope to have cause for rejoicing,” was the rejoinder. Pennon k a dislike to him before he saw him, which was increased afterward. Julien Pe was a3 small as his mother was large; a dapper, dahdy- ish fellow, elegant with the airs of a collegiate youth. Foppishness can be forgiven his age, how- ever, and it was not that which caused the dislike of Pennon, Something cold and selfish in his eye and «autious in his manner was repulsive to a person devoid of such things. | ‘Phe prejudice was mutual. Mr. Julien Percy had not expected to find a man so much finer in appear- ance, and in every way superior to himself, so per- _ fectly at home in the house of his cousin. Pennon _ did not go out to tea, which save the visitors oppor- . tunity to ask questions about him. © , - *. . ’ % OS “Tam surprised that you should have allowed yourself to be taken in by a mere strolling adven- Torev; uncle,” remarked Julien, with a slight sneer, when he had elicited the information he desired. '* These traveling artists have not all of them the best vof characters.” Pe a ’ , ‘ tte’ ‘ a whe, tu ‘S , . ee ; * =~ ae | me. ~__ Ys i Ce eee PRITR OP GRAY | Bas’ “Mr. Pennon is nota traveling artist; and if he were, it would be nothing to his discredit.‘ Besides, he has told us all about his family and his residence, and his pursuits,” spoke Clematis, with a little be- trayal of excitement. “Then all that remains for your prudence to dis- cover is whether his stories are true or not,’’ replied her cousin, coolly. ‘We do not doubt him. His face speaks for his truth.” A red spot Lg tube’ upon Clematis’s cheek. Her cousin saw it and laughed. “He has a very handsome face, and such usually speak to roam: Mest! eloquently enough, whether they speak truth or not,” he said. “You could not have had a fair opportunity of — ing,’’ replied she, and laughed at him so bright- Y, that he was sorely vexed at her remark. ‘Don’t let us quarrel,’ said he; ‘‘ especially about my beauty;’’ and be ran a hand, slender and white enough for a woman’s, almost, through his straight ein detest I will to th “‘T detest quarreling, so agree € propo- sition,” answered Olematis; and haying finished their tea they returned to the parlor together, look- ing so well-pleased with each other that a pang shot through the heart of the lame man—who was obliged to remain upon his sofa and witness the numberless attempts of the new-comer to flatter and Pang That very y pang annoyed Pennon. “Can it be,” he asked himself, ‘that I am grow- eae there ever an occasion upon which a woman can be so brilliant, so unconscious of her brilliancy, and so bewilderingly charming without meaning be, as when she has two admirers in her presence at once, each treating the other with marked but freezing civility, and both doing their best to please her? e are obliged to confess it, even of the most artless and truthful; and so it is not to be wondered at that Clematis was very beautiful and very be- witching that evening; nor that her cousin lay awake some time that night dreaming her dreams of the fine old homestead, the five thousan dollars in bank, and the beautiful creature, his future wife—nor that the pain in Pennon’s ankle kept him tossing until nearly morning. : The next day Pennon had a lonely time. Clematis was busy every moment. She had resolved to be ba to her cousin, and have some company for m. The gentle old horse was put in the chaise, and she drove around to the few families in the ry gocinis i and invited the Ad Wed over for that evening. When she returned she had the rooms to arrange and some of the refreshments to prepare. What are you going to do with me, Miss Percy. in the midst of! your happy guests? I think you had better send me off to at nightfall.” “No, indeed! I am going to have an easy chair and footstool in the nicest corner for you. Perhaps I shall crown you with flowers and place you upon a sort of throne for all my friends to do honor to you. Why, I depend upon you as one of the attractions of my ag a ‘Mr. Julien, I suppose, being the first.” “Of course,” she replied, not the least disconcert- ed; ‘I make the p: for him. But that you need not want for any attention when Iam occupied with him, I have told a black-eyed friend of mine, Kitty Parker, that she must do her prettiest to entertain “T do not like black eyes as well as I do soft gray ones, ‘The soft gray of the brooding dove, Full of the sweet and tender ray Of holy love.’ They are more amiable.” vi all your previous experience given you no more tact than t in paying compliments? I ae ——— one more delicately myself, and I am bu ‘A youthful girl, in rustic guise.’ ”’ She turned the full splendor of her eyes upon him as she spoke; she was not going to be abashed by flatteries, “T shall not beg your pardon,” said Pennon, look- ing into them ly, and pranpely thrilled by their beautiful, mystic fire, “for I spoke only the truth. I have always fancied a certain kind of gray sb and yours have more than confirmed the li ing. I should like to look into them thus for- ever. Now, indeed, the eyes wavered and sunk, and a sweet blush kindled in her cheek, for something was in his voice besides mere compliment. ‘Until supper-time, perhaps,” was her reply, with an attempt at gayety, and she went on in silence completing her povaremient of the parlor. adhe thing that her fairy hands touched took from them a peculiar grace.’ She did not lift a book or place a vase, or make a new fold in the drapery of a window, but the thing seemed infinitely im- proved. It was a calm happiness to a world-weary man like Pennon to recline at his ease upon that old mahogany sofa and watch the young girl flit about the quaint room, “Tt is sweeter than any romance,” he mused. “How lightly and deftly she performs her tasks. She is a good housewife as well as a creature of poetry; and I am sure she would look graceful any- where—for instance, making butter. And those kind of things are not to be laughed at. All men are not enormously rich, and she will not be likely to have a very wealthy husband, here in this retired spot. A husband? I wonder if ske ever thinks of it —she ought not to, There is no man fit for so sensitive, and lovely a being as she. But she 80 much faith and generosity, I warrant she 7 \ = wy s "> % tet p' EYES. would be easily deceived in character. That eousin of hers, for instance—does she like him?” ; et are very fond of flowers?” he asked, ou Clematis laughed in her soft, ringing way. “Perhaps there are too many to be in good taste. : But this is the season of flowers, and we should enjoy them. They are better than new furniture and fashionable elegancies—don’t you think so?” “There! do you think these roses and myrtles look well to loop back this lace curtain with?” t ‘*T think they are exquisite,” “Thank you. Now Iam going to dress. Ie if that you will smile at my attire, for I have not a dress made for six months, and of course I shal? be antediluvian to a dweller in the city. As for the rest of the people, they will be as old-fashioned as I, and I do not care for them.” She came down dressed when the tea-bell q for it was sunset then, and she expected her ania early. She brought in Pennon’s tea to the parlor herself, and her heart beat with pleasure as she noted his admiring gaze. She had just left her mir- ror, and knew that she was looking well; if she had not been very modest she would have known that she was radiantly lovely. Her fresh complexion did not have to wait for the dazzle of artificial light—it could dare the full glow of light which yet lingered at an ae Her Pp se ore like 7” iy yah in- ner leaf of a rose in their so oom. Her hair was even more lustrous than usual, for she had arranged it carefully, giving it many a cunning wind around. her skillful fingers. She wore a pretty light silk, with point lace about the neck and sleeves. Her arms and throat were bare; the pave corsage of her dress giving just room to display the emerald necklace—for she had clasped that about her throat. Shesmiled when Pennon’s eye fell upon it. “Tam not at all superstitious,” she said, ‘and I am going to wear it. I su ful to be donning jewels, fancy to this.” “Ido not know which gains by your wearing it, the emeralds or your complexion. What will your: mother say, Miss Percy ?” “Oh, I do not believe she will care.” ypose iam rather youth- ut I have taken such a “Why, conan. that’s a splendid necklace you | have,” said Mr, Julien, strolling into the room at moment, What did it cost? sof “Tf all legends, presentiments, prophecies and fears are true, it will cost me very dear,” was the ap al answer, as she hurried away to her ea, CHAPTER Iv. THE WORKING OF THE CHARM, Tue party was 2 pleasant little affair. Pennon anced himself with observing the peculiarities of some of the more plain of the country people about. him, not ill-naturedly, but with the love of acquaint- ing himself with new varieties of men which a citi- zen of the world has, He was cosmopolitan through and through—could have made himself friends and a home anywhere, unless it might be among the Battakers, that race of pip he og of whom the Countess Ida Pfeiffer even was alittle afraid. He had trav- eled East and West, North and South, and knew how to make himself a favorite at that little country fes- tivity. His picture was much talked of and ad- mired, and some very original criticisms and re- marks passed upon it. Clematis and Kitty Parker, her black-eyed friend, played cotillions for the others to dance, 4 Kitty sympathized with him very much because of his sprained ankle, and his inability todance; andhe, . as he could not lead off a cotillion with her, told her tales of what he had seen and heard that interested. her very much. But his eyes and thoughts followed Clematis, ae When the company had all gone, as he limped off to bed upon the arm of Julien Percy, whose aid he was obliged to accept, he turned a lingering gaze upon the pon ei His heart grew heavy, and he longed to lift finger and say, “Beware!” She seemed to him, all of a sudden, to be invested with danger or misfortune, unseen and unrec certain and close at hand. Why tell. He was a good magnetizer, though he seldom exercised his power, and now ke half-deemed that frome magnetic relation was established between him and Clematis, which warned him of something about to happen to her. ite “One would think that a little pie pain had effected, my brain,” he murmured to himself, after bidding his escort good-night at the door. ‘ Per- haps it is the sultriness in the air which oppresses me. { He leaned out of the window. The atmosphere was stifling; not a breath stirred; the w wes black with a thunder-storm. By-and-by a hot wind. out of the coming cloud struck his cheek. He watched the magnificent but almost fearful storm as it swept rapidly up from the horizon. ge drops of rain began to fall. He closed his window to keep them out, and, creeping into bed, lay listen- ing to the awful music of the elements. As his thong nts throbbed with the thunder, which rolled an verse from Childe Harold: “a Sky, , mountains, rivers, winds, leke, lightnirgs! ye} With night, and clouds, and thunders, andasoul . To make these felt and feeling, wel] may be — Things which have made me watchful; the far roll Of your 9 abo voices is the knell ; Of what in me is sleepless—if I rest. ; — But where of ye, oh, tempests! is the goal? a Are ye like those within the human breast? j . oa Pina ee M > Arr . ot) » ognized, but he felt so he could not — roke and trembled overhead, he muttered a Or ee at last, like eagles, some high nest?” » 2 ote ca —"y im > a he a Ne ae “
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A PAIR “ i OF GRAY EYES. ee -» Aterrible crash of thunder cutjthe last words short. It was so close and overwhelming that he was cer- tain the house was struck, and sprung out of bed, threw a wages eke about him, and opening the ~ door looked into the hall. 3 . There he saw Julien Percy flying about like one distracted, his white night-gown fluttering about him, looking so comical and so frightened that he burst out laughing. : : “Oh, dear!” cried the young man, perceiving him, 7 ““where shall we go to? We will certainly all be struck. I am so afraid of lightning, Mr, Pennon—I always was. Mother! mother!” en ssn: le her door, “I wish you would let me get into with ou.’ : Pesson hobbled back and flung himself down on the bed to laugh, The idea of a youth of twenty- two still fleeing to his mother’s side for refuge from apprehended danger, was very ludicrous tohim. He “-was almost malicious enough to wish that Clematis might have— ; *“Olematis! what of her?’ ) He paused in his laughter, and asked himself this uestion. , be Something has happened to her, Iknow. I wish that I dared to go to her chamber-door and ask, or he ih that I knew where her parents slept that I might ask 5 them to go.” : \ \ Just then his door unclosed and she came in, See liding slowly, and pale as a ghost. He had left his mp burning to dim the glare of the lightning, and he che her distinctly. She had not undressed. She was just as she was when he saw her last, except that the necklace was gone from her neck, and her .. eurls were partially put up in a comb. e arose a and spoke to her gently, for he conceived that she _, was greatly frightened. She made no reply, but , stood close by him, looking at him with a steady -. but meaningless gaze. He thought she might have ‘a habit of walking in her ery a and touched her - hand to arouse her. She shuddered from head to foot at his touch, but gave no other sign of con- sciousness. | Now thoroughly alarmed, he aroused the house- hold. Her parents were distressed and half out of , their senses at her condition. They said she had no habit of a somnambulist. She was taken and laid upon the bed in her own room, her temples and hands chafed, and every endeavor made to re- store her to animation, for she seomed to be in a strange sort of a fit. She gave no signs of recovery, except that once or twice when Pennon chanced to ‘touch her the same shudder went through her frame, and he grew afraid to approach her for fear tue of increasing her suffering, if she suffered. E “T believe that it is the effect of fright,” said Mr. } ‘3 Perey, ag he sat by her bedside and gazed upon her . in anguis rts Will not, some one go for a physician?” sobbed ¥ s his wife. : a “T would that I knew the way, or that my foot ~ _ was well,” answered Pennon; ‘but I will go. if I ‘have to creep on my knees, if you will tell me ‘ ~ where.” | ca } ts © ; ~ te . * ' Julien stood by, but the storm was still so severe aa he would at have offered to go forth for any- thing less than his own life. _ John, the hired man, can go. He knows the way, and can get on the horse and ride. I will go and send him,” said the father. _ “She was struck by the lightning, I do believe,” -_ exclaimed Pennon, as he picked up the fragments of ~ the necklace from where they lay upon the floor be- _ fore the chimney-piece, against which her mirror rested. The necklace was severed in two pieces. * “Oh! that fatal bauble!’ cried Mrs. Percy; ‘I * . knew it—it was always so!” ; _ All hastened forward to examineit. It appeared wrenched apart as by some great force, and the gold upon w ich it was strung was melted as by fire _, In one place. ‘ | “We will dash water over her, then,” said the : - aunt, who had her thoughts more collected than any of the others. ‘‘Maybe she will come to before the doctor gets here.” ; ‘Penion retired to his room and paced _up and own regardless of the pain his ankle gave him, un- a after the physician arrived and had given his opinion. , Fthe cold water had been efficacious in restoring her partially, for she moved her eyes, and seemed to recognize her friends, though she could not speak. The doetor examined her throat. It did not appear - injured outwardly; but after seeing the necklace, he . was of opinion that a very light current of elec- | © tricity had passed down the chimney, come out at the erevice above the mirror, and fixed upon the necklace just at the point where it was broken. Hoe MP Mesvared a bit of steel wire wound upon it. . The mother said she knew the emeralds had come anart, the links being a little corroded in one or two Dp e%, from long laying in the water, and that Cle- ~ matis had mended it for the occasion, in what man- A ner she did not know. The doctor was further of B) the opinion that the shock had paralyzed her pow- y i “ers of speech, and that there was great danger they me ‘would never be restored. ; Alay ' “My child, my beautiful child! can it be that such s a misfortune has come. upon you!” moaned Mrs. Perey in distress that was painful to witness. Tt was evident now that Clematis understood % ‘them. She was asked to speak, but. made no reply; i - asked to swallow some water, and when her lips | |. Were pressed apart with a spoon, she make the de- / Sane sired effort with success. = ' “She can swallow, at least,’ said the physician; “‘so there is no danger of her starving; and in the course of time perhaps her speech will return. - _ Will consult with a physician in the city.as soon as $ Dor ) ” : . 2 Petitbte, This was + eatg) comfort, but it was all that they could get. was now almost morning, and no one thought of sleeping, but sat drearily watching the rising of a lovely day; no one but cousin Julien, who stole away to his couch and dropped into slum- ber in the midst of a characteristic reverie. “A dumb wife! If the fortune was a little t- er, DOW, a en might even go that; especially one so beautiful. This place, and five thousand in bank, and what I shall have from mother—and they do say that a woman’s tongue isa great bore—so, of course, a woman that has none must be a prize. And then, too, folks will believe me so disinterested. Not so confounded bad as I was afraid it would be}”’ And he slept. Pennon made his way to the parlor, and finging ae a shutter, sat by the window and gazed out ai the east, just faintly flushing at the coming sun. Every flower in the garden was hanging out its cen- sor of perfume, every leaf was laden with rain-drops, and one little bird awoke and warbled to another until the air was full of inspwing melody. But the young gentleman was pale and troubled. He strove, in the stillness of that ager sco ery. to read his heart and find why that fair girl had become so dear to him, and why he felt so much distress at her afflic- tion. It was not sympathy alone with her condition, nor pity for the grief of her parents which so pained him. Before he came to the stone cottage he had wan- dered through many places and met with man beautiful women. Once or twice, or thrice, his heart had been touched deeply, but sa his first boyish love, which all men have before t gf Bae of age, he had not been bound to any one. He had known Clematis Percy but a week. In that time he had not altered the impression he received when he first beheld her Stig a vision of loveliness, at the well, unless for one ill more favorable. Lovers do not seek to analyze is 8 they love; so Pennon was, perhaps, only asking himself why he was so strangely interested. Beauty combined with mod- esty, youth with dignity, amiability with intellect, fresh unsullied tastes and sympathies with sense an discretion, innocence with ‘a certain degree of wis- dom—these were enough to form his excuse without recalling the arch smile, the sweet fire of the soul- ful eye, the joyous mirth, the lovely tinge of senti- ment, the sweet behavior to her parents, the quick sense of duty. These two latter might be old-fash- ioned virtues, scorned by many of the sex he had been most accustomed associate with, but they were charms more fascinating to Pennon than re- fined and voluptuous indolence and selfishness. “Oh, just and merciful Heaven!” he murmured, looking up to the calm sky, ‘t why didst thou choose to smite such an one as this? Why did thine arrows of fire fall upon the innocent?” He remained absorbed in thought until the bell called him to the dining-room., He went to the table more to meet the family and inquire after the inva- lid than because he felt it possible to eat. The, ap- etites of all had vanished—still excepting Julien ercy’s, who fasted somewhat for Lot gdrwmine sake —and the breakfast was a sad contrast to the merry meal of the previous evening. Mrs. Perey informed Pennon that Clematis ap- peared quite well, was perfectly in her right mind, and had answered all her questions as well as she was able by looks and motions; said she did not suffer; had, put her arms about her and kissed her with a bright smile, as much as to ask her not to rieve herself on account of her accident. AJ simi- ar cases that, any of the party had heard of, were discussed. At one moment, hope was raised as one ‘told of paralysis which had only lasted a day or a week; again it was depressed when others were mentioned where it was lasting. Some one told of a case where a woman was struck by light and made dumb for a number of years, but had suddenly recovered her speech during a severe thunder storm. This gave rise to a great deal of talk about electricity, and the use of the po oa battery, and the proba- bility of the physician having recourse to it. As they arose from the table, Pennon said to his host and hostess: “The stage passes here to-day at ten o'clock, I believe. I will not her trespass upon your bounty, but go on my way, not without a very sad heart at leaving you in this sorrow. I shall be in the city very soon, and shall consult the very best physi- cians wah your daughter’s case, and write to you their opinions.” : ‘““We are very sorry to part with you,” replied Mrs. Percy, touched by his evident emotion. “We have learned to regard you as a friend, and hardly like to part with you at this sad time. I should love to have you regard this as a home, if you can be happy in staying ie es “IT can hardly think Iam going away to know no more of the friends | so fortunately chanced upon. We may meet again. But now, if I had no other reason for going, I should hurry away to find what can be done for your daughter. Can I see her, to Say good-by before I go?” rs. Perey told him he could go to her room in half an hour. He spent that time in pacing up and down the garden-walk. As he went up-stairs into the anteroom communicating with Clematis’s room, he heard a voice speaking rapidly, and saw that the door was ajar. He had no intention of listening, nor any idea that any thing private was being said with open doors, and was not to blame that the following sentences reached his ear as he went forward: ““You have probably thought, coz, that your pros- pects of marriage were injured by your misfortunes —that Clematis Perey would not be as attractive as hitherto—but with one, at least, itis not so. I love you more devotedly than ever—I should love you to distraction if you never spoke another word, I have Pal 4 | ish sit; h humilia’ Heh radian you. mean ~ come to comfort you by offering to m Will you have me? Speak—or no, write— write what he feel—two or three dear we that you willbe mine. Here is the pencil—write!” Pennon went softly back, and waited in burning impatience for the coach to make its appearance. “T must go and say farewell, though—this will never do. It will look very careless or very ungrate- ful. I wonder if that cousin is out of the room yett I wonder if she accepted him! Can the fellow really have more heart than I thought? I hope so, fer the sake of her who is to be his wife.” : He went upto her rcom. There was no one in it at that instant. She lay on the bed, looking calm and beautiful. She smiled a greeting as he came to her side. “Miss Percy, I have come to say good-by!” How harsh and cold the words came out of his " throat! In trying to be calm he appeared almost rude. Her lips quivered, and her dark lashes droop- ed to her cheeks to conceal the intense look of dis- appointment. She madea motion to give him her : hand, but his tone had been so cold that she with- " drew it, and it fell languidly upon the bed. __. ; There was a paper slate on the couch, with some- ; thing written upon it. Was it dishonorable in Pen- non, feeling what he did and what depended upen it, that he should seek to read the trembling ~ — ters traced thereon? If it was, he was so agitated that he did not reflect upon it until later in the. day, but allowed his glance to rest upon what was all important to others besides Julien Percy: “That my prospects of marriage are injured is no : regret to me. Ihave parents, and love to live with te them. 1 do not think of being wedded; and if I \ should, it would not, cou/d not be to you, though E am grateful for your preference—your disinterested affection. Iam your loving cousin—I can never be any thing more to you.” ; * Clematis!” She looked up eres for his tone had changed; e it sent the bloo r face before she met his eyes, “God bless you and restore you to health.” He bent forward and kissed her; and the tear which fell upon her cheek from his eyes at that mo- ment thrilled through her being more sweetly than ven the first_kiss which had ever been pressed by. her than relations upon her lips. ; 4 With blinded vision Pennon hurried into the hall, ae sineont running over Mr. Percy, whom he met. ae | there. te “How is Clematis now?’ asked the father. ——% “J hardly know—I think she is very well. Will ae: you not step into my room a moment, Mr. Percy? I ave somet which refuses not to be said.” They went in together and closed the door. “‘T love your daughter, Mr. Percy. I did notknow how much until I went to part from her. I can nut. leave her—that is, with your permission to stay— vw hile she is as she is now. I know that this is sud- den—that 1 am a stranger; but I know that you will find me worthy of confidence. You can write to those whom re know in my native city and learn aL about me. will wait i he approval until then. But I wish the privilege of being near Clematis.” { ‘“* Which I will not deny, for I like you. - But Cle- : matis—poor peu have you spoken to her? She will _ hardly care for a lover now.” . : ; *‘And I do not know that she will care in the least forme. Ihave not spoken to her. I waited your — permission. She may reject me; very likely she will—for what am I in the eyes of one like her? But if you say I may speak, I will go to her at ~ once,’ : ©3- 9m ‘*Perhaps we had better wait for the ape ky Mabe Mr. Percy, with a smile, ‘before that most impor- f tant part is acted, A father’s prudence—notaman’s, > friendship.” ; e . CHAPTER V. THE WONDERFUL CASTLE, ae : PENNON was again upon His yranaang a in a melancholy mood, He had been rejected. He was- not a very vain man, considering his advantages of — personal appearance, ponte: and worldly position. — And yet_it was true that he felt mortified at being refused by a simple country maiden, when somany _ city belles would bave been igre of his preference. He felt mortified at times, but not always; for Cle- matis Perey seemed to him a heing. the praore [om whose soul were such that no worldly advantages were to be held in comparison, nor any man to feel umiliated because she did not give him her love. He felt that he had aspired to her love—not brought himself down to it; and because it-was withhe ras could blame no one, and he certainly did not b her. There was in his breast not precisely “an. me aching void,” but a settled feeling of griéf as at faa some overwhelming loss. He had allowed hishopes =~ to dwell upon this new treasure so strongly, t when he found it was not for him, he felt as if he had lost what was his. : , e had grown very tired of the life he was leading in the city, before he went from it. It was a restless desire to find if the ideal of life could not be realized which sent him forth to rove over the country in i quest of some new experience. Suddenly as light 2 bursts through a rain-cloud and pours a glory over the world, a new hope had flooded his being with ce and revealed to him the paradise he had =. He had cried “‘Eureka!’*® | te or .~ unknowingly yearned for. to his rejoicing spirit—and now how dull, and = =” selfish, and commonplace the world had grown 1a ‘ain! n a desponding, if not in a bitter frame of mind, Be he wander listlessly from place to place ei a He went to Lake George, and brie sketched ; and ys a Rd rn
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painted for a while; but his genius seemed to have re forsaken him, except as far as painting female ‘faces went. His attempts at other things seemed ali to turn, as if by fairy wand, into beautiful heads with spiritual gray eyes, loving and pure, long My masses of rich brown ‘hair, lips that seemed, even upon canvas, tremulous with feeling and melody, and foreheads not more delicately fair than ex- ‘pressive of thought and ideality. E ; He met friends at Lake George who did not fail to rally him upon his altered demeanor, and to detect a family likeness in his pictures, but as to who the heroine of his canvas and meditations might be they were totally in the dark, and Pennon took no pains to enlighten them either as to the beauty of the Tiber Creek Valley or the cottage that nestled therein; neither how, lixe Jacob, he had met a * . Rachel at the well, and had afterward kissed her and up his voice and wept, not because o having kissed her once but because he was never to have that joy eee These things he kept scrupu- jously to himself, and teasing only made them re- ' treat closer into his spirit. Eyes profane might never look into the holy of holies reserved to them. As we have hinted before, Pennon was a great favorite. He had a peculiar power of ‘ winning golden opinions from all sorts of people ’’—perhaps ..- ' because his own nature was so truthful and affec- tionate. Even at Mrs, Butterby’s it had been guessed by his fellow-boarders that they owed an extra ahownties of ounces of white sugar and fresh ? butter to his 7 eager at table. Their landlady was 2 woman in the scales of whose soul, prudence and i ' + the love of peace outweighed justice and the love ’ of her kind; but Pennon had jumped Margy into the ' lighter balance and brought it level with the other, ‘ which may be set down as one of his most surprising _ ‘triumphs. , One morning he had a letter which he read upon the po: tico of the hotel. "Well, Pennon, what news—good or bad?” asked his friend Noyse, who saw a caine pass over his .°. eountenance. : Fate aes would think it good news. You ‘. » haveh me tell of that eccentric old bachelor who en eneot his whole fortune of two bundred thousand oars upon fifty acres of land, and a castle which he built in its midst, living thereafter in it, solitary. ’ like a spider in the center of his web of glory. I believe I was almost the only human being he ever fancied, after the young lady deceived him, who hy was the ruin of one of the most splendid of men. Well, he is dead, and has left me his castle and _surroundings.”’ , . “Whew! most ple would call that pretty good news. You were born with a gold spoon in your _ ynouth, my dear friend. There is no use in your _ friends standing by and coveting the delicious mor- ‘sels you fish up with it.” bee Pennon heaved a deep sigh. s : ““ How little is known o ped _.. the fortunes of the heart—whether oj eed good or Wt bad. Lassure you, ng ioeg Iam not to be envied.” “Yet I'd e’en take the burden of that little love affair upon my spirits, for the consideration of your good looks, good gifts, and good luck.” _,. © Pghaw! love affair!” muttered Pennon. _ “Po besure it is strange that you could ‘be un- fortunate in love, unless the cn your choice be dead. But if it is not that, what is it that keeps you #0 low-spirited, eh?” : : _ *TIndignation, — Let us think of this new ‘tarn,of the wheel, Noyse. What do you say to making up a party of our friends here, three or four of them, and going up to St. Ceil to look at the castle, and to stop awhile if we like it?” _. “Glorious! Now that you speak of it I shall be egy iver until we start.” % le’s real fortunes— ah Very well, then. We will have Fenelon and his 5 HE utiful wife—” ae gi And her still more beautiful sister.”’ “Yes; and that is all. I know they have nothing -. , to do but idle away the summer, and if they are ; ready we will start to-morrow.” sw : On the 12th of July the party of pleasure selected aE by Pennon, having traveled for thirty-six hours by rail hes and boat, were left by the great steamer which daily sy furrowed the waves of the St. Ceil, on the dock of a - jittle village:several miles from the estate they were _\., irsearch of. ° ‘The travelers had heard glowing accounts of the seenery between the village and the castle—as the as proprietor had named his mansion—and learning aN. Phat sa efter an could be procured to row them ss slowly to their destination, they preferred this more ns Ne romantic manner of reaching it. The afternoon was fine. As they glided out into the middle of the _ hroad, fair river, they felt upon their brows the re- freshing coldness of a breeze sweet-scented with the _.. northern pines. The banks sloped gently down to .. , the water, and were green with waving grass, and roa, « ype Os As . ‘ Te Go : OR Bee % Ly Pt de ry a2, NE . aed , x 7 : t } ’ ; 4 A PAIR OF GRAY “Why, the gentlemen would rescue us, I su} ee It would do no harm to tax their gallantry a little more, just so that they need not forget that they are expected to be chivalrous,” and lie turned her bright blue eyes half-reproachfully, half-laughingly upon Pennon. : She had thought his demeanor too abstracted— she was not wont to be less than the absorbing interest when she was present among gentlemen; and that day she had acted her prettiest, and been treated with only the most courteous politeness, without one stolen glance of sentiment, one re- pressed sigh, one tone made thrilling with deeper meaning than the words confessed—and she thought, as she turned her face to the other side of the bey and pouted her rich, red lip, that it was ‘‘ too aud. !”? “Tt must be magnificent! I had no idea it was so fair. I wish we could get a more satisfactor view of it,’’ burst forth Noyse, striving to pierce wit: his eager glance the depths of foliage which pro- tected the castle from view. Just then an opening in the foliage revealed a wing and part of the main body of the building. Every one uttered an, exclamation of delight; but the boat swept on so rapidly that it vanished before they realized its beauty. It seemed to be something in the style of the old Moorish pelacee ed yet not that, being more lofty and elegant. It a mixed architecture, but plan- ned by some one of original genius, for it was very beautiful as a whole; to be compared, perhaps, to a warm and passionate love-song, translated from the Italian into words of solid English splendor, and breathed to a proud but tender English beauty. So it Aa ie to Pennon, but the comparison is surely absurd. “Tt is not like any rig) that I ever saw upon the Rhine or in Italy, or in England either,’ remarked Noyse, who was a great talker, and always inter- rupted those silent moments of enchantment which people of more sentiment keep sacred. ‘I have never seen any thing precisely like it in any book of drawings. I wonder why he called it the castle? It is not prep nor glowing enough for such a title. I should think—” At that moment the boatman turned the skiff to the shore, and they were in full view of the place, and in front of an avenue leading up to the hall. Soon Pennon stood upon a block of gray marble placed as a landing at the foot of the avenue, and was helping the ladies out. The party were disposed to be very gay, but the thought of the dead friend who had passed there the last years of auseless and disappointed life, sadden- ed Pennon. ; i ae shall not ruin me as it did him,” he mut- ered. “Which way?” cried Rosalie, tarrying for him, while the others, all curiosity, lost themselves in the win paths which branched off from the main walk, She had taken off her bonnet, and her light hair glis- tened with a oe tinge in the eunligne: her form was tall and full; her step had something languid and yet majestic in it; her complexion was as deli- cate as lilies and wild roses. “ Her cheekis fair, with just as much Of color as would be. Suppose a moist moss-rose should toueh A lily lovingly. “ Her hair like wavy silk seems spun By fairy worms, which fed Upon the gee rays of the sun, And gilded thus the thread.’ She was a fine-looking, fascinating woman. Pen- non realized it as he quickened his steps to meet her. She looked, even there, queenly enough to be “Going to St. James’s Court In beauty and in state;” and he thought how well she would grace one of those fashionable homes which she coveted. She was not wealthy, and her friends were desirous she should make a brilliant match. This she could have done more than once, but it was so pleasant to be ad- mired that she was in no haste. A glow of exultation made her heart thrill as she waited that instant for the guidance of her host. She had long been yiel to an interest which she felt in him, and the idea of being mistress of such a home as she saw before her put the finishing per- fection upon his attractions. She, as well as her sister and brother-in-law, had taken this invitation as a mark of particular favor toward her; though, if they had known the truth, they need not have built much hope upon it, for it was more to please Noyse than himself that Miss Rosalie Sloane made one of the party. “We shall reach the house easily by this way,” said Pennon. They followed a labyrinthine’ walk, shaded by numberless varieties of trees, some towering loftily, others bending beneath a weight of fruits or flowers, They bad glimpes of fountains, grottoes, fanciful summer-houses, and statues oceasionally in lonel nooks. Birds warbled as if in their own native wil- dernesses; for the solitary owner of all this splendor had disturbed their reveries but seldom; f. ig wa- ters murmured in marble basins. “How sweetly one might. live and die in a place like this,” almost whispered Rosalie. ‘‘Oh, I love. such beauty as this.” “You love beauty, I know,” answered Pennon, with asmile; ‘“for you love your own dear self; which is only what the rest of the world does also—loves you more than you deserve.” - She did not know whether to be pleased or pro- 12g TS ee A Ree voked at. this speech: She wanted to say something which should draw from him the innermost mean- | ing of his remark—perhaps (o induce him to say °- that he, like the rest of the world, was her lover; but Noyse, uneasy and jealous, was waiting for them, and they joined him. They advanced to the lawn where Mr. and Mrs. . Fanelon were awaiting them, entered upon a stately pormicns and from thence passed into the principal » all, whose stained glass window, floor of white and black marble in mosaic, lofty ceiling, and grand , stairway excited still further their admiration. There were but two servants about the mansion— a faithful old man who had charge of affairs gener- _ ally, and his wife, who acted as housekeeper. i “Oh, dear!’ said Pennon, as they rested them- selves in the hall, before seeking rooms, ‘I : afraid that my friend’s gift will impoverish me. I, can never afford to keep up such an establishment; _ and out of respect to the wishes of the dead Ishould never wish to sell it.” q “Ah, you can afford it better than you think,” said Rosalie. ‘‘This place is not so large as it is richly furnished. A very few servants would k it in proper order. It will take buta trifling expense .- to keep up the grounds.” ye te “You talk like a housekeeper—that is, like one who has some idea of domestic expenses and ar- |. Hoe geaid ae as every woman ought to have,” said. oyse. “That is, if she marries a poor man.” ; The slight, very slight accent of scorn with which this was said, considering that Noyse was not by any means a rich man, was poor consolation and reward for following in the train of the brilliant coguette for the last two months. The color suffused his face, for he felt too goegle te entirely conceal his feelings, and thus be less at the mercy of her who would have been kinder had she doubted her power. x ; Before any one = eg again the housekeeper entered to receive orders and conduct the ladies te their rooms. Pennon gave her liberty to send to the j village and procure such help as she needed in : wai upon his guests. She was dressed in deep: — mourning, and appeared very sad; but her new: master evidently made a favorable impression, and __ she went out looking more cheerful than when she ' came in. ei, ‘ Ina few moments apartments were ready for the ladies. ' “Oh, how charming! how perfectly entrancing!” exclaimed lie, as she entered the one allot : to her. “If I was the mistress of it!” she mur- mured, as she threw ‘herself into an easy chair. “T must be—I will be! and when Rosalie says ‘I will,’ then the ones must come to pass!” She arose and approached an immense mirror. which reached from floor to ceiling, and was set: between the drapery of the windows overlooking . most lovely scenery. Then she gazed upon her own a loveliness with as much interest asifit were newto her, whén, if the truth must be told, she spent. ate) many an hour in that same agreeable occupation. That the result was, as usual, satisfactory, might — be told by the rich smile gathering about the corners of her red mouth, and beaming out, lustrous and dewy, from the long, half-drooped, ous lashes shadowing her blue eyes. ~ eyes The draperies of her apartmentwere of rose and amber-colored stripes, shaded down into a w a ground, which produced a very soft light and =~ elegant effect for a chamber-room. The furniture was tasteful, corresponding in all things, ad Titer of) fine enough to’ awaken the covetousness of the 3 luxurious beauty. pull 5 “T shall keep this room for my own, when Lam mistress of the mansion,” she whispered, a she began to lay out articles for a fascinating toilet in which to make her appearance at tea, ‘Dear! what shall I do tor help before the maid arrives?” ‘ Pennon, when he was left alone by his retiring guests, walked back and forth through the hall. - A o9: “My friend little vasne ks when he left me this, that he was making a fitting choice of one whose necessity i twould be to follow his example of ce- libacy; or, what were worse, tomarry some womanto ~~ be mistress of his house, when his heart goes not. with ; his hand and name. This latter shall never ba Iwill not add my own to the frightful listof unhappy or | selfish or unprincipled marriages. I have dreamed of a marriage of soul and hearts—a union of the | noblest and most spiritual—one purpose, one love, | , one hope for the future—a marriage as blissful ag never ending—a marriage for to-day and not the .- less for eternity. Oh Clematis! why didst thou dis- — dS peat me in this dream? Wast thou cold? coquet- tish? wayward? Icannot decide. I only know that ’ thou didst cruelly destroy the hope that Ihbad built - “gl from thine own sweet, spiritual smile. If f did not see love in thine eyes, such as ay. soul wildly craved—if I did not see love in thy blush, and hear it in thy voice, then indeed did my per opprobation Ke make me blind and deaf. Why am I ever living over in memory the moment when thy refusal fell like a} stone upon my heart?—like a stone above a grave, it lies there never to be lifted—”’ | Pie, Tee ena His melancholy reverie was interrupted by the = => fall of the lightest foot, the rustle of the richest silk, / and looking up be met the smile of Miss Rosalie ara | Sloane, as she swept, in the charm of her fresh oy toilet, down the magnificent staircase, Pkt a CHAPTER VI. 4 4 rare’ _ CAUGHT IN HER OWN NET. oa a “To-moRROW the week which we had proposed to g stay is out,” said Pennon, at breakfast one day. “Io; have come to the conclusion that no cooler,more retired, and comfortable place in which to,endure = the heats of August, can be found. If the restare
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2s : s ' “* Charlotte, when she saw his body Borne before her on a shutter, oe Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter,’ ‘Ido not think so badly of youas that. Isincerely believe that under sich circumstances you could force that tear which you came so near shedding _ this morning—just for its becomingness, if nothing more. ' _ One never knows when you are in earnest, Mr. Pennon,”’ she rejoined, with a ieee ae pe am sure I do not think grief is so very becoming;” and she looked over at Noyse, who seemed to be blessed with a poor appetite. Her taunt was more severe than witty, for she had had the triumph of refusing him on the previous ' evening. He was not a fool, nor without considera- ble spirit, although she had blinded, bewildered, de- ceived and scorned him. He lifted a half-angry and contemptuous glance, and gazed at her more stead- ; pe gs passion had ever allowed him to do hith- “Tf Lady Rosalie Sloane ever ts to see my body ‘borne before her on ashutter,’ she is laying up _ | tears to dry for want of use. It would be folly to _.» give one’s Jife for an offering to vanity, false-heart- » edness and capricious beauty.” Py ‘How do you dare, sir? One would indeed guess you to be an unfortunate suitor.” Her cheek flushed with indignation. “T should not dare to accuse you of caprice or _. falsehood,” he answered, with the most malicious - coolness, “Sif I did not remember, too well for my own peace, the lig tin Rosalie’s eye, the smile and '‘ plush in her cheek, when we sat to rest r climb- . ‘ing that rock at Lake George; and when, embolden- My wee Fy ee soft and tender look, I—” hi _ “Mr, Noyse!” _ Ffer face was pale and her look imploring. st ed to press the purest kiss of .love upon @ ' lip [thought as pure, and in that moment tasted : bl bier which is now to thrill me with an unsatis- fied longing forever.” : She burst into tearsand left the room. Mrs. Fene- lon followed ' her; Mr. Fenelon muttered ‘ villain!” ‘and went out upon the balcony; Pennon followed . Noyse.to the front portico, and found him lean- ing, ale and exhausted, against a pillar. ; How could you take so unmanly a revenge upon in dd girl?” he asked, almost sternly, of his » frien _ “God knows Tam sorry! I would apologize, but the mischief isdone. Isuppose it was base of me; but the truth is that I was afraid for you, too, Pen- non—afraid that she would play off the same arts _ upon you that she did upon me, and I like you too well to see you made a victim of. If you could have -' | heard her laugh last night, when I called that scene _ to mind in proof that I had received encourage- ‘ment to make the avowal which I did—if you had eard vher laugh, Pennon, you would not blame Fre almost ground his teeth together. _ ‘No doubt you have been very much outraged, . Noyse} but you see you have Bpened our party, un- --les8 this matter is madeup. You need not have feared for me, my friend; not that I do not ac- _. knowledge the beauty of Miss Sloane, but I read her | eharacter long ago; besides, I have—” fore He paused without finishing the sentence. Neither - of the gentlemen guessed how very sharply the ar- Pea POW ts nets into the supposed invulnerable heart of Rosalie; for that heart had become fully + fixed upon the owner of the castle, and she knew _ «that truth the most scrupulous and modesty the {| - most pure were qualities which, above all others, he + admired in women. Her mortification was extreme { __.. enough to gratify the fiercest malice. Poor Noyse! aesg he was capable of blazing up with spirit and pride i$ upon occasion, but he himself suffered too deeply, ys -and loved too much, not to regret the consequences ee i ee aes reséntment. ; ; ’ . .- The whole party was placed in an awkward situa- tion. to do away with the impression made, he wrote to _ some friends to join their party. - ' conduct. Oh, that odious, that hateful se! _ was very near lovin loved ‘ty 2 i" studying upon what step to take fel? 4 > ‘Noyse’s going away would scarcely better the be jee tter; rhe Panda was put to his wit’s end to re- A fore pace an contentment to his guests. While fe eee 4 — yet pects shedding burning tears of Weegee cation, a | % A “4 wat ae. Pane ai Z A PAIR OF of head and heart, although rash and impetuous; and Rosalie was really so much in love, that she was willing to leave a large fortune out of his attrac- tions, and accept bim without it, when Pennon made his appearance. Considering that she had been ed- ucated to regard wealth as indispensable, it was a proof that some true womanly fee ng still bloomed eneath the artificial flowers in her heart’s pasture that she had been so near to taking a man of such moderate means, Love was near to triumphing over lucre, when Pennon, with both fortune, family, and innumerable other endowments, unfortunately chanced too near; then, in order to free herself from her more than half-committal to Noyse, she had been obliged to act with more duplicity and more heart- Jessness than was natural even to her. Now she was reaping, in the bitterness of humiliation, the harvest she had sown. eae she was yet weeping, her sister knocked at e door. “ How meanly Mr. Noyse has conducted himself,” she said, as she entered and threw her arms about Rosalie. ‘‘ Just tell me,.my love, that what he said was not true, and I will inform Pénnon of your word immediately.”” “But it was true, Bertha. "I did not mean to deceive Mr. Noyse, for indeed, indeed I thought ic ae at that time. But when I saw Pen- non [— A “Yes, dear, Lkmow. And you chose very wisely, too. I shall tell our host that you did believe that your affections were engaged to his friend, but that you discovered that he had a bad temper.’ “Oh, Bertha!” “He has, darling, Did he not prove it this morn- ing? I am so glad that you escaped the fate of be his wife. Besides, Sarees | must be done. will not tell any falsehoods, but I wiil make this proce Bs near right as it canbe made. So cheer up, darling.” Mrs. Fenelon kissed her sister, and went with her hm face and winning ways, to smooth over all iscrepancies to Pennon. She was not strictly con- scientious in all she said—but she loved her sister, and that was the way they were educated. She made out avery good case for Rosalie’s interest in the noble qualities of Mr. Noyse, her willingness to mar- ry without much fortune, etc., etc., until she found out his sudden and dangerous fits of temper, and was afraid of Lyd peng etc.—all of which her host heard with politeness and kindness; said Noyse had been rude; was ready to Bpologize; hoped_ the ladies would accept his friend’s excuses, and all would be happy again, for he had some bright plans i ae cele) month, and wanted all to participate in them. . So with the offender’s apologies, and his host’s eas for him, Mrs, Fenelon went back to her sister. Rosalie came down to dinner looking most queen- ly. The superb dignity of her air was just softened by the flash of tears which still lingered upon her cheeks and gave new brilliancy to her eyes. It would have seemed profanity to have treated such a being with any thing but tender admiration; and Noyse wondered how he could have been such a brute, even with the memory of yesterday ringing in his ears, * CHAPTER VII. THE MYSTERY. A WEEK or two more had sped away; new guests had arrived at the castle, and the most of them were going out one morning upon a boating ex- cursion., ““We seem to be living in the days of the Arabian ey ch everything is like enchantment here,” said Lulu, i: child of thirteen, who was one of the new arrivals, — Pennon was fond of chikiren; and most always had some little girl for an especial pet. On their way to the water, they passed through the garden, and from thence into a grotto, the en- trance to which was nearly concealed by-the jas- mines which clambered over its rocky sides, Making their way into this, they heard the river dashing with a sound almost like that of the sea nst the rocks at their feet, which had been cut down into convenient steps; and at the bottom of which, glit- tering in the sunshine into which they again emerged, 5 ‘o the er ‘, fay Agta upon the water graceful as a swan. = ed pore iined with crimson cushions, ran. around it. The sail was of snowy linen, edged with a crimson cord, and @ small silken banner of the same color, and Rao with gold, floated from the top of the mast, “Do you not think it a romantic boat-house?’ asked the host of Rosalie, as they stole out swiftly from the shadow of the grotto. “Every thing is romantic here, that your friend should have built himself a palace like this for the selfish pleasure of enjoying it in solitude.” * ““He was not a selfish man,” said Pennon, “ or did hot mean to be. He was unfortunate. Perhaps when he planned this place he expected to make a hice of it by sharing it with the woman he loved. ut ladies are sometimes fickle.” eas looked over the side of the boat into the water. The south wind, balmy from the blooming shores, blew them along until the spray which broke away from the prow glittered like a wreath of jewels hung around it. The scenery seemed to the ats more _ pic- turesque than that below the castle. € mountain, pores yes pines: Booed hi their right; on pai were slopt a ves growing down to the water's edie . oe eae ' How strange GHA BYES There was a bend in the river where it swept — around the base of the hill, and as the boat followed — its course, the party came in sight of a small island lying sweetly on the bosom of the stream. , Pennon had toid them nothing of it, though he had visited it himself a day or two before, wishing to | bits a them. é “That is the ‘bright little isle’ of which Moore speaks I expect, from its appearance,” he said, ¥ ‘Cand there we land for an hour or two of explora- af tion. No poet ever yearned for a sweeter spot: y ‘Here a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers, And ae bee banquets on through a whole year ©. { owers.’ ”? ; Alleyes‘were attracted to it as they approached Underneath the trees, which arose in loft they could see shadowy vistas, pleasant with moss, grass and flowers. They were welcomed by a golden burst of harmony from countless, bright-winged birds fluttering amid the swaying branches and _ darting their bills into the fragrant bells of blos- ; soms, a ; ie Every one was eager to spring upon the a. : sand, ies lay like a girdle of me about the islan fia Pretty shells, some of which Lulu gathered hastily — , in her straw hat, peeped up on the shore; but no | one could ape he. that moment to aid her selection, for the cool shade wiled them on to their protections; while the murmurs of the leaves overhead, the _ “s carols of the birds, the rushing of the river, to- ag 7 oer with the perfume of flowers,made the air > reamy with sweets. They had not gone far into the island before they — discovered, sheltered in a thick forest, the fanciful : roof of asummer-house. They drew near ner co Lf the slender pillars and the curious lattice-wor Fo which covered four of its octagon sides, the other four being open to the breezes and the birds; and also the meeting of the lofty branches of the oak-~~ trees above its gilded minaret. Upon entering it, they found oaken sofas placed against each lattice, © and around table standing inthe center. They were just wearied enough to sink contentedly upon these —s«_—©- seats. : ’ The outside of this pretty pagoda was overrun with a tartarian honeysuckles, whose sweetness at evening aay would have been overpowering; but now it was de- oe) a lightful not only to the people within, but toaswarm of wild bees, that, happy as the bees of Hybla, sung” and swarmed without. ; - le was first to notice a book lying open upon _ the table. She took it up and fonnd it to bea Py ge ; of Bryant’s poetry, open at the “Forest eee n. 3138 i ‘Some one has been here before us,” she said, 6 “some one g taste, for there could not be — fs a@ more appropriate place for the reading of this noble »” and she read aloud, with exquisite “3 emp) a few lines; then, carelessly turning the — | leaves, she came to the name of theowner inscribed on the blank first page—‘ Clematis Percy’—quitea =» pretty cognomen.” ‘ ner Ste No one noticed the sudden pallor of Pennon upon —__ hearing the name of the woman he loved, thus un- | expectedly spoken. He arose and began plucking” the honeysuckles from the vine outside, while — endeavoring to regain his composure. 1-20. ; “For whom are you ene | that oppressively = | sweet garland?” asked Rusalie, following him, = ° - “For Lulu,” he answered, throwing the golden ~ ere, wreath about a head as golden, “ , : one, run and see if old Galleon is in sight—I know vet vest there he id SSE AO CEBEe Sih eae Yes! there he comes, tugging a basketasbig as himself,” laughed the little itl, bounding back a moment after. uae La f a ee hes a, * aay to Galleon was the purveyor-general, who followed , the party in a oraft ‘of his own, havin in charge. is cargo of dainties fit for fair ladies and brave mento — refresh themselves with on an occasion like th se ae The summer-house, with its convenient _ ‘ ble, was willingly resigned to him for the time © = _ being, while the party sro itself amid the ie ves as inclination led. salie could do no better — a than get up a pretty romp with Lulu; for a i | was absorbed in that stupid book which. ; Cs the unknown woman had not been so forgetfulas to leave; and Noyse was yaying back her past con- Sra duct in her own coin—since the new arrivals he had left her to himself—try as artfully as she might, she could not perceive that she retained a fracticn of her power over him. SF snd et hee Sitting at the foot of an elm, the host forgot his - company, in the whirl of nag Scat es which (oo: Ma 5 through his brain. “Whence this book? Did spirits bear it bodily npee the air, and deposit it in this lonely island’ to remind him of that far-away being — whom he still loved, despite of her rejection of his — suit? Or was Clematis herself sonear tohim that he had_but just missed seeing her? Hadshe been here? What could have drawn that quiet farmer’s daughter to this remote and almost unknown re- gion? He was in a maze of perplexity. He turned every page, as if he would read therein the answer to his questions—but the book would not tell him ‘ what he wanted toknow. ‘De luncheon is ready to ~' sarb,” said the swart Galleon, gleaming out of the | t pagoda, as turbaned servants gleam out of the pagodas of the Orient, Wel OA Sag) “ Blow the horn, then,” ordered the host. “Hav’n% | _ you at.n horn, or a cow-bell, Galleon? Ca aie Sy inf " Blow the hugay, _ si ie Beat the gonguin.” we a “Hav'n’t no tin horn, massa, but ’seatinpan. erie dis squelcher what I made de lem nhs al ee oF i ie Valet pe ‘ Ps hy ee a eI “Rattle away, then;” and the unmusical music g 5 RES: 4 pe 7 tee Vane: wee ae ae eee. S Gere ee Sit e
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¥ Ti ve ty eee a = I> ah auras i * ' Br os s ee 4, of e ee VBS ’ the tin pan reverberated through those enchanted forest aisles, frightening bee and bird, bough and ‘blossom, into silence. The group chattered like magpies over their cold fowl, their sandwiches, ambrosial wines and iced sweets—aH but the host, who said as little as he ate, which was little enough. Rosalie noted these signs, gimost hoping they were the tokens of his havin been seized with an affection of the heart, whic was, indeed, true, though the cause was far re- amoved from any apparent source. ; As soon as he could, without rudeness, slip away from his guests, Pennon started and roamed over every foot of the island; he half expected to meet the vision of a fair young girl, as mute as death but as lovely as light, flitting underneath the shadows, or wandering on the beach. : But nothing so unlikely as this occurred. eaves searched the groves, he kept silently along the sil- ' wery sand which edged the shore, looking up and down the river witha poate eed gaze, as if something ‘were ee to be revealed to him. Suddenly, something Toe sega at his feet; a sun- beam struck it, and it flashed out into thousands of ery sparkles. He stooped and picked it up—it was ie Emerald Necklace! Robinson Crusoe, when he came upon the foot- grints of the savages in the sand, was hardly more astounded, though not so pleasantly so. Unseen by any but the approving eyes of Mother Nature, he “pressed the treasure to his lips, holding it up again and again to assure himself of its identity. Yes! the ®ame—even to the still unmended links, whose feeble hold had been severed by the lightning. “Mysterious jewels! ever to play some sad, or strange, _ ©r inexplicable part in the drama of life. How «ame they there? The gorgeous circlet, flashing in the sunlight, weomed to work upon him a dreamy —? He thought of the snowy throat they had circled—whose owarmth they had felt—whose softness they had kkissed—he thought of the lovely sufferer, stricken «dumb by that tongue of midnight fire!—how patient she haa been—how beautiful in her affliction. Ah! she would have wasted his life in serving her, and making her mute misfortunes more bearable !—but she gently, but firmly sent him from her, Here was evidence in plenty that she had been -mear—or if not herself, then the very witches had “%been! and this was hardly the era of necromancy. There was something to awaken superstition in the mystic, glowing, wares et of the gems, ‘*How beautiful! how magnificent!’ It was_the yoice of Rosalie who spoke; she had followed Pen- mon, weary of the time where he was not, and had found him lost in a dream over the necklace, which - he held to the rays of the declining sun. “ It is not ossible you have found any thing so rare as this, in this wild spot, Paul?’’—it was nearly the first time _ «she bad ever called him by his first name, and she oke it now very tenderly. Bice they are Sayer, those emeralds! it would give Tiffany & Co. a glow to see them. Let me examine them, will ‘you? The setting is very antique, very. It has fusted apart in places, from age, although of the woreet gold. They must have lain here ages, as you mi say.” ‘ “FT do, hot think they have been here long, Miss e. P “ Oh, they certainly must have been here forever! “4 * +05" "The Indians never made any such ornaments. They «aust have been buried with some princess of a race . ae ~ Jong since extinct, who lived in a splendor like that ee ‘ iG | pee re _ of ancient Peru; and now the river has worn into _ the shore until it has washed this trincket from her grave: I always preferred emeralds to all the other ‘precious stones. hose must be worth quite a little #ortane.”’ She did not return them to Pennon. She stood, “Gngering them, admiring them by word and by d Her whole attitude said, ‘‘ Give them to me!” | + =—<her eyes were full of a covetous fondness, and a smile rested on her face. She knew that the pone man was sonergn: and as he had no near female relatives to need such a bauble as this, it seemed to her quite proper and probable that he would U Keap = my dear Miss Rosalie. I have no use ae an article like that, myself.’ But Pennon had no uch 28 Brecon out his hand for the gems most reluctantly resigned, he thrust them into his ‘vest pocket without saying another word about them; - and vexed at her disappointment and at his abstrac- nm, Rosalie was glad when they came in sight of the rest of the party. “We shall hardly reach home by five o’clock, if ‘we do not embark ediately,”’ said Pennon, ringing into the fairy bark, and gallantly stretch- forth a hand in aid of the ies. ‘*The cook cautioned me not to keep dinner waiting, unless we wished to spoil it.” Hardly had the boat shot out into the stream, its «erimson-corded sail and golden-striped pennant flut- tering in the sunshine, and its passengers full of mirth and vivacity, when they were passed, at a “safe distance, by one of those e steamers which plow our western and northern lakes and rivers. A oy the bias of the day—at sight of the and beautiful little vessel which belo to the castle. Their shout was answered back with one as merry if not so great, and there was a flutter of _ handkerchiefs among the ladies on either side. _ . What possessed Pennon? He had started up so recklessly as almost to upset the boat, and was wav- Ang his dkerchief wildly, as long as the steamer uid be discerned. Then he sat down silently, say- dug not a word, till the bark was moored in the fairy oe wea F t A CHAPTER VIII. “bead ite UNDER THE CATALPAS, Tue long hours of a hot summer afternoon were almost intolerable to Rosalie Sloane. Not because of the heat and languor of the atmosphere, for she flourished in the summer-time like a magnificent white lily; but this afternoon was wearisome to her because she was disappointed and desponding. Pen- non was walking up and down an avenue of catalpas, as if there were no other person in existence except himself —she could see him from her window. Every time she crossed and recrossed the length of her apartment, she would pause by the fluttering curtain, and steal a glance at the form pacing slowly forward and back in the shadow of the trees. At the opposite end of her room was an object equally interesting, at which she also took a lingering glance at every turn of her solitary promenade—her own image, revealed in the tall pier glass. In vain she questioned the rosy shadow of her own lips, why they had no power to allure him from the silence which he seemed to prefer—in vain she asked her own blue eyes why their soft and swimming depths held no mysteries for him to study—there ae no satisfactory response to her deeply-vexed spirit. “ Rosalie was in an uncomfortable mental predica- ment. Nothing but the subtle art which gifts such women with unfailing grace would have made it tolerable. Her relations with Noyse could not be pleasant; she knew that he read her purposes as in an Open book; a jealous, yet scor spectator of every advance which she made toward a rival who was, in turn, most mortifyingly indifferent to her. She thought it all over as she paced her room un- til she fairly struck her forehead with vexation, grinding the heel of her toilet-slipper into the car- pee in a dangerous way. Rosalie—indolent as a wa- er-lily lolling on the bosom of a stream in the sun- shine—aroused herself to vow that matters should come to a crisis, Again she looked in the glass. A half-blown crim- son rose flowered in a little vase upon the table; she placed it in the sunshine of her hair; her dress, white, of the softest, snowiest India lawn, profuse in its folds, light as the breeze which waved it, was already perfection. Stay! that scarf of amber-col- ored gauze—she fastened it over the back of her head with a turquoise pin, catching it up over one lovely bare arm from which the loose, flowing sleeve swept away like the wing of an angel. ’ She was going to meet Pennon—by accident. Floating down the broad staircase like an incarnate thistle-down, she wafted herself out into a side ave- nue, from which she wandered to the river’s edge, through a thicket of roses, out upon an open lawn, around and about, until she came into the catalpa walk, from a direction opposite to the castle. “Why, Mr. Pennon, you out this sultry after- noon?”’ ‘** You do not look as if the August sun disturbed you any, Miss Sloane. You look as cool and fresh as a pearl just out of the depth of the sea—as cool—” ** As a cucumber,” said Rosalie, forcing a laugh, for it seemed to her as if he were going to say— “cool and calculating ’’—‘‘ you know I love the sum- mer fervor of this month—it suits me. I enjoy life the most fully now; every moment is cogent I’ve been in the thicket of roses down “f the water. My dress has caught their kisses as I passed; but they are flying, the roses are. They will soon be one. ** And then we must go, too.” ‘*Ah! why can we not live in paradise forever. Why was not this castle built in some clime of per- petual summer, near by the fountain of truth, so that we could sip of its waters, and consider our- selves summer-guests forever—never to be disen- chanted—never to come down to breakfast some morning with a shiver, and hear the lord of the castle say—‘We must fly! here is the breath of winter blighting us.’ Why is happiness, Paul, like this rose?”’ and she scattered its leaves at his feet. Looking up at him with an air of delicious melan- choly, as if she were thinking of the unsatisfactory character of earth, of infinity, and all the sad food and the remote future of love, of passion, of life, and death, and destiny, instead of ten thousand a year, a housekeeper, the new fashions and a new conquest—looking up at him she saw, grasped con- Nee in his hand, that mysterious string of emeralds. It was that, then, she had seen him kiss, from her gr ase -place behind the drapery of her window! A shadow, as if a cloud had passed over the sky, fell upon her. She was convinced that Pennon was in love, or had been, with some woman unknown to her. The conjectures upon the subject, when he first came to Lake George, returned to her mind with fresh power. She felt that she had a rival— but was that rival alive or dead? Did Pennon mourn for some lost love consigned to an early grave? She almost hoped so; for in that case, in time, she might console him. While if this mysteri- ous rival were still alive to assert her claims, she was afraid her own chances as mistress of the castle, were narrow. If Pennon had been aman of Noyse’s spirit, she would have satisfied her curiosity by him outright about the necklace; but she was afraid of Pennon, who had a way of keeping people at a distance when he did not wish them to approach him. If our pleasures could be like those emeralds,” et continued after a moment, ‘imperishable, en— “Then you would never go away from here?” queried her companion. “Not if you would let,me stay, lord of the castle,” she replied, tempering the full meaning of her ve- ; prea of that PAIR OF GRAY EYES. roke over her face, at her own boldness, and her glance wavered and sunk beneath his grave look. — She was lovelier in her confusion, than in her usual calm self-possession. Her fingers trembled as. she bog pk another rose to pieces. “If I could believe you, Rosalie, I might invite you to stay with me here and hereafter—for now and for eternity. But I think por idea reaches no further than an earthly visit—l would choose a com- nion for this world and the next. I’ve some un- ashionable notions, I know. What if I should pre- sent these domains to my friend Noyse, having but little use for them myself? Inever expect to marry, and this castle needs the fairy presence of a woman to charm it.” 1a * “Oh, Noyse!” exclaimed Rosalie, bitterly, ready to weep with vexation at Pennon’s assertion that he - never expected to marry. ‘You are so unkind to speak to me of him.”’ ; ; “You must forgive the unkindness in considera- tion of the motive. When I see him s0 pale, so wretched, so disappointed, I pity him, and wish hin | appiness which you, my sweet) y, and you alone, have the power to bestow. I have known him since we were * boys together,’ and he is worthy of a woman’s best love. I recommend you to think twice, before you allow him to go away from here as unhappy as he is now.” ““Oh! Uncle Paul, are you here?” I’ve been look- ing for you for the last hour!” cried Lulu, bounding from the garden, in that direction. “ And what do you want of Uncle Paul, now?” “Oh, just tocome with me, end look at the fishes, all silver and speckled, which Peter has caught and put alive in the pond.” He took the little hand held out to him, and was dragged away by the dancing child, leaving the proud beauty, tearful and sullen, having gained nothing by her attack upon the citadel, except a re- commendation to walk into a citadel already sur- rendered, and which she disdained to occupy. CHAPTER IX, DANGER. Mr. Percy had taken his daughter Clematis to the Sault Ste. Marie, in hopes that the cool}winds which blow across Lake Superior and through the northern pines, would restore the sinking energies of a frame which had received ashock too severe for it, The tour was almost as novel to the father as to the child; it was a rare thing for one of the inmates of the stone cottage to be away from under its roof more than anight or two for a flying visit to some relative. © ; i Now, these two had been absent over a month. They were returning toward their home, less hoy.c- ful than when they set out. Clematis had rallied once or twice, and seemed like her old blooming and Poe oue self—but latterly she had sunk again, lost spirit and appetite, had been detained at the Sault Ste. Marie by illness over one trip of the boat; and was now making a great effort to keep up and &).- pear well, until she could reach the haven of her. mother’s arms. , During a pleasant afternoon, the third or fourth of their voyage, she grew so wearied, in her weak state, that, despite of the beauty of the near shores, and the sparkle of the water, which she loved to watch, she was obliged to retreat from the deck to one of the sofas of the cabin, where she dropped asleep over the book which she pretended to read, in order to isolate herself from the uninteresting con.- monplaces exchanged with great spirit, by the es passengers. She was awakened by the stopping of the steamer to wood at a little village dock. She wason the side nearest the shore, and as she looked out of the win- dow with wed eyes she saw quite a number. of passengers and an immense amount of baggage, waiting on the wharf tocome aboard, They were a distinguished-looking ad to be gathered together at so remote a little village; and with the curiosity of at Clematis raised her head to reconnoiter them. Just then one of the gentlemen handed a across the plank. She was young, beautiful and richly dressed; and Clematis heard her speaking in a voice silvery sweet: “Wait, Lulu, Pennon will take care of you.” — ' And then she saw who this gentleman was who _ had assisted the lady onto the boat. - ose She felt too weak and ill to meet him then and ply by an appearance of gayety; but a vivid blush — lady : 4 ‘ A , t c there in the presence of all that company; She knew. that she would betray agitation not becoming to her ride, and she arose ei her state-room with | Pasty steps, reaching it as the new-comers entered the cabin, ' Mr. Percy had likewise seen Pennon enter, al- though not perceived by him. After the boat was onits way and the late arrivals comfortably set- pet ae went into the cabin to speak tohis young viend. Pennon met him with a glow of surprise and leasure, but not without an agitation he was pained see, for he had heard from: his daughter’s own lips that she had refused him. They walked out upon deck to have an undisturbed talk. -, ‘** How is Mrs. Percy and Clematis?” { ““My wife was well when we heard from her last. Clematis is with me! Did you not see her in the cabin?” Yah, “No, Idid not. Ido not thinkshe was there.” “She has gone to her state-room, probably, to lie down. She is hardly fit to travel, butI am anxious to get home with her.”” hae “Has she been ill?—has she recovered her voice ?— what is the matter with her?’’ “Thank God, she has recovered her voice, but—” _ ; ‘Ay, thank God!” murmured Pennon. f a €. i \
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eee 1} s pounds.’ ema ae The woman I love.” The blood rushed into his fee A PAIR OF GRAY \e Ad s : ae But she has never seemed so well since that un- happy nigh t. I have been traveling with her for her health, but she has failed instead of gained since we left home. We were detained four days at M—— on account of her illness, and haye just started on our way again.” “T long and yet dread to meet her, Mr. Percy. You know my feeling for her, and that it isin vain. I can not bear to hear that she is suffering, I thought that she looked thinner when I saw her that day in the boat.” ; “What day can you be apesios: of?” “It is curious, is it not, Mr. Percy?—but we came very near meeting twoor three weeks ago. Were ou not upon alittle island about twelve miles above here on the third of this month?” : : “We were. Our boat met with a slight accident and was lying several hours for repairs. We were restless at our detention, and hearing of the beauty of the island, several of us hired a boat and went oe over. It wasonour way up. We had a delightful excursion,” ‘“We were there within half an hour after you Did your daughter lose any thing on the island?” ‘*Theard her speak of leaving her favorite copy . of Bryant on the table in the summer-house.”’ “J found it and will return it to her. You can ess my surprise at seeing her name on the y-leaf. While wandering along the shore I saw something sparkling in the sunlight. I went toit and found she had lost something of more %5 worth than the poems—that veritable necklace with which my fortunes seem magically to be mixed. I am glad of this opportunity of restoring it, for it is of value.” f } “JT wish she had lost it in the river where it would never have appeared again. I confess to the roo of beginning to feel nervous about that thing. ; Pennon smiled, though rather mournfully. “T must go and see Clematis,’ said her father. “T will tell her of your presence on the boat. I be- lieve she will wish to see you. There is no under- standing the heart of a woman, sir, but it is my be- lief—based merely upon my own observations, and, therefore, not to be depended upon—that she refuses _ the offer of your hand simply because she thought her affliction unfitted her to be the fitting companion of such a man.” / “Ts it possible, Mr. Percy? No, it can not be!” _ ‘*Mind, I do not say itis. I may be entirely mis- taken; and of course Ido not intend you to build up ee me it, if you yet wished it so. I only know that Clematis has been another girl since the day you left.us. Alas! 1 fear she will never be the blooming child she once was. I must go and inquire after her.” He went after Clematis, and Pennon returned to his Rory ; f We oO was it e! were talking with?” asked Rosa- lie, as he came back to the group. She seemed jealous of almost every word and look that others had from him. “Tt wasa gentleman with whom I am well ac- quainted. I was glad to meet him,” and he relapsed into silence. i * He knew that the woman by his side thought or fancied that she loved him, and he had seriously questioned within himself. whether he ought not to marry her and secure her Berginess, and perhaps his own would come in time. Now a re ion of feeling had taken place. They had not sat long be- fore Mr. Perey approached them and beckoned Pen- non aside. _ *Qlematis is very ill,” he said, in an tated voice. “I found her in a high fever—delirious. There is no physician on the boat, and we will not reach port until morni I think she must have seen you. She was just in that nervous and highly excited state when any mental disturbance is too much for the prostrated physical wers. The doctors told nie particularly to guard her.from ex- citements.” * Do you think it could have been her surprise at seeing me? What a foolish idea, Mr. Percy! I wish you would let me look at your daughter. I am not ‘unskilled myself in some kinds of diseases, and have ' nursed many a friend through dangerous diseases. MayI go?” ’ “Most certainly. Ah, I wish her mother were here.” . : They entered the state-room bi, Sapo She was tossing upon ber little, uncomfortable bed, uttering now and thena moan, Her head was fearfully hot. her cheeks burning. She did not recognize either of them, staring at them a moment with bright eyes, and then restlessly throwing herself upon her oy low. She was enveloped in her tight, warm travel- ing dress, while the air in the tiny room was oppres- sive to the last degreé. Pennon opened the window and door upon the deck, put a wet napkin upon her forehead, sent the chambermaid for ice—acting with self-possession, though evidently alarmed, _ “Tf it Sows end in inflammation of the brain!’ he muttered; ‘‘ and it will, without great care. The hand of a woman is needed here. This heavy dress . must come off immediately.” He went back to Miss Sloane, who was stand- ing in the cabin door looking off at the fair, green shores. ¢ Mone ” said he, ‘I depend upon you as a friend. The woman [I love “Og lying dangerously ill in No. 18. She has no female friend on the boat. . Do for her what you can, and you may ask any _ thing of me hereafter—my gratiiude will not know __» listener’s face, and then returned as quickly. Had . She been the weak and utterly selfish ew a which / failed in the moment of trial. “‘T will do all that I can,” she said in a tremulous voice. For an instant she pressed her hand on He ar unseen by him, and then followed him ravely. With Mrs. Fenelon’s help she soon had the uncon- scious girl relieved of her extra clothing and com- fortably attired in her night-dress; had knotted back the bright, entangled curls from her burning brow held iced water to the thirsting lips, and perform every little act of gentleness which comes ready to a woman’s heart and hand. All that long night three gic sat up with the sick girl. Miss Sloane woul except for a few moments of rest, when the father and Pennon would take her place. Almost every other instant the cloths about her temples were di pe in ice water, and her hands and face contin- ua bathed. If. she had been a sister, Rosalie could not have been more devoted. Toward morning the fever was abated, and the sufferer recognized her father. During the night she had called often on his name, and once or twice she had murmured another name, sending a thrill of pain through the heart of her faithful watcher. t daylight the steamer rested from her toils at her dock in the city of D——. Rosalie, and, indeed her whole party, proposed to go to the same hotel with Mr. Perry and his daughter; and Rosalie de- clared her intention of remaining by Clematis’s side until her mother could be sent for. Her sister was somewhat astonished by her unusual benevolence, though she and all the others admired it, and inter- ested in the youth and beauty of the patient. None knew the secret of Miss Sloane’s peculiar kindness but Pennon. Wrapped in one of Rosalie’s elegant morning- ey Clematis was borne to a carriage by her ather and Pennon, and drawn as quickly as possi- ble to a hotel, where a room had already been ordered and prepared. She had but little fever until afternoon, and then nothing like as violent an at- tack as on the previous day. With quiet and good nursing the physician said that the danger of brain fever was averted. ‘Tt was dull for you and your sister stopping here until Thursday,” said Pennon to Rosalie, as they walked to and fro in the public parlors that evening. ‘**Not very dull,”’ she Sept cheerfully. ‘‘There must be some dullness and sorrow in every life, and after such a visit to an earthly paradise as we have just enjoyed, it is well to be reminded that there is sickness and trouble in the world.” “Rosalie, your care may have saved the life of Miss Percy. She may be nothing to me; she has refused to be to me what a heart demanded, but if she were my wife I should feel under no deeper obligations to you. If you ever need a friend, if you have a wish that I can gratify, come to me. You do not know how much you have grown in my rever- ence and esteem—how much more beauti your beauty is to me—how much better I understand and appreciate your character than ever before, though have always been admired by me. You were ike an — last miget Rosalie! You deserve to be panes ay you always be as brilliant, blooming and beloved as now, and may you make the joy of some heart that is worthy of you.” “Indeed, I have done nothing to merit this out- burst of praise,’’ answered the belle, but turning upon him eyes beaming with a melancholy sweet- ness strange to them... “Jt would be an angel of darkness who would not do all possible for the sick. However, I had some thoughts last night rather new to my careless heart, and unless I am too weak to detain them, they may lie there until they spring up, blossom, and bear fruit. Life was not given us merely to idle away—do you think it was, Mr. Pennon?”’ He smiled as he looked into her earnest face, more lovely for its unwonted expression of seriousness— smiled at the childlike simplicity with which she pronounced the question, as if she had been the originator of it, “* * Lifeis earnest—life is real And the grave is not its goal,’ Longfellow says, Miss Sloane; and it is true, too, though sad, that it is often only through suffering that we grow strong. Life is any thing but a holi- day to the most of us, Rosalie.”’ CHAPTER X. ROSALIE CROSSES THE CHASM. ‘“* Has the omnibus come up from the boat?” “Yes; I see it now, just stopping before the hotel.” alie was peeping from the blinds of the window in Clematis’s room, who was aw sitting up in bed, reclining against a heap of pillows. “Do you see alady who looks asif she might be a mother?” , he girl at the window laughed. “What a question! but, really, there is a lady leaving it that would answer to the description if she were advertised as Clematis Percy’s mother. And now I see your father hastening to her—so it must be your mother, and in a moment you will have the pleasure of seeing her.” _ “Poor mamma! I am sorry they telegraphed to her. Whatsuspense she must have heen enduring for the last forty-eight hours.” _ “Well, now you may know that she is very happy in hearing of your safety and improvement.” ‘** Come here a moment, dear Rosalie.” She went at the summons, and Clematis drew her down to her side, and put herarms about her neck | with akiss. | “T wish to thank youagain and again for your sis- EYES. her conduct sometimes intimated, she would have not leave her charge - terly kindness to. me—me, a perfect stray to you, atl you came tome in my sickness. On, I know my mother will love you!” The door opened just then and Mrs. Perey, her face covered with m vanced rapidly to the | e. j ee poor child! Oh,I am so thankful—so re- Ol ; ; After the first embrace, Clematis said: ““ Tt was cruel to give you so much anxiety, mam- ma; but J believe 1 was pretty seriously when they sent for you; and might have been so now if it not been for this lady, Miss Sloane, mother—my friend, my sister, she allows me to call her.” Rosalie held out her slender white hand. Mrs. Perey in taking it burst into tears, and ended by flinging her arms about her. ‘* Heaven will bless you, my dear mademoiselle.”’ Rosalie cried a little bit, too, out of nervous sym- pathy, as well as from a swelling sensation of hap- —— at heart from hearing herself praised, not for auty, but for goodness. “Oh, if they knew what it had cost led smiles and tears, ad- me. besides a5 7 — labor!’ she thought, as she brushed away her — ears. Mr. hing Boe added to the group who gathered about the of the almost recovered invalid. With \ beaming faces they gazed upon her cheerful countenance, and conversed almost gayly of past danger. There was another who longed to, yet dared not, —_ the rest, but was doomed ‘to pace restlessly through parlors and halls, his busy thoughts but little diverted by occasional inquiries or remarks from his friend Noyse, who was reading a book by a window. Noyse was not quite so rollicking as when he left Lake George, and had grown a little thinner; other- wise he seemed contented and tranquil. ig Grateful as Mr. Percy felt for the attentions of Miss Sloane to his daughter, he could not help swniling at the friendship which had blossomed into full flower so quickly. Men, slow to make up their minds, acting from prudence or reason, and ‘not from impulse, reserved if not cold, self-possessed and conservative, laugh at the sudden and ardent friendships which spring up between women— especially young women, who have not get grown to lavishing all the wealth of their natures upon husbands and children. They do not understand it, and are apt to think it weak or ridiculous; but, in fact, it is rather admirable. The want of worldly wisdom, of fear and suspicion, the gushing out of affection seeking some object, the quick sympathy of kindred emotion, the banishment of envy, the confidence, the enthusiasm, are beautiful Ce youth and gentleness. So this new intimacy between the young ladies promised well for their hearts, if not their heads, After tea the evening passed Rosalie spending the most of s it with her friends their parlor, where the young Nearly, only “a” and all, were congregated. Very earl after nine, she bade them good-nig' to Clematis’s room, a little on i, and returned . 64 4 meet | rapidly eek Ay aq + + | “You must be very weary with your hurried | journey, Mrs. Perey, and I have come to send you away for rest. I must stay with Clematis to-night. She does not need any attention now; so I will just take this cot-bed so as to be within call if’she should chance to want anything, and shall slee just as nicely as if I were in my own room. must make no objections, for to-morrow I must go aM] away, and this is my last night, you know.” way. “Do you feel like sleeping, or are you feverish to- | darling?” bn night, Crd “/ & Cool and composed, and comfortable as can be,” replied Clematis. s ‘Quite a combination of the e’s. Well, then, 1 will just put up my hair and slip on my dressing- gown, and then L can slumber undisturbed.”’ “© Your gentle limbs you will undress, And lay down in your loveliness.’ ”” “Do not try to make a Christabel out of me, love; rather give me the part of the lady she entertained ” What, if in looking at me, you should suddenly de- tect the serpent eyes? Are you not almost afraid to let me sleep so near you to-night?” “Oh, do no je ag so, if you please.”’ “T will not, since I see it makes your flesh lama neeeee nurse, I shall be getting 1 ee f again. So lie still, and good-night, my dear,” “* Good-night,” alie,”’ There was no sound in the chamber for a time, but the soft rustling of Rosalie’s silk dress, as she stood by the mirror removing the ornaments from arms and bosom, putting the bright tresses of her hair back from her pearly ears and knotting it up- behind, and looking into the reflection of her own eyes, as if seeking there the answer to an enigma, \ i By-and-by she extinguished the lights and opened — the blinds. The moon was at the full, and a Bete luster haloed her form as. she sat by the window, looking out over the city to a glimpse of water sparkling where the river bounded the town. It was earlier than she usually retired, and she sat a long time, busy with her heart and its destinies, It was not often that she took so calm and ex- quisite an hour for meditation; but of late a change se eo’, had been coming over her moods of action and thought. The city clock struck for midnight while she sat as * if entranced in a fairy ring of moonlight, » ae ee * “J “* Rosalie, dear, Pie certainly ought tocometobed. You will take cold.” _ OS ot, aa ta “Bless me, Clematis, I thought you were asleep 4 hours ago. een-tee BAe . . ies ok a ae ; Ee | Te ee - ‘ 2 ae | i “4 So they left the sweet persuader to have her own a all be stillasa mouse,and you ~ | ry. i +a ‘ag a G “a ra 4 : 4 4 a4 4 4 * wl | | ta ‘a “7 i A
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~ -™ Ll = E pin 1 f 4 | ‘ > ; \ : a . “Twas asleep a little while, 1 guess. But I do not feel sleepy now. I keep thinking “That you must not do, until you are less ex- citable than now. May Icome and lie down by your side? I want to talk to you and make you think of something else, or you will have a fever-dream and dcem yourself bewitched.”’ She crossed the floor and stole into bed with Cle- matis. “J would like you to tell me, if you have no ob+ f jections, why you refused Pennon’s hand?”’ 5 Clematis gave a, little start, and nestled her cheek t pees into the pillow. *“ Who told you?’ she asked, in a low voice. ‘“*He did. If ever aman loved woman, he loves you. I can not conceive how you coud slight such love from such a man, unless you were previously .. pledged to another.” ‘ : fi oe Lo another? No,no! Hedoes not think so, does 2”? ‘ ». | “Ido not know what he thinks; but I can see _° ‘thathe is wretched. You cast a jewel of the richest : price away when you discarded him, Clematis.” '. The young girl was trembling as she flung her arm over Rosalie. -.. *T Jove him—vetter than life!’ she said. ‘‘Do you _ ' think he cares for me still?” ¥ “His looks and his conduct betray it. If you ' Joved him. why did yousendhim away from you?” t “Did he not tell you the circumstances of his visit, to our house, and the accident which befell » ‘me? * __ “He told me nothing of any particulars, I should & like to hear them, for I am deeply interested in both rs OF Ebon I part from you to-morrow, and we may nob meet for a long time.” _ . With her arms about her listener’s waist, and her '. warm cheek véry close to hers, Clematis told, in a . '. softened, tremulous voice, the little history of Pen- - non’s stay with them. “When he came to me, the day after I was strick- . eh had gone down-stairs and was lying upon the sofa, in the parlor, trying to think calmly of my mis- fortune, and to réconcile my mind to the probable co uences—and made me the offer of love which he did, my first feeling was one of such overwhelm- ing happiness that I entirely forgot my affliction. _ But when I essayed to speak, then it was forced oa -. onme--and with it the thought of my selfishness in - > stances. ie My ‘T shal not be able to make him happy,’ I | thought. ‘He may think so now, when noble ity ‘prompts him to believe that he loves me; but, he { _ proud, and aman of the world. He will not like to ustice, Clematis. _ introduce a mute wife—’” “There is where you did him : _.. He would be proud to prove, in such a loyal way, his . . devotion to purity and gentleness.” ‘Tt was because I loved him so much that I could h, _ ‘not bear to purchase my own happiness at the peril » ofhis, Iwas afraid that I could not be tohim the - -wife that he ought to have; and so I turned away from his offer, while my heart was breaking with its double trouble—not that I felt the loss of my voice ' -asIdid of his love. After he left me, I scarcely _ thought or cared for that, except that it had been 4 _ the means of parting me from him. Oh, Rosalie! he oe makes ay [have suffered. It has nearly cost . Ime my. life. ges Spd all for a foolish ee Unless he had the |. key to your actions, how could he see in your pres- Kis 8 illness any connection with your refusal of him? / . Why did you not write and recall him after the phy- _ sicians restored your powers of speech?” “Because I did not know where he was; and I ., -thought—T thought that he had gone away so read- ily, and never gare me any chance to retract, that "ad og discovered that he was mistaken in perhaps he weed sentiments.’ . “Oh, you little infidel! Pennon would not beya | lady’s love.. He has so lofty an ideal, he thinks ' _. where there is real union of souls, that the woman *. will feel it as certainly as the man, and not compel - . ‘him to beseech her forever.” “I did not think there might be. But TI had seen | go little’of the world, and was so—so—” bie “Such a timid, self-mistrusting little thing. Now, - - what if you had lost a lover from want of appreciat- y ing yous own qualities?” \ - “Well, I do wonder, even yet, how it is possible that he does not | ag ange you. You are so queenly; » you look so well by his side, Ob,doyou know 4 rought ou were his bride when you came on to "+ the boat that day?” oe ie fours ene ray tian Rates fell into a fever of despair, which - @ame. neat being fatal. Pennon love me? Why -. you foolish child, lam the last woman he would think of enaoding: so do not be jealous of me. I could have told that you would be his ideal, if I had _ seen youina crowd. It is you who have the face | . and voice for him.’’ Are you sure he loves me, Rosalie?” e “Tf he could hear that quiver in your words just ag heard it, and feel your little heart leap up thus wildly as 1 feelit, do you not think he would be in- _ gane with rapture? Lam quite sure he loves you; /, and. to pay myself for telling you, I am going to . exact a. pour fromyou.” | heb tet cs tisi i |. “That I shall be your bridemaid, There, your blushes are fairly burning the pillow, or else your ‘fever is returning. So good-night, again, darling. ' Sleep sweet, and be happy.” aay , ‘Lam happy. Good-night, Rosalie.”’ ’ CHAPTER XL THE FATALITY DISCOVERED, hy i « 7 % e a IV ted) eh a eee ee Ros arose, the morning after the confession she had won from Clematis, very happy with a pur- Ly Ae (gh FS ibe co - ig ! f (A OO: ae ‘ ky Tat hare . " : 2 ’ J ; ¢ * pa A PAIR OF about Christabel.”’ , accepting his proffered hand under the circum-. Moe 4 ip A - ‘ \ pose which she hadin her heart. She could hardly wait for the breakfast-hour which would. summon the party together; as immediately after, she in- tended to impart to Pennon the delighted informa- tion she had for him, and thus put an end to the foolish and unnecessary misery of a couple of senti- mental young, people who seemed trying to under- stand each other, But when the breakfast hour had come, Pennon camenot: Noyse informed her that his friend had left, on an early train, for the Hast, being summoned by unexpected business, and had left his farewells for the party to be impartially distributed by himself. “T am atraid he is troubled about money-mat- ters,” remarked | Noyse, “he has seemed so moody and restless the last few days; and now his sudden departure seems to argue some difficulty. Artists and poets are always in financial trouble.’ , ““HWinancial trouble!’’ cried Rosalie, scornfully. “He has made a fool of himself, as usual!” “I must say, lam astonished to hear you findin fault with that impersonation of perfection,’—an Noyse looked at her curiously: ‘am Ito attribute this sudden outburst to mortified vanity, at his hav- ing deserted you so abruptly?” ‘No, Mr. Noyse, my vanity is not in the least hurt,” answered she, ooking at him without anger. ‘* Paul Pennon has no longer the power to mortify me, by slightinz me, though, I confess, [ should like to have his good opinion, and would be proud of his esteem. Haven’t your sharp —_ penetrated the mystery ae So promising a lawyer as yourself ought to have unwound the thread of the little ro- mance played before your very eyes.”’ ‘** You don't say so!” and the gentleman looked as if he were now beginning to unwind the thread. “Yes,I do say so. I know ail about it. That young creature up-stairs made me her mother-con- essor last night; she loves that fly-away hero, but not any more devoutly than he does her. And here, just as Iam commissioned to bear a message, as rich with sweets as a bee with honey, expecting to reap the reward which comes from such good actions, behold, the coward has fled. Financiai troubles, in- deed! I should have painted his face with a glow of everlasting sunshine. if he had waited for my tid- ings. now, I suppose, the patient will be hav- ing her fever back again, and every thing is at cross- purposes. How tantalizing)” Pennon had indeed acted like a coward, although a braver nature than his could not be found in an. army of heroes. That extreme sensitiveness which belongs topersons of his temperament, and which ce) amounts sometimes to a positive defect, and of which good sense, after a sufficient exper- ience, will sometimes get the mastery, had prevented his making the attempt to ascertain if the illness of Clematis had any thing to do with her feeling for him. Besides, he had too intense an interest in her welfare to allow himseif to risk her returning health by any agitating disclosures; he did intend to try his fate again when she should be considered con- valescent; but the tio oars previous to his abrupt departure, he had received a letter from his house- cone at the castle, announce that an accident rtp mete to the steward of the place, who had fallen and injured himself, There was no necessity for his going to see aboutit, but as he wanted some- thing to occupy his restless mind, he set out on a solitary return to his home, allowing Noyse to infer that he was hurrying on to New York. Curiously enough Pennon took with him the emerald necklace. It was entirely by accident that he did so. He had intended to give it into Mrs. Percy’s hands to returnto her daughter; and had placed it in a small box and set it on toilet- table, that he might not forget to do so. The box, which he had converted into an ef ae jewel- casket, we are obliged to confess, had once con- tained tooth-powder; and had been fished for the oc- casion out of the depths of Pennon’s trunk. When he came to leave so tily, the whereabouts of the jewels disappeared from his memory, the tooth- eles was packed up—and it was not until making s toilet, the morning after his arrival at the castle, that he was surprised by the weird, unnatural gems flashing at him, as wicked eyes will sometimes flash, in place of the harmless dentifrice into which the brush was ready to descend. At that moment those magnificent emeralds looked tohim like the living eyes of serpents, and he re- turned the cover to the box hastily and with nervous trepidation. It was the first time he had ever per- ceived any thing ominous about them; hitherto they had appeared to him invested with that tender charm given them by the fact of Clematis having worn them about her throat; but now there was something baleful in their te light. A sudden shadow fell upon the cheerful chamber. ig When he descended to the solitary breakfast pre- ared and served with faultless skill by the house- <esper, snatches of old stories and legends kept humming through his head, as hornets will hum in chambers from which they ought to be banished— ugly traditions, all of which had an odor of witch- craft or poisoning about them—of the old Italian eras of treachery and assassination—of the French and English era of love-philters and poisonings—of hideous hags and withered magicians. 5 ORY In the rich aroma of his cup of coffee he detected the flavor ofa love-philter; in the cream-gravy of the Jricassee chicken was a lurking savor of some subtle poison; the faithful and innocent housekeeper, as shecame in with a cpt of hot rolls. appeared to him a wrinkled beldam, conspired with spirits for his destruction, Some glamour was over his eyes; he rubbed them, arose, looked at his watch, and took up the morning paper. ; “You’ve not much Pasiaes appetite = mornin’; Mr. GRAY EYES. + ee : st 7 me 4 ¢ to “Not much; but it will increase, I assure you. The fault, vertainly, is not in your cooking. Before’ I go away, you will have no reason to complain.” ‘It is very thoughtful of you, comin’ because of the steward’s hurting himself. Will you stop long this time, sir?’ Rar “JT hardly know. A week I shall stay, at all events. The gardens are full of gorgeous flow- ers; every thing is very beautiful here still; and I do not see why I should not stay. I believe I will set up my easel in the picture gallery and paint something. I feel just like it.” “T trust you'll conclude to do so, Mr. Pennon. It seems a great pity to have nobody here but me and the steward and the chore-boy, and all this great place lookin’ so splendid. The old master used to think the fall of the your the best part of it here. He was mighty fond of the forests when they were all turned a-yellow, and of pickin’ up the autumn leaves —he liked the dahlias and chrysanthemums, , and all the fall flowers, sir. My! but he was a man of taste—and I think you take after him, sir, by your ways. You’ve minded me of him many times. So you paint ve pee do you? Well said! Ill like to see something you do, sir; and the longer the master is at home, the better we’ll all like. it. I’m sorry you couldn’t eat no more breakfast, Mr. Pennon.” He thanked her for her interest, and strolled out of the breakfast-room into the garden upon which it opened. The September sun was still warm enough for out-door sitting, and he threw himself upon a seat, where the silver flash of a fountain filled his ear, and a thousand brilliant flowers met his eyes. He had the paper in his hand, but he did not read. A daily newspaper seemed as foreign to the scene as a modern advertisment would be, pasted across the forehead of the Egyptian Sphinx. There was a witchery in the soft, yellow sunshine which | wove about bim like a cobweb. The present receded —time and place. It would not have surprised him to have ascertained that he was a thousand years old, and was dreaming away life in some splendid court of the Alhambra, and that he was thousands of years older still than that, and was eating opium | in some eastern garden of roses—a garden, however, in which occasional serpents struck out their fa from the foliage of the choicest roses. He felt. as if danger menaced him, and yet as if a fatal indolence — oppressed him—a Gelicious languor against which it was in vain tostruggle. Th or a couple of hours, he reclined on the rustic bench, sta’ at the golden flowers and silvery fountain. Then, with an effort, he stretched himself, arose, walked twice or thrice rapidly up and down the walk, and seating - himself again, called himself back to the present reality of things, by a glance at the news-i of his paper. He read the market aa! as staidly as a pe uce merchant; and ascertained, to his great enlightenment, that iron was firm, and lead was heavy, that cheese were inactive, and hogs were dull; that flour was rising, and hops were active; that milch cows was steady, and calves were de- pressed, that pigs were falling, and lard was irregu- ar. Having attempted to d irs these interesting items, his eye glanced over into another column, where it fell upon a curious statement of a recent — occurrence in Paris, which had, at that hour and time, a powerful fascination for Pennon. The extract read thus: ‘‘ All visitors to Paris will have noticed the of bric-a-brac; or objects of rs ma reoe and vert, so. numerous and tempting in that na tal. At one of these establishments, in the rue St Honore, a gentle- man was engaged a few days ago, in examining — ‘ ‘shops Dr itera an ancient ring for sale there wher he accidentally _ gave himself a slight scratch in the hand with a _ sharp part of it. He continued talking with the dealer for a short time when he felt an indescriba- ble numbness and torpor taking possession of his faculties, and scon became s0 ill that the ple of the shop hastened to call in a physician. e doc-. tor immediately declared that the gentleman had — been poisoned by some mineral substance, eapies : P ; strong antidotes, and was fortunate enoug relieve the symptoms which had ¢reated so much alarm. The ring was then examined by the med-- ical man, who had spent some time in Venice and who found that this old jewel was what i is) is there called a ‘‘Death ring,” a class of ornae | ments in frequent use in Italy during the seventeenth | ~ century, when the habit of poisoning was alm universal. Attached tothe part of the ring intende’ to be worn inside the finger were two minute lion’s claws, of the sharpest Steel, and_ having clefts in © them filled with a violent poison. In a ball or other crowded assembly, the wearer of this fatal: ring, wishing to exercise revenge on any one present, would take the victim’s hand, and when fadyreom cid ever so gently, the sharp claw would be sure to inflict a slight scratch on the skin, and the victim | would be equally sure to be dead before the next morning. i oe Beta A the length of time which must have elapsed since t' i the ring in question, it was still powerful enough to cause Paced danger, as has been seen, to the gentle- man who had so unwarily touched it.” : At the moment he ceased reading this statement, a flash of acute pain,’sharp and sudden as lightning, ge from Pennon’s hand over his body. Upo the first finger of his left hand, a small red it began to inflame and'swell—he examined it closely; . it seemed to have been punctured, either by some sharp metal, or by the sting of an insect. “ Pshaw! it is the bite of a spider, or the sting of — e pain intermitted, a bee,” he muttered; but as t only to increase, and began to be excruciating, he felt alarmed, ak ~ a Leas eee *Confound that necklace! there’s somet tS about the clasp of it that’s not right,” he exclaimed. m » e poison was secreted in — Ee v \ n “7 aA « 1 Aah
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OEE ee ee ee tne NSN SER SES NE SDE SRT IL RE SST SE f : ; f : 4 ‘ ore i ‘ . pa ’ 4 “T yemember scratching myself with it when I | smiled upon him with astrange sadness in her smile, lifted it out of the box this morning. It shan'’t be the death of me, however, if there’s any virtue in ' the power.of suction”’—and applying his lips to the . pain in wound, be extracted as much as possible of what- ever poison it contained. Then, going to the kitchen, he had the housekeeper wash it with a stron alkak, and bind it over with a poultice of scra castile-soap. ¥ “No wouder I felt and acted so strangely, this morniag,” he thought; “it was this mysterious poison working in my veins.. I'll go and take some of my ¢ixir vitw, and see if I cannot shake off the spell. Great Heavens! is it not terrible to think Clematis has been wearing that fatal bauble? Ido not believe the lightning struck her at all. I believe it. was the benumbing influence of this oe rag weakened by its long repose in the water. Itis so fortunate that I did not restore it to her mother be- fore I made this discovery.” ; F Having taken some of the e%xir which he took from a tmy gold vial in his medicine chest, and the i his arm having somewhat abated, he set about an examination of the necklace. After what had occurred, he was not very much surprised to find a minute steel claw, similar to the one spoken of-as being upon the old Venetian ring, upon the under side of the clasp of the antique necklace. It was so small, and so cunningly disposed beneath the filagree work of the clasp, that it would pass unob- served by any one not purposely searching for it. The curse which that incarnate demon of revenge Mortimer Monteath, had lain upon the necklace, had been of .a very practical character no doubt; the sudden death of the bride to whom he Fee ge it, = ago, was caused by the silent fangs of this hidden enemy. Although, by Mrs. Percy’s account, several of her fair ancestors had met their deaths by accidents for which the jewels could in no way be made accountable, there were several who must have perished by this fatal means. The claw was arranged so that a wound would not, of necessity, be the result of wearing the emeralds, but would be very likely to be inflicted, sooner or later. : ay , se * me Lc wv oF e ry ze a: sere th Wa le Ft 4a ’ work. He ‘went first to the flit _. its expression, its dress, and was smiling into - love which he Pennon seized a pair of forceps from his ing- case, and was about to wrench the dangerous clas from the jewel; but, upon second thought, resolv to leave it as it was, until he had an opportunity of exhibiting to Mrs. Percy the deadly secret. of the ancestral gems, and as them to her, freed from the ancestral curse. So he returned them again to their box, which he put away securely and eres up in a drawer of his bureau, for further Sa) . Hie arm still remained too painful to permit him. to think of painting, although the pain was subsiding, and he perceived no dangerous symptoms. The day was one of glorious freshness and brilliancy, and he spent the ai oon wandering over his estate, enjoy- ing its solitude and jee ‘Tf Clematis were here!’ was the perpetual cry of his heart. He little dreamed of the consequences of his rash flight to her. He had feared to agitate her by seek- ing her presence in her sick-room, yet the timidity of his love had forbidden him to dread a far more . fatal agitation as the result of his desertion of his yarty. > : When he came in to a late supper, which took the Nace of his neglected dinner to him, he suifered out little inconvenience from his wound, and par- took, with gratifying relish, of the good housekeep- er’s dainties. ' He retired to his room, full of those delightful dreams of youth, in which the aspirations of genius and the glow of passion are mingled—slept soundly —and arose to work. Yes! he was going to paint a picture. His subject was chosen, his head, heart and soul ready for the gallery, which had a skylight, but decided that he liked his own pleasant chamber best, and transferred his easel to that. Be- fore the ruddy blushes of dawn had melted into the fullsplendor of day, his materials were prepared. The summons to breakfast interrupted him in out- lining his picture upon a canvas ready Ba opm He partook of a light repast, just enough toinvigor- ate the body without stupet ying the mind, and re- turned to his task with ali the ardor which his sub- ject inspired. It was not the fair scenes which lay stretched out before his window which he sketched —it was te him the embodiment of all beauty in a woman’s shape—a portrait of Clematis. _ How long he had labored he did not know; his hand seemed inspired, and wrought of itself the _ happiest effects—colors as lovely as be had ever im- ed seemed to combine of themselves upon his pal- atte and tnansfuse themselves into the beloved coun- tenance which began to smile upon him from the avas. ours or moments, he could not tell which, by; looking up, by the merest chanee, in a moment of dreamy abstraction, there, in a chair é Bteeed stood a short distance from him, sat Clematis herself. She had taken the position of the porenas, is eyes with a look of love, so deep, so soft and still—it was like looking into heaven to gaze into those eyes. Hor several seconds neither of them stirred; the saw so plainly in her look was to Pen- non such a surprise and. joy, that for the time being he forgot to wonder how ne came to be sitting for 5, | ie eaneon ere in his room. ae a : - fare: whispered her name, in accents yew DIS overpowering feeli but gently as he epee his voice alarmed ioe "Bile acoEe from the _ chair and glided toward thé door. Vie gh , meh Limplore you! only a moment until I “Ese nad roachad the door, and turned at his ery neg eins, SS ee Re lees and glided out, silentas a phantom. Perhaps it-was aphantom! Lennon sprung to his feet and rushed to the door. He caught sight of a shadowy form de- scending the broad staircase, be heard the faint rus- tle of a woman’s silken garments, and she was gone. He followed down into the ball, but no one was there; he hurried out upon the avenue—no one was in sight; he wandered in,every direction, but saw no footprint, nor any trace of any visitor. He stepped into the housekeeper’s department and asked her if she had admitted any one to the house, or seen any one walking im the grounds. “*No—not a living soul. Was there robbers about, or what?” “No robbers. I thought I saw one of my friends in the hall.” She looked at him curiously, for his manner was of a kind to attract attention; he observed it, and tried to appear more natural. After a useless search, he returned to his room and sat down before his easel; but the power to work well had vanished, and he could not recall it. “It was her!—and—no, it was moé her—what a fool I am! it was an illusion, of course—yet I am sure it was her.” Thus did he con- tradict himself. Reason and common sense forbade him to believe that Clematis Perey had Seen been in his room; yet those very senses, whose evidence we are wont to accept as conclusive, assured him that she had. He had never seemed to himself to be in a freer, happier, healthier state of mind and body—there was not a single pang left in his wounded finger—he was nota man given to superstitions, and he had never had trances nor walked in his sleep, nor ex- hibited any tendency toward extraordinary or phenomenal powers. In vain he took up his brushes —every touch which he gave the picture di 2 it; he saw that he must wait until the spirit, moved. Ee walked about the room, he looked out of the windows he took up a new volume and began to read, Suddenly the thoaght came to him that Clematis was dead. He felt cold and faint—as chilled to the heart as if he had touched the marble forehead of a corpse. If that were really she who came to him then Clematis was not dead, for that which he had seen was nota spirit nor an angel—not a holy and beautified spirit—but a woman, pure and sacred as earth can be, but warm, loving, full of the tenderness and sympathy of this world. : Of course it was all in vain that he tormented him- self to explain a mystery to which he had no clew. It was midnight before he could compose himself to sleep; but when he did slumber, his rest was pro- found and dreamless. He awoke with the same ela- tion of spirits which had distinguished his rising the previous day. He felt so pRoed to proceed with the portrait, that he resumed work immediately oethis ase be. tl ap hen, having hardly is time he felt no surp’ when, got satisfactorily at his rprite raising his eyes, he held Clematis again in the chair. deed, he had placed the chair for her, feeling sure that she would return, She was !looki lovety, her cheeks tinged with faint blushes, her hair falling carelessly about her face and throat, her white dress floating about her like a light cloud. In her bosom she wore a rose and a eprig of myrtle, and aband of plain gold cir- cled either arm, Pennon was so afraid she would dissolve into air if he spoke to her, that he said not a word, looking alternately at the sitter and the canvas, and work- ing rapidly and with delight. At length he spoke, without thinking of he menverln consequences: “'Purn your head a, little this way, Clematis.” She obeyed him without speaking, her eyes seem- ing to ask if it was right. : “ Yes, that is it, precisely;” painting diligently, but venturing to ask, after a pause—‘‘ how came you here, Clematis?” There was no answer; she looked at him gravely, but made nosign of having heard the question. For half an hour he worked on: then threw down his pallet and brushes, exclaiming: “Speak to me, dear Clematis, I beg’ of you. Your silence is so hard to bear. If you are really she whom love, allow me to tell you again ’’—but she Loe vanished—his eloquence relapsed into dreamy silence. For several. days this bewildering experience was continued. Every morning Pennon painted upon the portrait—every morning his sitter came to him, obeyed his instructions, smiled upon him, looked happy, but never spoke; and whenever he attempt- ed to approach her, or implored her to explain to him the mystery of her going and inee © arose and left him. She always went out by the door and down the stairs like any ordinary mortal, but after she had reached the avenue he could trace her no further. Once, indeed, he had followed her down to the river-bank; but there she had turned and made a Sache imploring him to follow her no further, and ehad turned back -at her bidding. Pennon was half distracted by this tantalizing phantom—if phan- tom it were—sometimes fearing that his mind was affected, yet if it were, he had never worked so well when he wassane. The portrait was a masterpiece of art, astonishing in the exquisite beauty of its coloring and the impassioned life of its expression— it wasall that a portrait could be. ; It was finished at last;Pennon could invent no further excuse for-another touch. He was wretched at the thought, for he felt assured that he should see no more of Clematis. And, strange, as it may seem, he. had a ‘so infatuated with her silent beauty, her quiet presence inthe chamber, smiling, radiant, delicately robed, that he loved her. better thus than ever before. areenentiy ‘came back to his mind memories of that time when he had sat in \ EYES Ps is Ok ele t e, and then was going awa to hide herself from him forever; then again, al these theories would appear so absurd that he laughed at himself. Yet laugh as he would, the fact was there. Wither Clematis Percy actually came to | his room each day, coming in at the door and pass- ing outof it, like any other mortal, and sat to him for her picture; or else he was the victim of astrange mental delusion—an hallucinationof which he had P never before had the slightest symptoms. How could he persuade himself that the young girl sitting’ there—a palpable, blushing, breathing presence— oe was only a chimera of his own brain. Pe “Tf I might touch her—even the folds of her dress!” he murmured—but some power withheld § him—the fear of startling her, perhaps banishing her to return no more. 54 He might, of course, have called in the house- _ keeper, to sit inhis room, during the morning, and decide by her testimony whether there was or was . not a third person in the room; but to this he had two objections—the first that he respected the shrink- —- ing delicacy of his sitter, and the other, that ifhe were thus deceived and mentally astray, he was too — proud to allow another a knowledge of his weak- - ness, Osa Like many other scholars, whose active minds reach out in every direction, Paul Pennon had read a great many medical books, and of course had made anatomy a study in the course of his profes- wy sion as fi painter. He was not unawaro that ; hallucinations, more remarkable than this, had oc- curred, and that they were generally symptoms of insanity. But there was no insanity hereditary in : his family, and he was at that. time in» excellent | health, not feverish, and with no symptoms of . cerebral excitement. Others may have been victims of mental aberrations—but he was not—he was convinced of that. a aie | He felt his pulse, looked at his’tongue in the mir- ror, questioned his mind coolly, and was convinced. 3 His only trouble was in fixing upon some reasonable . ~ motives for the actions of the young girl He had — , left her with her parents, on her way home, await- ing a sufficient convalescence to enable her to re- _ sume the journey. What should have caused herte —__ desert them and follow him?—where she kept herself when away from him?—her object In. coming to’ ~ him in this manner?—all these questions forced = themselves upon his mind, to be driven back uman- swered by the might of his love and the sweetness _ of his content inthe present. For, after the morn- 8 ing putes, although he could paint no more after _ she left the room, yet he felt agers and happy, spending the rest of the day in the gardens or on the al river, and the evening in reading and pleasant mus- — ing. The day before the picture was finished, a thought © had occurred to him which had made him very un- ~ y easy—the idea that Clematis might have been seized. ee with brain-fever and wandered away from friends _ in a state of partial insanity. If so, what danger — must she not be in, and from what terrible suspense > must they be Seg . ; ee te He scrutinized her closely when she came for the lasttime. There was.no appearance of feveror un- | natural excitement; she was calm, gentle, her eyes serene, and her cheeks just tinted with the roses of — ss vy health, sy CHAPTER XII. ; A PHANTOM BRIDE. 3 As we have said before, there soon came aday = when the picture was finished. When that last touch was given which renders all further touches _ desecration, Pennon looked up witha rning,re- - . gretful look into the eyes of Clematis. Soe saw - J from his expression that the portrait was complished j and arose, f wel “Wilk you not Jook at it?’ he asked; but she | shook her head and glided toward the door; moved _ by an uncontrollable impulse, he stretched out his _ hands supyucatingly, but she shook her head again, opened the door and flitted through, cre an rief .1 instant to give him a fareweil glance. Hetelt that — she would return no more, and was resolved to end’ - all this mystery at once, if possible, by following ~ +6, er, “ Passing into the hall, he saw her descending the —_ stairs, and pursued her outinto the avenue, through = the catalpa-grove, the rose-garden, over the lawn, 4 into a thicket of | ~ She never once locked around; but _ When, had difficulty in keeping her in tached his boat from its moorings
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o, a u é ria Ss r <4) ~- strokes, but with an ease transcending his usual esi ae was soon so close to the fair fugitive that he shouted to her to wait for him. His shouts were unheeded—the pearly boat, with its white-robed occupant, flew along the sparkling river as we dream of the barks of Paradise sailing on the ‘eternal streams. Pennon wondered that the rough men in the river craft, whom they met, did not turn and stare at the beautiful vision which flitted b them; but they hardly cast a glance at the gir caring more to gaze stupidly at the crimson an ; cae of his boat, and the sturdy speed with which e pulled the oars. be ematis had taken the direction of the island upon which, not many weeks previous, she had lost her book and necklace. It looked lovelier than ever as théy approached it this day. The leaves of the at trees, some of them just: tinged with the first light frost, fluttered in the tremulous breeze like so many ‘restless birds. The belt of sand | the shore, lay - in the rich atmosphere like a girdle of gold, dropped . about the island to protect its beauty. Springing ~ upon the land the moment the keel of her shallop + Meh grazed the sand, Clematis turned for the first time, eo! ed Pennon to follow her, and took the path “ | tothe summer-honse He had an occasional glimpse of her figure amidst the trees, as he hurried after _-. “her, When he reached the pagoda, she was ce en ‘in the entrance. He now perceived that she ha added a wreath of orange-flowers and a vail to her attire. The long, full vail floated about her ethereal aed dorm, waved by an almost imperceptible wind. a “J am ready, Paul,” she said, speaking for the first time in all the six days she had been with him. es She took his hand and led him into the pagoda. . Avwenerable old man stood by the table, on which - Was avase of flowers and a book—a prayer-book xen at the marriage ritual. Upon the entrance of é young couple, he began the ceremony, and ina bried time further, Pennon and Clematis were man and wife. The old man blessed them, as they knelt before him, and vanished. tr “‘Gome, my darling, let us go home.” By “Yes, let us hasten, before storms arise!” cried |. the’bride. } The two wandered, hand in hand, down to the _ ghore, until they came to where their boats were . _ moored. : ; be ‘*One boat will suffice for both,”’ said Pennon. “Yes! let us take mine. It is the swiftest, and . danger threatens. Do you not see the tempest com- i ing, Paul?” 4 mR shadow had come suddenly between them and 7 j the sunshine. For the first time the bridegroom _ perceived gathering clouds blackening the west, and «sending avant-couriers scudding along the sky; the | Silver sparkle of the waves was lost in an ominous | leaden hue, and an oppressive stillness, for a short space rested upon all things. Yes, dearest, let us hasten;” and Pennon sprang | by mistake, into his own boat, lifting his bride wit ~, him, “Ah! this is my boat. Never mind—we will fly before the wind; let me unfurl the sail.” The sail was spread, and the first ee breezes of the coming storm filled it and carried the bark om j leasantly. But soon the wind arose fiercely an the black water dashed over into the boat, pen) Raph ~the white drapery of the bride. She shivered wit the cold. “Be brave, darling. At this rate we shall reach .. the castle in fifteen minutes. The tempest will not break before that.” a ‘ On and on they fléw, rapidly as the wind which pore them; fifteen minutes—half an hour—an hour passed, and the castle did not come in sight. ( “Tt is strange!” muttered the bridegroom, be- ginning to feel deep alarm, as he looked at his pale ~~ and silent companion. pods =e Yes, At. is strange. Shall we never reach home, ba LES i “Have courage—we must soon be there.”’ The fanciful pennant which flew before the mast _ -was rent in tatters, the sail was close-reefed, and the little vessel labored in the sullen waters; lightning flashed overhead; the sun set and night came on with darkness which only the bolts of * rend asunder. ae _. » * Oh, where is our home?’’ cried Clematis. _. {know not—but at least we can die together!” - _ He reached forth in the darkness and gathered _. her shivering form to his bosom—that':oment the ‘ "i, Sy sae t eaven could “vessel struck a rock and was dashed ix pieces; the chilly waters rushed over them—they sunk— sunk. -_ Jt’g a dreadful mercy, doctor, that he wasn’t drowned.” . * He was about as near dead as men ever get to be ae ‘ who are fated to try life a little longer.” My + and 1 don’t see how he came to let his boat run ag’in a snag in broad daylight. If fishermen hadn’t been ‘close to hand, he’d never have been rescued.” 5, “Keep him warm, and give him plenty of stimu- lating drink. Tl call in to-morrow again; he’s doing well enough now. How do you feel, Mr Pennon?” | “Very comfortable, thank os, as = SEY rdiy be certain how I do : , ‘pation opening his eyes and looking about him. ‘Say, doctor, was she sav a b # ed?” _, »°“Who? asked the physician, in surprise. _-. “My wife—the lady who was instha boat with As) ane.” aes The doctor and housekeeper exchanged glances, as much as to say he was not in his right mind. e “Perhaps he was wounded upon the head by the boat or snag;”” and he began to examine the head oa the patient beneath the hair. Af ey : ek ee =} . 7 ae } th . ar. male « ’ , ¢ = ’ a a q ‘ Pe _“YPve heard him say he was an excellent sailor, : ‘*No—let me alone, my head is all right. Perhaps I have been dreaming. How came I in this condi- tion and what has happened to me?” ‘“ You were out, alone in your boat, sailing on the river, when you ran into a snag, upset your boat, and you sunk, being either unable to swim, or having received a blow which stunned you. Some fisher- men near at hand, dragged you out and brought sh home, when your housekeeper summoned me. e had hard work to bring you back to life, Mr. Pennon. “What day of the week is it, and what hour of the day?” “Tt is about six o’clock of Wednesday, P. m.” “Only four hours since I left this house,’? mur- mured Pennon—‘‘it was all a hallucination then. Doctor, I want to talk with you to-morrow, when you 3 The next day Pennon and the physician had a long conyersation, at nearly the close of which the former exclaimed: = Confound that tragic necklace! it was that, after al PP? “T am convinced that it was!”’ “You think it possible that a poison, once violent enough to produce instant death—then, when weak- ened by age, paralysis—might, on some constitu- tions, produce such effects as I have suffered from the past week?” ““T do. It has acted upon eet something as opium or hasheesh might. Your housekeeper avers that you behaved ‘curiously ’ all the time. Moreover, I must infer, since the young lady of whom you eak was SO oa ag and persistent a part of your visions, that she had previously been very much in your thoughts ”—and the doctor smiled. Pennon smiled also, and his color hightened. “You are not mistaken,’ he answered, frankly. “*T should like to see the necklace—it must be a curiosity.” “You shall—and the portrait which I painted, also—that is, if I really painted one. LThave not been in my chamber yet; the housekeeper forbade my leaving this room until you gave orders.” “Tt will do you no harm to stir about a little now. I could hardly tear myself from the house until I knew whether you actually worked during your extraordinary illusion, or only fancied your labors.” The two gentlemen went together to the cham- nm “Tt seems to me almost as if the garments lingered here,’? murmure ping in, as if the place were sacred. The chair which the oop pane th sitfer had occupied stood in its ee place, the easel, which was turn- ed toward the light, the pallet, just as he had has- tily set it down, was there, the paints drie don; they advanced eagerly to the front of the canvas. ‘*Good heavens! I don’t think you need to regret being poisoned, if this is the result of it!” exclaimed the doctor. , Pennon stood spellbound before his own supreme- ly beautiful work. “Tt is herself,” he whispered. “Then go and ask her to marry you—you can never hope to do better, I tell you. I don’t wonder you had visions.”’ The young man laughed at the staid doctor’s en- thusiasm; but he was not at all displeased by it. “The picture would make you famous as a work of art. And then, what a subject! If I was not a married man, and the father of a family, I should start off in search of the original, and try to cut you ut. “TY don’t know but I shall imitate Praxitiles, and adore my own work.” “Ah, but Praxitiles had no original to adore. That’s the difference, my boy. There’s a more sen- sible plan before you.” ‘*And do you think I am to feel no further effects from the scratch of the steel claw, doctor? Hold! I will show you the emeralds.” “IT think not, at present,’’ was the answer, while Pennon unlocked a drawer and drew forth a box. “Your cold bath, and the start your system has re- ceived, will shake off all effects, especially if you seek change and travel for a short time. At this time of the year, another season, you may have a slight recurrence of your malady; but you and your friends will understand it, and know how to humor it. Your constitution is excellent, and you will suffer no especial harm.” The physician handled the emeralds as he would have done a serpent from which he wished to ex- tract the fangs. “They are superb,” said he—“ quite a treasure. You had better allow me to wrench out this dan- gerous claw, before some one else is harmed by it.” “‘T had rather not, until the owners have seen it. I will be careful that no one shall handle it;” and the necklace was replaced. “T can not persuade myself that all this has not been a reality.” “Thave read of more remarkable instances of hallu- cination,”’ began the doctor, taking a chair where he could look at the portrait at his ease. ‘‘ Indeed, I have made brain disorders a study. Such illusions as you have labored under, are very common in cases of insanity, when ng to develop, but are also riper ge by other causes, as for instance, some kinds of sand poisons, whose effects are principally upon the brain. Dr. Arnold relates a very striking case of incipient insanity, where the effects were something similar—not that I think you are insane,” he interrupted himself, with a smile, as he saw Pennon flush to ‘the brow; “‘a ve interesting case, indeed, which I am minded to te Pio of her Pennon, step- you. ' “A gentleman, aged thirty-five, active, and in good health, living near London, had for five weeks : gor ; x, s ‘ A PAIR OF GRAY EYES” ace complained of a slight headache, He was rather — feverish and neglected his avocations and family. He had been cupped and had taken some medicine, when he received a visit from Dr. Arnold, by whose advice he was placed in an asylum, where he 9 es Bei his delirious fancies lessened by degrees until he was restored to his family, in sane mind. His story is thus told by himself: “*One afternon in the month of May, feeling a little unwell and indisposed for business, I de- termined to take a walk in the city to divert my- self. Having reached St. Paul’s Churchyard, I stopped at the print shop of Carrington to look at some engravings of the cathedral, Ihad been there | but a short time, when an old gentleman, stout serious looking, and dressed in brown, also stopped to examine them. Our eyes by chance meeting, he commenced a conversation, admired the view from St. Paul’s, related several anecdotes of the architect, Sir Christopher Wren, and asked if ever I had been in thedome. On my replying in the negative, and finding that I had not dined, he proposed to repair to a neighboring tavern, and said, that after the re- aps he would accompany me to St. Paul’s; the day, e added, was magnificent for the view, and, as be was familiar with the the objects of interest. ‘““* After a hasty dinner we mounted to the ball which is placed immediately under the cross, and. we entered it alone. We had been there some minutes admiring the superb panorama before us, when the old gentleman drew from the side pocket of his coat an instrument that resembled a compass and on which some curious epee were engraved; he murmured some unintelligible words, and placed it in the center of the ball. ie “*T was seized with a violent tremblin kind of horror, which greatly increased on his offer to show me, if I wished, a distant friend, and, also what he was at that moment doing. My father had long been ill, and I had not been to see him for some weeks; the sudden wish to see him overcame all my scruples. No sooner had. I formed this wish than I saw my father in a mirror; he was reclining in a chair taking his usual nap. As I had some- what doubted the power of the old gentleman, I was frozen with terror, and, feeling very ill, begged him instantly to descend. He complied; and on parting with him he said: ‘Remember you are the slave of . the man of the mirror.”’ I returned home at night, — unhappy, restless, and fearful, and full of thoughts - of the stranger. For three months I have never ceased to feel his power.’ “Dr. Arnold asked the etd in what manner the -old man exercised the influence over him. Throwing a suspicious glance on the doctor, he took him by the arm, led him through two or three rooms, and at length into the garden, when he ex- claimed: ‘It is useless; nothing can hide us from him; every place is open to him; he sees and. hears us now,’ “T requested him, said the doctor, to show me the mysterious individual who saw and heard us. He. replied, with much agitation: ‘Have I not told you that he lives in the ball under the cross of St. Peter’s—that he only comes down in the church- yard, and to go and dine in the dark alley? Since that fatal meeting with the necromancer—for I eannot call him by any other name—he constant; attracts me within his mirror, sees me thus at all hours of the day, and reads my most secret thoughts. I have the terrible consciousness that no act of my life escapes his knowledge, and that there is no spot in which I can be hidden from him.’ “To the doctor’s observation that the darkness of night ought to protect him against the machina- tions, he replied: ‘I know what you would say, but you are wrong. I have only spoken to you of the mirror, but in a corner of the building the magician showed me a great clock, and I distinetly heard the sounds that came from it, and those that entered; it was a confused medley of laughter, cries of anger, of despair; and as I listened in great terror, he said: ‘It is my organ of hearing. is reat work has communication with all the clocks at are in the hiero glee circle. By this means T hear the words of all those under my supervision,” “*¥ have not told you all. This necromancer © ractices his sorceries by means of hieroglyphios on he walls and houses, and he spreads his rod of fire over those whom he has inclosed in his circle of hiero a and who are the objects of his con- stant hatred.’ d “The doctor begged him to explain the characters and how he could interpret them. ‘** They are,’ was the reply, ‘ the si: bols that you, in your ignorance of their real mean- ing, have read thus: RO ays Day and Martin, and Warren’s Blacking. You are in error. These signs are the cabalistic characters that he traces to intimate the limits of his empire and to prevent the escape of his captives. What fatigues I have undergone to withdraw myself from his terrible influence! days and three nights, until I fell, exhausted and breathless, against a wall and slept. On waking I saw the fatal letters, and felt that I was completely in his power.’ ; : “Was not that quite equal to _— wonderful boat- ride?’ queried the doctor as he finished. ‘‘ M. Calmeil reports the case of a veteran who felt himself every night nailed ina coffin, and carried in men’s arms, by a subterranean road, from Charenton to Vin- cennes, where a funeral sermon was chanted in the | places, he would point out all and a - chapel of the chateau. The same invisible persons | brought him back and placed him on his bed. M. Thisphile Gontier tells a bighly interesting story of — the effects of hasheesh on himself: 4 yi ***One of my companions ’ says. this writer, ‘was the first to yield to its effects, haying taken a larger , . sandsym- I once walked three . Yer
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Pe, os bie As ; dose than the others; he saw the stars in his plate, and the firmament in his soup-dish; then turning his face to the wall, talked to himself, bursting into fits of laughter. I felt perfectly calm until dinner was over, although the pupils of the eyes of my other friend began to sparkle strangely and acquire a most r uoise-blue tint. The table pane still ha my senses) arranged mysel comfortably with cushions ona divan to await the ecstasy. Ina few minutesa general lethargy over- came me. My body appeared to dissolve and be- come transparent. saw the hasheesh, which I had eaten, distinctly within me, in the form of an emer- ald, from which thousands of little sparks were emitted; my eyelashes lengthened indefinitely, twisting themselves like golden threads round little ivory wheels, which whirled about with inconceiva- ble rapidity. Around me were figures and scrolls of all colors, arabesques, and fiowery forms in endless yar. which I can only liken to the variations of a kaleidoscope.’ ‘‘T donot see,” continued the doctor, “‘why poison might not produce such, and various other effects.”’ “ Allof this reminds me,’’ said Pennon, when the doctor had finished his narrative, ‘‘ of an incident ' which occurred to myself, in connection with this very necklace. But asit was before I had been in- oculated with its poison, and when I wasin an ex- ‘ceedingly vigorous frame of body and mind, I can not account for it upon any of the theories which _ you have advanced to-day.’ * Relate it—relate it, please,” said the doctor, giv- ing his chair a twitch, and loo interested and ex- cited. He was investi ine | one of his favorite branches of study, and any thing which gave him a harder nut to crack than usual, was valuable to him. He had been profoundly pleased and interested by the case of his young patient, and was all curiosity to learn as much of him as possible. “You must be told,’’ began Pennon, “ that I com- menced my acquaintance with the lady Ihave been speaking of, at the very hour and moment when she drew these emeralds from the well where her mother had cast them eighteen years before. I was travel- ing through the rural districts on a sketching tour, when I paused before her home, attracted by the quaintness of the house and the beauty of its sur- undi Tassisted the young lady tocarry in the cket of water which had been the meansof her finding the emeralds; and was hospitably treated by the household into which I had intruded myself. The mother had expressed sorrow and terror at - the sight of the necklace, but the daughter had ro. eres at her ‘superstition,’ as we both deemed it, . id avowed her purpose uf wearing the jewels whenever she chose. That night I was given a well- but old-fashioned chamber, whose high- post and curtained bed was an impersonation of the yum _Every thing to me was charming and. 2ovel. | went to bed by moonlight, and fell into the first light slumber dreaming, very probably, of the lovely face of my new acquaintance, but totally forgetful of any magic connected with the nec , and indeed, oblivious of the necklace itself. As we can feel. a beeuout in the darkness, who approaches us, before they are near enough to touch us; or as we open our eyelids when regarded s , While so pe so I was aroused from my slumber, and e conscious of a presence in my apartment. The moon was shining with povalias brightness, and _lsaw distinctly, standing in the center of the room, an old lady, dressed in the costume of fifty or eighty yous , puffs, powder, gored skirt, short ice. looked at her calmly and without fear; my heart scarcely beat a thrill louder or faster. Presently she an to speak, in a high, tremulous key, that vibrated through the chamber with a power which might have rendered it audible in other rooms. I cannot now recall her precise words, but I remember well their meeting: She asked me why I had mingled my destiny with that ' of the Percys—spoke of my fate as being now irre- vocably blent with theirs, and of the misfortunes ‘sure to attend the finding, wearing, or ownership of the necklace—ending by declaring in a very weird and ic way that the destiny she had invoked was immutable. Then she glided out of the room— I could even hear the falling of the door-latch after her. Now, I put it to your conscience, doctor, if this occurrence was not singular. I am certain that I was perfectly well, free from fever, nightmare or excitement of any kind. I was a stranger in the house. There was no old lady an inmate of the ‘house; and if there had been she would not have ace Sere oe ai rich eg? ss een ZL co! e figures in the pattern of her Ee prowwled ai” “Well, I don’t know," cogitated the doctor; on ve sure you’ve not been subject to any thing of the kind—mental disorder, I mean? Your high- Sera, poetic temperaments are frequently over- eh; ‘But I have been remarkably free from nervous ou see what a f i I have!” and Pennon threw back his shou deg F expanded ers and his "I must ‘make a note of it’—perhaps I can ex- plain it by the time I see you again," id the physi- Cian, ta, out pencil and note- book. CHAPTER XII. *E. A LETTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. morning following upon this interview with the doctor, the chore Ie brought Pennon a letter, __’ who was expecting no m cause he not Jeft his address with. of hisfriends, He recogniz- i a ue ‘gael chirography with some surprise, some : n, fa ““T thought Rosalie was cured of her folly,” was * ~ een Oe ee —— A PAIR OF GRAY EYES. the flattering comment, made entirely to himself, with which he broke the seal. The letter gave him a different opinion of Miss Rosalie Sloane from that which he entertained when he commenced its perusal. It ran thus: ‘*FRrEenD Pav: It has always been a mystery to me why sensible men like to make fools of themselves. You have disappointed me peg The morning of your selfish and ungallant flight, I had as sweet a confession to bear to you as your fondest dream could anticipate. Think not that Rosalie Sloane was about to throw herself at your feet.. If she ever had a weakness like that, she has recovered from it, and is none the worse for it. “*ButI had shared the room of an innocent babe, pure and undefiled, ‘unskilled in all the arts that worldlings prize,’ and I won her gentle confidence. She told me, with such shy blushes, the reason why she had once refused the hand of the man she loved best in the world—that it was because she thought an infirmity, which unfitted her to be the*wife of so proud and sensitive a person, was fixed hopelessly upon her—and now that infirmity was removed, she hesitated to manifest a retraction of her refusal, lest, in the meantime, he had grown indifferent to her—timid thing! I made her happy by assuring her that man still loved her—her only‘upou earth; that his passion, instead of being exterminated, ‘was like chamomile, and throve the more, the more it was fete ag upon. Berne convinced her of this sweet truth (as [deemed it), I took an eesthetic pleas- ure in her emotions, ** She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame, And, like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe (thy) name ** * She half-inclosed me with her arms, She press’d me with a meek embrace, And bending back her head looked up And smiled into my face.’ So, oe medicined her to the sweetest sleep she had ever , Llay awake yes ae night, think- ing of the peotty, and delicate wa which I should approach he morose lover with the glad tidings. “When morning came, I found he had taken toan ignominious flight. For a timeI was so bitterly pro- voked and see ie ay that I resolved never to break the network of error in which he had pur- posely involved himself. “But the sight of a wan, sad face,‘a pair of pitiful eyes, which tried to smile their loving farewell at me when the omnibus moved off for the cars, with a certain party among its passengers, moved me to break my iron resolution. “ Noyse bet you were in New York, but I knew better. Ihave read your selfish nature, and I know you are rusticating moment, enjoying all the splendor and beauty of your castle in solitude, not only unmindful of friends, but of a heart that is breaking itself most uselessly. Well! if somebody dies, I know what her epitaph ought to be; but I be- lieve she has too much good sense to die for so inad- equate a cause. However, she is not of the strong- est make—she is fine clay, easily shattered. We are going home soon. I shall not say whether we are well and happy, or not, for you do not care, and do not deserve to know. The ercys are at home by this time. Yours, in bigh dpdgeon, SALIE ” A word tothe wise is sufficient—sometimes. Five days after the receipt of the communication which set Pennon to packing his trunk so unexpect- edly, and which caused the poor housekeeper to sa: to the chore-boy: ‘‘ It’s plain to be seen, we'll have lit- tle peace of our lives with a master that never knows his own mind, and is here one ont and away another and back the next ’’—five days after this, about half an hour before sunset (to be explicit), Clematis Per- oy looking fragile and wan, leaned back in the arm- chair her mother had drawn to the window for her, and looked out upon the landscape. It was the win- dow at which their guest had painted the picture now hanging over the mantle—and she gazed at it now more than ever; for she was an invalid, and had not much else to do. Her parents glanced in at her from the dining- room, where Mrs. Percy was laying the cloth for tea. “Tt is the emerald necklace which has done it all,” said the mother. ‘* Riddlestick, wife! it’s that confounded painter of pictures!”’ It was seldom Mr. Percy used strong lan ©; but his feelings were by no means enviable as he saw the “sole daughter of his house and heart” droop- — daily before his eyes. t was well that the lady of the house had set the table so neatly, and placed on it ‘good store of all that’s nice ’’—for even as the father Beers so gruffly the latch of the gate clicked, and Clematis started from her musings, to hear a voice at the door, and “footsteps in the passage,” which sent the blood rushing to her wan face. Even before the tea was served Pennon had told his story straightly, and asked the parents for the hand of their darling. “Tt will be hard parting from our only one,” mourned the father. “But it will be best for her—can you not see it will, husband?’ and the mother looked at the rich light in her daughter’s eyes, and forgot her now threatened loneliness. “T will give you a portrait so like her that you will scarcely know the difference,’ and the young man laughed in the exceeding lightness of his heart. have some curious things to tell you about that ne! ae | about your necklace, too. Not now, or the tea is waiting.” : ‘ > ey] sentimentalist. 1 13 That evening, he told to an interested trio of listeners, of the secret cause of the fatality of the necklace, of the wound he had received, and of its ree pre consequences. He produced the emerald and showed to them the steel claw whose fangs had ae death to the fairand young, years and centu- es ago. ‘* Let me take these gems to the city with me and have a new setting made for them. ey will then > sep harmless as the most prosaic of precious s nes.”’ - “If you are really convinced, Mr. Pennon, that the emeralds themselves are safely to be 3 I wil give them to Clematis as part of her t/ ovsseau.” “Don’t blush, Clematis, at that word,’’ whispered her lover. ‘‘ The truth is, we are already married, { according to the visicn. It will not seem so very — | strange when I really call you wife.”’ Ser “*T shall never rest,’’ said Mrs. Percy, ‘“‘ until I see that lion’s claw consumed in the fire to which it is destined.”’ : Me be og “We've just enough fire inthe grate for the pur < pose,” said Clematis. ing “Nay,” replied Pennon, ‘it must re it. is is, until our wedding-day. We will celebrate that happy time by exorcising forever the evil ge Sie the necklace,’ x CHAPTER XIV. $ oni A BRIEF RECORD. Rosatie SLoane is at home. Not many people have returned to the a. from their summer re- sorts; but the beautif elle is preparing for her wedding, and is glad to have her time so much to i herself. She keeps two dressmakers and three or © four embroiderers and pipet: eh engaged, and is - } very happy amid laces, and s, and robes, and | new patterns, and the beautiful presents whichcome __ to her almost every day from some of her friends. She is very happy, and far lovelier than _ ever. It can not be the excitement of the new things and the haat pes of the coming gay season, during which she will reign as a bride alone, which keeps her eye so moist and bright and her cheek | charming with its changing tints. * f Pennon, too, has grown radiant; stays in the city, and gore to visit her very often. ; ‘7 t happiness do Inot owe to you?” he mur- murs almost every day, as he presses her delicate ’ — and she smiles an answer out of herdark- ue eyes. : In the mean time, what has becomeof Noyse? He, | too, is in the city. He has gone to practicing law : with his uncle. e studies night and day, ie. | and works with a will and purpose to succeed. He seems try to bi some constant, preg’ yee, thought. He would be restless, uneasy, A a a absurd, if he did not compel himself to this industry j Then, also, he has determined to be a rich man, a rseverance and talent can make himso, Perhaps n this he hopes for some future revenge. 5 Pennon has had a confidential interview with Mrs, 1 Butterby, in which he has informed her that he shall want her best front parlor and bedroom after | the eighteenth of October, and that he willfurnish —=— them himself, at which she is delighted and prom- __ | ce q ~ ises to keep his secret. rd Mrs. Fenelon is in her element. If there hasbeen a care upon her mind since her own husband was)” secured, it has been that her darling sister wasyetb — unprovided for. She has held up her pe Heres ' many times in horror at the carelessness wh Vow Rosalie dismissed her suitors, But now there ig really a wedding on hand. ‘ Rosalie is not exempt from a passion for these oe is uate but a deeper passion, a pure emo- “ tion been awakened in her nature, never to sleep = again, and as she dreams glowing dreams of the future, and her heart swells with a new, strange, happiness, she is not sorry to allow her sister to as- ae sume the responsibility of the trousseau. ph eA, r CHAPTER XV. Pe i EXPECTATION. 5s es Ir was one of the most gorecaus of autumn ge i . about a week before the eighteenth of October, that a carriage paused before the little avenue lea is . to the stone cottage, and a lady with an incredi- _ ble amount of ge was landed from it. es “What a sweet, rustic, delicious place,” mur- mured Miss Sloane, for it was she. “Pennonsaid truly that it was a secluded Eden—and it holds any Eve that never sinned.” pa ia ““*Oh fairest of the rural maids!’ as Bryant says, I seek you in the midst of befitting beauty," she | Thoth the Gita langbed tad tustied ai thoy ieee: é girls lau and blushed as they kissed each other, as if they had been lovers. 6 “You promised to be my bridemaid, and it seems that I am to be yours,” said Clematis. Py i “And Iam so happy—are not you dearest?" “Oh, very! but it seems go strange!--I cannot, realize it.” “Nor I, either. I hardly dare think of it.” ‘ ; “Who would have dreamed it, the first timewe saw each other?” ; by ‘* Ah, who would?” ‘ rs “Come in and see mother. Iwill send Peterto bring in the baggage and then we willhave lunch; | and we can talk over what we have to do, while © you lie down and rest.” ee eee | ‘*OR, I’m neither tired nor hungry. After I have ’ spoken with your beloved mamma, Ishouldloveto __ walk through the meadow and sit under that, Samning S| maple-tree that I see Rone like the burning bu: | bi Dot td Mrsin cva os , ; "We x WE ree ‘You are as romantic as I am,’ \é a! “TY did not think it.” nehen Sear ‘re “Indeed I used, when I was a child, to be a real\ am getting back ay. old tastes “et Y bd x P ® = F ie the Nw Way 28! i: no tana ae Peer MS ae
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yy * * “ r. gett 14 , “AYPAIR‘OF GRAY EYE S . ail, though. I would give my best dress or my diamond ring, 4 be the fresh, enthusiastic creature that you are. . “Do you fecl so very old, Rosalie? Let me see, you are twenty or thereabouts, are you not?” “it was not the years, it was the manner of life which I was regretting. Onécould stay young for- ever in a place like this. That rustic. well-sweep looks as if it dipped into the fountain of perpetual outh. By the way, Pennon wrote some verses about that, did he not?” ey rae the silvery laugh of the fair girls rung on 6 air. “There is mamma, waiting for us at the door.” They hastened toward the house. “Welcome, my dear Miss Sloane.” As Mrs. Percy kissed the young traveler’s cheek, speaking in her soft voice, and looking more wel- coms than she said, as she untied the bonnet-strings and removed the cape, Rosalie wished that she had such a4 mother. “T have not had a mother since I was alittle child, Mrs. Percy,” she said, “which is the reason I have so many faults, I expect. Will you not adopt me?” _, “Iwilladopt you and take suitable care of you until some one else substitutes their right.’’ . “Ah, well; that will be soon énough,” and the beautiful girl sighed, and Clematis caught its echo and sighed too. “The tray of refreshments which were brought into the parlor looked so nice that Miss Sloane found she was 2. trifle hun ry after all; so she ate a little ‘Funch, talked a little longer with her hostess, took up her bonnet, and— “Now for the maple tree, Clematis.” “With arms about each other’s waists, they wan- dered forth. Mrs. Percy looked after them lovingly and admiringly, brushing a tear from her lids and seeming sad for an instant as she turned away. “Willis says, ‘Give me a seat on a sofa,” but if this is not more luxurious than velvet and steel gules, then Ihave no perception of luxury,” said salie, as she flung herself onto the fine crisp grass and golden moss beneath the maple. And what a canopy we have—better than the crimson silk which used to flaunt over kings and queens. _ “More splendid than the embroideries of the old . English courts,’ responded the city belle, as she ‘> a ; re yy ee t os , { , - 1 ae Tre * ‘y¥ , / Pel bs vats ba “ Fume a n& eG i* : = a a ae bie . ur ae ones 4! . san . ~ (ea) pasa found it; Be . ad ‘ Eta “Oh, he told me. leaned against the gnarled trunk and looked up into the fluttering foliage above her. *“ How gently it whispers to us. The tree loves you, Rosalie, for it has dropped one, two, three of ts brightest leaves into your hair,as if to crown you. ‘You told me in your last letter, I believe, that by dress was of white moire antique, and that you ordered mine to be just like yours. Of course ‘you have an elegant vail, and dainty orange flowers and camelias, fashioned by the fingers of some little French girl. Now I propose that we weave us ' wreaths of these brilliant leaves, and crown our- selves with these instead.”’ “What would sister Bertha say to that?’ and Ro- aid laughed at the picture her fancy drew of Mrs. elon’s consternation to find her care and exqui- ' site coiffure exchanged for such a garland. “They are not a i is the touch of dea See A no gardens or conservatories near? be in despair.” _. “No, but I have some beautiful Pisate in my little study. here is a japonica budded, besides the esi : geraniums in abundance. We shall have flowers.” _ “Tam so glad that I am going to be married here; 1 on escape the formalities of a town wedding. if ; realize my new hopes and my new happiness more,”” “How wonderful it all is!’ murmured her com- _panion. , They. grew silent, each absorbed in her own mu , until the tinkle of a bell called them to tea. In the evening Clematis took her visitor through all the rooms of the house which were to be open _ to company. The arrangements were simple and ‘tastetul in character with the size of the mansion and the fashions of its people. re bial to be your room after you are mar—” a eS “Why, Rosa, I could not pel mentioning it, could T? Isit nota queer, quaint old chamber? Here is - where Pennon slept the first night he came to our house. This week you will room with me; but let _ ms sit here a moment by the window—the night is _ 0 Jovely.” ri he ant os i aged room; osts and old legends.’ “5 Clematis la hed merrily. “Your speaking of ghosts reminds me that Pennon _ saw one that first night he staid in it.’ | “ow do you know?” , , | Besides, I knew it before.” “What kind of a ghost was it—young and very suggestive of pretty?” _ ; Pe bat No. old and wrinkled. You have heard us speak ey ee necklace, and all the strange stories ' attached toit. Pennon has told you how he found me at the well just as I found the necklace in it. ~The dismay which mother phoned when I came in with ge me to thinking of all the stories she had _ from time to time excited_my fancy with; and you may be sure that when I went to my room t night I did not go to bed without first aecleine 3 7. over the precious emeralds. I was very glad I h it was quite too beautiful to hide its % ray serene in he dark, unfathomed caves” Tepe bare fet a Ses ; oe e te ¥ | a NS ee ee of an old well; and as I was not the least bit credu- lous I smiled at the legends which my dear mother was wont toconnect with it. It put an idea into my head, which I was just mischievous enough (J was full of the spirit of mischief then)—” “‘And have changed a great deal in four months, I suppose.”’ “‘ Just wild enough to carry into effect. I do not know now how Pdared to doit. I haveno intention of confessing to Pennon unless he questions me about it. In the bureau of my room there isa drawer full of my grandmother’s old-fashioned finery—her wedding-suit, I believe.” “That's fine. You will show them to me.” “T got out the dress, the belt, the emerald clasp, the puffed hair, the high-heeled shoes, and put them on; drew a few wrinkles in my face with a bit of India ink, and praca my voice awhile at a high and querulous, but notloud pitch. I think I should have passed for the spirit. of my ancestor—at least, that was what I intended.” “Did you really venture into the young gentle- man’s room?” “T did. It was very audacious for me. But I peeped through the key-hole and saw that his light was extinguished; and I could hear by his regular breathing that he was asleep. I knew that if he were frightened, or attempted to rise, that one bound would take me out of the chamber, and that I could escape to my room before he detected me. Stealing softly in I began the speech which I had studied—ti forget the words now—but they connected ger with the family destiny and the emerald neck- ce,”” ‘Very easy to prophesy, and then set deliberately to work to bring about what you have foretold,” jeered Rosalie. ; ‘Oh, but in sober truth I had not a serious thought of such a thing. I supposed the aig “dra would leave us and our fortunes upon the morrow, never to think of us again.” ““Wished that he would, too, I make no doubt! How did he take the intrusion of so wonderful an apparition?” “Very coolly. Quite too deliberately to please me, 6 was neither frightened nor exasperated, but looked at me so calmly through the moonlight that it was I who grew alarmed for fear that he recog- nized me, and was laughing silently at my expense.” ‘* He did not recognize you. He hastold me about ‘the ghost,’ as he called it, and confessed that it has prenied him in thinking about it. He never thought of you.”’ “Because he could not think I would do such a perio Oh, I never mean to tell him, unless he asks.”’ “You see how dangerous it is to prophesy even in sport,” said Rosalie, with mock gravity; “for your idle tt: came true in some very serious ways.” _ “*T can never regret it,”” murmured the young girl. “ What if that ghtning had killed you?” “But it did not; and if ever there was any evil in the emeralds I have faith to believe it is now exor- cised. I have had my share of the ills they be- ueath. What a singular accident that Pennon on pas have found them when I lost them on the an ” “And what a pang of painit gave me when I saw Hn ene about the garden holding them in his and.”” ou see him doing that,dear Rosalie? But why did it give you pain?” “Never mind now, darling, since it is all over now and forever. I had not been behaving well then, you see. Iwas foolish and vain, and wanted to conquer every one—even the unconquerable Pen- non.” * Unconquerable,” mused Clematis, “ yet so easi- ly, easily conquered.” f ‘Not so very easily, my dear. It took a great many gifts of mind, heart andperson to vanquish him at last,” ‘ “Tt is not strange,” spoke Clematis, after a mo- ment’s silence, ‘* that the only'two offersI ever had should both occur upon the day that Iwas most stricken? Shall I take it as a proof of the power and unselfishness of true love?” ‘Yes, or for the love men have for doing. all the talking themselves. No doubt both of them thought a quiet wife would be a great blessing.” “ Why, Rosalie, what a girl! I should not wonder. though, if that last supposition was true of one of them. Poor Julien! I must smile when I think of his chagrin and ill-temper. He went off that same afternoon, first twitting me of being in love with a low adventurer. I guess he had an eye upon my very modest little fortune, but I am not sure.” “Tf one were to feel grieved over all the lovers she discards, she would have but a melancholy life of it,” said the proud and adored belle Rosalie, as she shook back her golden hair.. It was very late that night when the girls sunk to sleep, for the trunks had n carried up-stairs, and there was the whole bridal paraphernalia to be looked at and discussed. After such a delightedand excit- ing occupation, it was surprising that they slum- bered at all. CHAPTER XVI. THE NECKLACE IS EXORCISED. THERE were two weddings upon the eighteenth of October; and if there were, in any en of the world, a happier bridegroom than Paul Pennon, that other pens er one was Noyse. The pride and tenderness which dwelt in Rosalie’s eyes as tmiaity—the thought of that superb beauty having lelded to him her heart at last, was joy enough to lot out all memory of the bitter cup he had tasted. » The ceremonies Kx place on a golden afternoon she looked at him witha new and sweet ‘ and the festivities were continued late into the even- ing. Julien Percy was one of the guests, though not a very brilliant one. Clematis was alone in her chamber. There was still a ‘‘ sound of revelry ” in the parlor; some one was playing the piano, and conversation was going merrily on. She heard all this distinctly as she stood in her bridalchamber. Two or three of the ladies had stolen away with her to offer their ser- vices, but_she had dismissed them and was serving herself. The bridal vail was removed from her hair, the flowers from her bosom, and now she stocd motionless, her head drooped, her hands listless, while a crowd of emotions and memories rushed ~ over her. i awit she became conscious of 2 strange presence; the light flared and flickered, and - a dim, ghostly luster, neither that of moonor star, ~ filledthe chamber. Shefelt irresistibly impelled to turn and gaze upon bitoni which she felt was near her, yet her body refused toobey. —. “Clematis Percy Pennon, heiress of ourline and — inheritress of our misfortunes, didst thou hope to es cape the destiny irrevocably fixed upon every bride who, as heiress of her father’s house, has worn the emerald necklace?” asked a thin and dreary voice, » yet sweet and sad withal, whose solemn accents, low as they were, filled every nook with painful distinct- ness. ‘‘Look upon those whose successor thou art!” Half paralyzed as she was with terror, Clematis made a mighty effort to burst the fear that was binding her, and confronted the speaker. Not one, but four misty white phantoms hovered midway be- _ tween her and the door of the chamber. “That is indeed the fatal number,” she whispered, as the chill of dread crept around her heart. ; “Ah! and thou shalt make the fifth. Would’st know thy fate in time to prepare thyself for a \ ‘‘Any fate that does not part me from the one I love!” she cried in sudden anguish, as the thought of the caren of a separation from her husland smote her heart. . ; “Thy fate, then, is—” began the melanchol voice— “To be the most Paes the most adored of women!" interrupted the clear, soft voice of Pennon at the door. ate “Mercy!” shrieked the spirits, direction; and the sound of mocking laughter and | merry gibes sent the blood glowing through the bosom that had been so chilled. After a wedding is there ever any thing more tobe told? Not if one would end a story with an + deve climax. Very uneffective it is to come flutteving in with the small banners and tag end ofthe proces- sion, after the grand ceremony is over, the great act of the spectacle performed. Yet we had curios- ity enough to keep our eyes for awhile upon the new-jarried couples. We wished to know whether ‘the earnest resolves to live more for others than herself, to be content with a man not 'magnificentl rich, to find her purest happiness in the love whic she felt herself capable of entertaining for her hus- band, lasted any length of time with the beautiful belle, once the veriest butterfly of fashion. mie We are happy to announce that “practice makes perfect,’’—that the charms of her soul and mind are equal to her person and manner—that she grows | more truly lovable day by day—that the last thing the proud and contented Noyse thinks of is to re-, = the time when he pegs the fair belle for @ ; : r transient falsity to h Pennon is more of an artist, poet and enthusiast than ever, for the presence of Clematis is like an inspiration to him. He almost thinks it is she who paints ria ier and writes rhymes, so does she ~ eles with his tastes and give life to his reams. When the wedding-party went from the stone cottage, the second day of their marriage, they con- cluded to pay a flying visit to the castle, as Pennon was anxious to show its beauty to Clematis. Rosalie, for a moment, was loth to return to the flitting in every . _ scene of her ill conduct, but she overcame the fecl- ing bravely, and became secretly anxious to test the - strength of her purposes by recalling the tempta- tions of that luxurious home. ‘ They found the castle a most charming place to dream away the honeymoon; and there they lin- ered until the cold winds of November warned them home. They visited the island and held another (pepe there, and enjoyed every delightful day wandering about the grounds. ; : Do you regret the necessity of parting with this place?’ asked Pennon of his bride one day. ed “‘T should be glad if you were able to keep it, as it was a bequest. I do not regret its splendor so much. | The old stone cottage in the little valley will alwa be a sweet ae for us to spend our summers in, don’t you think so?’ ° ay “Ay, vir sweet to me, dear Clematis; for it was there that I found you, my pearl, my star, my wild- wood flower.” ° : “What a babit you have of calling me names,” Jaughed the happy aoe wife. : : Pennon, when he left upon his artistic NE dra shad promised Mrs. Butterby a story when he sho return in November. He had not the smallest idea — how that story would terminate—that it would wind up in stereotyped fashion with a wedding—but it ended even so, and this that has been told you is the identical tale that he related to her one evening — about the first of December, illustrating some of its most striking passages with the loving picture of bis beautiful bride, who nestled by his aide while b narrated it. heehee eae “ Dear suz!” remarked that good woman, “I never thought none of my, boarders would have a true story happen to em.” A a THE END, z ) + ‘ ‘ ' vu Cur
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