Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 1) (1880 02 10)
The text was read from the page scans by machine (OCR), so it has mistakes and its columns may run together. See the pages · About this title · At the Internet Archive
Page 1
i TLS AN HK Is aa i No s Published an MU MAT UT AY ER RT CPT 1 ii ih AAR HT i ee ea I D ADAMS. 1 l \ | Penthentten nennennstnnnia = i He ie f maa i) SDE i } i : ars . TANT A a i el hy ina \ iy ram H in ATTN . re i eM POR PN Nt OO Ge] Ah i —6 1 i Ot BBB areas i | ai ae 7 ra: | Nee | i” : | x ——— SHE THREW UP THE SASH, LEANED ouT AND BOWED T - Wadoap, the Little Quakeress; of Naval Cadet's Woning. r BY CORINNE CUSHMAN. CHAPTER I, “BLACK SPIRITS AND WHITE.” CorAtign CLYDE was on her way home from the fashionable school of . Madame B. in Rittenhouse Square. She had deviated from the direct : route, having gone over to Twelfth and Market to provide herself with a . package of those costly confections to be found at Whitman’s—none of f ,madame’s pupils condescended to patronize any cheaper place. | Securing her pound of chocolate-creams, she continued her walk back to Chestnut street, and for a few minutes stood in front of the plate- | glass window of a certain goldsmith and jeweler. There were lovely things on display in these windows—tl*'ngs which Coralie coveted with all her heart; but nothing was there half so pretty as herself. At least, so thought a young fellow, in naval uniform, who watched her as admir- ingly as she did the gems. ! ‘ , There was a certain coquettishness and witchery in her air—1 breezi- und airiness of manner which she could no more help than she «= O HIM, HE GAVE HER A SLIGHT RETURN, AND HURRIED ON, could help breathing, for if was inherited from her father, the dead naval captain. The glance of her dark-gray eyes—generally mistaken for black F Mee ee . ) 1] ae Ta. # ae By aS. because so deepened by the shade of thick, long lashes—was bright and free; her brown, curly hair danced about her shoulders: her cheeks were as red as vermeil roses; her lips as sweet and scarlet as straw- berries. Oyen Coralie had not stood a moment looking at a diamond necklace before she became conscious that some one was watching her, She did not need to steal a look from under her long eyelashes to know that it was the handsome cadet. Not that she knew his name. He was a stranger to her; but for several days he had actually dogged her footsteps, as she went to and from school, and she was aware of it. It was charming to have her first admirer! Coralie’s heart swelled with pride to think how envious the girls would be should she confide the fact to them. This admirer was a cadet, too—always so interesting a creature to girls, and doubly so to our heroine, because her father had belonged to the navy. She had taken more than one good look at him when he did not know that she was deigning to observe him. He ap- peared to be twenty or twenty-one, in age; had a fine straight figure, light bair that just missed being pure golden, dark-blue eyes, and a downy saustache lovely io see; so of course he interested her exceed- ingly. Yet, she had given him no encouragement to follow her abou she was afraid that it was impertinent in him; her Quaker aunts had zt \ ; lll é S
Page 2
eal y it , ’ x — “a , %. 7 “reared her too strictly for her to countenance a - street-flirtation; and still she could not find it in her heart to speak to a policeman about him. f She stood a few minutes trying to appear uncon- scious of his presence, though the roses in her cheeks pega to flame; then turned and walked away, not too abruptly. f It was acrisp, bright Octuber day, and Chestnut f street was crowded. Coralie went along briskly, 5 but her thoughts were preoccupied, so that she paid little heed to things about her. Suddenly she heard loud shouts and cries of warning, and stood asif paralyzed. A pair of horses attached to one of those. immense two-wheeled drays peculiar to the a City, had taken fright, and were dashin ng at a aie od speed, coming directly towar her where she stood stone-still in the middle of the _-erossing, while alarmed pedestrians were flying in alll directions. ‘The runaway team were almost upon her, yet she ~ stood actually unable to make a motion. At that instant of extreme peril some one sprung in front of the horses. She saw who it was—saw the deter- “mined face of the unknown cadet—saw him stretch out his hand to grasp the bit of the animal nearest ‘to him—saw him dragged from his feet, and hurled down under tie horses; then she, herself, was seized from behind, and all became a blank—she had faint- hd ed dead away. When Coralie recovered conscious- mess she was in bed, with her aunts and the family *.. physician beside it. She instantly started up: “Tam not hurt. Where is he? Oh, what became ; of him?” . “Became of who, my dear?’ asked the doctor, : *soothingly. eRe “The young cadet—the one who tried to save me and went down under the horses,’’ she explained, ‘with wide, wild eyes. . “T believe be was nét much hurt. Don’t worry , ‘about him,” replied the doctor, more anxious to “soothe his patient than to be exact in his statement L for it was not true that the you B gentleman was “but slightly injured, He was lying’in the hospital at “that minute, and the ig gate were examining him 4 and fearing that his left lung was seriously injured. “Keep the child quiet a few hours and she will be ‘as “well as ever,’’ ordered the doctor, as he went ‘away. So the aunts tuck d Coralie in, drew the blinds down, and went out from her chamber on tiptoe. But the girl could not sleep—could not even lis still —for thinking of him who had risked his life for her. >" Would he die?—or worse—be maimed or an in- valid for life? “She crept out of bed, dressed herself, pulled up the ’ blind of one window a little way and sat down by it; rer for she could not bear her own thoughts, and knew “she would be reprovedif she went down-stairs before -tea-time. There she sat for two mortal hours brood- ‘ing over her fears. No wonder she was pale when ‘she finally went down to the tea-table; or that her relatives mace a fuss over her, curiously compound- tng their petting with an equal quantity of scold- a ots Keviy bods , Rag. 2 “Thee must have been, particulary heedless, '_ aiiece, to be in the street without looking about thee. _ Have Lnot told thee that heedlessness was thy one great fault?” “Yes, aunt Priscilla.” “*The child is as white as a sheet. What took thee pustof thy straight course home?—thaé did noi lie s _ “Shrough Chestnut street.” Rese “ No, aunt Charity; it was chocolate creams took oo -me that way—and after all, I lost them.” “ep _ **Too much sweets will spoil thy teeth.” 8 FF ay fe act “Till risk them, auntie. George,”’—to the colored ott ~ isérvant—“ has the evening paper come?” aay “We ain’t got it, missa,” responded George, who, 4 } at the ae of Miss Featherflight, had taken the 3neet to the kitchen and burned it to prevent Miss Ooralie from reading a certain item descriptive of her _afternoon’s adventure and adding that the hero of it, . adet Leigh, of the steamer Mohawk, was despar- ately injured and lay in the hospital unconscious. Featherflight! Yes, this was the inappropriate cognomen of the two elderly Quiker ladies who hal eaarge of our little heroine. The Misses Feather- Wight were sedate and serious to the last degree, ‘Rich, quaint, Quakerish, prejudiced, positive—be- ‘tonging to those very respectable “ first families ’— dressed always in dove-colored silk and sheer muslin ~aps—could there be anything better than they were? aN P Wheir nieceshad enjoyed the inestimable advantage ie " of being reared by them, her parents having died % within a year of each other, when their daughter was a very little thin indeed. Sometimes the girl, ets im_the exuberance of youth and beauty, and con- & 4 ‘scious power, pulled so recklessly as to break their a3 -epron-strings and plunge them into despair, but, “aaa “usually, she was gentle and sweet to them, while ee ‘wdaey adored her even when she tormented them t ‘ wunost. i “*T wish I could see the paper,”’ Coralie reiterated, i _ washe went into theelegant but prim drawing-room ; with heraunts. ‘* Oh, Mr. Garwell, I’m so glad you _ ¢ame! You will tell me what they say about the accident, I know?’ she cried, before the ladies had : time to courteously greet their caller—a young gen- PAX. benner sit of twenty-eight or thereabouts, dressed i aa! fo style and wearing the air of a man of th “It is you who must tell me about it, Miss Clyde! ‘Good-evening, ladies. I come to inquire, as I see by i. _“Dothey say he was much hurt?” broke in Coralie, regardless of anything but this terrible suspense, “He was struck in the side, I believe.’ was the ess answer, fora glance from Miss Priscilla had ry haga him not to betray the whole truth, ‘Miss ac) te a - “MADCAP, THE LITTLE QUAKERESS. beet See Clyde, it made me quite ill to think of your narrow escape.’ Coralie knew eee! well that John Garwell was her lover—at least, that he was after her and her money—and that her relatives approved of him. She would have “laughed in her sleeve’’ as he bowed over her dimpled hand with such an air of unspeakable devotion—only, she did not then feel like laughing. Her thoughts were all in that cruel hospital. The handsome cadet was her hero now. Never, never, never, so long as the grateful heart in her bosom should beat would she forget him! Never! His image was impressed upon her very soul as she saw him in that frighiful moment, brave, beautiful, risking his life to save hers. Ah! it was a heroic act! ‘* John Garwell is incapable of such a deed!” she thought, as she looked at that personage payin court-compliments to her aunts, “I detest him— know I do; and I admire—I Wve that brave, dear fellow—my poor, poor ‘boy! I wish I were in the hospital by his side. It is only sighé that Ishould be there. Yet, when I asked my aunts to take me they were amazed. I will go to-morrow—there! If they ag to go with me, all right!—if not, I will go alone. ‘*T wish that tiresome Mr. Garwell would stay at home! Why does he come here to-night, to tor- ment me? Ill make him sorry he came—old flirt and fortune-hunter!”’ At this the old ladies sat down in a distant part of the room, and her visitor, approaching her, began: ‘““Where have your Seige | ts flown, Miss Clyde? May I call them back? ill you think me. pre- sumptuous if I ask that you give me a large portion of them? You have nearly all of mifie. Coralie, sweet Coralie,”? he whispered, bending close, as if to look at the bit of embroidery in her hands, ‘‘I am getting wild about you. I am forbidden to speak y your aunts; but, prudence must vanish when love appears. It is cruel to keep me in suspense all these months. Just whisper—one little word, that no one but I will hear—can you love me, sweet?” ** No |” answered Coralie, not in a whisper at all, and laughing a little nervously. “‘Don’t ask me such questions, please. I’m not through with my school-books, yet. Ask one of my aunties—perha Ss one of them could be induced to say ‘yes’ to the all-fascinating Mr. Garwell!”’ ae ‘What a tease you are, Coralie,” still in the low, soft tone of a lover. ‘‘They want you to marry me, some day—they have told me so—some day not so very far away. I am looking forward to that time with a long—”’ “Td advise you to use your field-glass—the one you take to the race-course, you know—to find it, Mr, Garwell, for it is far, far in the future—ihat time is.” She raised the mischievous, dazzling, dark-gray eyes fuil to his face as she made this saucy speech, and he saw that she was in earnest—more in earnest than he had dreamed such a madcap school-girl could be, “Coralie, you are cruel!” ‘*No, lam kind. I will give you some good ad- vice. Propose to aunt Charity. It is money you are after; and she has ten times as much asl. _ Be- sides, she is good, and her influence on you will be = the best. She is more suited to you in years, 00.” The elegant flirt was nonplused; no girl, old or young, had ever been so frank with him before, An angry flush rose to his face for a moment; but he thought it best to laugh. eens are cynical, fcr sweet seventeen, Miss de.’ xy don’t know wht I am,” responded Coralie; “but I do know that I don’t like men who ga and race horses and break girls’ hearts. If I ever love any one well encugh to marry him he shall be nearly my own age, brave as a hero, handsome as— as—oh, awfully handsome !—and true and faithful to me; somebody who has never been in love before, you know,” and she looked at him again with those |! fearless eyes of hers. “Indeed! A charming Nar I confess !—some- thing like that of the foolish cadet who has prob- ably ruined his good looks for life in that foolhardy feat of which I read to-night.” ; “Tt was a foolhardy feat, perhaps,” said Coralie, in a very low, sweet voice, the tears coming into her eyes, ‘‘ but it saved my life.” ; Jobn Garwell, when he heard those liquid tones and saw those shining tears, was more intensely an- noyved than ever. With that perversity which makes a part of poor hwman nature, this man, who had wooed and cast aside many an easily-won heart, now that this mad- cap of a school-girl refused to be dazzled by him, began in earnest to fall in love with her. He was angry with her—he was jealous of this cadet who had saved her life—but he was determined to con- quer this scorn and indifference—to make Coralie like him. ““ Who has told _you that Lbet, gamble and flirt, Coralie?” he asked, changing the subject. ‘‘I did not know that IT was the victim of the sewing societies and other feminine clubs, where the reputations of us men are handled without gloves.” “T never said you did those things,” answered Coralie, bursting into musical laughter; and, rising, she ran to the piano and began to sing a gay snatch, to stop the conversation. The Misses Featherflight had been so far persuad- ed out of the articles of their belief, that they had allowed ‘‘ that spoiled child ”’ a piano! “T shall have my hands full with taming her,’ thought Jobn Garwell, sullenly. “But, tame her Iwill! She has aroused my will—for good or evil— and sheshall bend to it. She snall be my wife, if 7a cee * only to have revenge on her, for her charming im- . pertinence. “*T mustn’t show'm hand too Prd at first,’ he. : mused, as he walked on toward home a half-hour later. ‘‘ TU frighten her. By Jove! she’s a shar) one! I couldn’t recover from the blows she gave me. ; | Had to back out. She ‘don’t like men who gamble, race horses,-and break girls’ hearts,’ eh? I'll pay her off for that. If she knew how malicious I az: she would not dare to be quite so plain-spoken. Hallo, Green, what’s this?’ to his father’s footman, f who placed a note in his hand, as he went in after ringing the door-bell. , ‘Left for you, sir.” a vi John opened the envelope under the light of the Lall lamp. ‘““Lady’s writing,’ he thought, with a feeling of relief; for he was always thinking of his debts and his duns. “My Drsr Mr. GARWELL,” the note said, ‘My cousin Ethel seemsin very low spirits. Was there notan affuire de ceur between you two? It seems tf rather cruel that you should remain away when she needs your Kyanpathy. Not that Ihave any business to interfere—Ethel would be very angry with me if she knew of it, so please don’t mention it toher. Ycu would dono more than your duty to pay her a visit of condolence; don’t you agree with me? ‘* Sincerely, Myra Watnwricur.”’ ‘““What does that mean?’ queried the man of the world. “Is Ethel still hoping?—or does the little cousin think to play the game herself?” , CHAPTER II. A DOUBLE LOSS. ‘ ’ A montH before that sunny October morning which had witnessed the accident to the young cadet,a — poune lady stood at her room window gazing dreari- | down into the street. It was the most superb of eptember weather, and, as she stood there, be tween the heavy curtains of gray satin, a long pro- cession of fine equipages swept along the street on its way to Fairmount Park. " . Many gentlemen, riding or driving, looked up ¢s they passed and lifted their hats to the beautifi | statue which made no response. One among the: «: was a tall, dark man, of nearly thirty years, ridir :- a magnificent black Lorse. At any other time Eth¢! ; Wainwright’s cheek would have flushed at his recog - | f nition, but to-day she did not even see him. Her father was dying in enother rocm! _Senseless, breathing heavily, he lay as he had lain om since they discovered him on the fioor of the library f the previous evening. r . It would seem that he had felt the illness comir,, on, for his desk was open, and lying uyon it was ;. peper of importance, not completed. P e had not revived in the least, even for a fev mcmerts, and was now fast sinking, and never were conclude what he had endeavored to put i:. writing. ” The physician and friends had at last overper- sueded the daughter to leave his bedside for ex hour’s rest, Braden to call her at the slightest change. Instead of pire cown as they advised she | had gone to the window and stocd there ina cold , stupcr, while the wcerld—that bright, successful gay world of which yesterday she had been a part —went fashing by inits careless joy and extirava- j 1 gance. Cyrill Wainwright was a gentieman of large in- . herited wealth; hence when his only daughter re- turned frcm her gercicn in Paris, she became the ueen of accurtly circle. Especially had she beer the idel cf her ford father, who answered hcr slightest wich with all the devotion cf a doting. parent. Such indulgences would have spoiled many girls, but not Ethel. Ske hed spirit and intelligence as wellas persoral Icveliness. / A trifle above meditm hight, with a slender, suy- ple figure, a prcud Lead set superbly on asmooitii white neck; abundantsilken chestnut hair; eyes «f darkest hezel, at once passionate, sweet and tender : a mouth cf lovely curves and color; all these charms were enhenced y a complexion of creamy white - ue soft and rich as the velvet inner texture of ies. She was dressed for the opera, when goirg to the library, gayly calling her father with word tlat they were Jate, she had found him on the floor, irrespoi.. sive to her cry of alarm, breathing stertorously. : Since then she had not changed kerdress—had done i nothirg but sit near his bed with a pale, stricken — look, £ome one had taken cff her lace hat, hours before; otherwise, as she stecd bre window, ske was in her evening toilet even to the once blooming tea-rose which lay withering in the bosom of her dress—a dress cf thick satin almost theshade ofthe rose, a pale yellow, with a blush of crimson through <9 it, and with a broad fiounce of old Venetian pointas =» yellow as the robe. Two strings of pearl glimmer- : ed in the dark haunt of her hair, which was dcneup , — high on ber graceful head,and a rope of pearls gleamed on her neck. z If some beauty of Gainskorough’s time had step- i Gown from one of his canvases Ethel migh 3 ave been mistaken for her, ae But her witching wit and gayety were gore now: her cheeks were pale, and there were heavy shadows under her listless eyes. : i } Presently into her room came some one with 2. step that made no sound on tl e thick carpet—a little“ — creature with noiseless motions, small features, and | a face that would have been plain but for the Jarge blue eyes, which had a questioning look like those : of a child, albeit their owner was twenty—a year’ =| older than her cousin Ethel. -; Gliding up to the motionless figure by the wit-_ 7 : + . 4 . x } % i * . 4 ; \ Sal ee oe ee fe Vy eee ee Cee : ~ a. Peng
Page 3
’ dow, and laying her tiny bit of a thin hand on the arm which quivered at being touched. she spoke: “Cousin Ethel!’’ “Has any thing happened, Myra?’ asked Ethel, with dry lips. ‘‘They want you to come, Ethel. There has been a change, and they want you to—to—”’ “My father is dying!’ cried Ethel, and ran toward | his room. It was true; as his daughter entered the room the f stricken man expired. ithout a word, a look of farewell, gone forever! ; With a ery that nang through the house she threw herself on her knees by the ‘bed, drooped her head on his moveless breast, and remained there a long | time almost as quiet as the dead. They had, at ] hel to lift her up and carry her away by main : orce, ‘ The three days which followed were ever after- ward like blank darkness to Ethel. ; On the third day Myra and their dressing-maid came to her bedside, and her cousin, in soothing, | tender tones, asked her if she wished to be dress to go down-stairs and listen to the funeral services; then they robed her in black, stifling garments, and | helped her down to that dim drawing-room, where she stood afew moments taking a last look of her dead earthly idol. Then they led her away to a smaller room where she reclined on a sofa, ill and wretched, but where she could hear the comforting _ words spoken by the meray mae. Then there was a soft bustle in the rooms; her ae cousin came in, with her bonnet on, to kiss her; the | hall-door closed; carriages drove away from before the house, and those left at home to watch over her found Ethel in a dead faint. ya The day aie 3 that of the funeral Ethel was _ summoned to the library to hear the reading of the ' will. Her father’s lawyer was there, and her cou- sin, and others. Half-fainting, Ethel sunk into a chair; the forms about her seemed like specters. There never had been on this earth a more devoted daughter than she; and, when the reading of the will an, the lawyer’s voice sounded far away 4 et indistinct; she was not thinking of the will at a | | Other ears, especially those of Myra Wainwright, heard every word only too eagerly. “Not until Mr. Dobell spoke directly to her, in a | raised voice, did Ethel pay the least attention. hen suddenly and vividly, she comprehended what was going on. “To Ethel—commonly called Ethel Wainwright, , and understood to be my daughter—I leave ten thousand dollars in cash, to be paid as soon as \ possible out of my estate. She is no child of mine; and the circumstances under which she has been imposed upon me as such, and which have_ but lately been made known tome, are such as to offend my sentiments of right and honor. I do her more Leo justice when I leave her the sum named above. “To Myra Wainwright, my_brother’s daughter, who at least has the Wainwright blood in her veins, I leave the whole estate, with the exception of the $10,000 above named, and the legacies to charitable | societies enumerated below. The gift is unequivo- | eal, and includes my bonds and mortgages, railroad- stock, landed property, oil-stock, my house, with the furniture thereof, on Walnut street; all my personal ‘property and the money in bank, whereof an ac- count is appended. . “Bthel is to have the right of a home in this house for one year, and retain absolute possession of her _ jewels, wardrobe and all personal effects previously given her.” This was the substance of. the document upon which the few present hung with breathless amaze- ‘PUY D ion b | i D ment. E "9 Myra sat quite still, making no exclamation, nor t did she speak when the eading was quite finished. There grew a red t in either cheek and her great } blue eyes shone with a sudden curious light. She ¥ stole one swift glance across the room at her cousin, heh who had arisen and was gazing fixedly in the face of ae the “eine , - Mr. Do was evidently nervous under that gaze. He hastily produced another paper—a sheet of foolseap which had never been folded or sealed. ; “Whatever be the, mystery surrounding your __ pirth, Miss Ethel,” he began, his voice quavering, ** it is certain that the deceased loved you asa daughter, and repented of the hasty will made in anger only : ‘dix weeks ago. Here is the incomplete will, found ‘ under his hand, upon which he was at work when the fatal stroke deprived him of the power to finish it. It deserves Miss Myra Wainwright’s considera- i tion; and must appeal to her sense of justice. It reads, as far as it goes, thus: “Being in feeble health, but of sound mind and good ju “eae Oyrill Wainwright, do hereby re- voke all other wills made by me, and do aver that this is my last will and testament, ’ ‘To Ethel, my adopted daughter, who is as dear to me as if really my child, Ileave all m possessions of every kind, bonds and mortgages, oil-stocks, rail- - ad-stocks, real estate, money and personal prop- “+ with the exceptions mentioned below, viz.: - *$10,000 ey, niece, Myra, and a similar sum to be equally divided between the three societiog. as I i _ shall designate below. And I recommend to my be- a 4 # loved adopted daughter, Ethel, to continue to Myra the home and protection hitherto afforded her. _ Ethel, bei | viser of his adopted daughter Ethel. ? ] / fe- a? } Eb saad to air, brown, but full of golden lights, and wayward 4 7 MADCAP, THE LITTLE QUAKERESS. ee r g “You see what the real intention was?” remarked the lawyer to Myra, asif he would ask her what she was going to do about it. ; = atis the law?’ The voice of the little cousin was hard and cold. “The last will as I told you is unsigned, but—”’ “The first remains the legal one?” ‘‘T suppose so—for the present.” “That is all I want to know, Mr. Dobell. And now, if there is an attempt made to break the will, which you yourself declare to be the lega] one, may I engage you to conduct the defense?” The lawyer stared at the fairy-like young lady in | blank astonishment. “By Jupiter! that is cool and keen!”’ he muttered under his breath. ‘‘The hand of steel under the velvet glove!” then, after a brief hesitation: ‘‘ Miss Myra, there is such a thing as equity, as well as law. My dead friend desired to make me the ad- I feel myself retained by her. If there is any trouble I shall act for her, you may be sure; yes! if she never pays me a doilar. -And I warn you that, if my client makes an effort to break the will, I believe she will suc- ceed. Equity triumphs over the letter of the law, sometimes,” Meantime Ethel stood quite still, pale as a ghost | in her black dress, murmuring over and over to her- | self: ** Not his daughter! ter! Whose daughter am I then, I wonder?’ and she looked down, bewildered, at her mourning gar- ments, As she stood, whispering wildly, half out of her senses, Myra crossed over to her. “Don’t mind it, Ethel,’ she said. “I will be a sister to you. You shall not want for anything if the property és mine.”’ Already the modest dependent assumed a tone of patronage. Ethel turned her soul-reading eyes upon her in a sudden calm, superior surprise. “What is that you nay, yra?”’ Myra colored and fidgeted; she had been used to accepting favors poured out upon he: with lavish munificence by her cousin; and her new position of patron was embarrassing even to her at first. “T mean that you must consider this house home,” she replied, rallying, ‘‘and let everyt. ing go on as_before. There is room for you as we as me. I want you to remain with me, cousin Ethel, as my friend and companion. I shall be at a loss what to do with all my property, at first, you ” e A flash of lightning disdain leaped out of Ethel’s eyes. ‘Poor little Myra,’ she answered, ‘‘are matters thus with you?” The aes blue eyes fell despite of their owner’s attempt to look innocent; Myra felt suddenly called upon to examine the binding of a book in a case standing near. Startled out of her at wert by the shock of all this, Ethel turned to Mr. Dobell: “Since you helped to draw up the will, a few weeks ago, do you not know it is the fact that Iam not what I thought I was?” ‘““My dear young lady, I know nothing of this strange affair. I have puzzled my brain over it, hours at a time, since the will was drawn up. Inti- mate as were our relations, I did not venture to question Mr. Wainwright, since he did not see fit to tell me. I only know that a little over six weeks ‘o he sent for me to come, that evening, and help him get his will into shape; that I came, and he was greatly mp that something appeared to have disturbed him on that day; that when I look- ed ea in wonder at the declaration that you were not his daughter, there came on his face an ex- pression which checked all questions I felt inclined to ask. He was never so well after that. I noticed it, and felt uneasy about him.” “It grows upon my memory,” murmured Ethel, “that a strange personage visited papa—Mr. Wain- our Not my own father’s daugh- | wright, I mean, one day, about that time. I re- | member it, because I chanced to be passing through the hall at the time, while she was parleying with the servant; and she was such a singular, foreign- looking woman, and eyed me so sharp a ‘‘T would give half my own poor fortune, Miss Ethel, if your father—I must call him so '\—had been given time to sign that last will,” said Mr. Dobell, earnestly, in an undertone—for Myra still stood as if listening—‘‘I cannot bear to see you, so proud and so worthy, placed in a subordinate position.”” “T thank you for being gs Coking But, how strange that you should have n told nothing! must have had parents—where, who are they? I am robbed even of the mourning,” very sadly and hopelessly. “No, no, Miss Ethel, do not say that! Remem- ‘ber that your father repented of his. harshness, and calls you, in that last paper, his dear adopted daughter. I knew that he idolized you. His heart was lah 9 ae up in you.” “Yet he has taken everything from me—even my name! He says I have none of his blood in my veins—he s hes of Myra’s blood—yet he does not tellme to whom I belong. In there no one in this | wide world to whom I can cling? Am I alien to all | the ha ople in this world?” beginning to sob wildly. PRY Bast I am homeless, fatherless and nameless! Who, who, was ever so desolate as 1?” CHAPTER I. THE ROSE THAT BLOOMED IN A HOSPITAL. As Coralie Clyde was brushing out her lovely hair before her mirror the morning after the accident, oing Cown to bteakfast—lovely : 7 rivilege of loving and | ly as the girl herseif, breaking into a thousand curls aud tendriis, determined to have its own way—she allowed the brush to fall from her hand, as she said to her own reflected image: “T shall not go to Madame’s this morning, I know where I shall go! I’m bound to pay a visit to my hero—to my poor, poor, glorious bcy—my Ber- tram Leigh! My aunties say it would not be pi ope ; but what do J care for the proprieties when perhays he is dying, without friends, in that ugly hospital? No doubt my aunties will go there to-day to ask after him and thank him, but they will be so foima! so cold, while I—oh, I know what Z shall do; I shail cry my eyes out over him!” and then Coralie sprung up and made a dash for the water in the basin, for | the tears had come ard she did not waut her eyelids to become red. She ate so litle breakfast that the dove-colored ladies inquired gently if she were ill. “No, no, dear aunties; but the mornings are growing shorter, you see, and I have no time to dawdle over oatmeal,’’ and she left the table, kisscd the soft, pale cheeks of each, asked to te excused, and hurried away. Ps “T wish she had waited for the cmelette,” mur- muréd Miss Charity. ‘‘I’m afraid, Priscilla, our niece will never take to porridge, just because it is good for her.” Ah! no oatmeal porridge for Coralie that morning! She was in that state of excitement when the scul triumphs over sense—when it seems a very common- lace thing indeed to Le hungry. No stupid lesso or her either! She first bent her steps toward a florist’s in the next street, where she procured a costly and fra- grant bouquet of cut flowers, for the young lady was not limited in the amount of her pin-money. Hav: secured this she tock the car running to- ward the hospital to which the Vg said he hed been conveyed. Very shortly after she stood, with crimson cheeks and fast-beating heart, before ihe warder. She was not refused admittance, but di- rected on and on, until ske found herself in the ward where patients were treated who had received ecci- dental injuries. Coralie had never been in such a place before, She turned pale as death, and felt tempted to run away; but she mastered her faintness and crept after the attendant until she came to eneof the © many long, narrow couches, and saw a figure mo- tionless under its white coverings. Just for one cowardly moment Coralie shut her eyes; then opened them to meet a pair of dim blue ones fixed on her in a rapture of surprise. She saw a pale face, a mass of golden light hair which curled at the ends though cropped so close; two slim, brown hands folded over the counterpane The at- tendant had passed on to others leaving the visitor alone with her hero. The beds on either side chanced to be vacant, so that no one was near enorgh to further embarrass Coralie. ~ “Sit down, please,” said the cadet, indicating — with a motion of his hand the chair at the head of his bed. “Turn it, please, so I can see ycur face,” - and he smiled, radiantly; but his voice was so low and faint that Coralie felt frightened. “You don’t think it wrong—hold—for me to come to see you, do you Mr. Leigh? You know, I could not find out just how seriously you might be in- jured—and so I could not rest, not knowing but that you—had sacrificed your life to save mine. Oh, I pray it is not so bad as that. My eunts willcome — to see you to-day; but I was—was afraid they would” not +tell you how grateful—and sorry—i feel. I wanted to see you myself, and tell you; and bring = these flowers,” and having said all this in a urried, tremulous manner, she laid the swect flow- ers close to the pale face on the pillow, smiling and blushing. : Any one could tell what an innocent, if impulsive, child she was, by one glance into her expressive » ace. ' “T don’t know how to thank you, Miss Feather-, flight. You must be an angel of goodness to come here to see me.”’ j ; “Oh, no! My aunties don’t think I’m an angel I assure ig And my name is Clyde—Coralie Clyde; - itis only my aunties who are Féatherfights. You must not thank me for anything, after what you did for me, Mr. Leigh. I learned your name by the pa- © pers— Bertram Leigh.” “Do vou like the name?” he asted, feebly smil- ing, unable to take his gaze from the sweet, fresh” face before him. : “T do, indeed. I kept saying it over to myself, last night—Bertram a: 7 “ And I like yours still more,’ he said, deiightcd- we sais you ought not to talk,’’ Coralie sudden- suggested. 7 it?” ~ Coralie drew a soft, cool, perfumed rose from the bunch and laid it lightly on his lips. ; “There! you cannot talk now. I will say all there isto be said. 1’m coming to see can every day until you are able to leave this horrid place. And now fT must be going. I shall be awfully late at Madem: ns as it is. But I will come to-morrow. Ah, there is the doctor! Now, 'm going to wait until I hear what he says about you.” P, The medical man smiled at the rose which sealed the lips of his young patient; he felt his pulse, then turned to the visitor. “He is doing well, young lady, very well. Pulse stronger and less rapid. Run away now, | ttle one, for I must look to the injured side. By the way, this I Comte Abe apes Ap : : “Yes, doctor. aunties are-coming to- <i as a = ria ’ PP i RY ly suge' the doctors did forbid it. But, howeanIhélp ~
Page 4
gat . , ? # A a MADCAP, ys ‘ / THE LITTLE QUAKERESS. But I couldn’t wait on their deliberate movements— for, you see, he saved my life!” — “Te did a ba Se eed then, Miss Coralie; and Tu do my best to save his,” laughing. ‘‘ Now, run away.” Coralie was not a very late at Madame’s, after / all; but she failed shamefully in some of her exer- , ises, for her thoughts were not where they ought ; to have been. 3 be When she returned home she learned that her kind ‘aunts had visited the hospital, with little bunches of flowers for all the patients, and a basket of fruit and j-lies for her especial patient; and that he was ‘ pronounced out of danger, now that the effects of exe he shock had not proved fatal. ie wy “May I go with you, to-morrow, when you go to oe ee him, dear aunties?” Soe ‘What! thee to visit a young gentleman? No, Err rs child! Thee does not consider the proprie- end a és | 9 “ / “Very well. It’s a thousand times more delightful % ‘to go alone,” thought willful Coralie. t , e next day she delayed her visit until after ‘school, so that she might stay longer. She found a pair of blue eyes looking for her with restless eager- mess. “You have nearly brought my fever back, keeping sme in suspense so long,’ was his Elsi a ‘But 74 are here, at last,’? and he sighed contentedly as ‘his head fell back on the pillow. : “Let me put the withered flowers in my basket— there are fresh ones. And these black Hamburgs are delicious; try them.” ; ; She fed the luscious grapes to him, one by one. A : faint glow came into his pale cheeks and his faded ; ’ yes brightened. 4 “Had you noticed me, following you about the aan streets?” he began, when he had eaten the last lus- ‘ scious grape. sat . ‘Following me?” cried Coralie, slyly. “Yes. If I had not fallen into that bad habit I should not have been near enough to save you from -those horses.” ose “Ts that so? But explain yourself, Mr. Leigh.” # “7 will, if you will promise to call me Bertram.” 5 _ “*Let me hear the explanation first.” “There is no explanation. Only—I fell dead in love with you the first time I saw you.” J “Oh!” murmured the gipsy, looking down and ; are ‘ “I dic , indeed. So deep that I shall never get out , i “Hush! that man across the aisle might hear , oul” % “Let him hear! It willdo him good. Yes, I love bn? you, Miss Orde, madly, desperately. I did not % ’ mean to say this to you before I had made your ac- uaintance in the regular way. I meant to be pru- pal ent and honorable. I try to be honorable in all my actions, Miss Clyde. But, how can I help telling you, when you are such an angel as to come and see me, and bring me these blessed flowers, and take such an interest in me?” “T don’t know,’’ murmured Coralie. _ the cadet, rather wildly, ‘“‘for 1 am poor and you are \ “But 1 do!” said Coralie, earnestly, her cheeks red as the crimson rose she was swinging by its stem. ae ee me, do you mean?” gasped the et. es, ever since you risked your life for me.’ “T am afraid it is only gratitude, Miss Clyde. You are fond of me, ap ag for what I did for you. _ You ert Fanart and good, and I thank you. But your relatives will never allow you to become attach- ( ed to a roving fellow like me. You will never be al- ~ Jowed to love me, Coralie,’’ sadly. “Tm my own mistress, in some things,’’ retorted the girl, gayly. ‘‘My mamma fell in love with a - sailor, too—a gallant captain in the navy—and her relatives did not like it. They did all they could to ‘break off the match—dut she murried him!’ tri- -mumphantly. “And sh will marry me, some day?’ demanded ‘Bertram Leigh, rising on his elbow, and looking in her drooped face with sparkling eyes. _ * Perhaps—if you want me to,” a a glance at him which set his blood to dancing through his veins. | Their eyes did all the talking for the next few minutes. Then a sharp pain in the injured side caused Bertram to sink back, nearly fainting. But he rallied presently, and began, in a weak voice, to tell this lovely girl by his side something of his his- tory: Coralie, I have no father, mother or relatives _ that I know of in the worid, do not even know if myname is truly mine; I do not know who my ‘parents were. iwas brought to this country, when i little child of six, by a gentleman who took a fancy to me, This gentleman is not wealthy; but ‘he has educated me, and, by his influence, got me a place in the Naval Academy at Annapolis. I ought Tere et anot to ig ge that he will do any more forme, I - feel that I must, from this point, make my own way. - ¥have recently been placed on board a Government - ship, now in! port here for a few weeks; but ordered to sail for the coast of China, the first of December. You see what my prospects are: B ielvigh “A life on the ocean wave,’ fe gmall w es, an unsettled life, a few months on land to yearaat sea—a dark future contrasted to yours, - gen * %: I like sailors!” avowed the girl, decision. Thank you for that, my own brave darling!” Bnd t have money of my own. Not so much as hens A os 5 > : ; ete: ‘ Posi =?) F oy ' a PF: rer ALT = ie a a Phen St a “T don’t pal a you to love me in return,” ran on. ee Ee te OE | my aunts have; but I have $75,000 out at interest, | Bertram; and that is not to be—sneezed at,” she concluded, inelegantly. **'You do not think 1 would let you support me?” “Why not?’ “Because I have some pride, I hope. I foresee, too, the displeasure of your aunts, and all manner of difficulties. But, Coralie, if you are really will- ing to promise to be faithful to me through all, I shall take heart and fight all these difficulties till they are vanquished.” “We are very young, Bertram; we have years in which to give you a chance. I know you will suc- ceed. And, “Indeed, I am determined to do that. Coralie, I will confide to you that lately—within a few months—I have discovered a clew to my birth, which may lead to a knowledge of my family. Some instinct assures me that I shall not be ashamed of my eee I was glad to have a few weeks in Philadelphia; for it is in this city that my search must be “Yet pital.” ‘No, darling Coralie, not losing time, but gaining you! Think of that! « {f you had not found me here suffering you would never have fallen in love with me. _ I’m not so vain as not to realize that.” “Perhaps it is only ge I feel, after all,’’ said the tease, putting on a look of trouble. “Don’t torture me, Coralie! enough to stand it.” ‘*T should hate to be the death of you.”’ RS Then take that back and vow that you do love “Tl think of it, sir.”’ ‘* You are cruel, Coralie.” “T know it. I told youI was no angel.” ‘** But you are, even when you are heartless.” “Tf Iam heartless, it must be you have stolen my heart. I had one yesterday.” “There! Now you are my darling again.”’ ‘* How foolish you are, Bertram! I’m certain that man with his lez in plaster-of-paris is laughing at ‘That is healthy for him. By the way, do you know a famil bs the name of Wai cy te this goodly Quaker city?” “There is a family of Wainwrights on Walnut street. My aunts visit there occasionally. The father, Cyrill Wainwright, died about a month ago; and I have heard—I’m sure I do not know or under- stand the case—but I have heard my aunties talking of it—that, when his will was read, he disowned his daughter Ethel, his oe child, andmade his brotker’s daughter his heir, know it is thought very —— and that there has been some excitement about it.’ : Again Bertram Leigh raised on his elbow in his eeec races to listen, while the color came and went in nis face. ** Cyrill—Cyrill. That was one of the names I wanted. I’m positive, now, that I have a clew! se I wish I were able to set about my search, this our!”’ ‘You will not be able very soon, young man, un- less you obey orders better,” said the voice of the surgeon, who was making his afternoon rounds; and Bertram lay meekly back, while Coralie, bl pulled her hat over her eyes, and went away. It was to be expected that the patient should be feverish and sleepless that night. He had the second link of the chain of evidence which he hoped to forge—and he had an avowal of love from the sweet lips of a glorious girl. in.” These you are, losing time in this dreary hos- I’m not strong Coralie, nwright > CHAPTER IV. THE LITTLE COUSIN. «a monrH nad crawled onward since Cyrill Wain- wright’s sudden death. Ethel had learned; as the long weeks went slowly by, how long such weeks can be—how slowly time can pass. She had something even worse to bear than grief for her loss, or than that stranger misfortune which had befallen her—intense as her suffering had been for these. It was a new revelation to her, this possi- bility of suffering inflicted by the lagging minutes. Ethel had never watched and waited before—EKthel, the proud, the ever-sought-after, whose smile or word bad been watched for as treasures. But that was in the past. She was not an heiress now; and, indeed, did she, or any one, know what she was? } All these days and weeks she had waited for some one to come who had failed her; some one from whom she had a right to expect tenderest sympathy at such a time—who should have flown to her side at the first intimation that she was in trouble, Ethel, though not exactly “engaged” to John Garwell, had reason to consider their relation the same as if they had been formally affianced. On the evening yp to Mr. Wainwright’s sudden illness Jobn had remained late, and on engaging her com- pany to the opera for the following night, had said to her, retaining her hand at parting: ‘“*Eithel—may I call you Ethel?—we have been friends for some time; but I can be satisfied with yous Jriendshyp no longer. Am I mistaken in be- ieving that you have the same regard for me as I for you?” en when she blushed, and hesitated for a reply, he went on: ’ ‘*To-morrow, when I come, may I speak to your | father? Say that may! Such sweet silence surely gives, consent,’’ and she had raised her lovely eyes to meet his smile, and had not forbidden him. : ’ Me = : / I get ae When a proud girl like Ethel had given such an_ \ assurance of her love as that, it was bitter, it was | crushing to be left alone, deserted, humiliated, in the midst of her other’trials. Yet, John Garwell had not once been to see her in those four weeks! ‘ih The suspicion was slow to force itself into her mind that it was her. father’s wealth which had: charmed—not herself. But it came by degrees, and grew there. f : ij She had heard stories against young Garwell—that he was wild—a fiirt—that he had no true respect for , women—that he gambled, and the like; but she had considered them the slanders of the envious. To her he had been refined, gallant, reverential, all that was admirable. It took the whole of that weary month to convince her that the change in her for- tunes had changed her lover. ; She and Myra. were sitting up-steirs in her own room the evening after Myra had sent that surrep- titious note., They were not talking; somehow, they were not . good company for one another in those days. Ethel was gazing listlessly into the open fire; Myra was turning the leaves of a novel. A servant knocking, entered with a card, which he i handed to gk Ope quickly does the straw show ; the course of the Grates ry ee “Mr. Garwell asks if he can see tne ladies a few moments,” Myra glanced sharply at ber cousin, who raised her sear ered to the man’s face. : “Did Mr. Garwell ask for both of us, Gerald?” in- quired Myra. : “T understood him to say ‘the ladies,’ Miss YT ed ‘**Tell him we will be down presently.” The servant went out and a moment’s dead silence ensued, “Go down, Ethel. It is you he has come to see, of course.” ‘ Something in the soft voice jarred on the hearer’s sensitiveness. : iy i “Perhaps it is, Myra,” she replied, haughtily; : ‘‘but I must be excused from receiving any one yet. = Pray make my excuses to Mr. Garwell.’ ; a Myra et a her eyes to conceal the sudden blaze of light in them. Zhis was what she had ' pa for! She had long been desperately in ove with the man who waited in the drawing-room below; and if Ethel chose to be angry, and break bb! ent it opened to her the golden door of oppor- nity. ‘*TIndeed, cousin, you might see Mr. Garwell. He will be disappointed.” “T must consult my own feelings, not his, Myra.’” “Then, if I must go down, what shall I tell him from you?” ; tN “That I am unable to see my friends at present.” ; With her hands pressed tightly together Ethel returned to her study of the fire. Soft little Myra fluttered up to the glass—her companion’s back was _ turned—to take a look at herself. She was as fair as . a lily-of-the-valley, in that black dress. _ ‘ ‘“Good-by, cousin. I'll send him away soon, I. don’t fancy leaving you alone.”’ é yore fiers ““Never mind me,” answered Ethel, kindly. She did not understand that cousin, long as she had lived with her. ) Mr. Garwell was standing in front of his chair in the drawing-room, undecided as to how he should greet Ethel. He wanted to be kind, but not too kind, gor he intended she should understand that the past as blotted out. But the person who glided in and came up to him was not Ethel. ** Ah! Miss Myra, I hope I see you well. I trust I * have not taken too great a liberty in responding to en your note. Pray, why do you think Miss Ethel miss- — es my visits? dare say you understand that we are friends—friends only ?”’ } } “Ts that_so?’ asked Myra, looking quickly up at him. “Timagined you and my cousin were en- gaged.’ i iy *eWhat an idea! Should be only too proud end t happy, I am sure—only, as all my friends know, Ma I am nota marrying man. Miss Ethel Wainwright is a glorious girl—glorious! I dare say she never did — me the honor to think of me in that light.” ie ii we ‘Tt was only an impression of mine; Ethel never _ said so,” and she cast down -her large eyelids and — sighed. : : é : This gave the visitor an opportunity to study her. This insignificant little cousin, whom he had often anathematized for being in the way, had assumed a — new position. She was the heiress now] “T never remarked how pretty she was,” thought John. ‘What an exquisite complexion, and what long eyelashes! A perfect little cat, I know—the kind of a girl I detest—-but quite worth keeping asa. friend, in case my madcap Coralie proves incorrigi- ble. ‘Two strings to my bow are ‘none too many, when I consider how heavily I lost yesterday. Cor- alie’s a thousand times more to my taste; and this property may be locked up in a lawsuit. I heard — something about Mr, Dobell’s being anxious to break the will. Still, as I say, two strings are not too — many.” . 7 Then aloud: s # ‘Miss Myra, if I ever did think of marriage, your cousin is too good for me. I should want a woman — with a spice of wickedness in her composition. You // ) have a grain of perverseness running through your nature, haven’t you?” The subtie smile on Myra’s face answered him, f }* + thought. John Garwell,” ,
Page 5
| Sea MADCAP, THE LITTLE QUAK | '“T hope Lam not keeping you from your cousin, » / \“ Miss Myra?” : } - “Oh, no; Ethel prefers solitude. am weary ofit.” - ' “Then I may stay a little while?” “Certainly, if you will. I have been so lonely, and so sad,and so dreadfully anxious ahout poor, poor Ethel. I’m so sorry thiags have turned out as they have, although I am the gainer, Mr. Garwell.”’ _- But we will leave these two tothe enjoyment of their mutual deceptions, and return to Ethel. The bell had rung a second time, shortly after Mr. Garwell’s arrival; and this time Ethel had been For my part, I summoned and had gone down to the library to meet + Mr. Dobell. ; . The lawyer had been to see her several times, to beg of her to allow him to contest the will, when the ' time came to do it; but she had always refused. This was his errand now. “TI beg of you not to worry me about money matters, Mr. Dobell—at least, not yet. I thank you for the interest you take in me; but I can’t bring ; myself to take half as much interest in myself. My , cousin enjoys being mistress here; let her alone, I et ie say. I can never take comfort again in the prop- 4. erty. Let her have it.” —— ““Your cousin seems to be extraordinarily selfish. ‘It makes my blood boil to see how things go in this toi”. sHowsere ; _ ! Ethel smiled bitterly. : fiter yra has talent enough to take care of her rights, oof” Ddor t blame her for that. She is a soft little crea- | ture.’ “So is a snake,’’ added the lavyer. Rrel “T shall never contest the will, Mr. Dobell.” ; “Then you doa great injustice to the dead, my dear young lady. You frustrate the evident inten- tions of Mr, Wainwright.” ' tan “T can’t help it,” cried Ethel, piteously. ““‘ If you take such a frienlily interest in me, dear, Mr. Dobell, prove it by trying to find out for me what and whol am; then, indeed you will do me a service oF for which I shall be grateful.” , Ir, _ “TJ wish I could help you there, Miss Ethel.” a “Perhaps you can.” “But I have nothin, '. hound must have the ] have the trail.” ; __ “There was the visit of that woman,’ remarked - Ethel, thoughtfully. > “Yes; but she vanished without a trace. Perhaps \ you can tell me something about her which will give me the clew?” . . “Tamafraid not. She came and went—that is all.” f “Did she appear like an Americ1n woman?” “No; she was dark and foreign-looking. Spanish, rhaps. ! “Your father spent several years in the West : Indies when he wasa young man. Of course you ie, ‘know that he married there, lost his wife shortl - after that—that is, within two or three y-ars—an - returning, a widower, to his native city, brought you with him as his own little daughter.” ig ” “Ye3,I know. Papa took the death of his wife | go much to heart that he never could endure ques- tioning about her—my mother, as I then supposed.”’ “He was understood at the time, to have made a _ --~——s very brilliant choic2—the beautiful daughter of a Bog wealthy planter, a Cuban belle, whose diamonds and y . whose personal charms were both said to be daz- ling. Surely he must have preserved some records , _ of his brief married life!—a portrait, a name, a diary. heise Have you searched the private drawers of this sec- | retary, Miss Ethel?” _ “Teould not bring myself to the task, Mr. Dobell, - But here are the keys; will you do it for me?” minute search into evory nook and crevice of ’ the secretary revealed nothing bearing on the sub- ‘ ' ject of such interest to them. A little pair of pink slippers, which Ethel remembered to have been her own, set her to sobbing over ink they told that - thisdead gentleman, whom she had worshiped as one of the fondest of fathers, at least loved her, ew even if he had disowned her. While she wept over the tiny shoes, the lawyer sat with his head on his | hand, lost in thought, ‘Miss Ethel,” he said at last, “I am unwilling, for three reasons, to let this matter rest here: first, Y for the regard I had for Mr. Wainwright; secon, to work upon. Even a nt, and an Indian must Na the interest I take in anes third, because, as a, awyer, my professional pride is aroused. I will tell you what I willdo. Thad planned to spend a few weeks in Florida ii the latter part of this coming ' winter. Instead of going to Florida I will visit Cuba; the climate will be just as beneficial to me, andIcan spend my leisure time in the attempt to unravel this eo a bee 8 If I knew the maiden-name of the lady -. \~* whom Mr. Wainwright married, I could soon find’ out all the rest. 4 _ “Why should you take all this trouble?” asked ss Ethel, sadly. r _ _ * Because I like to have an interesting case on my ; hands,” responded the lawyer. ap pon “T would like to serve you, dear Miss ethel, gratify my own + feelings, and—disappoint some other people.” __ “Who is it you would like to disappoint, Mr. Do- bell?” asked a soft voice at the door. . In ‘spite of his great self-command the lawyer “ ed. He had closed the door on entering, and he _ had not heard it open; but at these words, as he looked around, there stood Myra, boldly confronting him, n those large, childlike eyes unblinking at | ba ng Henan ii : yeh aa 3 well had taken his departure, after a most r - agreeable call; and his entertainer had, upon catch- ing the sound of voices in the library, stolen thither % ‘ith that velvet step of hers, listened a few mo- ments, and then aay pushed open the door, in -. time to ask this pertinent question of the embarrass- 2 Od. attorney. ‘ . Wer ; on sg Os 4 mN i Sore Mr. Dobell’s embarrassment did not last long; he was too vexed: and as he arose to take his hat, he answered deliberately, looking square in the blue eyes: of You, Miss Myra. I cannot feel reconciled to this young lady’s present position; and all my skill and experience are at her service, if she can only be per- suaded to make a struggle for her rights.” ‘Well, lam not without the advice of a lawyer, any more than my cousin; and I think the ‘ skill and experience ’ of the one I have engaged at least equal to yours,”’ said Myra, defiantly. Mr. Dobell bowed to his fair client and left the house without any reply to the heiress’s taunt. CHAPTER V. BETWEEN TWO HEARTS. THE handsome patient in the hospital recovered se eek The two ribs which had been broken behaved splendidly, for a fractured bone is not much to youth and health; Nature sets to work so kindly to help such, ’ At first it was supposed that the left lung was contused; and it was this fear which had given the case so grave a look; but when it proved to be happily uninjured, all Bertram Lei had i. do, as the surgeon told him, was to lie still a few days. As soon as the fever attending the injury passed away, he was allowed to partake freely of the luxu- ries which the pair of dove-colored ladies brought him every day. The most of these, it must be said, went to others worse off than himself; our young cadet was not the man to pamper himself, when all about him were others who suffered more. The old ladies softly scolded him when they found where their baskets of pears and pines and grapes, wines, jellies and birds, went; and the next time they came they brought fourfold enough for the whole ward, thus making the young man very happy. “Thee has a good heart, Bertram Leigh,” said Miss Priscilla to him, that day. Then the boy’s eyes shone with redoubled splen- dor. To be prai by Coralie’s relative—that was exquisite joy! iss Charity, too, had taken a great fancy to him. Something in his youth, his helplessness, his beauty, and his ages , graceful ways, touched pee cece. She felt as if she could almost adopt the boy. But there was Coralie! No adoption of handsome youths could be thought er while that impulsive maiden was under their charge. To tell the truth, neither of the gone Quaker ladies would have been half so kind the person who had saved their darling—would have noticed him at all—would have done anything but recoil from him in horror—had she suspected the part he was playing with her niece. Tt was ralie’s apparent indifference—ingrati- tude, indeed—which urged her aunts to be more demonstrative. ‘*She don’t seem to think saving her life much of afeat. So thoughtless is youth!” Miss Charity had observed. : “She has never asked us the second time to take her to the hospital,”’ averred Miss Priscilla. They were doomed to have their eyes opened ve wide upon the wickedness and deceitfulness of their niece’s ways. The surgeon at the hospital who attended on the cadet noticed that Miss Coralie’s visits were made alone; and being acquainted with her relative:, he considered it his duty to hint to them that the most desperate kind of a flirtation was going on between his patient and their neice. Oh, horrible! Oh, incredible! That afternoon, when the peat culprit came tripping down Madame B.’s white marble door-steps, all unconscious of the fate in store for her, cheeks and eyes glowing with anticipation of the stolen sweets of that visit she was about to make, there stood the family carriage, with George like a statue in ebony on the high driver’s seat, and her two aunts, pale, solemn and mysterious, awaiting her. “‘Are you going fora drive? Dear aunties, Pd rather walk. Mayn’t I walk home this pleasant afternoon?” ‘““Thee may take thy Bg here, in front of us, Coralie Clyde,” answered Miss Priscilla, sternly, to this cunning plea. ‘ Then all the sweet color flew down from Coralie’s cheeks; she knew, in a moment, that her dreadful sin had come to light. Very meekly she stepped into the carriage and sat down facing those severe brows bent on her in holy horror. “** The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked,’ ”’ murmured Miss Charity, as George started the team into adecorous trot. F Miss Priscilla made no remark; she said never another word, so awful were her grief and displeas- ure, until they were at home and in the house. There, in the hall, she turned upon the offender: ‘Coralie Clyde, thee is a chip of the old block. Go to thy room and remain there. It is hard to punish our sister’s child, but the doctrines of love are not re ging for thy restraint. Thee must be punish- e a] Coralie did not even ask to have her offense named. She was no hypocrite, usually, despite of the wrong steps she had taken in concealing her visits to the hospital. Neither did she attempt to ‘brazen out” her guilt. She felt that she had been : ve bad girl. S she + ae pove ts Posen ta] se owed by her aunt Prise whom she expecte would enter her room with her and deliver a lecture on her heinous conduct. } BRESO hg 00s! But, her aunt did not enter; sho stopped outside, and turned the key upon her wicked niece. “Better that than be lectured,” thought the pris- oner., “‘Oh, my poor, poor Bertram! ow lonely you will be this afternoon! How you will fret be- cause Ido not come! Perhaps they have fallen on him, and withered him under their displeasure! I “ wish I knew!” : She sat by the window and looked into the street, and thought and sighed, and grew passionate only to make all manner of picts, plans and*resolves. After a long, long period she heard the tea-bell ring. Would they send for her to come down to sup~ per? is Presently some one unlocked the door. Shehada glimpse of aunt Charity; something was pushed sh a ne room, then the door was closed and re- | | ocked, Coralie was frightfully hungry, despite her forlorn mood, and went quite eagerly to the tray for boat aly supper. Jy ‘rhe tray contained—a glass of water, a thick slice: — 4 of bread.” She returned to the window. paid “I'm not a baby,” she said, scornfully.. “They forgot that. I love him!—love him, with all my heart and soul. Jt istoo late to preventthat. They . — cart starve that out of me. Poor, foolish aunties! You smile on that scoundrel, John Garwell; and you. lock me up for falling in Jove with the purest, the: ‘ best, the most beauviful, brave boy that ever lived? Well, keep me on bread-and-water; I'll love him every minute you do it! a “T've got nothing to do but think of you, dear Bertram,’ she murmured, looking up at the stars, yi which were beginning to come out in the dark-blue sky, as if her hero was perched on one of them, hat a glamour there is over “love’s young § dream!*"—what a mystery in the processes of its; infatuation! What are life-long friends and their wishes, weighed in the balance with one known to iy! ae but for a few brief days?—feathers against gold! ’ Coralie had been an affectionate, fond child to the twosisters sitting in solemn grief in thercom below. But millions of devoted aunts could never convince _ her that she cid not know what was best for her | cwn happiness—that Bertram Leigh was not am angel, with the glitter of Paradise still in his eyes— that she was not in love for the first as wellas the only time—that she could ever change, or Bertram é could ever change. ‘ i And with Coralie love was a powerfulfadangerous: — passion, Those qualities of hers—reckless gener- Py) osity, impulsive tenderness, sublime trust in others, | willfulness and pride—all went to make her love, when she gave it, the offering of her entire heart’s, treasury. After she had wearied herself with talking to Ber~ tram, through the medium of the stais, she went to — bed and slept nce f { But, on the next day came a battl., out of which 4 she came victorious but exhausted. Her aunt Pris- | cilla had tried to make the condition of her forgive- ness for what had been done depend on a promise that her niece would never see or speak with the cadet again. é ““T never will promise you that, aunt Priscilla, if you shut me up in the chamber until I am as old as. ou are. Ican’t promise you! How can I, whent ave given him my sacred word that I will marry _ him some day when he is ready?” Mk The struggle lasted a couple of hours; then the elder vo retired, defeated, but carrying the key _ with her, leaving Coralie still a prisoner. hoe A week went on, after that. Coralie nibbled as: much bread and sipped as much water as kept the | breath of life in her; she grew pale, not so much from the confinement to her room as from anxiety _ about Bertram—what he would think of her deser- — ear more resolute in mind as she grew weaker> in body. Nea On the eighth day, as she sat at her window, some: — one passed on the other side and looked up. Coralie ave a cry of joy. Bertram was well—was out ef the hospital—was walking by, in hopes of communi~— i cating with her! Ni pace Spey She threw up the sash, leaned out and bowed te = him. He gave her a slight return, and hurried cn. , He was very pale; he did not smile; he appeared) angry with her. oo. 9 a “Scme one has told him, falsehoods about me,” che thought, and she drew back quickly, the red dy-— ing out which had flamed into her cheeks at sight of im. 4 - ‘ \ She remained all that evening at Wer windoyr watching, hoping, listening for some signal whicke = should invite her to communicate with her lover. None came; and she went to bed sick atheart. The following day, about noon, aunt Priscilla ume locked her door. aia = RSs: “Thee can come down,” she Perna 1%, coi Coralie freshened up her toileb and went dowm, Miss Charity slyly wiped wing a tear when she s: how thin the girl had grown—how pale an was. Priscilla fore her. Coralie took it up and glanced indiffe | until her eyes fell on 5 varaseeipl em: purposely pushed a morning’s paper be~ a Bae U. S. Government steamer, Mohawk been Mhexpectedly ordered to South America, — ia Ly sails at noon to-day.’ FP = Bchaiy wae rigek be ah ship! 7” J i : can oralie gave a little gas 1e paper slipped out of i band: and presently e€, too, Alipped downy pom Re e floor. tees € capt & Starvation and disappointment were tom — rauch for hart oni Le! Vimar os Bente eT f Ae ig eo Fd tae a minty ‘ ee Na 5 Fn a hee, = hes‘ ee ay 8S eek ee.
Page 6
me>y The maiden aunts were much alarmed—the con- science cf one of them accused her of the darkest deed of her dove-colored life—of an interview which | she had held with the young cadet, in the hospital, the day after her discovery of Coralie’s wickedness. In that interview, sought by herself and kept secret even from Charity, Priscilla Featherflight had as- sured the unhappy young man /that her niece was “as good as, engaged’ to a wealthy genticman in every way worthy of her—a friend of the family— and that the child now bitterly regretted her heed- lessness in becoming entangled with him. Priscilla thought of this double-dealing, as, with ee sister’s aid, she lifted Coralie and laid her on the sofa, ‘ ‘* What was to be done?” Neither of these ladies in all their long lives had ¥ fainted from disappointment in love, or any other cause. _ Charity suggested burnt feathers and camphor; Priscilla opened the girl’s dress to cut her corset- ' strings, forgétting that her niece’s pretty figure had never been molded in such an article. Something tambled out of the fair bosom onto the sofa—a pic- tare—his picture, for shame! but the finder could not pause to tear it up just then; she slipped it in _ her pocket and called one of the servants to b ing ‘ - herafew feathers, Charity, in her excitement, hax just struck a match to set fire to the end of a fine unch of peacock plumes, used as a duster, when Coralie opened her dark eyes and made an effort to ae sit up. : eS Thank the Lord! we hav’n’t entirely killed her,”’ sniffled Charity. , _“‘Nor burned up my best duster,’ added Pris- cilla. From that hour nothing could exceed the kindness of her aunts. They could afford to be indulgent, now that the only object for which she pined was out of the way. -. They bought her new dresses; they presented her with a string of pearls, in spite of their Quaker ab- horrence of ornament; they took her to drive every day; they allowed her to visit the opera with soma oung friends; they consulted her taste in the daily ill of fare. Inspite of all, they uneasily felt that she was not happy. Day by day she changed; she _ was paler, more quiet, more loving and sweet—not herself. Not the wild Coralie who had “kept them in hot water” half their time, but a sort of shadow of her former gay self. ‘ x Taney began to realize that it was not so easy to cure a case of love-sickness. : Bat, they did what they thought best to heal the hurt. They brought her another lover, of whom they approved—John Garwell, who came and came. There is no devotion so faithful as that of a lover who is beset by duns, and sees in his lady-lova’s hand the key to bonds and checks and cash-boxes. Coralie’s little dimpled hand was the fairy-gift that J was to unlock a fortune to him who had already spent one. No wonder he became most impressive in his avowals! VA Coralie no longer had the spirit to check and tease him. Once and awhile she would flash out at him a bolt of her girlish scorn; but, usually, she was gentle and impassive. And s0, long before Christmas, it became under- stood in the circle they frequented that Miss Clyde and Mr. Garwell were ‘‘ engaged.” \ N . CHAPTER VI. J _ THE FACE UNDER THE HOOD. ‘* Eveiyn, I wish you would take this note from _ me over to Walnut street,” said Mr. Dobell to his ; elerk and student. ‘Be sure you leave it in no eM and but that of Miss Ethel Wainwright. Particular- 'y not with Miss Myra. I mean nothing by such a , precaution, of course, but we lawyers learn to be ad - suspicious.” ; “T will take it, sir,’ answered the clerk, with apparent indifference. The back of the older lawyer was turned, so that he did not notice the swift flush which rose to the face of the young man, or the light which kindled in his steel-blue eyes. e hand trembled which reached out for the J ee etter. “TJ willinsist on seeing the young lady to whom it is addressed,’ he continued: and Mr. Dobell, shrewd. as he was, never ed at the keen pleasure he had bestowed on his student, by making him the _ bearer of the note. _ Webster Evelyn was an old young man to be still ; law; twenty-five, if he was a day. He had . never been one of those favored sons whose rich Si fathers pay their way through college; but had aa) been obliged to teach and earn money in many other ‘hard ways, before he could take a Harvard course; _ and after he had graduated he had to stop again to tee get the means wherewith to clothe himself and keep As i up a decent if plain appearance in the lawyer’s office. . His board he earned from the first by copying. He ‘had talent, will, enerey, everything but money, and , . he expected to have ple ; thirty-five, for he was ambitious, and looked for- ward to anincome of twenty thousand dollars a -, year, such as his tutor en of oyed, Selo Sethe top of the heap” tr that profession,gwas the _.- place he aspired to; not because he was vain or bold, but because the fire of aspiration burned un- _ quenchably in his brain. Mr. Dobell considered him ae arising young man, and took him more than any ee one else into his confidence. __ __ ‘This was not the first time he had been sent to the i 2 ‘Wainwright mansion on business. Before thedeath | er the head of the house he had gone there occa- Pry porte pan Mr. Dobell. During the first of these visits, Te Ethel a ae > Finis ( f x! Sy L + 4 Se Ms meh fe , PIMA ets Syed) 8a ~ he nko -. : eee. Vainwright—not knowing that her father was wi nty of that before he was es tt Se ee a ee ee a ee | ee / MADCAP, THE LITTLE QUAKERESS. r engaged with a stranger—walked into his library, a song on her lips, roses in her hands, dressed in a sweeping robe of delicate-hued silk: | The diamonds in her dusky hair Scemed only dew-drops from the rose, The sweet white rose, that nestled there; And o’er the emerald gown, that sheathed The fairest lily ever breathed, ‘They sparkled like the summer rain. He knew her haughtiest of her race, As she was loveliest in the face; But neither cruel, cold, nor vain. Then, for the first time, dawned on the eyes of the poor young man (whose day-dreams were so much more sumptuous than the hard reality) the embodi- ment of that ideal picture which fancy had painted years ago—the face, the figure, the eyes, the voice of the one woman whom he believed to be somewhere in the wide world for him to find and love. Now that he had found her, it was as if she stood on some far planet of her own, brighter than ours. This proud, fair lady in her silks and diamonds, was not for him! None the less he felt that she was the complement of himself—the one mate who would round his life into a happy completion. He felt that he could make himself worthy of her, for he was pure of heart and morals, and that his nature had all the refinement of hers, if not the same freedom of development. But he had not a hope. Mr. Wainwright was known to be a gentleman, arrogant and inaccessible. Was it likely that he would smile upon a poor law- yer’s clerk, in love with his glorious child? To still further crush into blackest night hope’s elie torch, the second time Evelyn went to the ouse, as he stood in the hall, waiting to be sent for to the library, Ethel came out from the drawing- room, dressed for a matinee, leaning on the arm of John Garwell, and smiling up into his face with those sweet, fond eyes which mirrored her girlish love. He would have died for a look like that; but his portion was a slight, Leer pat fe bow as she lided by him, thrilling kim dumb with the touch of ae packinied dress as it swept his foot in passing im. When Webster Evelyn heard the news of Ethel’s troubles—that she was disowned, disinherited—an orphan who did not even know her parentage—a fierce joy, a dizzy triumph seized heart and brain. Oh! if he could win her— give her a home—work, like a good fellow, to surround her with such luxuries as ought to be hers! What a pleasure thai would be! : ut the sickness of despair followed swiftly on the thrill of hope. Ethel, no matter how ill-fortune attended her, would still be a queen, still have her choice from the best and noblest. To Ethel he was stilla lawyer’s errand-boy! : Then the story of Mr. Garwell’s base desertion and of her cousin’s selfishness came to him through © s s the lawyer’s confidence. And then, that bei a of Mr. Dobell’s to search for some light on the mystery of Ethel’s birth—some Se ip to break that unjust will—was confided to m. This was the work which he longed to do. It was nearly Christmas, that day, when he took Mr. Dobell’s letter to Ethel. He was to see her and to bring back an answer. No wonder he had flushed at the prospect—that his heart beat under his threadbare coat when he inquired at tie door if Miss Ethel would see him for a few moments, by re- uest of Mr. Dobell. The servant showed him into the library and went to deliver his message. Pres- eatly the light fall of a foot in the hall made his pulse roar in his ears. The door opened, but it was not Ethel who, came. The little cousin entered, smiled sweetly at him, as he bowed, and said in a soft voice: *“Did you bring a letter from Mr. Dobell? Very well; you may leave it with me. My cousin Ethel od lying down just now; we do not care to disturb er.” / ‘“‘Do not disturb her, I pray. I can wait. fam in no great haste. But I must deliver this in person to her, since I am to hear what her answer is. Mr. Dobell’s instructions were to confer with Miss Ethel Wainwright, and bring back to him her decision ona point of her business affairs.” Myra, while he was making this speech in a slight- ly embarrassed manner, watched him observant- ga under the shadow of her half-drooped eye- es. “Oh, very well; I suppose my cousin must be awakened. ° I will tell her lawyer has sent a person here to see her,” and the new heiress walked a Opps so much as asking ‘‘ the person” to be seated. : So Evelyn was standing near the table, waiting patiently, when Ethel ded in. He started—he could not nae it—to see her so pale, with such dark shadows under her eyes; so listless and dull, who was once so radiant with spirit. His love, his longing, his fears for her, were all in his gaze; but she perceived nothing of it; to her, anes was only ‘‘a person’’ who had brought her a note. “Tam to wait for an answer,” he said. Ethel motioned with her jeweled hand to a chair, broke the seal of the message and read it. It was to the effect that her er, deeply as he was inter- ested in her affairs, had about made up his mind that it was going to be impossible for him to go to ree at least before spring. : A famous case on which he was employed, and which he had expected to be settled in November was held over to the February term. abandon it willingly, were it not that such a course ‘ ; ’ ig f / — 4 a Pre. e. 4 He would: would injure his client. He was much disappointed to be obliged to put her interests aside for a time— only a time—and a ked her which he had better do —attend to her case or delay it? “ Delay it, of course,” said the oe lady, promptiye “Tt is only a wild idea of ‘Mr. Dobell’s hat there %; anything to be done for me,” she added, with a sweet, mournful smile. “An idea promo by his interest in me. I never encouraged im in his project of visiting Cuba on my behalf. I am erg he has abandoned it.”’ “ Not abandoned—deferred, Miss Wainwright.” » She looked up at him, for there was a certain quiet power in his voice which arrested her at- tention. “Do you know anything about it?”’ she asked. “All that Mr. Dobell does. I am his confidential secretary. Miss Wainwright, there is nothing to prevent my going to Cuba; and I believe I can be as perservering, at least, as Mr. Dobell.” Again she looked straight into his steel-blue hon- est eyes. 4 “Thank you, Mr.—”’ “ Evelyn.” ; “Mr. Evelyn; but it would be foolish for any one to go. Iwill write a few words to that effect, and you can hand them to Mr. Dobell. I have made up ly mind what to ie. I shall take my $10,000 to some country village where I can live cheaply on the interest of it. Since—since Mr. Wainwright was not eee 2 my father, I am more than willing that his brother’s child should have his estate. I wish you would convince my good friend of this,’ she added, with one of her old smiles. ‘‘He don’t half believe me, when I say it,’? and then she began to write her note. Evelyn watched her in a sort of rapture, as her silver-white hand slid over the pier: on which her eyes were fixed, so that he had opportunity to ad- niire the poise of her graceful head, the length of her dark eyelashes, the outlines of her deliciously- rounded, supple, slender figure. Too much of his passionate regard burned in his eyes; she looked suddenly up, and blushed under his gaze— “Suddenly, sweetly, strangely blushed.”’ But the blush was followed by an expression so severe upon a brow so lovely that the lover was > chilled to the heart. When she had folded and sealed her note, she handed it to him without a word; and he, having no excuse for lingering, bowed stiffly and went out from that glorious presence, not knowing when—if ever— Le should be in it again; yet, with the self-abnega- tion of true love, fully determined to -sacrifice time and his own prospects to her fortunes, ‘“*T will do tor her what she will not and cannot do for herself,’’ he said to himself, as he went down the steps. The days were at their shortest, so that it was al- most dark as_he left the house, though only half- ast four of a December afternoon. The wind was jJowing keenly from out a mass of silver-ecged black cloud, which he could see at the end of the Aone sume there was a pink flush above the cloud in the clear sky; the slender mast of a vessel showed where the river ran, not yet frozen over—that lovely river which bounded Fairmount Park, not the one which lay on the eastern side, thick-set along its wharves with a “forest of masts.”’ As he descended the steps, looking about him, after a careful habit he had, two things attracted his at- tention besides the bitter wind and the wintry sky. The first was a beggar-woman sitting on the lower step, her thick shaw] drawn about her, her knees athered up to her chin. She raised a pair of sharp lack eyes to the young man’s face, and held out a brown, wrinkled hand, John Garwell would have ordered her off the Wainwright steps with an oath; Webster Evelyn un- buttoned his frayed, two-winters’-old overcoat and took out two or three pieces of silver from his Bee he did not believe in the begging system ut this was a woman, not b pie 3 and the wind cut. like a knife; and he dropped the coins in the surpli- cating hand. At the same moment some one went by, another woman, ihe ed ina long, belted waterproof, and wearing an old-fashioned quilted hood, She turned her head to see the young Fig tne placing money in the beggar’s hand, ard Evelyn caught sight of the brightest pair of eyes he had ever seen, but with . a frightened look in them which attracted his par; ticular attention, and made him notice a face very sweet and young, but pale; and_a small hand daintily peers clutching at the small bundle which she carried. er % The hood and cloak were at variance with the face; he noticed the shape of rings under her glove and that her dress was of rich silk where it showed when the wind fluttered the hem of the waterproof over- garment, . Her youth, her troubled look, her bundle, made an impression on one whose imagination had been fired by being in the presence of the beautiful wo- man whom he loved; he looked at her a secon time, went on a few steps in his own way, the oppo- site of hers; then turned and followed her. , The strange idea came suddenly, strongly into his mind that she was seeking the river for of destroying that, ae fe. é She wa rapidly, so that he had enough to do to keep his place a couple of rods behind her. When she came to the bridge leading over to West Phila- delphia, not far from the new Medical College, she stopped there a moment, and Evelyn came closer to her, afraid that she would throw herself into the - water, and also as a protection to her from some rough-looking fellows who were hanging about. She \ ' —— ae | a “® e@ purpose
Page 7
| i s ; j . ! saw him and recognized him as the one who had given money to the beggar, and crew terrified. “Do not follow me,” she said, in a low voice. “Indeed, I am only going to my relatives. What do you follow me for?’ and she looked about for a policeman. Evelyn felt alittle embarrassed at this plea, He had thought her in danger of suicide, but if he told her so he would make himself appear ridi- culous. “TI thought you seemed in trouble; and I was afraid these men might annoy you. I will not speak to you, but I will, with your permission, constitute = selt your footman, at least until you are over the ridge.”’ ‘Indeed, I am not afraid—-except of you. I shall take the street-car on the other side.”’ : Evelyn fell back, but continued to follow the girl at a little distance, until she had done as she said she oll vow) to do—enter a car. Then, feeling as if he had been tilting at some imaginary windmill, and finding himself far out of his path to the office, he concluded to go to Mr. Dobell’s house—where he -had a standing invitation to dinner—and improve the opportunity to talk quietly with the lawyer about a plan which had suggested itself. to him. All the way there he kept a vivid picture in his pee Ao autiful, wild face he had seen under the hood. ‘That child—for she is not much more thana child —is running into trouble of some sort, ’'m certain,” he mused. CHAPTER VII. FORTUNE-TELLING. Mnantime the beggar to whom he had given alms with a recommendation to seek some place of shel- ter immediately, seemed in no hurry to get out of the cold and eget darkness; she continued to sit where she was, pretty thoroughly protected by her thick shawl, drawn over head and ears, until the jamplighter set the gas to pom? in a lamp in front of her; then she arose and crawled up to the door, ringing the bell. “Why don’t you go to the basement door?” asked the servant, sharply, on seeing only an old beggar- woman before him. “ Because I have business with your new mistress,” ghe answered, quite unawed by his dignity. “My new mistress?” he queried, puzzling himself to make out her meaning. ‘“Yes; with Miss Myra Wainwright. She is mis- cress here, now, is she not? Tell her that a person who knows how to tell fortunes wants to tell hers.” _.“T don’t think she'll take up with such foolishness, cold woman. Come in; but I sha’n’t leave you a-standing here, when I don’t know what you may be after. Tummas! Here, Tummas, you boy, stand *ere an’ watch the old witch, w’ile I télls our oung lidy as she presents her compliments an’ would re- quest the pleasure of a sa@y-ance with her. The woman's keen black eyes flashed a look after the footman; then turning to the boy she remarked, with a grim smile: : a Ay, watch mie close, little one; I might carry off one o’ these statues, or the newel-post, if you don’t have a care!” But, the footman did not have to leave Buttons jong in charge; ‘the new mistress’ was flitting clown the stairs to sit a little while in the drawing- room before dinner. The keen, searching eyes of the woman were fixed upon her as she floated down—small, airy, graceful. tn the house Myra did not think it necessary to wear heavy mourning. She was expecting Mr. Garwell that evening, and she had made herself as prett -as possible by dressing in white, with only blac ribbons and jewelry to show that she was in mourn- ing. for fair skin and flaxen hair were set off to their best advantage by this dress. She looked more _ like achild than a girl of twenty-two, as she came a down with a fairy motion, almost as if she wings. : She stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked inquiringly from the servant to the intruder. Not for an instant did the piercing eyes of the stranger leave her face. “Tbeg your parding, miss,”’ said the man, ‘‘she would come in, She says she wants to tell our fortune, miss, an’ l was coming to see you about it. ‘* You'd better take her down to Norah and Peggy, Bribes. “No, my lady, it is you that I havecome to tell a fine fortune to,’’ spoke up the woman, advancing quite near to the young lady. ‘I’m a Cuban lady and I’m said to have a gift. in the future; I never fail.” " sed Now Myra was not without a ape of superstition in her nature. She was secretly much troubled, also, with doubts whether the wonderful good for- tune that had come to her would stay; she dwelt much, mentally, on her cousin’s probable endeavors ' to break the will; she wanted to know, too, what her chances were with John Garwell; she was idle and reflected that she might amuse herself unti dinner with this old hag. Ethel was in her own room; she could have an interview with the fortune- teller without being ridiculed by any one; so she finally said: “Well, come in here with me. Let me see, now how much you know about the future,” and half? Teuebing she led the way into a charming boudoir beyond he two drawing-rooms. e strancer closed the door and M seated yra herself in a blue-satin-and-gilt chair, in an indolent attitude. _“Deseribe my future husband, please,” she said, \pertly, I can tell many things ys beggars t ed me so hard I had to humor her.” . ae MADCAP, THE) LITTLE QUAKERESS. iu EP **He is tall, slender, dark—brown hair,gray eyes —a little under thirty years old. He has a scar on his left hand made by the bite of a horse; he is fond of horses,’”’ the woman went on, slowly, holding the tay hand of the girl, with palm open to her inspec- ion. . **You have seen him!” cried Myra, blushing brightly. “Yes,” said the stranger, now holding Myra’s hand firmly in her strong clasp. ‘‘I have seen John Garwell. I did not come here to practice upon you the trickeries of a Gipsy. I came to you, Myra Wainwright, because ’m the possessor of a secret which you would almost give this hand to know. Can any one hear us?” looking about her. “*No, I think not. as oougn is up-stairs—the ser- vants at their dinner. We can speak low,”’ answered Myra, speaking eagerly. ith natural quickness she had connected the as- sertion of the woman that she was a Cuban with some secret which should bear upon the mystery of Ethel’s birth. What could this dark, poor-looking creature tell her? Was she in danger of losing all? Was she to be confirmed in her possessions? Cool as the young lady was by habit, she felt her color ae and go--her heart throb loudly against her side. “*T can assure you that which you have already; andI can fix your title to money and estates in Cuba which will more than double your present wealth.” ‘* How?” asked Myra, under her breath. ‘That is my secret. It is a secret, for which you will have to pay me vell—vwell, liberally, extrava- gantly! But then you will be able to pay me well. All T ask is a thousand dollars now, and one-tenth— reflect, what a trifle, one tenth!—of the property which I shall make it in your power to claim.” “That might prove to be a large sum!”’ “Ay, but your portion will be nine times larger! Let me tell you first, Myra Wainwright, that I have come to you first, for a reason of my own; but that, if Iam dissatisfied with ed or your liberality, there remains your cousin Ethel, with whom T can treat.” “ But you cannot give her what is mine /” “Ay, iit yours? Dono doubts trouble your Are there none to labor in your cousin’s cause?’’ “Tam not gainsaying you,” asserted Myra, be- ginning to tremble. terms, aS soon as you prove to me your right to make them.” The woman again glanced about the room, went to the two doors—each of which closed behind soft blue draperies so as to appear part of the wall— dropped off her ugly shawl and stood before the heiress looking quite another person from the hag she had chosen to represent. Her gray hair was gone with a damp handkerchief she wiped the wrinkles from her cheeks, and showed a face which once must have been splendidly striking, with its rich brown skin, its straight brows and its fine dark eyes. Her hair was black, thick and long—beautiful still, though its owner must have been nearly forty. re wore large gold earrings and a broad gold neck- ace. Altogether there was an air of power about her— not as if she had ever belonged to a high class; but as if energy and ambition of spirit had raised her above the station in which she was born. Myra a i her a person to be feared as well as ad- mired. ‘“When Ihave said to you what I have to say, you can judge how far to trust me, young lady— whether I can do you a sérvice, and if you desire me to do you that service. You are ambitious,” she re- marked, suddenly fixing on the girl her powerful ee ‘“‘] think you like the first place—money, in- ependence—to be your own mistress and to dictate to others. This awaits you—you have only to reach out and take every thing. You can be a queen. But Imust have my reward for serving you. I want money; I, too, have my ambition.” “You shall have plenty of money,’’ murmured Myra, whose cheeks were red and whose eyes on fire at these alluring promises. ~ “You must swear to betray nothing until I give you leave.” y “T swear, now and here, by my own soul, to be- tray nothing.” “Then Iam ready to breathe a story into your ears to which no one in this broad world has the key but myself. One other person knows a part of this story—thinks she knows all—but is de- ceived. Itis yourinterest to keep secret what I tell yon, so I have no fear in making you my confeder- ate.’ She drew a footstool in front of the fair heiress, knelt down onit, and a long conference followed. “*T have been having my fortune told,” said Myra. gayly, as she went in to dinner an hour later, an ound Ethel there alone, with the dessert before her. “What! have you dined? That is lucky, for 1 have no appetite.” : “I could not find you,” apologized her cousin. “T was shut up in the boudoir with a Gipsy. These e every way to get a dollar. She “*T trust she predicted only fair weather,” re- marked Ethel, pleasantly. : ‘*She contrived to invest her nonsense with an air of truth,” answered Myra.. “I cane her a gold pore, my fortune was so bright. I'll take a bit of hat iced souffle, Ethel, please;’’ but when she had the sougile before her Myra scareely touched it; but waited for her coffee, which she took eagerly. Ethel, grave and sad, as she alwa~s was since that loss which had come so suddenly upon her, noticed some subtle change in the expression of her com- panion’s face. : OS “Tam willing to accept your “Myra is a giddy thing, for a girl of her age,” she thought, Beciug how the mere flattery of a pre- tended fortune-teller could bring such a rich color ; to the fair cheek and such a smile about the pink " ‘ mouth, and glitter to the saree blue eyes that almost } seemed to wish to avoid her own because they knew they were too bright. ! CHAPTER VIII. f MY LADY PATRONESS. Tuar first interview of Myra with the Cuban . woman was not the last. Several more followed, — not at the house, however; and then the Cuban lef Philad: Iphia to return to her nativeisland. Myra had drawn so liberally of money at the bank | a every one ‘wondered what she could do with { i But the woman who took two thousand dollars in — Lal gold back to Cuba, could have answered that ques- } tion better than any one else. A new spirit pervaded the home of the Wain- He Sst yra developed a new character so rapid- ly that even those who suspected her latent qualities were astonished. 4 The meek, quiet, deprecating little creature be- came haughty and insolent. The old servants, who had been, some of them, Area in the family, were given notice to leave. Others filled their places. Whereas, in the past, one waiting-maid had sufficed both girls, Myra now had a maid exclusively to bit attend upon her; and a hard time the girl had of it \ | trying to please a mistress as capricious as she was nee unfeeling. i ee. But this servant, for some reason, chose to remain with her. She was a young person who had pre- sented herself in answer to an advertisement; a Frenchwoman, by birth, she was represented to be; in the reference which she brought, but speaking English quite well; bright and pleasant in her man- ners, neat in her dress, with a really pretty face : laughing out from under her white cap. Shewasso tasteful in the arrangement of her young lady’s hair, and could tell so much better than mademoi- selle herself what became her most—giving a rich- ness and tone to the’flaxen hair and small features which they never before possessed—that Myra was anxious to keep her, while, at the same time, she _ made the girl a victim of numberless petty perse- . cutions. : Though in mourning, and paying outward defer- ence to her uncle’s memory, Myra indulged in every _ ye pleasure allowable, and waited with burning im- patience for the first six months of mourning to Saat] so that she might be free to launch out into he full tide of gay society. ~ ‘ td Every tif her manner toward her cousin Ww more indifferent and more patronizing. Ethel felt re that insolent manner most keenly. She had lost - father, lover, fortune, and now she had to bear this assumption of superiority on the part of this girl we whom she had loved and cherished as a sister when. Myra was penniless and friendless. * ithel tried bravely to endure this daily torture, as she bore her other sufferings, silently and sadly. | fa But she felt a burning indignation which almost ae pee her to leave the house forever when Myra, _ between Christmas and New Year's, changed the furniture of the mansion as she had changed the servants, The massive, but bets and appropri- — ate furniture, chosen by her uncle’s taste, was sent» : to the auction-rooms, and, in its place, came sumptuous things, as if Myra had been the * Queen a en ‘ % of France,” for whom nothing was too luxurious, - Yet no one had the power to interfere. ig The will had been admitted to probate—Ethel not Es contesting—and ie ba par age, there was no one with the right to check her extravagance. She acted as if the five hundred thousand dollars of her uncle’s estate were five millions. Noone, save her- Pon self, knew what the Cuban had revealed to her; or % some clew might have been had to her senseless ss jae ithel looked on in indignation and =r. ismay. Yom eta: Everything prospered with little Myra. Every- © 5 thing which went to make up the sum of Ethel’s trouble went to her cs Pp ig hart Yes! she had. even won John Garwell to be her lover, before the first day of the New Year! : Circumstance, that “‘unspiritual God,” had favored * her in that desire of her heart, as in everything else. For a terrible misfortune had overtaken that other house_in Walnut street, of whose inmates we know “ete A few days before Christmas Coralie Clyde had ‘ kissed her aunts a laughing good-by for an hour, e having been recommended to cease fumbling over the lace ruchings of her wedding-dress and to run out for a breath of air and a brisk walk. ee is Aunt Priscilla had seen with regret— and perhaps -a tinge of remorse—that the smooth cheeks of her niece were growing less round and far more white, a7 | as the early day set for her marriage with the man of their choice approached. ' The anxious aunt had sought to quiet her own _ conscience by a pts more eae of money oe the _ i coming event. Coralie had eve: ettyarticlepur-., — | chased for her which she could ff tone to sa) Aaray i admired. The old ladies had new dove-colored satins, of so solid a texture that they would ‘stand alone,” in preparation, to be worn at the ceremony, y . There was a diadem of pearis in course of con- _ o struction at Bailey’s, which was to be worn on those _ ? wayward, dancing curls along with the bridal vail,, | and in unison with the lovely necklace which they : had d previously givenher. Nothing was spared that . > would please their darling. Many gay things, not ik Sibert by the Friends, found their way into the — AM sober, highly respectable dwelling, 4 ‘ But Coralie smiled less day by day; ‘and she. ; : , shrunk from the visits of the bridegroom-elect in ia wy eo : PEG
Page 8
ae 5% ; Lie ae \ . ~ ? ‘enero — = ~~ wv oe way which kept her aunts more uneasy ‘than they cared to confess, And on this cold and blustering December day, ‘when, seeing how white and still she was, they ad- ‘wised a brisk walk, she went very willingly to take it; and either some fearful accident happened to her or she forgot to come back. ‘Most people considered it a case of abduction or _-* +) “murder. She was almost a child in years, innocent, ‘and perilously beautiful. ‘Some wretch or wretches i est have dogged her steps and snatched her ruth- lessly away from her life of joy aud beauty—from | _ loving aunts and worshiping lover—from the bridal . jewels and the bridal feast. \ } The whole city was startled. be The Misses Featherflight, icky for them, did 7) not believe in their secret thoughts that Coralie had been abducted; but they allowed others to think ’ they did. te most as dreadful, it seemed to them, was the . thing they suspected—that she had run away to be ‘married to that penniless and nameless youth to 4s - whom she had avowed she was “ engaged.”’ There was in such a course—they thought, in their pride— a more bitter disgrace than to meet her fate at the hands of ruffians. 5 Covertly they employed a detective, who ascer- , ' tained for yo that Bertram Leigh, cadet, had , actually sailed in the Mohawk, as he had ‘said he : ‘should do—that the ship was still far south on her ; coasting expedition—that young Leigh was still on b board of her—had not left her except with others for 7 a night or a day at some port—that, most certainly, _ MJoralie had not gone to him. a After that, a horrible fear that something murder- ous had PARDSHES to the child, made the aunts “avretched. Tne moreso as time wore on, and they , (gained no tidings. _ Many a time that winter did those poor old ladies “fo to view the dead and swollen body of some _ ‘'*voman ‘‘found drowned’’—some young creature «who might lately have been as pretty and as inno- vent as Coralie. Their sorrow would have been ' -snost pitiful had they not brought it on their own . “fi@ads by the effort they had made to.sacrifice the -. . ‘girl on the wide altar of Mammon and Pyvide. = “One man inthe great city, when he read in the ) morning paper, the first day after, of the mysteri- _-__, ous disappearance, firmly believed that he had seen ; ‘the missing girl and followed her some distance Path. »on her way. This was Webster Evelyn, who had noticed the strange expression in the eyes of ayoung | girl, and had followed her to the bridge. a “Fool that 1 was!”’ he said to himself, with a sink- ae ing of the heart, “to be duped into letting her go! e. Tt was all a ruse on her part, taking the’ car. Doubt- ae less she returned to the river as soon as she could, _' «amobserved, and threw herself in! I saw self-mur- der in her white face. L[almost feel asif her death ie hes rs at my door.” ee velyn did, indeed, feel terribly agitated in recall- _ ing that perhapsif he had persisted in watching her, ~~ _ he ‘might have saved a human life. But, it would do no good to brood over the unrecallable. He was to ‘start at noon, on a steamer bound for Havana, and / _ on which his era was already taken, on his cu- rious errand—like that of some medieval knight—of _» Yvighting the wrongs of his fair ladye. _ Surely, his impulse and his purpose were as pure and t as those of any plume fought in a maiden’s cause. Webster Evelyn might __ ‘Hever have taken the fancy of a romantic girl, like _ @ne of those graceful heroes of the tournament, as he ro igh out of Mr. Dobell’s office, buttoning about ol figure his frayed overcoat; but at heart he was the noblest of noble cavaliers. He set out on his search with absolutely no clew to what he sought, except the fact that Cyrill Wain- ‘Wright had married a Cuban lady, in such a year; A sing returned on such another year, saying that _ he was a widower, and bringing with him a little ; of two years, who, he said, was his ry ett and always treated as such until the day of his death; _. » but whom, in his will, he declared not to be his Bh 2 ughter, and so had disinherited her. fiveak hhad seemed strange to Mr. Dobell, when he first een & out to make inquiries about Mr. Wainwright's early life, that in reality his most intimate friends Rizk. eae so little on the subject. Everything had been taken for granted. ss Qyrill Wainwright had been an only child; his father had been a highly-respected merchant of the 7 4 * » ais cguatie in his Philadelphia home, devoted to his daughter, and the memory of his wife who had died on point that, on questioning hd ape C other’s family d not reveal her me. ey ee eereaene on the s a) ae affair x knight who ever. ae, and that there was no record of it among Mr. | M home this child as hisown; but zy, in that case, Le should have brought the child and reared her as his daughter and heiress, puzzled the lawyer. uae he had not betrayed his suspicions to thel. . It was this fact that Mr. Wainwright had always treated the girl as his daughter and legal heir, which fastened itself in Evelyn’s mind. He loved that unhappy, disinherited young lady. For the love he bore her, in silence and without re- turn, he resolved to do ali that a sharp, patient law- yer could do, to ascertain what her position really was, and to look for some good reason for an at- tempt to break the will and restore to her what she had lost. And so he sailed for Cuba without even the en- couragement of feeling that she wished any one to interfere. When the New Year came in, Evelyn was in Cuba, Coralie Clyde was as completely lost as if she had soared to the sky, and John Garwell, in the desper- ate necessities of his situation, was devoting himself toa woman whom he despised far more than he loved—Myra Wainwright. Coralie’s flight had placed him in an awkward and uneasy plight. The creditors whom he had silenced with fair promises came about him again like a swarm of wasps. His father, to whom some of them had appealed, was very angry with him; would not advance ten dollars beyond the sum, necessary for his aed wants, and even threatened to turn him out of his house, In this desperate plight he natur- ally recalled the flattering preference of Miss Myra for himself. He had fancied sweet little Coralie well enough to be satisfied to compel her to become his wife; but the vain, selfish Myra he had studied and fathomed only to despise. However—something had to be done! Behold him, on New Year's evening, at her feet! Scarcely two weeks since Coralie’s disappearance, yet he was already the suitor of another and weal- thier Jady! That first day of the New Year had been a long, miserable day to Ethel. As when we first saw her standing by the window in the first agony of her father’s illness, so she stood now, for hours—a, little back from the view of the hundreds of “callers” who thronged that fashionable street—staring, with strange, bright, feverish eyes at the glittering papas ee pg by. This gay, outside world was so changed to her from what it had been, a year ago! She knew that John Garwell came often to see Myra. She now knew him as he was—an unprin- cipled man; but it is almost as hard to root outa dead love asa living one—and to tear the traitor from her warm, tender, human heart gave her many a ane ang, notwithstanding her respect for him was dead. Very sadly and wisely she looked on, wonderin at Myra more even than at him; for she knew tha her cousin was not deceived in his character or mo- tives. She did not know that Myra long had loved him, with a passionate, reckless devotion which some persons can give to a single object, while they are hard and selfish to all the rest of the world. John Garwell had opened the one sweet fountain in Myra’s spit, for him it shone clear and full. The brief wintry afternoon of New Year’s da; stole swiftly on. The Wainwrights, owing to their mourning, did not receive. A servant came to call Miss Ethel to the, five o’clock dinner. She was cold and pale, and had eaten nothing since breakfast; but she felt as if the sight of the table, with Myra at its head, would be hateful to her; so she lingered a few minutes where she was; then went slowly down the broad stairs; but, when she reached the main hall it require more firmness than she had left to keep on to the dining-room. She turned and entered the little boudoir back of the double drawing-rooms. It was dark there, and peaceful. The windows of the boudoir faced the west. Through the parted long silken curtains came the light of a jost-riden full moon, whose silver radiance struggled coldly with the warm flush of sunset. Ethel, choking down her tears—lonely, _ desolate, sick of life—slipped in here, went to one of the windows, dropped the heavy curtains behind her, and stood there a long, long time, in a dream- world illuminated by moonlight—a world once sweet as June, but ghaeey. and frozen now, like the poor rose-bushes which rattled their icy branches against the pane. che dry tod post Wor be he sta et bile ered her ips, as she d her beautiful, face—like marble in that silver light—to the far-off neaven, 3 Poor Ethel! she knew nothing of the one brave, earnest heart which loved her with true, manly love —the love that protects, that reveres, that works for its idol. She never gave a thought to the poor young lawyer who was serving her, or trying to serve her, with his best effort. 1 _, Absorbed in her own intense emotions, she did not ‘hear or see the entrance of two people into the moonlit boudoir. “ CHAPTER IX. CURIOUS LOVE-MAKING. Ir was Myra and John Garwell who entered. John = been dining with the fairy mistress of the mansion, They walked up to the other window, over which the curtain was not dropped. They stood there a moment in silence. The lovely light shone down into the blue eyes of the little lady, and fell -MADCAP, THE LITTLE QUAKERESS. pes over her soft white dress | ] -make me dear to you. Very well. —__L ! and black ribbons. She looked at the moon and John looked at her. ‘How lovely!’ she sighed, after quite an effective pause. “T was just thinking so,’’ was the low answer. “J meant the moon,”’ she laughed. ‘I meant the face it shone on,’’ he laughed. ° y “‘ Not so lovely as Ethel’s or Coralie’s, I dare say |’’. “You are jealous of them, Myra! ‘You need not — ‘ be. Ethel was interesting to me onee; but I could i not marry an—an—I can’t say it to you, Myra, but you know what I mean—” “Yes; I don’t wonder at that. It goes hard for me, too, proud as 1am of my blood, to keep on eall- ing her cuwsin when she is only a—you know what Imean. Still, to keep from wounding’ her, I allow her to still ‘ cousin’ me.” i ‘, ~ apen you don’t blame me for breaking off with er?’ q 4 “Certainly not. You could hardly have done ‘a. otherwise.”’ t “Thanks. Then as to pretty Coralie, she would . have made a spirited wife fora man who did not care for her. I wish lknew that all was right with the little thing, but I was glad when she ran away : from me. Heraunts made thematch. Neither ofus eared for the other. But Iwas willing to marry her for the sake of getting my debts paid. You see how frank I am? Iam so much in‘debt, as hard up as A ever. My father is awfully down on me, at present. F I don’t want to make myself out a shade whiter ‘| than Iam; I always have been a black sheep. But, Myra, fairy, sweet Myra, I really do love you, as well as adore your fortune. I am a fortune-hunters; , very well! I will acknowledge it, if I can, at’ the 4 same time, make you believe that at last I have ‘ found the one woman who can bring me not money only but all the rapture that comes with knowing that the one I adore returns my passion. If you could love and trust me, fairy, I would promise you to reform all my bad habiis—to be a model fius- band. Speak to me, Myra! Dont say that I am mistaken in m poe that you ake some interest in : a worthless fellow like me! Tell me that you do not | cnitegeate me, sweet!” . ; Myra’s bosom heaved; her small figure trembled: _ a light almost fierce leaped out of her great Llue © eyes. Le “ John Garwell,” she answered him, ina passion- ate voice, “‘I am more and worse than a fool. know that you do not care for,me any more than: : for any other passably-pretty woman who could Cr | bring you money. I know that, I know that I love r you with a mad idolatry—you, just as you are, faults, meanness, vices and all! I love you. You, do not care a pin for me. What of that? I have . ower!—the power that great wealth gives. I am ar richer than you believe me to be. I have be- come acquainted with facts that will put me in pos session of a million dollars’ worth of property, out-— side of what was willed to me here. money w. accept the terms. I have long wanted to be your wife; and I . have not the common sense to refuse you. I take { you, with my eyes open, because [love you. Iloved © ou when I was a poor li dependent.on Ethel’s ounty, and you would not look twice at me! Now. you ofter yourself to me, while Ethel is pale a heart-sick with jealousy. Is not that a triumph? You are mine, now, darling, while Ethel is dying for love of you,” and she smiled up at him and put her arms about his neck. “A sweet woman!” thought the lover to himself; but he had no time to answer before some one glided like a spirit out of some unseen ‘place and stood beside them. y “Ethel!” cried Myra, almost believing that she confronted her cousin’s spirit and not her body, so a was the girl and so brightly and strangely did er eyes flame. “Tam not dying forlove of you, Mr. Garwell,” she spoke in a cold, sharp voice that cut like steel. . ‘““Myra is mistaken there. I despise you too com- pletely to love you. I consider that all I have lost is . not too much to pay for my happy escape from a marriage with you. I am wretched, it is true; but not from the cause you assign. If myheart is | broken, you did not break it. Relieve your poe ’ science of that weight. My contempt for you is simply inexpressible. I can congratulate you and — } Myra on your choice of each other. I never saw a hae couple better mated. And now, Myra, I have re- “4 solved never again to put you to the trouble or | shame of calling me causin. I have wanted to leave ve. the house ever since I began to observe the develo ment of your true character. I have now no excuse — for waiting longer, even to shield you from the ri criticism of those who may charge you with con- — duct lacking in magnanimity and gratitude.” The pale, spirit-like gin turned and swept out of oe the room with the haughty grace of a queen; — d neither of the two spoke, or asked her to tarry,even till the mo i Ethel, after leaving the boudoir, went at once ta herroom. ‘Where shall I go?” she cried alouda ot for worlds wouldi. —\ pass another night under this roof! Oh, I know : . disowned h they heap — Weverruamen ~" as my own heart is pure—my own purpose sigs] Pe But it is hard—hard—hard to bear! ws ! = alt Cated
Page 9
% - ep, MADCAP, THE LITTLE QUAKERESS. ; : 9 ‘Hear me, Heaven, swear that I will never touch one dollar of it, so long as this cloud rests on my birth! Oh, father,how I loved you! How I revered you! You never could have had a daughter who would have honored you more. But,{that is done with. It will be hard for me to forgive you. If you had plotted a cruel revenge on me for some great wrong, you could have planned nothing more per- fect t this.” While ‘sa this she had been walking about, distractedly; she now paused, — her hands to her temples, and tried to collect her thoughts for the effort before her. “Pride is a faithful servant,” she murmured, “when love and hope have fled. Come, kind —_ help ‘me to bear this change without loss of self- respect. Pride will uphold me, comfort me coldly, be my friend and companion.” She took away her hands from her head, and be- gan to put together a few articles of clothing. Curi- ously enough, she chose the plainest of the dresses which she had worn before Mr. Wainwright’s death. “No more mourning for one who worked me this ' woe,” she whispered, as she disrobed herself of her heavy black dress, and put on in its place a walking suit of brown silk, one of the least elegant of her costly - wa: s “T must learn to wait on myself,’’ she continued, as she found a traveling-bag in a closet, and filled it with the most necessary articles. She ‘looked in her purse—an exquisite wallet, set thick with rose-diamonds—and counted eight dol- lars. “Before this is gone, I must find some way to earn my li , reflected this gentle girl, who had never in her life so much as dressed herself without help. But there were new lines of firmness about the spirited, curved lips, and a new fire in the dark eyes —an indomitable spirit within which promised to up. in the hour of need, and prove itself master of circumstance. “T will not go to one of my father’s friends,” she mused, sinking into a'chair, when her small prepara- tions were made. ‘“‘ What right has one like me to go tothese proud people of the world? I will not a to Mr. Dobell, because I know that he will cule my sensitiveness and force upon me that ten thousand dollars which I hate. He will insist on hting the will—on shaming Myra, or threatenin er, to make her divide with me. None of this wi I have. Since Iam what I am, there is no fixed place in this cruel worldfor me. I must creep into some odd corner, and draw my breath by the grace : * of God. To Him—to my Heavenly Father—I am still a + F 4 ; 23 . ' NEES *\ r P ep y Py ry 7% . ; t - Tady perhaps a human soul, with the right to live and do est my exquisite embroide ol designs, will one or all pay my good nurse honestly for her room, and keep With this wise motto on her lips, quently visited her in her humble but See te C) ‘o with me; sh not be ‘afraid to return alone, since she is accustomed to it. But—Norah is out—I et he her permission, I remem- ber now; and Lizette belongs to Myra.” At that moment Myra’s maid came through the and paused, on see! Miss Ethel with her de her. Her look vac on and a traveling-bag Beem: to ask: “Ts mademoiselle going ona journey?” Ethel looked into the kind, vivacious countenance of the French girl. : “Lizette, can_yon come with me, and help me with this bag? Iwill not keep you out more than an hour.” idee erly Kad upoen.to her in that imepunsee: - young lady spoken er in that la: na? wil be glad to aceompan mademoiselle. My y G) is engaged in the -room, and vin no miss me.’ oF izette’s eyes sparkled with curiosity; it was plain that she suspected something of import- ance was going on. She Boal ae allow the young lady to touch the bag, but carried it down herself. The liveried and mpous new footman whom Myra had established Ih place of the old civil servant who had been dis- c opened the door to allow them to pass out, a moment more Ethel stood on the pavement, efore that house in which she had passed nearly all of the nine years of her life. _ She looked back at it, and the tears rushed into Jv fa But a car was coming, and she hurried be he who had stopped it and was getting in er . _ Ina few moments they had to change to a cross- \ line, going north, and in twenty minutes more the Jeft this cav for a humble court, built up with neat two-story red-brick houses—the comfortable _ homes of respectable working-people, poor, but not povert; cken, Pwo. ine to walk to the end of the court, Lizette; let me help you with the bag; it is too heavy for one so slight and young as you. How old are you, ? 1 ah re 7 a i RL Oe Meee ee ee “Have you parents?” ‘* No, mademoiselle.” “T pity you. I havenone, either,’”’ said the young lady, as the two walked on side by side, carrying the luggage between them. The pretty maid stole a compassionate look into the pale, proud face; a look not only of compassion but of intelligence and sympathy. Servants know far more about the affairs of a house than their aon suspect; and this one knew more than some others. ““ Mademoiselle,” she said, hesitatingly, as they came to No. 1012 of the court, and set their luggage on the white marble step—even the domicles of the poor have white marble ie in the Quaker City— ‘I know it is awfully wicked—and naughty—that I should not do it, but—I was in the little boudoir, be- hind the ta]l chair in the corner—and—and I heard what passed there this evening.” ‘*Lizette, how could yon?” cried the young lady, shocked. ‘Oh, it was the amusement to hear them make love,” ran on the pretty maid, not much heeding the pained look of the other. ‘‘ There is not often that eople do make such love,I should say,” and she urst into an irrepressible laugh, so gay and joycus that Ethel forgot to be very angry. “T beg mad- emoiselle’s “yoo for laughing,” she said, as soon as she oul control herself, “but it was much a M “ Lizette, I am og, sm at you! If I were to do my duty I should have your mistress informed of your aes “ Ah, do not scold me, mademoiselle. I love you so dearly. Indeed, it was an accident. Icould not endure that you should go without dining, and I come in search of you, when I heard those others coming in at the door, and I peo behind the chair before I thought; and then I was ashamed to present myself, so I remained,” and Lizette’s bright eyes sparkled in the light of the court-lamp as she raised them ve gly. ‘*You would not turn a poor girl out of her place?” “Not for one offense, Lizette.”’ “Oh, thanks. I knew mademoiselle would be merciful. Why doI tell you my fault? Only that TI love you—that I hope to be of service to you. Know that, humble as Lizette is, she may sometimes do you a favor—that she loves you, mademoiselle, from the bottom of her heart.” Forlorn and friendless as Ethel was, these words had a charm for her; the sweet, fresh voice of the maid touched-her heart; she took the two rosy cheeks in her hands and kissed the pretty mouth. “IT don’t scorn your friendship, Lizette,” she said. ‘* There, child, ring the bell, please.” aeciniae A SISTER’S GE. Some time in the latter part of February, Webster Evelyn returned from Cuba. He came back in very low spirits indeed. He had gained worlds of infor- mation butit all went to make Ethel’s cause more hopeless. Mr. Dobell had furnished the money for the trip, and to this faithful friend of Ethel’s Evelyn disclosed the results of his search, before he made an cag to see the young lady about it. “The devil’s to pay, in her case,’’ was the lawyer’s first ting, in a gloomy tone. bs at’s up?” asked Evelyn, eag * She will not live with her cousin, as the will sug- gested—she will not touch the $10,000 left to her— she has taken a room in the cottage of a woman who, years ago, was a sort of nursery-governess to her; and there she is wearing those beautiful eyes out doing high-church embroidery and painting but- tercups and daisies that seem to have the dew and perfume of the living things. She told me, only renea that she enjoyed it—that she had not ailed to pay her modest rent and to keep off hun- er, so far. By George! Icould not help admiri er grit! She looked lovely, too. She filled tha humble room with radiance, she did, I tell you, Evelyn! Ihave never hada client in whom I k such an unselfish interest. I never expect any uniary reward for what Ido for her. But, what is your news? Your last letter whetted my curiosity toa ed edge.” Evelyn listened to the lawyer’s pan c on the woman he loved with a glowing smile in his dark- blue eyes; all that was said about her breaking off from her family and trying to take care of herself only kindled a sweet, warm hope in his breast. . y chance will be the better,’ was what he t. “Why don’t ee begin?’ deked his companion, impatiently; and with a blush, the young man came out of his pleasant reverie. “Tt is quite a long story, Mr. Dobell.” ‘* Of course.” “ And the end of it is most unfavorable to the cause of your client.” erly. % ‘Give me the facts—all that you have.” “Well, to begin at the be . Oyrill Wain- wright was married, as he decl , to a wealthy Cuban lady, at the time he stated, and she did bear him a child es, two children, a@ son and a daugh- ter—and she died before his return from Cuba, all as he represented.” “Ah! what was there wrong, then?’ “That is it—there were many collateral as well as these main points. When Mr. Wainwright visited Havana, in the interests of his father, he made the acquaintance of a gentleman named J Yosedo, the wealthiest planter on the island, and with whom the yo representative of the Philadelphia mer- chant large dealings. Mr. Yosedo invited him to his house in Havana; and afterward to his country residence situated in the midst of the most bp : charming scenery, includi Neelam. lanta- tions, lovely'gar ens, ane ahlorpuer ce distan { mount. ; ains and the purpje,southern sea. The Cu two daughters—Marie, aged nineteen, and Isabella, aged seventeen, at the time when young Wainwright made their acquaintance. Both ladies were nei: but the younger one was lovely as a dream. 4 fell immediately in love with her; her soft, large, brilliant eyes, dark as night, and bright as heaven, fascinated him at once. Thus charmed by one fair sister, he was devoted to both; for he had not yet gained boldness to declare his love; and polite- a = that he should be equally attentive “Ladies so cultivated, so beautiful, and so wealthy, had plenty of suitors; but the father favored the stranger perhaps more than any one else. He made Cyrill always welcome, as I have said; and in the delightful seclusion of their country- ee Cyrill was like a member of the family. Every ay he rode, drove, sailed, played croquet, went on excursions, danced, sung, with the young ladies. It was impossible for him long to delay speaking to Mr. Yosedo of his hopes; nor was there reason for delay, since he had been made so welcome. He de- clared his love for Isabella with a passionate burst of eloquence which made the father smile. “Tf you can win Isabella, t hee are free to try,’ he answered. ‘She is young and may hardly know her own mind. I had an idea that it was Marie you would ask me to give up to you, you selfish fellow!’ playfully. “** Marie!’ cried . ‘I never aspired to her, dear sir. She is handsome as a queen, noble, splen- did—I admire her beyond words—but it is Isabella whom I love. Since you give me leave, it will not be an hour before I learn my fate. Farewell, dear Mr. Yosedo; I must fly to my young love and win from her sweet lips an answer to my question.’ “Smiling, glowing, happy, the lover ran out of the | large room in which they had been sitting—a spa-. cious parlor on the first floor, with wide-open French windows, and surrounded by one of those long piaz- zas SO necessary to a Southern house. “He went out by one of the windows, and as he did so, was surprised to see Marie meer near, very pale, with astrange expression on her face, which caused him to pause and ask if she were ill; but she turned from him so abruptly that he left her, and went on his eager way to a perfumed arbor, in the garden where Isabella was sitting with aj; book—never for a moment guessing at the reason of' her sister’s paleness and embarrassment. “He won his suit--I go into the. particulars,” Evelyn suddenly interrupted himself, laughing, “‘ not as I ine they were but as I learned them, The couple were , after a brief Marie, also, was married, on the same day, toa rich Spaniard whom she had once refused “Now comes the painful and sorrowful part of the story. Marie loved ill Wainwright with a fierce, devouring passion of which only a fi Southern woman is capable. She wedded, out of spite and a a man she detested. But she covered the eelings which rankled in her breast—affected a. kindness to Isabella and Cyrill which made them devoted to her—but all the time she secretly brooded over a revenge which should thoroughly satisfy her. bn Time passed, swiftly to one sister—slowly to the other. “The only exaction made by Mr. Yosedo in away his est was that Cyril shonld fond yo engagement. ree to oun L ag’ remain in Cia ‘or a few years; thefather could not — Be: his pet too entirely. “A year after her marriage Isabella was the proud mother of a lovely boy. The father and Yeap father were in ecstasies over the little son. t, in less than three months, the infant, rift oe ole | fenliys sickened, died and was buried. The w sister Marie was most tender to the ber “a mother. There was no solace for any one, until, as months rolled on, it was found that another babe was to be expected. ; ; “*Some time before the birth of the second child Marie urged upon her sister the services of a Cuban — woman—a girl who had been her own personal attendant for many PE iin native of the Eting of a bold and striking style of beauty. : men on the plan’ tion, and about the same time that another heir was expected in the fami “ Marie " was a girl, which caused some disa tment, but it was warmly welcomed, after all. girl, Olive. eat birth to a child the tollowing day. No one at he house saw it, but it was a week, more or less, Olive came into Mr wright’s poe gees as nurse to the little jae hel after the father’s mother, who was Olive proved to be a most devoted nurse. Faithful as southern nurses usually are, her affec- tion for the pretty little creature whom she tended aes ee St peat, ae he ston Hm ‘ to) ‘amily, but strangers noti “Oyrill rested in the assurance. ! ho ~ i tee ie vom was wild with grief. Then it was that her bereaved ; girl, weve,” mt girl, Ethel ‘ ea Sets \y \ t \ ; ~*~ eo on = re ‘ t ‘ a* za) >
Page 10
See hye be more fondly and tenderly cared for than S. “Months rolled peacefully on. In the course of F time the impression that Olive’s baby was.a boy was corrected—it was a girl, its mother said; and as soon | as it could toddle it was brought up. to the house as | Both children had | @ companion for little Bthel. oo dark, liquid, bright eyes; good features and ‘clear, . dark skins; The child of poor, low-born Olive was t renege as attractive as the little heiress of the splendid houses of Wainwright and: Yosedo,. Her _ 4. elothes were less elaborate, but her face was piquant * © * and lovely. .- “Olive never seemed te care for her/own child one hundredth part as much as for the one she nursed. ** All these years Donna Marie—she was a donna - now, for she had married a ‘don ’—had’no-children. But she did not seem to feel their loss; | “There were furrows on her once smooth brow; ; and a compressed expression about her lips, not leasant to see, She had taken up her residence in . avana, so that sometimes the sisters did not meet for weeks. When they did, the contrast between » them constantly grew greater. Isabella was a happy wife, lovelier than ever, sweeter than ever, e the Tent of Cyrill’s eyes. Marie wassour and faded her husband was said to be completely under. her oy thumb, so fearful were the bursts o , which ‘she indulged. “Lovely little Ethel was about two. years. old _. When, one hot term, in \Jume—Marie and all her oa friends were about her at the time—Myrs. .Wain- ons wright suddenly sickened, and. died within forty- | . eight hours. Tie doctors attributed her fatal at- tack to the terrible heat. ‘“ As soon as he could settle up his affairs, Cyrill, heartbroken and weary of life, returned to his, na- tive city, bringing his little daughter with him. Olive was determined that she would desert her own little one to come with Kthel; but Mr. Wainwright did not think it ent for her to do so, and would not permit it. Lavishing presents upon baby. Olive and .her mother, almost enough to enrich them, he came omnes leaving the devoted nurse in Havana. “My theory, Mr, Dobell, is ey Cyrill Wainwright never talked to Ethel about her dead mother because he could never recover from the blow of her sudden loss, in the prime of her rave and beauty, enough a . to bring himself to face that past with its sufferings, a, Still, there may have been a deeper reason for this strange silence, _~ “Again,-on the theory that, the children were ex- - changed the night of their birth, soroneh the plot- = , pus of Donna Marie, I think that Mr. ‘ ' had no suspicion of the state of. the case,until that woman paid him that mysterious ‘visit, a few weeks before his death. Donna Marie was then. dead—she San died, I learned, last summer—and could no. longer .» sbribe Olive to silence; so the creature.came to Phil- adelphia to wring money out of the man she -had.be- ES ‘trayed. She, either in anger or with set:.purpose, ty then revealed to him thai he had cherished, wor- shiped, educated—not his own daughter, but a, girl _ .of basest blood, of despised parentage, -. “In the shock of the truth, Mr. Wainwright. then drew up the will which has since been admitted as _ the valid will. But, unable to wnteach himself the Pig love he bore the girl.who had grown up, as his child, chet and troubled even unto death by the miserablerstate _? ~ of affairs—Olivehad told him that his own. daughter a - was dead, years before—he. had, feeling his ess coming, upon him, relented from that first will, and strove to make another and juster one, which th _ | © .did not,permit-him to sign,” 4 apa his looks bad—frightfully bad—for. my, pet client... And the worst Of itall, if possible, is that Oar mother still lives, and may proclaim herself Ethel’s ty . mother any day. She must be a wicked, low, un- ieee eons, ke and the shock to that proud girl will be awful, ~“Thave thought of that, Mr..Dobell,. Is.there no me for us to guard Miss Ethel. from .such a know- e : feet None oceurs to me now. I must think-it over, “2 Evelyn, are you. quite certain that. the other girl ts * dead, as Olive represents?” P and “No; on the contrary, I believe she is. still, living. _ -Igave particular attention to that point... There is a 7 very beautiful girl living in Havana—I contrived to eta glimpse of her, and she is as splendid a creas ae ure.as I ever beheld-—living in. the. care, of some sis- ri ters there. She was. educated in their school, and -_.. after she graduated, she continued to live under their care. She dresses maguiicanity, and is understood to be the daughter of a wealthy Cuban who. was Killed a few pie ago. ina skirmish with the Spanish ‘soldiers; but, by Jove, [ believe she isthe true daugh- ter of Cyrill Wainwright.” _“ One \little.thing gave.me the. clew to,that, I learned ‘hat all the money supplied for her expenses came through a certain low.caste woman, who pre- tended to have been made the young lady’s guar- . dian, Isaw that woman the day before I ee vana. She corresponded ’to the and had just returned from a trip to. the Unite States. Oh, by the way!” went. on Byel pausing asif at the end of what he ‘there is someth escription of Olive to say, “what I learned of this girl—Dolores they call her in | _. the convent.. This tigen almost Reseugdes me . that Tam on the wrong track. I made the acquaint- “ance of a young cadet—a Baltimore naval cade eat ay Hotes in Havana... He made a thousand e | inquiries. about, de npc dem when he léarne _.. came from there, . His ship lay out in the bay, and _ he had leave of absence to visit. the city for a few te /- days. It is certainly a strange thing, but he inquired rams er I _.. 4after the Misses Featherflight 74 : “Dp ty when ‘i < Se aie told him of Miss Clyde’s d ea, I temper in | alnwright | left. Ha-. | after | ing most.curious connected with | their niece, and. thought he would die on the spot. Of course, I un- derstood at once that he was a lover of hers; and I pro to telegraph him the day I reached this | city, if there was any news of her,”’ “No pose’) said. the lawyer, briefly ; “but what gave this et such an interest to you?” “A curious coincidence, He was haunting Ha- | vanain search of his parents. Wasn’t that queer? He was adopted, when a small child, by the gentle- man who has brought him up, and who found in @ home for peptone, where he went by the name of Bertram Leigh, He_has only the faintest: clew to : his real parentage; does not believe Leigh to be his true name; has made no discoveries so far; but— and here comes the strangeness again—the last evening; as I was surreptitiously scaling the convent wall, for an observation of the pretty girls in the garden, wandering about in the full moonlight, whom should I find engaged in the same naughty business of scaliag the wall but this young cadet!— and he co to me that there was a beautiful om there whom he believed to be a relative of s ’ “Don’t muddle your brains about this beardless cadet, Evelyn. e have puzzles enough of our | own, One ing 4 am glad of—that that old hag, perneare: back in Cuba, instead of banging about my e b] “No telling how soon she may return,” averred Evelyn; ““*% pappose I must, go telegraph to Ber- tram Leigh at Coralie Clydeis stillamong the CHAPTER XL KEEPING UP. APPEARANCES, “JT am sorry Ethel went away as she did, notwith- standing it was such.a trial to me to have her here, she being what she is,” remarked to John Gar- well on the day after Bthel’s precipi retreat from the house. “I believe in Ryening: up PEnparances before the world; and some peop. @ will think Jam to blame for her going away, which might hurt me in their estimation; yet you know, John, that I was perfectly willing she should, stay the year out, as ad- vigeg) in the ud ; : ‘You are a noble creature, Myra—magnanimous almost beyond belief,” smiled her fiance, “You are making fun of me now, John,” pouted Myra. ‘Never mind! I possess.a secret which will ; make. me very valuable you—more than lnow am, But Isha'‘n’t tellit to you until you are more Oo ee aks sl married, fairy. You'll “T can. wait until.we.are | . You tell it to me then,” ‘** That will not be for.some.time to come.” “How long?’ asked the lover, quickly, ‘You know how impatient I am, dearest!’’ “Yes, know. Your debts are very. pressing, no doubt ‘" But I nave no.idea of m lf ridicu- se. if I with Coralie about -my up with a ae aha Ww | i k that wise. eno: thinking over your fairs, and I have decided that rather than ing in the.face of /es con- wenances, 1 would prefer to lend you.a sum.of money sufficient to rid you of your most importunate ns, ** Adorable M: ap our as brought him. “But offer. ‘Oh, yes you can—and ” was the cool reply. “You see that, although Lloye you, John, Iam not pind to your faults. Come! -how »much will suffice bal It was evening, and every light was blazing in the two artistic chandeliers PnP tone double ig ey room—for Myra fairly basked in warmth and light, that luxury-loving . creature whose claws, though sheathed in velvet, are. so quick to strike—as the pair walked slowly up.and.down from one end to the other of the nificent, suite. There were lenty of wax-candles, too, in RAN, silver. candela- ra; and the. air, of summer warmth, was rich with the breath of great vases of cut roses and cape- | jasmines, | “The mistress of this beautiful house was restrain- | ed, by circumstances, from at ; t | fay and fashionable: pgcliott as she wo | liked; but whatever chance there was for display and .extravagance,.that she improved. The. florist had orders fo keep the house fragrant with fresh and costly flowers; the dinner was as_elaborate, each, day, as if for a'state occasion; and, although ot ohne aie in nce, mgu i allie grant out, | a me ‘a indulged in so esses 0 | white India mull.or grenadine. . / Topight. having firen orders that she was not at | home any save Mr. Garwell, she had dressed to | Please he She wore. a robe of thick, lustrous / eis of the ves gees pin her Lona! as weep | and arms, ed and shimmered with diamonds | —Btliel’s Siamonds !—large, lustrous, pure-white | stones, of wonderful size and purity, a heritage of the Yosedo family, who had takena pride in - a..cat ing the finest diamonds of which they could hear, These precious jewels had only been worn by Bthel | two or times were suited, inde were kept, gener: atte a came = 4 foes jon a married Jady—an in the vaults of the’ baulky but ¥ . b saw that his hand shook and that he was ve MADCAP, THE LITTLE GUAKERESS. | Myra had sent for them thet day that she mig ,en- aon 308 keen pleasure of handling and wearing th —wearing them under the eyes of her lover. They glimmered and corusca off flakes of green, and crimson, and blue, from their central fires, quivering and expan into little worlds of light as they caught the rays of the various burners, as their wearer Saumennied slowly, clin, to the arm of the man she had bribed into imself her lover, coe The sumptuous drawing-room serge which they walked could never have come under the bead of those stereotyped parlors furnished by upholsterers ( and cabinet-makers to order. It was not money | which spread itself on the floorand hungitselfon ; the walls; although eyery article was_ costly, it was ‘ also tasteful, harmonious and exquisite of its kind. There were a few large pictures of such worth “ that they were a little fortune of themselyes—pic- % tures which bore the study of hours and days. i Nothing looked new. . The chairs and sofas, of beautiful Oriental woods, Pl had a substantial but not an obtrusive look; the me thick satin which cushioned them 9 ps in tone with the curtains and walls. The tinted ceiling was 7) lovely, and its tints and designs gave the large apart- ment an look, nee There was profusion, richness and variety in the ? furniture, the bic-a-brac, and the ornamentationof § ¥ the room; but.no confusion of effects. The ind ; mar to its beauty was some expensive and es hed | nea which Myra’s taste and desire for change h orced in. among the older and, sedater fu ps | The little boudoir back of the drawing-room had been. entirely remodeled, by her—it was all blue and gold and flowery panels of satinwood; and the | chambers en furnished anew; but the : drawing-room had not been much harmed be ¢ jhe ei POOR ApO ® fine, lange room—had | nm ke vo as it was. na sn re noted as Se eee ainw. ve much : new heiress had contrived to waste in the three ah months since his death. And this work now prom- ised to go on still more bravely. ; \ ‘How much do you need te prevent be gk a annoyance until the first of June? I cannot - : b: san earlier wedding than in the coming summer, ohn,’ , maT “T don't—I really don’t like to ou, fairy,” i asserted Jolin, TADS hia fbart Yan pacts ween | joy. . put 1 wish it.” py" eB eataty. Aviat: pita sna ount to, | Seriously. 1 wo my love a Al John, if Yatiowed you to be fretted and anced; ne when. it was inmy power to.remove the troublé? fe do. this freely, and.of my own accord. I shall be = miserable if you refuse me.” / ‘““Well then, darling, if I had eighteen | nd, e dollars with which to quiet some of my cr¢ tore i if mc lost heavily, you must know, at the October ra * pe a I eney coi het the eat eth ae ree ane ‘yo and- me ou’ e€ of m paraes } ute T figis mean eran Liha again Eh wA Y jindeed, Ido not! I have found out how bad “T hope you will keep that resolution, John," the girl, lope Roy, up into his face. ‘As tothe money, you shall have it. Ihavesome blank checks | amount you speak of aud sen it, Onigue" and phe amount you. of, an “night,” an drew hits along into the bart rene SI g into the boudoir. | “For once, [feel ashamed of myself,” remarked | her companio: | n. “Dear John, I don’t wish you to feel under obliga- tions to me. 1 do this freely because—I love you ea | 80,” ended Myra, in a passionate whisper. : i * How bright this moonlight is, fairy!” : “ Yes;,but not bright enough to write by. John, ; nays oe My Pree ragiie? a pocket match-box,” “Then, light the gas, will you, please? BB ta care to eall a. servant in. here now—those cr¢ are.so full of curiosity!’ a felt in her poskst for the key of the desk wae ab caone Bo tee atone ia the white oon- ; light of the fairy boudoir, a voice camérom4he alr iy. over their-heads—a deep, strange, solemn voice—not loud and ver tonk-tlersn —a voice mysterious and full of awe, g the fittle room with its weird vibrations. The words which it, SRCkS Aah bik ee Sten aes. rised ears of the pair: ‘Watmorapht how you give that whichis Batons to give. When 1 died without time to sign. the will Tintended and testament, 1 was troubled, for I kne th is 10 you—BE JUST—BE JtST—BE For a ti A a Light. the gas,’ Myra gasped, the first to break sa co acta i ” cried John : but when b fighted the gas and turned’ on a triebt blané aay Ris her, she shivered so that she’ ot F She sunk onto the sofa behind her, wide-eyed ad ae embling. : 7 ig gome Infernal trick,” asserted her ~ ~
Page 11
/ i ‘Then all I have to say is that some one is in there trying to convert us to a beliefin ghosts.” “Who? There is no one in the house butservants. And who knew that I was about to give you money?” “T knew it,” began the ghos voice again. “John Garwell, the spirit of Coralie Clyde, whom you drove to drown herself in the river, demands that I jor bid you to take that which 2s not this woman’s to give.” A cold sweat broke out on the forehead of the young man. But he rallied, presently, and. grew “Is this some trick of yours, Myra, pretending that you wish to help me and then trying to frighten me? ‘1 don’t scare worth a cent,’ to use the slang of onan tae Myra. I didn’t ask you to make this ? “No, John, no, Don't be angry with me! Iam so terrified!” ** Will you take me br to your room at once?” “Certainly. Come, if you will.” Softly, Myra—perhaps’ we can catch this ven- triloquist at his tricks.” They stole out of the boudoir, through the hall, up the stairs, along a corridor, Myra e nging timidly “to her lover; the upper hall was well-lizhted and they had met no one on their way.—‘ This is my room,’ whispered Myra, and John silently and quickly jumped into the room designated. The gas was burning brightly here, too. Not a creature was in the room. John examined the closets, the dressing-room; Myra peeped under the sofa and bed and behind the window-curtains. The Jae preeoge then turned his scrutiny to the ert te search of some opening in the floor—he could find none. **Where are the servants?” he asked. “My maid, Lizette, asked permission to spend the evening out, after she had dressed me. Ethel’s waiting-woman I discharged this morning—she went away before luncheon. The seamstress has a few days’ holiday to sperd with her mother. I suppose the footman and cook, and all the rest, are at din- ner—it is their hour.” “May I look in these other rooms?” *- Yes—anywhere you please.” He made a casual survey of the whole floor. “Suppose you ring and ascertain if all the ser- vants are in their dining-room,” suggested John, as the two went down-stairs. pe ioe did so; yes, they were just finishing their nner, | The lovers entered the drawing-room and walked about a little. ‘*You are not going to be frightened out of keep- ing your promise to me?” ventured John. He felt the little creature on his arm trembling. ‘Must I do it tu-night, John?” “To-night, or never!’ was the surly answer. “Very well. You must come with me into the ‘ poudoir. I dare not come in here alone.” ~ “Little fool! - ay a too big for her little bo 9 f what They re-entered the gay little rcom, all bright with its painted panels and silk furniture and flowers. This time Myra opened her desk, got a blank check, filled it out for the large sum of $138,000, and was about to sign her name, when the whole air E “ae place was filled with hollow and derisive la r. “The pen pies from her hand. “Oh, John, I dare not do it!” ; Afraid of spirits! There are no Sordi and if there were, they would be harmless to mo ) ‘‘SBut my uncle! If it were any other—” -“Ttissome devilish trick, I tell you! Myra, you _don’t care much for me, do'you, after all?” ‘He was leaning over her; he had conquered his anger and forced himself to speak very tenderly. “Think of it, fairy love. I am ?uined—past salva- tiou—unless you help me, as you said you would,” ‘His hand caressed her jeweled hair. “T will do it, she cried, hurriedly. “I would rather bear the anger of my uncle’s ghost than yours” and she bent and wrote her name on the aper. j i thanks, thanks, my own true love,” murmured | John, drawing back her graceful head to kiss her -forshead—at the same time securing the check in the long fingers of his right hand. ‘I will not forget what you have done for me, ever, ever!” A oaey groan ran shivering through the air. Oh, John, this is terrible!” “Nonsense! Tell the old spook to go back where he belongs,” smiling playfully as he pocketed the check.” : “ Aren’t you afraid, John? “Not abit of it. 1 would face all the ghosts of Hades for eighteen thousand dollars,” kissing her, utting up her desk, and drawing her into the par- ors. ‘ Was that the bell, fairy?” “Yes; Pilask the footman who came in,” going to the door opening into the hall, and returning, “Tt is only Lizette. She always comes in early.” “Give me a song, fairy. Don’t think about the irits. Let us have some music,”’ and he seated her at the piano. ra sung beautifully—her voice was as much yas a Me geben tat John in an excellent humor, and listened to her son patience for over an hour, albeit he cared little music. He was so wrachue, so devoted, so flat- ering, that Myra would have been in the seventh heaven of bliss if she could have entirely forgotten occurred in the boudoir. It was after eleven before she would let her lover _ g0, for she dreaded to be left alone. The tag foot- man was slumbe ina hall chair when Mr. Garwell ' woke him, to bar the door after his exit. Myra had all the cowardice of guilt and eunning. ~~ ‘ Y PUNO i eer ta s/he hes? Se ee The moment her lover left the house she flew up to her room and locked her door, as if bolts would keep out what she feared. “ZT shall burn the gas all night,” she muttered. “Lizette must come and get into bed with me.” Without any ee ee at disturbing the sleeper she went to the closet off her room where the dressing-maid slept, shook Lizette’s dimpled shoulder and ordered her to get up and come and share her bed. ; : “Tm afraid, now that Ethel’s gone,’’ she ex- plained, briefly. “Tres bien, mademoiselle,”’ murmured the girl, sleepily, and stumbled out of her warm nest, hardly knowing what she was about. ‘* Douceme cé- ment | Ne voyez-vous pus comme jat sommeil ?” ery well, miss. Softly, softly! Do you not see foattlbesy Tam] ¥ . CHAPTER XII. LIFTING AWAY THE VAIL. ‘* You shall have the pleasure of telling Miss Ethel what you have done for her yourself,” said Mr. Do- bell, the morning after Evelyn’s return. “I did not f° to.see her last evening because I thought I would eave the business to you, + Seah “Thank you,” answered lyn, blushing, ‘‘ but I should hardly like to be the one to announce to a roud girl like this one that I had discovered her to y the daughter of a creature like that Cuban nurse. She would not be grateful tothe person who brought her such information. “Do not tell her all the truth, then. I am certain, however, that it will be a great relief to her mind to know that the opprobrious term —_ to her by her cousin Myra is not merited or e. I believe that she would care little who was her mother, if she found that she was the acknowledged child of an honest parent.” “You think I had better 80, then?” ‘Yes, if you have the inclination. Ah, Evelyn, don’t imagine I’m blind! Men don’t devote them- selves to a cause, aS you have to this, without inter- ested motives.” ‘““What are yours, then?” asked the young man, — The lawer laughed. “You have me there, my boy! I have no object in serv. this unhappy young lady, beyond the —— interest :I © in her, for her father’s 8, , “ And I have no object,’ rejoined Evelyn, flushed and impassioned, ‘‘ beyond that yo lady’s good. I believe that she has been ney oy. her cousin, who knows perfectly well what » Wainwright’s real wishes were. I would give my right hand, sir, to see her restcred to her proper ition—to happi- ness and prosperity, such as she deserves—for I love her, Mr. Dobell!—love her as I love my own soul, and more, and better! But, I do not expect or wish to profit by my r services to her. I do not-wish her to be grateful—or to feel under obligations to me. If I labored for her with such an idea, I should» demand a thousand times more pay than as if I charged her large sums. I want nothing from her. Iwork for her because I would rather be her slave than any other woman’s king. know she. looks down upon me—thinks of me as a poor clerk when she thinks of me at all—and I am willing to work for her on those terms !—quite willing she should think me but a servant of yours, hi to clear up this pititek ll looked at his il admiringly. Hi r. Dobell loo a pu Ys S cheeks were flushed and bis steel-blue eyes sparkled. “He is a manly fellow—almost smart enough and enough for Ethel,’’ thought the lawyer. What e said was: ‘Go ahead, in your own way, Evelyn! You’re right about it.” “Then, if you will give me her address, I will call on the lady this afternoon, Mr. Dobell.”’ The lawyer wrote the address on a card which he handed him. “The locality differs frem Walnut street,” he ob- ae ‘Miss Ethel is supporting herself now, as you know.” pe I know,’’ murmured Evelyn, pocketing the r card. Early that afternoon the young lawyer st out to call on Mr. Dobell’s client. He found the quiet and humble little court and rung the bell of one of the neat cottages. A girl of twelve came to the door and showed him into a small parlor, with aningrain carpet, a mahogany center-table, a hair- cloth sofa, and six hair-cloth chairs set primly in their places. Albeit his heart was thumping as if it would ‘break through his ribs, he could not help smiling at the stiff demeanor _of the “best room.” There was a copy of the Bible and one of the ‘‘Lady’s Book” on the table; but the visitor could not le the time with these; his pulse ran too rapidly, his thoughts were too much absorbed in thrilling anticipation. : The little maid had taken up his card, with a few words in pencil beneath his name, saying that he had been absent in Cuba on business for Mr. Dobell, who had sent sone communicate with her. He had not long to wait. : Suddenl y the bleak room blossomed into light and beauty. Ethel had entered, quietly, dressed in deep mourning as before. She was pale andcold; there was not an ornament, jewel, or flower about her, except a ring, set with a sapphire of loveliest hue—a gift from her father on her last birthday, and worn constantly by her—which gleamed on her fair, slender left hand. ; She did not even smile as she bowed to her visitor; but he—ah, he cared more for that deep light,in her dark, serious eyes, than forall the laughter that ever was. : He was as cold and as serious as she, by this time, , MADCAP, THE LITTLE QUAKERESS. ——$—$— ° He did not blusb under her grave look; but his whole heart went out to herin tenderness and love. — But of his feeli she did not think. He had risen, and now both seated themselves, one on either side of the round mahogany table, and began to It was Evelyn, of course, who did most of the talk- ing—generally Ethel who listened, the roses coming often into her clear-white cheeks and fading again— her eyes shining like stars—her slender fingers lock- ing and unlocking in her emotion—her lovely figure bent toward him in rapt attention. And he—while he told the story calmly—did not lose one expression of the divine face—one fiush ore than one slow tear gathered and fellfrom - her long, dark lashes as she listened to the melan- choly history of the man whom she had worshiped as her father: a history beginning amid roses and. lilies and all the splendors of fortunate youth, to setin darkness so early in the day. Whenit came to the death of his yo wife, Ethel broke down and sobbed as onately as if that bright young ns had in — a “wd own. i rele ‘< r, poor father! my r, sweet mother!” she einai A ps not mine, te I love them as if they were! Ah, dear, suffering father! How wicked, how unjust, how heartless I have been to accuse thee in my thoughts! To think hard things of thee, who wert mistaken, deceived, and then murdered by a knowledge of the truth? P “Mr. Evelyn,” she went on, sadly, when she had controlled her sobs and cries, ‘‘it wrings my heart to know what that noble man, whom I called father, endured; it breaks my heart to think I have him, and he lying helpless in his grave!” j ““You had great cause to believe yourself wrong- ed, Miss Ethel; and you have plenty of time to atone for your mistake, He longed to take the weeping rl in. his arms, to soothe and comfort her out of the store of infinite love he had for her; but this could not, be, and those few cold words were all he dared venture on. “Go on, if you please,’ she said humbly. ‘Ah, sir T hardly see how you could have traced all this “Patience and the proverb,” he answered, gently. ‘‘ Mr. Do- bell relied on me to do my best. But to proceed,” and he went on with his narrative, down. to the close, Ethel hanging eagerly on the words which flowed from his lips. When he had concluded it, there was a Showghttyl saree It was broken after a few minutes by é “Mr. Evelyn, you tell me that you suspect this girl, in the rbrvey nd in Havana, to be the one who was taken away from my parents when I was putin ee place: what good reasons haye you for thinking so?’ **None; it is only an impreation of mine. Still, it remains fixed in my mind that this is the case. I ‘feel it in my bones,’ as the old-fashioned people 6a cr omen she would be the true daughter of the man who brought me up—of Cyrill Wainwright?” * Oertainly—if my supposition is correct.” ‘* What induces this nurse, Olive, then, to educate “Lsay, remorse. Some remnant of a conscience may drive her on to do this. If she sh accuse her Jess—will forgive her much.”’ “But we, if we suspect this girl to be Cyrill Wain- wright’s child, cannot rest quiet with matters as. they are. If the blood of the man I loved flows in those veins, I cannot keep still—cannot rest—until she has her rights!” his kindling eyes rested cn the flushed face, vivid now with an eager desire to do justice to a rival whom she had never seen. ‘“ My father would af to me, out of his grave, if I let this matter pass!—I call him my father—for he ta they could bestow upon her in that convent school.” “Good! She will not be awkward or ignorant— she will be fitted for the station which awaits her. Describe her to me, please.”’ . ‘*My observation of. her is limited to a stolen view of her as she walked in the garden. She was tall, slender, of a willowy figure, with beautiful black hair and great, lustrous black eyes—a dark, clear skin, a gay, sweet laugh. She looked to me all pas- sion and ardent life—a bright, beautiful, charming young woman.” ‘*One would think she had fascinated you,” and Ethel looked into the earnest face before her wit! smiling curiosity. ; I was fascinated, for al! ““No—not in_ that vey. time, before I saw splendid, convent-hidden herself, and aby. “Oh!” ejaculated Ethel, rememberir with the most trying indifference, which said as plainly as words—‘‘I must not be expected to take 0 velyn, in case we could prove this Bee discove and in-view of th 44 oe pearly cheeks, or quiver of the prowdly-eurved » 8. ae ee git and dress her expensively, as you say she oes?” ould succeed | in settling the girl well in life, that conscience will “Noble, unselfish creature!” Biousht Evelyn, as » 8 was one to me, and I cannot give up. You say — this girl is beautiful?” ‘ The fairest creature I ever saw—save one,” ‘* And has accomplishments ?”’ pe Tt preg ey court the land 1 che “ee n 3 ; arnin ‘ an hele mapte neatly related than Chie niece: who now holds the pro: ‘ceased he will which sudden death prevented the testator from | ¥ y erseverance will do wonders,’ — ! ; ~ : a ee think, Mr. E j to be the true Ethel Walnmright, that there would
Page 12
« "pg ew ee ae restore the property to the rightful heir. e deception pastioed on the testator, and ve, all the other circumstances considered, would cer- tainly break the will.” : p “Tdo not like to disappoint Myra,’’ mused Ethel. .. She is so es her present possessions. But Hess justice must be done—‘ justice must be done though f _ the heavens fall.’ We have no right to consider any- . thing but what would have been the natural wish and will of my father, if he had known all. Do you J . agree with me?” “Yes, fully.” a “Then we cannot neglect doing all in our power 28 to hb the rights of this girl. It would be as ’ wicked to neglect this duty as to keep somethin ‘ which was not ours. We have no choice but to wor Rs! for the truth. But I am sorry for Myra.” Evelyn gazed on the heroic girl almost in wonder. Not one feeling of envy! Not oneimpulse of re- venge toward the cousin who had treated her so _ basely! Not one cry of grief or dismay because her own food e rovedto besobase! Anxious only that justice should be done! \ love and admiration shone in his fine eyes; but she did not notice it. i “Do you think Mr. Dobell will have the patience to Ml go any further with these inquiries?” she asked. ithe + ‘“*T am certain he will, if you wishit.” e “T do wish it; and after that her head drooped i J wearily into her hands and a long sigh came from We her sorely-tried heart. i ee, “Mr, Evelyn,’ she murmured, not looking at him, but keeping her glorious face bowed in her hands, “it hurts me dreadfully to know that my mother is a wicked woman. To find her poor, ignorant, would ‘be nothing! I should still try hard to love her, be- t cause she is my mother. But so bad, so treacher- ous, so vile—merciful Heaven! I cannot love a wo- man like that! I hope I shall be spared ever looking - upon her. It would kill me to have her come to me _ and call me her child! cA net in one view, it is a great relief to know that I—that I—am not—” = “T understand you,” he said, quietly, seeing the crimson stealing up to the roots of her hair. ‘* Even if you were that, it could not make you different ‘ from what you are—astainless lily Rene up pure and sweet and holy, out of the of the earth. Do you e, Miss Ethel, that any one worthy to be called your friend has changed his sentiments to- ward you because of this chance of your birth?” “T don’t know—oh, yes! yes! yes!” ; “You are t ing of that scoundrel, John Gar : rell!’’ exclaimed the young lawyer, starting up in sudden passion. ‘A man not worthy to look at you _ =—gpeak to you! A million such friends might desert you and you be the richer with each loss.” Ethel raised her head and looked at him, surprised at the heat and fury of his words. It was his turn, acy be blush and hang down his head. “Forgive me,’’ he murmured, ‘for speaking so, It is none of my business—I kaow that. But, the baseness of that man is incomprehensible to a pure soul like yours. Do you know that he had the shamelessness to draw out of the bank $18,000 of .Myra’s money?—that she gave it to him to pay his debts and he tookit? Tt is the town’s talk!” “Yes, I knew it, He is a very mean person, I know. Do not imagine that I regret b friend- ys ship with that gambler and robber, John Garwell, te Spat! am only grieved that Myra is so infatuated with _ Evelyn’s heart beat high at these words of scorn. _. “What is done should be done quickly,” he added after a moment, “or, between them, they wi pas der a large share of the poor girl’s inheri- ae ag ¥i m a" Bs Rereee yc t \ ‘ “You have been so wise, so successful—will vou go to Cuba again, Mr. Evelyn? I hope Mr. Do will send you.’ - *Tam quite sure he will, Miss Ethel. Mr. Dobell ’ will call on you this evening. As for me, I amo a subordinate, but I go heart and soul into this busi- ness. : “Thank you,” and Ethel held out her hand to him ' as he moved to the door. ' _ One instant the satin palm touched his, and then Webster Evelyn was out in the little brick-paved court, looking about him in a dazed way, fairly dizay ‘wittt the joy of her having smiled on him. ; ei pring dihe 5 CHAPTER XII. een et A MADCAP GIRL. __ Tr was not more than a week after Evelyn’s return and interview with Ethel that he was surprised by Ss in the papers that the “Mohawk” had steamed into Norfolk. “Of course that love-smitten boy will rush up to Philadelphia as fast as the train will carry him. I _ see the ship has come in for repairs, consequently he is likely to have a long leave of absence. Poor fellow! I wish there was better news for him! I feel -. quite sure that I ought to tell him, and the girl’s , Felatives, too, about the person I met that very ' evening of Coralie Clyde’s ne | Piecing Tm _ afraid the poor thing threw herself in the river—I’m _ sure J would if were a woman and had to choose _. ‘between that and marrying John Garwell! I must Beg see te Leigh before 1 am off for Cuba again, ; - which will be next week. It is curious that he, too, should have been looking up Popo Sp uba! But, : e things ha es in this world. ~ | ‘girl were the real Ethel, how would we like this andsome cadet to marry her? Well, he is young but he seems honest, and brave. He must / ‘From the conclusion of this paring ath Aes wena nash MADCAP, THE LITTL if he gives poor Coralie up for lost? Supposing this. st “ 3. - « 1 c a ; f 4 * ‘ ladder to the heaven of his hope, just because the young lady had given him her hand to hold a mo- ment at parting, in token of her gratitude. We fear Ethel, proud and reserved, would have been indignant had she dreamed of the state of her advocate’s feelings. Evelyn was roused out of his speculations by a quick knock on the office door, followed by the immediate advent of a young fellow so audaciously handsome in his youth and grace and ye uniform that the grave law student felt a pang of envy. Y allo, Evelyn!” was the breezy rend of Ber- tram Leigh, as he doffed his cap, and the pale March sunshine falling through the dusty window brightened his golden curls. ‘Hallo, Cadet Leigh,’’ responded Evelyn, and the two shook hands, Mr. Dobell was considerately absent and they sat down to a confiential chat, “T’ve come to look for her, myself,’’ announced Bertram. “God it you may find her!’’ exclaimed Evelyn. “Leigh, I must tell you of an adventure I had the night of Miss Clyde’s disappearance—not more than two hours after she left the house, in fact,” and he went onand described the girl he had seen in the water-proof cloak, her suspicious acts, and what he said toher. ‘Iam afraid she went back and threw herself in the river.” ‘A joyful flash came to Bertram’s blue eyes. “She is not the girl to do such a thing. er tem- perament is too elastic for her ever to commit suicide. Mr. Evelyn, you don’t know what a load you remove from my heart! , I have feared abduc- tion—that fear has almost killed me! But if Coralie ran away purposely, then—she is all right! I am sure of it! You say she carried a small bag?’ “Yes, like a ladies’ shopping bag.” ‘Does that look like suicide? Would she want her brushes and combs, her collars and cuffs and her pretty frilled night-dress, down at the bottom of theriver? And you, alawyer! I am ashamed of you!” cried Bertram, gleefully tossing his cap to the ceiling and catching it. ‘*I hope you are right, Leigh; but it is very strange the detectives never get any clew to her.” “*Detectives be hanged] tective worth his wages! Now, let me see, I'll lay Mae @ wager, a hun to one, that she took the ew York train at the Germantown Station, and went, as straight as the railroads could carry her to her father’s relatives in the good old Nutmeg State.”’ vi yah did you know she had relatives in Connecti- cut?’ ** Because she told me. We had a long talk about them, one day, in the hospital. Coralie confided to me that she was a birthright member of the Quaker Church, but that she thought the sect too strict and ungrateful to God for the beau tiful and good things which they would not receive from His hand, She said that she often regretted that she had not been brought up by her father’s friends instead of her mother’s; not that she failed in love to her kind aunts, but that she was a wild creature who couldn’t bear the sober ways of the Quakers, and had always longed for a life on sea and shore—on the sands amid rotting hulks of been or dancing over the green waves on a white-sailed of a ves- sel." Those were her words—I remember them well. She said that many of her father’s folks were sea- faring people—that she was bewitched to live at Nantucket or Martha’s Vineyard. She’s in that vicin- ity now, more than as gies as not—perhaps secure from detection in the little cabin of some of her uncle’s mona g vessels. If there’s anything in the world would delight that madcap girl it would be such adventures as those. She avowed to me that she was her father over again, and nothing kept him from the sea until he met his death on it. You know what I must have told her in return!—that I was ve is the gf de- that I might fetch her to live in a gorgeous cabin, all crimson-velvet and gold, while I paced the quar- ter-deck with a gold band about my cap,” and the handsome fellow laughed merrily, for he really had persuaded himself that Coralie Clyde had been changed into a pretty fisher-girl somewhere on the New England shore. “You know shé cut me before I left?” he asked, suddenly becoming very grave and looking keenly at Evelyn. “ No! , “Well, she did. At least those dove-colored aunt- ree pe hers told me she had repented of her flirtation th me.” The aunts told you so? Then don’t believe it, Bertram. Not that I suppose those most respecta- ble ladies would tell falsehoods—far from it!—but that prudence comes with years, and they,may have thought it wise to break off an affair which they considered as only a passing fancy of both.” “T believe you are right now, Evelyn! Lawyers are not always on the wrong track after all! The dear, dear little girl did seem to love me. By the manes of Nelson! if I thought she and I had been tricked by those meddlers 1 would—would go and throw it in their faces! And I wouldn't leave a stone unturned, or a State in the Union unsearched until I had found my sweet girl and married her out of hand, or done anger equally rash. Good-by: Evelyn torafew hours. I’ve got something to tell you about myself—a discovery I made the day after left Cuba—but I can’t stop now. I’m going to rowbeat those aunts. Oh, I’m not afraid of them. “Come to my room this evening, Leigh; here’s the number.” * All right; I'll be om hand at eight o'clock.” - e « he LAG: , E OQUAKERESS. The bleak winds of early March were prejpsenin 4 dolefully through the fashionable avenue on whic their grand residence stood, as the Misses Feather- flight, that day, after an early luncheon, sat in their handsome back parlor, silently hemming on some lain sewing which they were doing for the poor. heir occupation was commendable, but they did; not seem at peace. There was a streak of white in Miss Priscilla’s black hair which had not been there last summer; ‘and Miss Charity had got into a habit of drawing long sighs. The large, pleasant house was painfully still. George walked about on tip-toe and spoke in a mgr! nowadays as if some one was lying dead up-stairs, ; : Nothing ever got out of order; there was very lit- tle for any one to do. Cook did not have the capri- cious tastes of a fault-finding, rosy-cheeked young lady to consult; her two mistresses searcely ate any- thing and did not mind itif it was the same thin every day. The be who served as chambermaic and laundress had no tucked and ruffled white petti- coats, no flounced muslin dresses to do up—no clothes to pick up from the carpet in Miss Coralie’s room and shake and hang up: George hadno books | or slates to take out of the hall, or errands to the pastry-shops half a dozen times a day. There was no loud arenes here and there, all over the house. Miss Charity had no longer qualms of conscience because she had influenced Priscilla about petting the piano; that wicked instrument was now closed and quiet as the grave. Everything was orderly, peaceful, neat, silent. — Yet the two elderly ladies did not seem quite happy. There was a ghost—the pale ghost of what had once been a gay, troublesome, willful, loving child—flit- par Bed ag 2 \ ey saw it by the basket of fancy-work, and sit- ting on the piano-stool, and standing in the sunshine by the canary’s cage. Miss Priscilla was troubled by a memory of a deceit she had practiced between two young, inno- cent creatures. She had falsified matters—for what benefit? Why, to force a pure maiden into wedlock with a man of whom she now negan to hear shocking stories which she could not refute. ; Priscilla Featherflight was far from being at peace with that troublesome monitor, her conscience. It had never before been so restless, sc insubordinate, so exacting. As they sat, and sewed, and sighed, and thought, the bell rung, making them start and drop their work. They always started, now, when the bell) ng. Presently George came in with a card, which Miss Priscilla read aloud—‘ Bertram Leigh, U. 8. N.”— and then looked at Charity, who stared at her in the — same helpless way. “We don’t want to see him, Charity?” ‘Oh, sister, we must. He may bring us newsof our niece!”’ \ Acrimson flush had come over the pale face of the elder sister; she dreaded to see this young gen- tleman because she had deceived him—and also. oh, contradictory nature of ours! because if he had influenced Coralie to go away she could not forgive — him. ; “We will see him,” she at last said, slowly, and George pierre to return with the han Some and ungrateful, the depraved, calculating monster who had got run over and carried to the hospital on purpose to entangle the pathies of their niece that he might make love to her, marry her, and step into a fortune! racy Cadet Leigh did not look very wicked as he stoo ravely and modestly before them, cap in hand, ooking at them with his frank blue eyes and blush- ing ingenuously. ‘Take a chair, if thee is disposed,” said Priscilla, coldly. eS ie cadet thanked her and took a seat. Be, ‘What is thy errand with us, young man?” __ aan Spar to learn if you have any tidings—of Miss iy de , ““None whatever—has thee any?’ asked Miss Featherflight, fixing a searching glance full in his eyes. 2, “No, oh, no! Madam, I hope you do not do me the injustice to suspect me of having any thing to do with her—with Miss Clyde’s disaphesronest Iwas far from here, on a Government ship, and could have known nothing of it at the time. We had not even corresponded since—since you made me be- lieve, madam, that your niece did not care for me. Oh, shame! hypocrites and worldly that ye are, to separate hearts true and fond as ours, because I was wos and try to force my darling into a life with hat unprincipled scoundrel, because he was the fashion, and had a father as rich as yourselves! It was a wicked thing to do, even if done by those who make no profession of ae above the world, and you are justly punished for it.” “How dares thee!” began Priscilla, but she burst , into tears, and could not finish her indignant pro-- tes t. : “Forgive me!’ cried Bertram, with sudden _ humility. ‘“‘I have no right to speak so toa lady. Please forgive me! I think that you did what you considered was for the best.” ps “J did—I did,” moaned Priscilla. ‘I woul do it again! That is, I have learned since old friend’s son isa bad young man. Cora’ not m him now, were she here. Neve she added, wiping her eyes and looking at B sharply,‘ I mean thee to understand that thy was not proper, and that we give thee no enc ment to thrust thy soqnartance upon us.” “*A hint is as good as a kick, ; ) the cadet. ‘I take myself off immediately. But first, let me say why I called on you. It was to | not Z “ i = / suggest the possibility of your niece having taken ~ ‘ te" ty Bi aS 8 Gai ict a t
Page 13
oe ; “Oh, "yes, pe Rid pape Priscilla, ~ 9d suah f es vefuge with her father’s friends, and coaxed them not to betray her hiding-place. She may be at sea with some of her uncles. I have been told that a entleman tracked a young lady, resembling Miss lyde, across the river and into a car running to the Germantown Junction. I thought this news might be a comfort to you,” rising and hesitating a moment before concluding—‘'I came to you, fairly, to ask for the honor of your acquaintance. Since you choose to deny me a fair chance I warn you that I’m going to search for Coralie, and if I find her shall do all T can to coax her to a foolish and hasty marriage. Then she will be mine; and as she has enough property to live on, I can Jeave her to pursue my course until I am able to claim her. Good-morn- ing. Truly, thee has assurance!’ remarked Miss Charity, while the elder sister only glared after the retreating cadet. : As George opened the door for Bertram’s exit, the postman ran up the steps with a letter for ‘‘ Miss riscilla Featherflight.”” The faithful fellow could not restrain a ery, but he clapped the door in the visitor’s face, first, and then leaned against it, quite faint, while his face had turned from its mulatto hue to a sickly gray. : f “Golly, dat’s Miss Coralie’s hand-write!”’ he mur- - mured. As soon as he recovered himself he put it on a salver, tapped at the back-parlor door, bearing in the missive with an excited air which at once brought Miss Featherflight out of her spasm of in- * dignation. — _ She gave a scream when she saw the handwriting, and snatched at the letter, while Charity rushed up, alarmed— : “What is it, sister?” “Coralie! Coralie!’ ‘A letter?” ; “Ves, from her! Oh, open it, sister; my hand shakes so.” “Tt is postmarked Nwntucket,” cried Charity. ‘I believe that cadet was right. Here it is, sister! Shall [ read it?” trembling and crying; so Charity, ina quivering voice, read: aN ‘*ON BOARD THE SCHOONER LADYBIRD, } “March 1st, 187-. f “My DEAR, DEAR, DARLING AUNTIES: “Tought to have written to long ago, but I was afraid you would come after me, so I didn’t. Now if you will be good and let me alone for the pres- ent I wi Bek ag to come back in six weeks—say, the ‘middle of April. I hear that Mr. Garwell will be mar- ried by that time, so I shall be safe to come home. _ You can’t imagine how I wish to see you both! I felt dreadfully about keeping you in suspense; but truly and solemnly, my darling aunties, I believe it was better to do this than to be made wretched myself for all the long years of my life—don’t you? ‘You see I knew Mr. Garwell was a bid min. I hope you are convinced of it, too, by this time. | Since he can marry so soon, his affections could not have suffered much. “Dear aunties, please put away my wedding dresses and wreaths and vails and things; they may come good yet, before they are entirely out of style. “Put away my bridal dresses— Fold my gaa f things with care, Tam almost sure to need them— i When I do, they will be there! “There! that’s almost as good as the Ledger's, You can’t imagine what a world of fun I’m having! And I’m as safe asif under your own care—indeed Iam, so pee don’t worry. ‘Oh, the sea! the sea! the open sea.’ Uncle Abram’s is a beautiful vessel; I ’most freeze my ears, it is true, just now, but it will soon be per- . fectly delightful. “Now, my dear aunts, I want you to be all ready to forgive me when I get home. I'll be good and . obedient for a long time, if you will. I know I’ve , been naughty, but then—there was a reason. With a hundred kisses, your penitent niece, “ CoRALIN.”’ There was a smothered sound of blubbering just outside the door, and as the two ladies looked ps with tear-dimmad eyes, they saw tig stealing o - with his handkerchief to his nose. He had taken the liberty of listening, for he could not help it. His heart was bursting to know what had become of the _ “young missus.” : - _ But, after George had blown his nose and wiped his eyes a number of times he began to snicker in the vestibule: “Fore de Lawd,” he muttered, “my young missy too much fur dem elderly Quaker cresses. Dey's berry nice—verry nice ladies!—an’ dey’s got religion, : but I wouldn’t give one hair o’ young missy’s head fur both of ’em! Bress her purty face! I’m tickled to hear she’s havin’ lots o’ fun! I reckon _ dey won’t persevere wid her lub affairs, next time / / wd! ef dey gets her back again dey’ll be right _ glad to let her ’tend to her own affairs,’ pier ey CHAPTER XIV. : _ | @HE HAUNTED BOUDOIR. EverytHina prospered with soft little Myra. She rich, she was courted, she was soon to_be mar- d to the man she coveted, she had everything her way—yet she was sorely persecuted, aud in a er and through an instrument against which could make no defense. That intrusive but invisible thing which called it- if the spirit of her dead uncle never left her in Te toll ed kee about, laughing, sneering, taunt _ It followed | ) , * ing, threatening but it never. spoke to her in the | the message she sent, miss,”’ said th (| MADCAP THE) LITTLE QUAKERESS. aes ts paesenee of others, with the exception of her lover. hen those twe were alone together the ghostly voice took its greatest liberties. Of course John laughed off its threats and ridi- culed the timidity of his ladylove; but Myra could an amusement. Every day she grew thinner and paler, and her great blue eyes wore a startled look. Weeks had glided on uutil the March sun was shin- ing out between swift-moving white clouds; and Myra felt that—six months having now ea since her uncle’s death—she could make no-longer sacri- fices to appearances. She had always been nervous, and now fear was making life a burden to her. Indeed, she did suffer strange experiences every day. She tried bravely not to betray alarm before something wrong about the house—that it was haunted—and she was frequently changing, since, as soon as one of these ignorant creatures got the notion in his or her head, warning was immediately given. During this period her French maid, Lizette, was a great comfort to her. The girl declared herself willing to face any number of ghosts; and when her she would keep herself awake for ‘houcs, brushing Myra’s long, light hair, or pemng her hands, or telling her funny little French stories, until she-was coaxed into slumber, If it had not been for Lizette the heiress would have found her experiences insupportable. “T shall sell this house, Lizette,”’ said Myra, one day, “as soon after I am married as possible. 1 will not stay in it an hour after the wedding, The day is fixed for that—the tenth of April. I was glad enough to have Mr. Garwell urge me to shorten the time of our engagement, for lam worn out with this thing. Tam afraid I shall make a woebegone bride, wit: these pale cheeks and this thin re, to say nothing of these shadows under my eyes,” and she looked at herself in the long mirror with some discontent. “But, Lizetie, I have decided to be married in white and to have no mourning in my new dresses. It would bring me ill-luck to have my trousseau made u in mourning—don’t you think so? I chose my wed- ding-dress yesterday, and it is now in the hands of adame W-—, who will do it justice, I think; there was not time to give the orderin Paris. The front will be of pearl satin, and the train of ivory brocade, with oceans of Venetian point for trimmings.” As the bride-expectant ran_on with her description she crossed the chamber and entered the little dressing- room out of it. No sooner had she gone in than she gave a sharp scream. ‘* What is it?” cried Lizette, running to her. Her mistress was trembling and almost in hysterics. “* Look, look, Lizette. The water in the basin has turned to blood!” and she poten to the basin into which she had no more than immersed the tips of her fingers than it had changed, before her very eyes, to a deep red which certainly looked like blood. As the two looked at ii the ghostly voice, which had never spoken before Lizette until then, floated over their heads: “ Thou, Myra, hast crushed thy cousin’s heart and stolen thy cousin's portion—wash, therejore, +1 biood.” Papeete these words, Myra threw up her hands and would have fallen to the floor had not the maid caught her in her arms, and sprinkled her face with water from the faucet—not the red water in the bow]. “ Lizette, I wish it were the tenth of April to-day,” moaned her young mistress, as she came out of the faint; ‘‘ this thing is dreadful.” ; “ What did the spirit mean by saying—” here the girl hesitated. “ That I ‘had stolen my cousin’s portion.’ A vile slander, Lizette, no matter who or what proclaimed it. All that I have was left me by may uncle—nobody ever sought to contest the will. hy should I give up what is mine?” “ Hor the sake of thy own peace of mind.” Again that haunting, invisible tormentor! “Ah, I would rather be as dependent as I was be- fore than to lead this‘iife any longer! Lizette, take me out of thisroom. It is only here, orin the boudoir below, that I hear that voice. Come—come!” * Cast off that gambler who does not love thee—return to thy cousin that of which thou hast robbed her—and thou shalt be happy.” “Never!” exclaimed Myra, excitedly, at last roused to the desperation of retorting on this ghostly adviser. “That girl is no cousin of mine—in her blood is the taint of slavery, and the Wainwright money shall never go to a creature whose veins run impure streams.’ ‘Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the ghost, derisively. “Come, Lizette, come away!” and the mistress oe the maid after her. . ‘What do you think of this?” she asked, when in the chamber, across the corridor. “Mademoiselle,” answered the French girl, ‘Je Je pense tres mysterieux.”? “But Mr. Garwell says it is all trickery.” 7 “Ts there any one in your household who could or would be guilty of it, mademoiselle?”’ “Ah, there it is, Lizette! Nearly all the servants in the house have been changed since this thing began; besides, who knows the secrets of our family? The French girl shook her pretty head and looked puzzled; evidently the matter was too deep for her._ “You go bring me my dress and jewel-casket, Lizette; it is time’to dres: for dinner. TI will not enter that chamber again, if I can help it.” While Lizette was assisting at the Adborkte toilet, word came that the foreign woman wanted to see the mistress. —_— f —“*Tell her Olive, and she will comprehend: was servant. td : not consider this unseen tormentor in the light of | young mistress could not sleep at night for fear, | | @ Aeneas, sae that’s the truth. _ z ' ) Fa 5 ty t t. e a mal te * Dar 2 OS ee 4 TNT ae ena es enough; but he scolded me fur it, and told’ me I’ } —— | “Very well, I will be down. And remember, while she remains I am at home to no one else. So, she is back quickly,” she muttered to herself. Lizette clasped the necklace about her white \ neck, pinned the scintillating butterfly in her fair hair, gave her her fan and handkerchief, and Myra, | with a beating heart and a flush growing in her cheeks, went down to meet this Visitor, to whom she | always gave a private audience, The woman had gone, according to her former custom, to the boudoir. A long interview followed, and then the Cuban wentaway. When she was gone Myra came up- stairs to the room in which Lizette sat sewing; and the girl, glancing up, saw that her cheeks were aS | ) | red as roses and her eyes bright as stars, while a . the servan's; but they got a hint that there was | strange excitement seemed to possess her which prevented her sitting down or resting one minute. Presently it-grew dark, but she still walked rest- lessly, until pausing. at the window, she cried to her- self, ‘‘ There’s John!” and ran down to meet him. John came to dinner every evening. There was rarely other company, except a ‘ companion ”’—e, quiet, deaf lady, who could hear nothing unless it was shouted at her, and who had been’ engaged to play propriety by the young hostess. ‘hen the dinner on this particular evening had *, | been discussed, the lovers retired to the drawing- room while the companion took her crocheting to the library across the hall. Myra was anxious to be alone with John, for she had nh Pers to tell him 3 which she had often longed to do, but had not had the liberty until now—something which she knew would be sure to put him in high spirits. As they began, after a habit of theirs, to walk up | and down, apsnot edt John, when he came to the m boudoir door, opened t nat and extended the field of + their promenade. hb aoe: “You are a little afraid of this pretty room, I be- ce lieve, fairy; but we will take it in the course of our exercise. Now, little one, what is it you have to tell — me which is so important?” t “IT shall speak in a whisper, John dear, for 1am certain that these walls have ears whether any others ever had or not, Well, the Cuban. womai cf isback here. I had a long talk;with her to-day.” “Tndeed! What new sevelanten did she make?” He spoke with restrained eagerness, ““She fully confirmed e statement she made mc when she was here before. I have not spoken of it to you because I was not certain that I could entire- ly trust her. She is coming back here to-night—it is. almost time for her now; and she will explain to you. at my request, all that she has explained to me. i + thought you would understand and enjoy it en from her lips. She is a strange creature; she has. te done things not quite right; but since they all ace 4 to our advantage, why should we quarrel with her?” “7 never quarrel with my bread-and-butter,” re- marked John Garwell, with an unpleasant smile. _ “T shall not find fault, if she brings us good news.” “She does—magnificent news! There she is, now!” as ot seg 5 — Gree hall. i" ee: ive, the an, W: straight into the boudoir, — although the footman had made an effort to show her into the drawing-room. we : “Tt is better she should remain there, in case of our being interrupted,” said John, aud the two went in and closed the doors. ‘ ys John was conscious of a pair of piercing eyeswhich __ made him strangely uneasy, the en Olook so. keenly into his very heart—and John’s heart was __ one which could not bear close inspection. He saw, a woman who must once have been very handsome; the brilliancy of her eyes was remarkable; and her dark smooth skin must once have boasted — rich tints. Her figure was still tall and fine, and she’ bore herself with a certain majesty which conveyé an idea of power. 4 Garwell spoke to her with he had too much cunning not to wish to please her. : “I have sold my information to this lady,” she said Bh this matter of property. She is like to have told you 29 ? as made 3 before he died. To | ; I ) y he married hada — sister, who had fancied that he was in love iy % married a man she didn’t like; to be the less sus- poctst in her real feelings. She could not live un- oa ess she could be revenged. Well, Mrs. Cyrill Wain- biases had a son, and the child died. I shall you t tell — | ow. Afterward she hada daughter; end. eT i. sartain reasons the jea’ous sister, to put my child in ‘idee of the ely gave birth toa gree also on -- pee it was pre : take hers to be brou up alow condition, as my child would be li to. children. S . ears, the true child of Cyrill Ses He had t I let things ihe gentleman, | married, and showed my fondness for him, a ie tet 1 to act'so, and so I w gir him—for we Southern women ha’ 6; or “So, when child, that wasn’t his at all, growed # F ee Aas a
Page 14
' guddenly; but this is so—when S ee FS aa ot eo : YaFs 44 ~— n 7 Me, MADCAP, THE LITTLE QUAKERESS, ap to be a fine young lady, I came on to see her, though I didn’t care muchfor her after all that time—and to have my revenge by telling him he’d brought up my daughter.” Here she stopped to laugh, and John patted his hands softly together, and laughed, too. ‘A good joke! By George, a splendid joke!” he murmured. ; _ “So that accounts for the will; and I’m sure this retty young lady ought to be much obliged to me! ut there’s more behind. You see,I sha’n’t say a word about how Mrs. Wainwright came to die so onna Marie, about three years ago, came to her death-bed, she was frightfully troubled in her mind. She sent for me, and gave me the ee of a will she had made, leaving all her property to the man she had loved, and done so much mischief to—to him, and his heirs forever, the will read; and it was all duly signed an I witnessedit; andshe made me swear to come to the United States and give it to Cyrill Wainwright. I did give it to him that day, but he threw it in my face, and so I picked it up again and took it away. _ It was a handsome fortune to leave, I can tell you, sir,” looking keenly at young Garwell, with a subtle smile. ‘‘ A handsome fortune!—for Donna Marie’s husband had died first and left her all; and Mr. Yosedo and his other daughter were dead; so that she had their portions as well as her own—altogeth- er, I’m positive there’s plantations and money worth nearly a million now, notwithstanding the state of the country. Now, I’ve given up that will of Donna Marie’s to this young lady for the sum of twenty thousand dollars. You don’t call that dear, youn De regen do you? Consider, she never woul ave known about it! For the Donna’s husband’s* relatives think there was no will made; and a dozen of them have divided up the property between them. This young lady here is the real heir. All you have to dois to extend your wedding trip to Cuba, pro- duce the will, and possess your estates there.” “ Nothing could be clearer!”’ exclaimed John Gar- well, exultingly. ‘Myra, I trust you have that val- uable document in a safe place?’ “Tt is locked up in the secretary where uncle ming, the dread that her mother might take a fancy who flutter f the servants are amusing themselves. Myra, .should b2 more strict with them. Vou ut before they left the room the voice arrested phe m.: “ Woman, thou hast lied. Of what avi! are false- - hoodsin the awful presence of the disembodied soul? J, Cyril Wainwright, charge thee with thy lies. Ay! tremble—quake to the bottom o° thy guilty hewt | There is a power at work which shail overthrow thee and thy revenge. Hidden things sha!) come to light. Beware, lest thou die without confession. Let the priest shrive thee while there is yet time. And ye, crue! ones, who would wrorg the innocent, your triumph shul be brief !” “Oh, Jesu! Oh, Mary, Mother of God!” mur- mured the Cuan, looking wildly about her. “Come in here!” repeated Garwell, dragging her out of the haunted boudoir. ‘‘ This is all nonsense! “Tf I could find out the author of it, ’d take it out of his hide. Don’t mindit, Olive!” But he was a little shaken himself; and the woman - would not remain a moment longer in the house, but went away, crossing herself and muttering. CHAPTER XV. WAS IT LOVE? -A GREAT dread, in those days, was ever in Ethel’s to make her acquaintance—perhaps claim from her the duties and service of a er hepa - In view of such a possibility, her present life appeared to be a heaven of calm security. She was often pa er cheeks, Mr. Wainwright always had been fondly proud of Ethel’s mental superiority to many girls in her cir- cle. Petted, flattered, beautiful, it would hardly have been rier if she had given herself unreserv- edly to soci ty; butit had never been so with Ethel. She had resources in her own mind which made her independent of the crowd of friends and lovers about her. é Now, in the days of her adversity, she used these resources not 0 y to earn money to pay for her humble living, but as a pleasant way of spending the days no ‘Jonger besieged by throngs of idle flat- terers. Her health was splendid. ust to walk abroad in the fresh morning air was a delight; she would come in with elastic step and sparkling eyes— ut away her simple hat, trimmed with a wreath of Naisies manufactured by her skillful fingers—and sit down to her lovely flower-painting, or that almost as exquisite needle ane ‘which she excelled, and for which she had quite a market. One of these pieces of embroidery she intended to have exhibited as a work of art at the May exhibi- tion at the Academy. It represented the “ blessed damozel”’ of Rosetti's poets leaning from heaven and so delicately were her silken flosses shaded. and so artistic was the design—made by herself—that it was truly a picture. She no longer wept in secret over the baseness of Garwell; in Dlace of tears came a song of glad- ness because she had escaped a life with him—she wondered now how she could have been so deceived. _ Ethel turned from men, now; she did not look for- ward to marriage, but calmly planned to fill her days | with work, which suited her tastes and abilities. To be able to hire a.good piano for her room, and to buy all the new books and magazines she wanted, was the present hight of her ambition. Herroom in that small cottage was somewhat bare and low; but she had a little bedroom opening out of it, and, week by week, as she could spare the time, she decorated the chamber with her own drawings, The company of her old-time nursery-governess at meals was for- mal and meager, but not coarse; the two children were nice little creatures who looked up to her as something glorious, good and wonderful; and this was nearly all the society she had. One or two of her old mates she allowed to visit her. Sometimes Mr. Dobell dropped in for an hour. Not an exciting life by any means. Mr. Evelyn was again in Cuba on her affairs. The only tolerably regular caller she had was the young cadet, Bertram Leigh. And how he came to be a frequent caller she hardly understood. Mr, Evelyn had told her about this oung fellow’s search for parents, and this, alone, ad deeply enlisted her sympathies; then he had gone on further to say Coralie Clyde had run away on account of this handsome cadet—that they had become lovers in consequence of Leigh saving her life at the peril of his own; so she had fancied she should like to know him; and Evelyn had brought and introduced the youth before he (Evelyn) depart- ed on his second mission to Cuba. Did the young lawyer not reflect that it might seriously endanger his own cause to do this? Whether he did or not he made no excuses, but brought Ber- tram to see her the evening before he himself sailed. And the cadet had been charmed by the beautiful girl, so noble and so cheerful in her new sphere. He came often and often, so that the children learned to aeiee out of their mother’s sitting-room and speak to him when they heard his Y gion 3 ring. Their grave mother, too, began to smile, and have thoughts herself about the frequency of his visits, and to hope, for Miss Ethel’s sake, that her suspicions would prove correct. As for Ethel, if the young gentleman admired her, she returned the admiration witkout reserve. Bertram’s visits were like bursts of sunshine in upon the gray pleasantness of her days. He was gay; he was witty, or at least, full of fun; he was extremely handsome; he was interesting, inasmuch as he was a youth without name or family; he had engaging manners; was full of spirit and ambition. His bright face and sunny hair ornamented Ethel’s ‘den’ as none other of her pictures did. She fell into the habit of looking for him. If he did not come fortwo or three days, she missed him more than she would like to confess. Evelyn, soberly and faithfully working in her cause, would have felt a pang strike to his heart like a knife, could he have seen the two together, so gay, So confidential. “hm getting to be immensely fond of you, Miss Ethel,” the cadet declared to her once, after a month’s acquaintance, “ Have a care, sir!” she cried, merrily. ‘“‘ Rémem- ber what the news is about Coralie!”’ ‘““Ay! The dove-colored ladies did not want me to get hold of that—did they ?” and he laughed mer- rily. ‘How did you happen to hear about the let- ter, Miss Ethel?” “Oh, a little bird told me!” “Thanks to the little bird, then! Only two weeks more to the fifteenth of April! What a witch Cora- lieis, isn’t she? You are better,\than she in many respects— ou have more—dignity.”’ . “Tam older, lieutenant—remember that!’ “Don’t lieutenant me yet awhile, please! bound to be an admiral, some day.” “T shall be disappointed if you are not.” “Do you take so much interest in me, then?” ‘*More than I have ever taken in any young gen- tleman before!” “Tecan’t tell you how happy that makes me,” said Bertram, bowing elaborately over her hand, which he had seized, and kissing it. ‘“ How did you and Coralie get in love so soon?” “Oh, it don’t take long! It’s like falling in water. You go in, head and ears, all at once.” “Indeed! Is the sensation pleasant?” “First there is a murmur in your ears—you feel suffocated—and then you float about deliciously, as if you were swimming on a bed of down.” ‘I see you understand drowning.” ““Yes—I was almost gone once, “Really? how did 4 ieee “Oh, a sailor was knocked overboard; and as he was stunned by the blow, he could not save himself; so I jumped in after him. He had gone down so deep, [ couldn’t find him, and I stayed under the water a good while. Consequences, we both had to be fished out.” “ Don’t do it again, my dear cadet!”* “T won’t—unless there is a similar need. Let me see, this is the third of Ay a “Yes, and Myra is to be married on the tenth; there are the cards in that basket.” “Are you going to the wedding?” But I’m summer.” “T may go to the church, but I shall not appear at the house.” i ** And on the fifteenth, my little Quakeress is com- ing home!” Are you glad?” . , “T don’t know. That will be according to how she receives me. She may prove false, who knows— “Trust her not, she is fooling thee! Beware, beware!’ she is such a madcap!” “That kind of a girl makes a splendid wife.” “Tf Lever marry her, we shall have to elope. Her aunts don’t fancy me, you know.” r i at / 7 ‘ fi 2 1 = f , : a . ‘ , aE - *, ‘“ . : \ Zs bom - ».! ee . - Sa lf BAG DOK, odie) gee & PAd (em 2 eg Oe Se ee ee ee ae et a See ie ME et os e.! **Blope, then, and I will give you my blessing— seeing Leither or you have parents to do it.” ‘*Miss Ethel, I really do feel an uncommon affec- tion for you.” “It isreturned, Whois ringing the bell, I wonder?”’ ‘If any one for you, I’m going.” “No, sit still. I seldom have any visitor.” But, presently, a light tap on the door announced that this one was for her, at least. Ethel went to the door and opened it, while the cadet stood, cap in hand, ready to take his leave. ‘Ah, Lizette, how do you do?’ said Ethel, warm- ly, as the visitor stepped into the room. *“Who the deuce is that?’ thought Bertram, as, after saying good-evening, he went away with alight step. ‘‘ Must be that pretty French girl Miss, Ethel told me about. She was immensely pretty, too; and how full of mischief her eyes were! “Tf I were not so dead in love with Coralie, I should almost imagine = smitten by this Ethel!” he confessed, as he walked briskly on. ‘‘ What 'a sweet, lovely, glovious girl she is! I should hardly know how to fool away the tedious time until the fifteenth, if she were not so friendly to me,” | But his friend was glad he had taken himself off, this time. She had an engagement to go out with Lizette. It was still very vege in the evening; and in that quiet part of the city the two girls were not afraid to go out together; so they soon started. Lizette had something hidden under her cloak which she occasionally stole a look at, always burst- ing into a suppressed ~_e as she did so. thel, on the other hand, was deeply agitated; she sometimes paused in her walk, trembled, and seemed to wish to turn back; but the French girl urged her on. ‘* All is fair in love and war!’’ assumed Lizette. CHAPTER XVI. THE CUBAN GIRL. THAT same evening a middle-aged and a young woman were talking together in a first floor front _ a whicb they had recently rented, in a decent ouse in an obscure neighborhood of the city. Any curious passer-by could have peeped in at them, had he so desired, for the solid wooden blinds, so popu- lar in the Quaker city, were not closed, nor even the lace curtains dropped over the windows, In fact, the two Southern women who occupied the place were so accustomed to open windows, and galleries—the lifedin public plazas and promenades —that they never thought to shut out from observa- tion the pretty parlor in which they were. One of them, the younger, was a creature born for the sole purpose, one would think, of being beauti- ful and being admired. She reclined, in an indolent attitude, on a sort of couch which served in place of asofa, She was dressed in one of those lovely robes which are manufactured only in the East Indies—a eeeeena white muslin into which was woven an elaborate tracery of gold threads. Her thick, silken black hair was twisted about her head in a coronet of heavy braids and flashed at every turn of the graceful neck with the jewels which sprinkled it, Her eyes were dark, liquid and dreamy—they smiled just then with the thoughts she was idly thinking, but they were of that slumberous sort which at times flash with the lightnings of anger and jealousy. Her skin was smooth and rich as vel- vet, very dark and pale, with a dash of scarlet in lips and cheeks. Her arms were circled with band after band of gold and gems; her hands were loaded with rings; the belt about her slender waist was of gold, with a jeweled clasp. Her lap was full of flowers— roses, cape-jasmines, carnations, lilies, which she pulled to pieces as she sat idly dreaming. ‘“Mother,’’ she spoke after a ‘while, in a ‘voice sweet and rich, but with an aaeve ring to it— “mother, when are you going to keep your promise? When ie took me away from the good Sisters, and coaxed me to come to this dreary city, you promised me great things. You told me that I was heiress to a great fortune, and that I should be queen of the world, with a thousand lovers at my feet—that I could take my pick from the richest and hand- somest. I’m weary of this poor, plain house—this loneliness and waiting. Come! if you do not begin to fulfill your promises, I shall run away and go back to the Sisters again.” . “Do not worry, Olive! As I told you, things have not gone quite as I expected; there is some delay about proving your rights. But all will be well; very soon I shall do all that I promised.” ‘*Mother, Ido not believe you! You are deceiving me. Things have not gone as ro anticipated. are in trouble. Do you think Ihave no observation? On the contrary, I see aa and I want to re- turn to our own lovely land. I What is the use of being young and gloriously beau- tiful, of wearing these costly dresses you gave me, of hie. all the accomplishments, when I have not been spoken to by a soul siuce we came here save yourself and the stupid woman who gives us our meals? I wish you had brought Dolores along; even my maid would be better than no one, and some- times she amuses me. You dress me quite as well as she does, but you are grave company, mother.” “T know it, Olive, caf pretty humming-bird! That is because I am fretted about business affairs. But all will go well in a few days now.” : **T wish I could think so!” sighed the beauty. She relapsed into her dreamy languor You | am weary—weary! | Ta ae while her mother continued to walk up and ‘Goad Peep) iy the room, frowning as she thought: “Confess, while 1 have yet time! Yes, tha’ <a eae what the voice of the dead man bade me do. I can not! words. overtake me. Long, lon began. It is hard to wa: road of one’s misdeeds! Yes, the judgments of eternity will so ago this ill-doing of min “Yet my soul shudders when I recall his, backward over the thorny
Page 15
r t iT h. - / ei , i 15 MADCAP, THE LITTLE QUAKERESS. “Ah! how I detest that young lady who thinks I am eager to place everything in her hands! Why should J wish to benefit her? haughty, selfish, vain little cat that she is! She is caught in the trap, and she will get her pretty hand cut off, by reaching too eagerl for the bait. : _ “All, all, for the benefit of my darling, my beauti- ful one, my bird, my child! To see her at the head ‘of all would be worth the damnation of my own soul. And I shall certainly be damned! I have seen strange sights and heard strange warnings. More than once I have seen the face of the Evil One looking in at me. “To-morrow the grand wedding takes place! I shall go to the church, and I shall laugh in my sleeve as the priest makes those two one. They are well-matched—thatis true. They will make a pretty couple! Lucifer will be somewhere about, looking on, to bless their nuptials! “Ah, holy Mother! I see him again! The Evil One! Satan himself! There! there! there!” she screamed, pointing toward the window in terror. The girl bounded to her feet and looked out. ** 7 see nothing, mother! Thereis nothing—no one —at the window.” “He was there—I saw him—this is the third time. Olive, I tell you, I saw him as distinctly as I see you! His face was black; his eyes were like flames, is mouth breathed smoke, his horns—”’ “Mother, I am afraid of Aaa wailed the girl; ‘*‘you must have done something wicked to be tor- -mented as you are. Oh, mother, I beseech you, ray to be delivered from this vision! Pray to be orgiven, if you have committed a crime! If you repent and atone for your sins, Jesus will blot them out of the great Book. I do not like it in this place —let us go back to-morrow.” But the elder woman made no answer. She was still under the spell of terror which had grasped her when her eyes fell on that frightful face. which mocked her at the window. And like a knife en- tering her heart fell those words of the beautiful be- ‘ ing she adored: ‘ Mother, Iam afraid of you!” There had, indeed, appeared at the window a terrifying sie ga As her eyes had fallen on it by chance she had seen such a visitant as she de- scribed, leering in at her, but who, at her first cry of alarm, had disappeared. Her terror was not feigned, i CHAPTER XVII. WHO CAME TO THE WEDDING. | _THe tenth of April was a fair, sunny day, more like May than May’s tearful predecessor. Out in the country were the smellof violets and the budding of tender, pale-green leaves, fleecy clouds and sparkling streams. There were violets -in the city, too; and thousands of roses and delicate flowers which could not yet bear the breath of the open air. A certain house and certain church were full of them. For this was Myra Wainwright’s wedding day! The house from which had come the black funeral procession, seven months before, was, this day, to send forth the white bridal train, The wedding was to be in church; there was to be no reception afterward, on account of her uncle’s recent death, and Myra was a devoted observer of appearances; but the great mansion was dressed in costly flowers and a table was set for such few in- timate friends as were invited to sup, after the cere- mony, with the bride ani bridegroom. Myra had decided on an evening wedding. The great ambition of her life—to glide through a crowd- ed church up to the altar, dressed in satin and real lace, to be married to ‘‘some gay and handsome fellow,” could thus best be — ed. So the bride had the long day before her in which to reflect on the importance of the step she was about to take—and to be dressed! She certainl : ane much of the last and very little of the first, She knew that John Garwell was not a good man; that she had bought his hand; but these things dil _ not make her afraid. She had admired him for his very vices; and she expected to be able to buy his good-will and attentions by being always able to ive him money when he asked for it. As to his bad abits, some of them he would reform; and if he was fond of horses, and bet high sometimes, tht would not break them!—she was going to be rich enough to stand a good deal of such folly. So, on this all-important day, little Myra thought a great deal more about her bouquet of white rosebuds, of her coronet of diamonds and vail of old Venetian oint—whether she should have room for the proper Maylay of her seven-foot train; and if she should go through the ceremony without one blunder—than she did of her future dae pee for happiness. One trouble, indeed, she still had on her mind; and it gave to her baby-face alook of gravity which otherwise it would not have worn. This was the words and deeds of the ghost which haunted her chamber and the boudoir. No search, no trap to insnare the impostor—should there prove to be one —had thrown any light on these visitations. They had worn on her health and mipritd very seriously; but, this was the last day! To-morrow she should be in Washi n, with her husband by rside. On their return they would take rooms at Continental for some time; and later they would d the hot months by the seaside; her house we be left in the care of a housekeeper—and she nould escape all troublesome reminders! the wedding-day wore surely on, and Myra away all anxiety, except that about her dress. atte had packed her trunks and they had been was with sent to the depot early in the day. Eve i _ ready; and the bride had only to amuse hersel _ looking at the presents every hour arriving x ; 1 ‘my duty to tell you that There was an early dinner at which only she and her compauion sat down, but Myra had always been curiously sufficient to herself; she did uot feel any longing for Ethel’s presence at this trying time, nor shed a tear because she was alone. The dinner had been between the hours of three and four to give plenty of time for the elaborate labors of the toilet, and after one solitary tour through the flower-decorated rooms, and one more look at the table containing her bridal-gifts, she | went up to her chamber and submitted herself to Lizette’s tasteful and skillful hands. ““Make me just as pretty as you can, Lizette,” she said, as she seated herself in front of the mirror. But the French girl did not hear her, for she had pone into a closet to take down some garments and ay them out on the bed. And, just at that moment, as Myra looked at her- self in the glass with a smile, a film seemed to pass over it; something white and specter-like glided across the surface of the mirror, and the ghostly voice said, in most solemn tones: “Ay, make thyself agin $0) vain girl! Deck thy- se'f for the bridegroom who loves thee not. Lighter than the shadow of a shadow are thy hopes. Go not to | Leave this man, repent of thy | the church, to-niyhi! selfishness, and thou may st yet win hippiness. Thou hast my blood in thy veins, and I would jain save thee Jrom thyse’?.”’ ‘““Lizette! Lizette!” screamed Myra. ‘What is it?” asked the girl, running to her. “He has spoken again! It is terrible! And, oh, Lizette, he bade me not to marry John Garwell!” “Then do not do it!” cried Lizette, sinking on her knees by her mistress’s side. ‘‘ Heed this warning. Dear, dear mademoiselle, do not venture to disobey what, I feel, is intended for your good. Oh, pardon my presumption! but my heart is in the wish, and I must utter it! Discard this man. He is bad, he is selfish, he will make you wretched!” and tears ran down the cheeks of the pleader. “Tt is too late—too late!” “No, it is not too late. It will not be too late until you have stood at the aliar with him. There | will be some surprise, some gossip, but what is ail that to the happiness of your whole life?” Myra buried her face in her hands for two long minutes. Then she raised it, and there was a reso- lute look in it. “Tshall not give him up. J love him! With all his faults, [love him. I would rather be wretched with him than happy with anyone else. Get u from your knees, Lizette, and go on with my toil- ette. I want to look beautiful to him, I want him to be satisfied with me! I had quite’a color awhile ago, and now [am as pale as—as a ghost, I was going to say,’’ she added, with a forced laugh. “You are pulling my hair, you careless girl!’’ **Pardon!—{ was poe Mademoiselle, it is r. Garwell has tried to make love to me.” “What doI care! You are too pretty for your wie. Lizette, after you have dressed me this ime, consider yourself discharged!” “Yes, mademoiselle, I already considered it best to £0; and I have a new place engaged.’ “TI hope you are doing my hair right, all the same! So, he made love to you ?” rather crossly. ‘* Oh, he’s a terrible flirt, mademciselle!” “Why didn’t you tell me, before?” “JT did not dare, Nor would I now, had not the ghost—ah, miss, if you would only give him his conyé as he deserves!” “You can torment me, now, for I have no one else to dress me! Iam in your power. But I think you extremely insolent. = “ 7 =— Je. & ‘See! they’re a-kissing of each other!” “Oh, how sweet of ’em!” etc., etc. Meantime, John Garwell, as he saluted the girl so soon to be his wife, cast his eyes upward at the faces peering over the banister. The swarthy yet bright and piquant face of the French maid fixed his wan- dering gaze. ; ‘** Who is that?” he asked, quickly. ‘“Who?” queried Myra. “That brown gipsy up there!” Myra igo ee up and met the gaze of Lizette. “As if you didn’t know her!” she cried, remem- bering what the girl had told her. ‘‘ You ought to blush with shame, John,”’ and she swept into the - lighted, flower-decorated drawing-room without taking his arm. “Why should I blush, fairy?” John asked, more eagerly and anxiously than seemed natural. “I never saw the girl before.” * Be careful, sir!” But there were half a dozen friends there who were going to drive to church in their company; and so the incipient quarrel did not come to pe here: that time. John looked at his watch and said i was time to start—the servants were given the word and laid down a carpet across the pavement—Myra was led out and piaced in a carriage \.:°. two friends; John took his Sete in another; in twenty minutes they alighted before the church doors. In five minutes more the bridal party walked u the broad aisles of the crowded church to the soft music of the ‘‘Wedding March.” There were no bridemaids or best men, so that all observation was concentrated on the bridal pair. : Jobn Garweil looked as much at his ease as ever as he walked with his mother on his arm--a little too much at ease—too careless, too jaunty, and there was something almost like a sneer curling his lips. Myra, too, was self-possessed. Nothing on ear did she like so weil as display, and this gran occasion, for it placed her in her element. She had forgotten the ghost, Lizette, her cousin, the Cuban —she only remembered that she was the interesting heroine of this present scene—that it was she for whom all these lamps were lighted and people gath- ered—that her train was as long as in her wildest dreams she had pictured it—that she must be look- ing her best—and that she was going to be John Garwell’s wife, at last! Vea The ceremony bkegan—continued—-ended. Not a mistake had marred the service. ° An old friend of her uncle’s had given her away— the responses were made, the ring was on her ; anger the benediction pronounced. John Garwell _ and Myra Wainwright were man and wife. 3 The fashionably-dressed crowd kept its seat 4 In the part of the church furthest from the altar “ate . sat Ethel, very plainly dressed, quite willing to escape observation, very, very sorry to see Myra the wife of such a man. j She heard the murmurs of admiration which broke fron: those around her, as the married pair’ came slowly back. A delicate bloom had come into the bride’s fair cheeks—the coronet of pearls-and-— diamonds sparkled over her brow—the large dia- monds in her ears burned like shimmering rainbows —diamonds glittered on bosom and armis—her costly vail shrouded her so that she looked like a sprite — parting the mists of evening—no wonder she was admired! Ethel recognized her own diamonds; nevertheless © tears of emction swam in her dark eyes, and she sincerely wished that Myra might be happy and that John might reform. The bride, in her slow progress out of the church on her husband’s arm, kept her eyes cast modestly down; but just before they reached the vestibule, she raised them by chance, and they fell directly a # the dark face of the Cuban woman, and on th > splendid countenance of one who sat by her side—a — young Southern beauty, magnificently beautiful, © and most elegantly dressed, in white silk, and with flowers and jewels in her hair. . 4 When Myra met the keen gaze of Olive, andbeheld _ this young lady by her side—cajm in her superb > Leauty as the japonica that blooms in its time— something struck to her heart which made her turn ghastly pale and falter. : This very Cuban woman had assured her that her uncle’s daughter died before she was ten yearsold; and yet, there was now something in the mocking | gaze of Olive—something in the dark beauty of the young lady by her side—that sent a pang of appre ension through her brain. Pm: Had the Cuban deceived her? Was this young and | wondrously fair woman the trwe Ethel—not dead? Had the woman madé a fool of her—Myra—and then brought on Wainwright's daughter to triumph over her? Was this Cyrill Wainwright’s daughter? , Myra, now pale and trembling, glanced up into her husband's face. He had observed nothing. - “How cold you are, little wife,’ he observed; ag he touched her hand. ‘“*Am I?” she asked, shivering. Some one wan ed a warm shawl lightly about her; but she still shivered in spite of it. ’ It was not until she found herself in the supper- room, and had drank the glass of Geertjcae. Fp handed to her, that she ceased to tremble and co me ire shake off the fear which had presen tself to | her so suddenly, ? : CHAPTER XVIII. A DREADED INTERVIEW. Mr. and Mrs. John Garwell were off to Washington — on their wedding-trip. we Webster es bn had returned from Cuba, this time in low spirits, smee weeks of unremitting search had / ~
Page 16
not given him one fact more than those he had } ' brought with him the first time. i The knowledge he had gained on his first visit had i been slowly epened item by item, by persistent . questioning of every living person who had known a" the Yosedos—every old servant on the estates, every plantation negro—the lawyers who had been em- ployed by Mr. Yosedo, and later, by Donna Marie— their old friends in the citv. And out of “‘trifles ‘light as air,” out of straws showing the set of the current, out of patiently pieced-together patches of information, he had built up the story which he gave to Mr. Dobell on his return. The one main fact— ; that the nurse, Olive, had exchanged the two chil- dren—he had discovered simply by the force of logic. y Taken in connection with Cyrill Wainwright’s two . wills, in both of which he disowned Ethel as his _ child, all the lesser facts went to prove this great one. There absolutely could be no other solution of the a stery. Behe Ay Oe, this Evelyn remained as positive as ever. But { _ he had not succeeded in proving that the supposed fs child of the nurse—said to have died in her ninth _» year—was still living—was the young lady in the t convent—was the true Ethel. He believed it; for he ; had worked it out by the same mental process which Be had disclosed the other thing; but he could not prove _ it; he could only learn that the young lady had left . the convent. He could not even ascertain who had t taken her away; so came home, disgusted with him- Pret self, as he went to break the news to Ethel. . It was evening when he called; and was _ asked to r walk up-stairs to herroom. The little stuffy parlor a was not to be the scene of their interview, this time. ret! A flush passed over Evelyn’s face when, on enter- __. ing Ethel’s pretty and tasteful sitting-room, he was greeted not only by her, but by Cadet Lei h. This © young gentleman had an air of intimacy with the fair -- eceupant which struck a sudden fear to the young ‘tg _ lawyer’s heart. ‘em Nae: was rendered still more uncomfortable when Ethel said to him, carelessly, that he might give her an account of his expedition with the same freedom as if they were alone; their mutual friend, Mr. Leigh, _ knew ali about the matter. _ Then, indeed, at this evidence of their confidential ' relations, the tortures of jealousy began with Web- _, . gsterEvelyn. His brow seemed on fire, his heart was a es knotted organ, whose cords were so wrung and twisted that he was scarcely able to breathe; it was with the greatest difficulty that he could keep up an “appearance of ease—that he could spevk at all, or keep his eyes from fairly devouring the innocent -__ pair who were so unconscious of his agitation. _. For Evelyn’s love was Evelyn’s self; it was death -_ to see the woman he loved in the company ofa rival. | -- Phis was his reward for the three months he had - devoted solely to the service of this beautiful girl!— to see her carrying on a jove-affair with another be- fore his very eyes! : : _ And when he had explained to her his efforts and his ill-success, she was so careless about it!—she * hardly asap disappointed—she hardly listened Fak’, o his explanations—she did not seem to feel sorry. ‘Under such circumstances Evelyn did not prolong ei: visit beyond the bounds of necessity. He soon et to go; and when Ethel begged him to come ain soon, when he was in less haste, thanking him with some warmth for what he had done, he con- demned her in his mind as ungrateful and selfish and went stumbling down the stairs, almost blind with the raging war between heart and brain. “Tn love with that puppy!” he muttered, once out jin the court, “‘that boy! that vain little cadet! A woman like Ethel! It seems incredible! Bertram Leigh isa mere boy—fit companion for that mad- cap school-girl, Coralie Clyde. But to mate with that ted, that thoughtful nature—oh, is this a rable dream? Am I mad—or is she? Away, eet dreams of future joy—of a life passed with a \ an, sweet, pure, noble, whose intellectual 4 mn athies were with me in my work, whose heart was fond and true! Mocking dream! foolish dream! -- Yet, how dark it i Seal that the light of that . dream is extinguished!’ : -- ** It did seem as if Ethel might have grown some- _- what ‘thoughtless and light of purpose; for she laughed a little as she closed the door after Mr. Evel yn, afid grew brighter and gayer than ever. Tt was naughty of me not to keep him longer,” _ ghe said. ‘But, Bertram, I wanted this last evening with you—andI can make amends to Mr. Evely some other time.” , { __ “This last evening!” cried the cadet, surprised. —_ “Certainly. Is this not the fourteenth of April? Does Coralie not return to her friends to-morrow? a that Iever hope to see you after that?—any more ? than a stolen glimpse now and then? Don’t think I _ have any idea of robbing Miss Clyde of her darling.” sf “Tl tell you what we'll do, dear Miss Ethel; we will Verte the time we can get to spend here, in your delightful room, and in your delightful pres- ence! You know my visits are ‘tabooed’ at Cora- __ Jie’s house.’ So she will have to meet me here. You will make no objections, will you, my dear, sweet _ friend? You will allow us to come here—” ¢ _ “And bill and coo? Dear me!” ; #1 ~~ “But you can go on with your painting all the game; you need pay no attention to us. We will be awfully good, and keep just as still as mice!” At this point a smothered laugh was heard in the bed- Ps SOO joining. ua pe evan ere?’ cried Bertram, in a whisper. s “ Lizette,” answered Ethel, looking up from roidery with a smil Teh, her emt e. “Who's Lizette, pray? That gipsy I saw here one orb st evening?” , ‘ "Fhe game, your lordship. She was Myra’s dress- _ ing-maid; but was dismissed the night of the wed- ding 3,80 she came to me and begged leave to stay a wis 7 Wierd cae Pune : . : \ * ie ; t; ITTLE QU — — eae few days until she could find another situation. I believe she has one engaged, already; so I shall not be troubled with her long. She is doing some sew- ing, which gives me more time for my painting.” “She had a pair of bright eyes,” remarked the young man, speaking soas to be heard in the bed- room. ‘Yes, and a nimble tongue!”’ laughed Ethel. “May J go and take a peep at her?” rising. “You saucy fellow! at your peril!’’ Come, lieuten- ant, it is nine o’clock, and Lizette wants me to try on the bonnet she is making me.” * You might let me stay a little longer. I shall not sleep a wink to night!—soI don’t care to ‘seek my restless couch’ too early. I shall walk the streets for hours, after I go away from here?” “ee Wh ip? “Because to-morrow is the fifteenth. Do you think I am so cold-blooded as to go tamely to slee to-night? Iam dreadfully agitated, I assure you! shall walk up and down before her house all day to- morrow. Then I shall see her when she arrives.” Then, changing his merry tone, he added, with deep feeling—“ It is cruel, shameful, that I cannot enter that house like a man, and speak openly to the dear girl I love. Oh, Miss Ethel, if I were rich! if I had even a name that was my own to offer her! But it will take long years for me to win promotion: I shall always be poor. Why, why must loving hearts be sundered, as ours are?’ “You are both young,” said Ethel, gently ‘‘You can afford to wait. Be hopeful! Something may hap: to your advancement, after all.” “7 do try to be brave, dear friend. Butit makes a fellow feel forlorn—it humbles and dispirits him, to be turned out of people’s houses as if he were a crim- inal! I should like to win Coralie openly and honest- ly, with the consent of her aunts, but they treat me asifI wereadog. Never mind! I will have her, then, in spite of them! ‘Coralie or death!’ is my motto. Please embroider it on a banner for me, and I will go forth like the youth in Excelsior,’ he added, brushing something warm and shining from his his a and returning to his gay manner. “ Well, good-night, my best friend, since you drive me off. Sweet dreams, and good-night!” He went away, and no sooner bad the door of the lower hall closed than Lizette slipped out into the sitting-room. ‘“He’s a sweet youn “I wish J had such another! it as true to him as he is to her.” ‘*T trust so, truly.” - ae you coming out with me this evening, Miss thel?’’, ** Are you afraid to go alone, Lizette?” ‘Not the least afraid.” “Then pray do excuse me. You have no idea how I suffer when I see those people! You cannot im- agine the trial it is to my feelings! I believe another visit would make me really ill. me, I will remain at home.” ‘*Remain, by all means. I did not think enough of what you must suffer,” added the French e with a look of pity into the beautiful face which ad grown suddenly pale. ‘“* When @» you think it will end?” asked Ethel, as the other tied on a plain straw hat. . “Soon, soon, I am certain of it,’’ returned Lizette, and hastened to leave the house. ‘“What a brave, kind, helpful, shrewd girl that is! She has done a thousand times more than I could or would. Ionly hope that her share of the benefits will equal mine.”’ Scearcely had Lizette’s brisk footsteps died away on the pavement below, when the door-bell was a and her landlady’s little girl came up to say: ‘“'here’s a woman in the hall who wants to see you, Miss Ethel. A funny, foreign woman, very ag she says her name is Olive. Shall I show er uw “Yes, Emma, let her come up.” Ethel spoke calmly, but when the child had gone down again, she pressed her hand to her heart. “The hour has come!” she murmured, with white lips. _‘* Oh, what an inexpressible dread and aver- sion I feel!” When the pent visitor knocked at her door, she steadied herself by placing one hand on the mantilepiece, and called hoarsely for her to enter. The Cuban woman entered. . The two looked each other in the face. The Cuban had no bonnet on, only a handker- chief of scarlet silk pinned over her smooth black hair; she wore a dress of black silk, with a necklace of large gold beads. With- the exception of the power and intensity of her expression there was nothing to mark her as differing from an ordinary, respectable nurse—unless, indeed, a certain state- liness of the tall, fine figure made a difference. She saw before her a slender girl e as death, very beautiful, staring at her wit wi e-open, fright- ened eyes. : “You are afraid of me,” she said, after an intense silence, speaking in low, musical tones. Ethel opened her lips to say that she would ti not to be, but they moved without making any sound. “T don’t wonder you look at me so,”’ continued the Cuban. ‘“‘But try to be calm—try to understand what I have to tell you.” “Wait Se ee Ethel. ‘‘ Let me collect thoughts. Iam afraid I shall go mad.” ‘Am Iso terrible to you?” ‘Tam trying to overcome little time.” » man,”’ she said, laughing; trust his lady will be m this feeling; give me a CHAPTER XIX. / _ UNDER THE BATTERY OF EYES! _ Never had there been such a commotion in the sedate househcld of the Misses Featherflight, as on / 0, if you do not need © AKERESS. _ Sully glad to get back, I tell you! uncommon lo - the morning of the fifteenth of April. Cookhador- © | ders to get wp a sumptuous lunch, and a still more sumptuous dinner; for, no one knew just when to. expect the wicked, sinful girl who had played them such a grave trick. The up-stairs girl had a certain pretty room to air and get in immaculate order. George had to go to the florist’s, polish up the door- steps to even more than their usual slippery white- ness, set the lunch-table with all the family silver Le could find an excuse for, and do innumerable er- rands,,ali of which he executed correctly, but in\so © wild a manner that Miss Priscilla became so nervous she would have liked to cry. By ten o’clock in the forenoon the sisters entered |. L the front parlor with a color on their cheeks such - as had not bloomed there for years. ' \ The shutters to the front windows were thrown ay back, and each lady drew a chair close to a window and there seated herself to watch and wait. “Toes thee think she will be here to lunchecn, sis- ter?” inquired Charity, timidly. ‘“‘T fear not, Charity; set not thy heart upon it.” ‘‘T will labor with myself to be patient,’’ answered ; meek Charity, ashamed of her emotion. So the two } elderly ladies sat, almost as silent as if at one of their church meetings, knitting furiously at the stockings which partially relieved the sirain upon their nerves. A half-hour passed slowly on, ona then Priscilla, bending her sheer muslin cap: a little nearer to the window, cried quickly: a ‘‘Who is that, sister—the man over the way? .He walks back and forth, and looks over here very . strangely.” “Sister, it must be—it és that impudent cadet! He has on a coat over his uniform, and he wears a straw hat—but it is that wolf in sheep’s clothing!” “Oh, the iniquity of the present generation!” , “Oh, the boldness of that deceitful youth!’ a! “Charity, does thee think of anything that can be done? Shall I send George to drive him away?” ‘He is not on our pavement, Priscilla; is thee =! sure thee has a right to interfere?’’ Priscilla groaned as she stooped to pick up the ball of yarn she had dropped. , “This is too outrageous!” she cried, warmly, ‘Nis too bad, that in a Christian country, young men should be permitted to do such things. What. are we coming to?” “What are we, truly, sister?” “That young man must have a serpent’s guile. Who told him we looked for our niece to-day? “Tt passeth our knowledge, Priscilla.” “So shamelessly bold! right in our face and eyes!” “In broad daylight!” “Here he comes back again! Up and down, like a sentry. I trust the neighbors will not make a scandal out of it. Charity, I believe I will go to the door and call him over, to reason with him and per- , chance persuade him of his shamelessness,”’ “Thee had better send George to invite him in,” ‘“‘ But, if niece arrives while he is in the house!” “Yea, I thought not of that.” FoR, “Verily, he will keep his ground untilshe comes!” - “Charity, I must remove my seat from this win- ; dow. It is too disturbing to my peace of mind to see that pons. donkey giving himself airs—”’ j ‘Priscilla, thee is losing thy temper.” ‘oPwould make a saint lose his temper, then.” ‘*Oh, sister, a carriage stops before our door!” _ Miss Featherflight rushed back to the window. Yes, the door of the carriage was opened by the driver, and out flew the naughty darling of these | two hearts. They saw the brown curls flying, the soft cheeks glowing, the Cark-gray eyes Gaile from under a cunningly-beccming hat; they saw, | with ire unspeakable, which almost ruined their — joy, that impertinent cadet stop stock-still on the % opposite pavement and lift his wide-brimmed hat from his curly head; but they did not see their niece, t, when she had run up the steps, blow him ai | pay STR tee kiss from the tips of her rosy fingers. The next instant scme one had fiuttered by the — beaming George, with a gay rmile at him, rushed ~ ny into the parlor like a breath of sweet May flowers and fields, setting everything to dancing,eventhe = blood of her dear old aunties. ThisSome One got an arm around either stately neck, without regard _ to crumpling the clear-starched neckerchiefs, and rained kisses on the dear, pale cheeks, and wasin ~ such a breeze of laughter and April shower of tears, © that they had nct a word of repreof, except: M “Oh, niece, how could pe e such a bad girl?” — From aunt Priscilla; then they cried, and smiled, and appeared to grow gladder and gladder to see that madeap girl in their house again. The spring sunshine peeped through the curtain, thecookeame => up with a grin on her face, George was shaking, in the vestibule, with cachinnations of mirth, to think of how young missa bad kissed her hand to that A young gentleman; and Coralie herself looked so rosy + and blooming, so bright and fair and innocent, so childish and sweet and lee bert could they help being a little bit less mournful and sober? =; : “Pm glad that sailor-uncle didn’t come heme _ with her!” nrae Priscilla, as they took their places at the lunch-table. ‘“ Niece, how did thee come?” “All alone, auntie dear.’ " ; “Tis a wonder thee escaped in passing through that Sodom, the city of New York.” ' “Oh, Iwas all right, aunt Priscilla—just as safe © as if [’'d been riding through this Gomorrah, the city of Philadelphia, in the street-cars.”’ take". “Nay,” asseverated aunt Charity, ‘there is no ; comparison *twixt the two cities, child.” Bae “Well, I’m here, auutie, safe and sound; andaw- : T’ve been he eae yay of the time—yet I'vehada most = of fun, too.” j os % “Does Madame B. allow thee to say ‘awful’and = ‘lot,’ niece?” inquired Priscilla. ‘S] die MEAS 4 " tee a sick enough ky yt re * x . ) '
Page 17
: THE LITT! Stes MADCAP “No, indeed! But when one has been with all sorts of people one gets into bad habits. Ill try to reform now, aunt Priscilla; and I mean to be aw— very, very good for a long time.” “Then perchance, thee will be willing to make me a promise,” observed Priscilla, putting a spoon- ful of chicken salad on the plate of the hungry wanderer, and een puing to George, by a look, that he could retire to his pantry. , ** What promise?” “Not to hold any communication whatever, for one year, with Cadet Bertram Leigh. Thee will not be eighteen even. then, and canst surely abide by our judgment until then.’ ** Aunt Priscilla,’ said Coralie, ‘‘ you drove me out of your house once—will you not be wise in time? I came back with the resolution to be discreet and obedient; but I will not bind myself by a promise. It may be necessary that I hold some communica- tion with him before the' year is out—who can tell? If you would only permit him to come to your house, I should not have to meet him outside of it.” Miss Featherflight struck her hand-bell. George appeared from the aie “ George, go to the hall door, and see if that gen- promenading on the other side of the tleman is sti street.” Coralie held her breath with astonishment, while the servant went out, grinning from ear to ear. ‘“* Yes, madam,’’ he reported, a moment later. “+ Go, ask him to come in and lunch with us.” Coralie glanced sidewise at the solemn face of her aunt, while the blood crept redly into her own. In three minutes Cadet Leigh stood in the dining- room door, hat in hand, looking slightly puzzled and excited, but as frank, as innocent, as manly as you could wish any handsome young fellow to look in the presence of such ity. “Come in, Cadet Leigh,” spoke up Priscilla, cold- a. “Come in and have some luncheon with us. ur niece, Coralie Clyde,” she continued, as he ad- vanced to the table. The lovers looked at each other a little sheepishly, bowed formally, and Bertram took the chair George placed for him. “ Bring a hot plate for the fried oysters, George.” The man went for the plate. ‘‘ Cadet Leigh, thee is ow introduced to our niece, and at liberty to make er acquaintance, in the proper way. I leave it to _ thy honor as a gentleman not to take advantage of this liberty. When Coralie Clyde is eighteen she will have property of her own and be independent. ' Until then it will be mezn of thee to make love to her. Thee can call upon her here in the evening, once @ month. One of us will be present. There comes thy announce’ to you within a week. Yea,twoastound- don’t wonder you are agitated, She’s an awful old humbug, | tell you! And we'll circumvent her yet. “How can you talk of being friendless, mademoi- selle, when you have the handsome cadet coming __ here so often?” ’ i Nea “ He is only a boy, Lizette.” _ n ; “Mr. Evelyn is not a boy.” 4 4 Yo» Mis Re tat Y305¢ 2 Sur rh a tt Coal “
Page 18
rd gt You’re a great tease, Lizette!” “Tam going to tell you something about him. You are weary and vexed, and this piece of news willamuse you. I want to poe to you, too, how much sharper my eyes are than yours—Mr, Evelyn _ is deadin love with you! there!”’ “Tn love with me ?” ' ‘Certainly. Everybody sees it but you.” ¥ “Tmpertinent!”’ if ““Who?—Mr. Evelyn or myself?” rf “Both of you. What business has he to think of } such a thing?” ‘*The same business that any earnest, honest man has, I’ suppose. Ho is-a gentleman, I am sure, mademoiselle; and he has an education and a pro- ; fession. He seems an excellent person—not one of “ your conceited, thistledown fellows, like Mr. Leigh.” “Tizette, don’t worry me with talk about Mr. i Evelyn. I do not intend ever to fall in love, or ever to . I have chosen my calling—to go on | oes flowers forever—or until I am old and 4 Lizette laughed in ga scorn of this declaration. But, when she had taken up one of her compan- i _ion’s white hands and found how feverish it was, she i _ eoaxed her to go to bed, undid her rich mass of i Pn dark-brown hair for her, dropped some aconite in a AF wine-glass with water and gave her; and then, when (ee she had tucked her up, sat by the bedside some $s, ‘ time, softly singing in a sweet, soothing voice—as if eres By el were a baby to be crooned to sleep—before re- tiring to the little bed in the attic which she had 4 ; rented of the landlady. _._ Giizette, plainly, would be a jewel of a maid, for any lady who should be so fortunate as to secure her services. : ' The next morning Ethel wrote a note to Mr. Do- , asking him to call and see her as early in the ‘as convenient. ette had taken herself off to her new place, and , Ethel was sitting, quite alone, trying to fix her mind - on the work she was doing, when the expected knock sounded on her door. She put aside her fe ae arose to open it; but instead of Mr. : Do r. Evelyn came in. : i Ethel showed her rg ale almost too plain- Ry 80 that the young lawyer grew somewhat em- , assed as he explained that the elder one was in court, conducting a case, and had sent him to take Miss Ethel’s instructions, ' “Ag T know all about your legal affairs, he con- sidered that I faight take his place for once,” he concluded, “Very well,” rejoined the lady, a little more cold- _ ly than she would have spoken were it not for those - impertinent remarks of Lizette the previous day. “Olive has come tomeat last, asI feared she would. ts She told me what nfs have told me—and she wants 1 to consult Mr, Dobell, this evening, about restoring _ the stolen daughter to her proper position, and re- covering her fortune.” Mr. Evelyn asked some questions, and they went on to discuss the matter at full length, —- It was a lovely April day; the window was open to admit the soft air. Ethel was dressed in a soft, white morning wr-pper; it was the first time Evelyn had seen her in white, and he could not refrain from noticing how much it became her—how lovely and | girlish she looked in that simple robe, with a bunch of pinks in her dark hair, and_a few violets pinned inthe bosom of her dress. Her rich, dark com- plexion showed to the best advantage contrasted » with white, her hair was in morning freedom, falling in long, heavy curls down to her shoulders. She looked so sweet, so young, so helpless, that Evelyn’s eyes v dim as hé watched her. That proud look habitual with her, made her solitary life and. the bit- ter humiliation of her birth appear more pitiful. fe, J ey she avers that she is your mother, as we feared?” he asked, very gently. | 2 _ *Yesg—oh, yes! A severe punishment for my aris- . toeratic tendencies, is it not?’ endeavering to speak _. lightly, but the observant lawyer heard the thrill of S ain in her voice and saw the quivering of the long, 4 drooped lashes, | ¥ His heart swelled in his throat. He had intended ‘to be very prudent, be very reserved—to win the «proud girl's ove by faithful and constant service, if j ‘so be it were possible for him to win it at all. But now agreat wave of love and pity swept over him and washed him from that rock of purpose on which he had fixed himself. He leaned forward in his chair, - the warm color rose to his forehead, his piercing eyes grew strangely tender and luminous. “Ts it wrong, is it all selfishness on_my_ part, for _ me to be glad, in one sense, that you, Ethel, are not _ go far removed from me and m a and dreams. as you were when you were the aug. ty daughter of amerchant-prince? I loved you then—I love you now. Then without hope—séi/l without hope. I know that I have done nothing—am nothing—to win _ your maiden fancies to dwell favorably on me. I ex- - pect nothing but your displeasure, now that, seeing you so sad and lonely, this passionate yearning to solace, to comfort the woman whom I so love that I shall live only for her, though she sweep me out of her presence as if I were a withered leaf—-has driven me beyond my power of self-control. Still, it may bea source of pleasure to you that neither lowly -pirth, poverty or misfortune can make you other in my eyes than the sweetest and loveliest of women, _' whom I should be proud to defend in the face of the world. I have not given my love lightly—I have : ‘ought with desperation against it—because I knew ow hopeless it was; such as it is, it is yours, to c pity, to scorn, to trample on; or to take up and ‘J ee cherish. Would that I, instead of being poor and 5 Ses _struggling, were a prince, an emperor, that I might better show you the regard I have for you.” . . Paty j ie hGeeet... seer ’ oe tpn eS Pe MADCAP, THE LITTL , Two or three times Ethel attempted to stop the assion of words which she did not care to hear; ut the lover had risked his earthly hopes in speak- ing at this time, and now that he had betrayed him- self he was determined to go on. ‘* You do not care for me—I know that,’ he added, when she looked up at him, trying to frame her speech so as least to hurt him. ‘*No, Mr. Evelyn, Ido not care for any man. And I do not think I ever shall. Thauk you, for wishin, to befriend me. You have proved your unselfis interest by what you have done for me in Cuba. Let us be friends still. Do not do anything, please, to prevent our being friends.” She looked at him so pitifully, so sadly, as she said this, that he was completely silenced. His pride had received no wound, tor she had told him that she loved no man. It was not so much that she could not love him as that she would love no one. She had Jearned to dis- trust professions of feeling, perhaps. Or her own orgs and perplexities were so absorbing that she ad room for no other emotions. “Come with Mr. Dobell, this evening, and behold this real daughter, for whom I have so long been mistaken,” she added, seeing him stand before her, silent and pale. y Evelyn bowed, and went away from the fair, sweet maiden, so humble and yet so proud, Stand- ing there with flushed cheeks and downcast eyes, so determined to give him no encouragement—went out into the fresh air—laden, in the little court, with the breath of violets—bearing a heavy heart. “*T cannot live without her!’’ he cried inwardly, as her image, clad in a soft white dress, with pinks in her dar hair, floated before his mind’s eye more vividly than did the phantoms of men and women who passed him in the street. CHAPTER XXI. “CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL.” Ir was evening of the same day. Ethel, in her pretty chamber—waited the arrival of those who were to meet in that room. She was not certain that Olive would bring with her the girl who was to take the place she once oc- cupied. Yet she anticipated is. The girl was ct nay, snperbly beautiful, with a sort of wild and unsubdued beauty, such as we find in tropic birds and flowers—Ethel knew this, for she had seen her; and she foresaw that the Cuban would bring her before the lawyer, thinking to prepossess him and charm him into becoming her advocate. , It was hardly eight o’clock when she heard a stir in the narrow hall, followed by a tap at her door. At her bidding the door swung open, and the Cuban led in the young lady whom we have seen with her in their apartments. ** Miss Ethel,” said the Cuban, “this is Olive—so called—but truly Ethel, while you are my Olive.” The two girls looked at each other with fascinated gaze. The young stranger, careless and easy as was her paar shrunk a little under the calm eyes of the other. Of the same age, both tall and of Shee figure, both lovely of face, no wonder that they faced each other with feelings of deepest int_rest. But Ethel was not thinking so much even of the sumptuous charms of her rival aS she was of another thing. Herone keen thought was to look for some feature of her father’s in this brilliant face. ‘*She must be all mother,’ was her decision, after a moment—‘‘ I do not see one expression—one curve or feature of my father here.” The Cuban looked from one to the other of the two girls, as they regarded each other. There was a subtle glimmer of some thought—not an honest one—in her watchful, brilliant eyes. But she had not long to continue her covert and eunning regard; for Mr. Dohell, with young Evelyn, arrived almost directly after her. In another moment Cadet Leigh also knocked at the door; end as Ethel had not the least objection to his hearing the discussion, he was invited in. And now, on the appearance of these gentlemen, Ethel noticed a change in the girl whose history was so curiously linked with her own. The dark eyes kindled, the velvety cheeks glowed, the lithe figure assumed most coquettish attitudes, and around the scarlet and budding lips be an almost insolent smile of expectation and triumph, which said, as plainly as words: “Behold, how beautiful I am—how worthy of all that you can do, gentlemen, to raise me to that high position in which I will reign the queen of love- liness and love.” ; Ethel perceived, too, the impression which this splendid young creature made on her own true friend, Mr. Dobell. Men aré easily dazzled by dark, smiling eyes and roseleaf mouths; Mr. Dobell cer- tainly was surprised and snared by the dark beauty of the Southern girl—a beauty hightened by her magnificent dress—dress of a style which in the critical North, would have been called “stunning,” but which, in a southern clime, was considered ap- propriate. Ethel’s plain black dress, fitting her elegant e demurely, was in strong contrast to the lemon-colored satin robe and over-dress of finest silk gauze—the bared arms and shoulders, the jewels and flowers in the purple-black hair of the other. But this luxurious toilet.had its effect on the men, as it was intended to have—on all the men except Evelyn; and whether love made his eyes sharper, or what, it proved that the splendid dress and smiling manner of the young Cuban stamped her, in his mind, as an adventuress. _ In his eyes, Ethel, modest, sad, dignified—her pale cheeks unflushed by the excitement of the hour —her pure brow beaming with soul—her mourning .| loud voice, advancing to t E QUAKERESS. dress clinging to her slight, full, supple form in plain folds—no ornament about her except the cluster of carnations in her dark hair—was a thousand times more womanly and more lovable than this brilliant tropical creature with her inappropriate full dress and her theatrical attitudes. The story which Olive had to tell is too familiar to need repetition. She went over it in full, givin every detail, and so working it up with incident an the coloring of her own feelings that not a doubt remained in Mr. Dobell’s mind of its utter truth. He was sorry for the girl whose friend he had been so long; but he could not _ thinking—as he aap at the splendid beauty who sat, smilingly, ike a youthfal ee er in her corner of the sofa— that her place would be well filled. Cadet Leigh hardly attended to what was being said, he was so fascinated by those wonderful eyes. “Tam to make out the deposition, to which you will swear,” said the lawyer, when Olive had told her story. ‘‘On the strength of this deposition, I am to set about breaking the will, by means of which Mrs. Myra Garwell now enjoys the estates which belong—no court will dispute her rights—to the daughter of Cyrill Wainwright. Ido not antici- pate much trouble,” smiling, as he half-bowed to the young empress on the sofa. ““Mrs. Garwell has been lavish of the money,” re- marked the Cuban; “ the sooner a stop is put to her squandering what is not her own the better.”” “ Ay,’ responded the lawyer, half-laughing, “ John Garwell has got himself into a scrape. I pity his wife with all my heart.” “She does not deserve much pity,’ began the : Cuban, but Ethel silenced her with an imperious wave of her hand. I ‘*Myra is my cousin,” she seid, “please spare these remarks. It is dreadful to me that she should be such a victim to fate—lifted high to be dashed low. Have some respect for her disappointment,” and with “ level-fronting eyelids’’ she swept a re- buking glance about the room. Evelyn looked at her ere “True as steel to her friends!” he murmured. Evelyn had come here as an observer—not to take any Hert in the business—and as an observer he had watched every expression of the Cuban’s face and marked every word of her story. He had not been egg: with it. But it was not for him to challenge er. or How soon can matters be arranged?’ asked ve. “T don’t know. The bride returns at the end of a fortnight. 1 shall see and talk with her before tak- ing the will into court. She may realize the force of necessity, dnd make over the property without an attempt to defend the will. I shal advise her to do so,” answered Mr. Dobell. ‘Ethel Wainwright,” oe up the Cuban, in a jhe girl on the sofa, ‘as it was I who wronged you, let me be the first to con- gratulate you,” and she held out her hand. “TI forgive you,’ said the Southern girl, smilin round upon the others, and laying a jeweled han in the woman’s. er The little company was silent, looking on at this scene—an awkward one, one might think, for her who had grownup as Ethel ainwright—hardly knowing what act was next on the programme— when, through the oppressive silence, in the air over their heads, came a thrilling, hollow, strange and solemn voice, saying; ; “ Mockery! Therrue Lthel Wainwricht is she v ho has always borne that name. I know, now, that my infant child was never taken from me. PENT, while there is yet time! Repent! Undo thy falsehcods. Heie, bejore these u itnesses, tell the truih, the whole truth, and i.othing but the truth.” The same voice which had spoken so often in that other house! ‘Even Ethel was startled and turned pale; the men glanced at one another and about the room. The Cuban turned a sickly yellow and cast a ter- rified glance at the ceiling. But, as one making a great effort, she said, slowly to those about her: ‘“*] have told no lies. Ihave nothing to repent of.” “ You are subtle and sly, but vou coniot chet the dead. Once more—speck the truth, or chocse the a’te - native. Speak the truth, or I ui never leave, thee, right or day, living or dying. TIuill haunt thee evey- more—by thy bedside—in church—at midnight. thy chotee.” ‘Mary, Mother of Christ, drive this evil spirit away. AsI live, Ihave spoken the truth,” gasped the woman, dropping on her knees, “ Take thy choice.” “T have spoken the truth.” “ Thou host mode thy choice. Now, as one who lieth, and chcoseth to dweliin vaults with the ice of the dead, thou shalt abide with me. And theChurch, when it heareth of thy crime, shall excommunicate thee” Casting a glance of appeal, of anguish, at the beau- tiful girl who sat, pale and wide-eyed, staring about her in alarm, Olive dropped her head in her hands and groaned. : : “Come!” cried the bodiless voice. : “No—no!” shrieked the wretched creature; “away! away! Leave me and I will tell all!” “ Nay, L remain to search thy statements.” “ Jesu—Jesu! I will speak the truth!” “ Where is that first child of Isabella and Oy iil Wainwricht, who seemed to die and was buried 2—the sia weeks’ old son to whom—for the price paid thee by — Donna Marte—thou aavest the dose of poison?” ‘Holy Mother! this is, indeed, the dead who speaketh!” ; “ Where is thal child ?” ‘ HERE—IN THIS ROOM.” The woman, answering as if at the confessional, raised ber head and looked strangely at Bertram Wiman! RE- . Tuke s —
Page 19
_ kept | } ‘ : _MADCAP, THE LITTLE QUAKERESS, 19 Leigh. As he met her eyes his heart leaped in his are eos where you have been for the past month?— ? - breast and then fell still as stone, to hear what fur- ther she had to say. | “ Ay. Tell these witnesses all.” Olive glanced around upon the company. Ab- ject fear now made her obedient. Her face was pray cae the lamplight, as she spoke in a low voice, urri : “Doni Marie tempted me, with a large sum, to oison her sister’s son.- I consented. But, indeed, could not do such a thing! I could not murder a helpless babe. I gave him a sleeping-potion, which made him as one dead; he was laid in his little grave at sunset; but I took him up an hour later, and watched for him to come out of his trance, and fed and nourished him. For months I had him se- ereted in a cabin on the plantation, in care of a deaf old ‘mammy’; then I got him conveyed to the Foundling Hospital at Havana, and he w there and flourished like a weed. I know—for I kept my- self informed. All this time Donna Marie, she thinks the little fellow dead. But I did not murder him—oh, no!’’ and she looked helplessly up at the faces bent over her. ‘““What became of him?” asked a sharp, quaver- ing voice. ? } tt was Bertram Leigh who asked this question, in a voice which he hardly recognized as his own— it was Bertram Leigh’s pale face which leant down as he spoke. ° “He did mighty well there, and child. I kept watch, fur I was in mistress weoks at a time. Once when I was in the city, a gentleman from the North—somewhere in Massachusetts, ho sail—came to the hospital, and fell in love with the retty boy, he said; he had no children—so he took that one—and he brought him up well—almost as well as if he’d been his own flesh and blood. You see him, folks! Hs: stands there before you, Judge for yourselves. Bertram Leigh is that baby boy, I swear to you!”’ Bertram put his hand_to his heart and fell into a chair, almost fainting. Ethel brought him a glass of water. ‘*T know, now, why I liked you so much,” she said, smiling, as he took the glass. ‘It was because you reminded mé of my father—of that man they called my father. No wonder you are so handsome Bertram, since you are the son of Cyrill Wainwright} ! ar eae the little daughter ?”’ said the ghost, sol- emnly. “T éxchanged the little girls in their cradles,” meee the woman, wringing her hands. “Could not bear to do the deed. So I brought my mistress’s little gil back to her the very next night. And all I've told you, good people, about my Olive here being the heiress, is lies and wickedness, And all I told Cyrill Wainwright, afew weeks before he died, was lies and wicked- ness. Iam sure I beg your pardons, all. You see, I ‘was always one o’ the discontented ones; and I thought my daughter ought to have everythi St ee ther nice, an’ eddicated her, on the money Don- na Marie give me; an’ when Donna Marie died, an’ I couldn’t look to her for no more, then I thought over that plan of exchanging the children, and I said to myself, ‘it isn’t too late yet,’ and I came on to New York and made Cyrill sehen believe as how I had actually done what Donna Marie wanted me to, and so he made the will he did, for he thought his own child was dead. I fooled with his niece for awhile, to see how the ground lay, and what I could do, and finally I brought my daughter up North, to set up her clai he heiress, I could have suc- ew a handsome avana with tho m as ceeded, too, if the powers of hell hadn’t stopped me. And now, I hope you'll excuse a mother’s vanity and -ambition for her child. My girl was pretty and bright and sperited, and I wanted to make a lady of her. Ihave, too!” she added, pointing to the sofa. “Look at her, and say if she isn’t a lady—every inch alady!’? Their eyes followed the direction of her hand, and they saw a burning flush on the cheeks of poor Olive, and hot tears running down her cheeks. But there nee a frown on the ivory brow, too; and she looked like an angry tigress about to spring. “Don't look at me,” she cried. “I hate you— mother and all!” The woman cowered before the indignant light in her child’s eyes. “ Where is the Donna Marie's will ?”” Every one started as the ghostly voice put ths question; for none of them, save the Cuban herself, knew aught of the will spoken of, or had ever thought of it. ‘Tt is here,’ answered the Cuban, pulling a parch- ment out of the bosom of her dress. ‘I gave it to the niece, but I stole it from her again,’ and she handed the folded document to Mr, Dobell. He opened it to glance over ib. ; The young woman on the sofa rose, with the air of an offended queen—her large eyes flashed lightnings, her passion-curved lips quivered. “‘Mother,I am going. You have madea fool of me as wellas the rest of them. I spit at you! I despise you! You have taught me to look forward to being an heiress and living in pride and luxury—and now —what ami? What am I going to do? What will become of me? Oh, I could curse you all!” and trailing her long silken train through the humble room, she s° ept out. Olive cast a glance of despair after her daughter— true daughter of her own illy-restrained, tempestu- ous, aspiring nature—and went out after her. Ethel followed her into the hall, ““Madame,’’ she said, holding the Cuban a moment by the arm, ‘‘I want to see gon again. I want your daughter to visit me. Tell her that she has a friend in me—to do nothingrash. Give me your address— wel I will come to-morrow to talk with and try to make friends with my foster-sister.”’ CHAPTER XXII. NECTAR AND AMBROSIA. ETHEL returned to her room, where her friends sat or stood, looking at each other in a bewildered ay. Although none of them believed in the communi- cations from above being made by a ghost, they did not understand the yee and were puzzled, as well as astonished, at the unexpected turn the reve- lations had taken. Ethel walked straight up to Bertram aud put her arms around his neck. “Can you realize that you have a sister?’ she asked him. ‘ Oh, how sweet it is to have a relative once more! My brother! My own darling, hand- some brother! Do you know, I am going to be very fond of you?” “T hope so,’’ and Bertram actually brushed some- thing from his eyes as he bent to kiss his sister. “T always was awfully fond of ycu, from the first.’ “Tt seems like a dream!’ -“A very pleasant dream, sister Ethel! I tell you what, I wish Coralie were here! What a splendid scene it would make! Like the transformation scene in a theater! You dissolve into some one else—I dissolve into some one else—everybody is nobody— nobody is ey tie ee knows who—”’ Here the door of Ethel’s little bedroom opened = a the French maid, glided into their midst. “* Bon soir, mesdames et messieurs. Voict le fan- tome |” she said, smiling round among the company in a manner rather free for one in her position, ‘*You—the ghost?” cried Bertram. “* Qui—oui, monsieur.” “A very eid ghost, I declare!” cried Mr. Dobell. **-Yes. izette is the spirit who haunted poor Myra; who frightened the truth out of that wretch, Olive,” asseverated Ethel. ‘Lizette, you did nobly to-night.” ‘“* Merct, chere mademoiselle,”’ “Ah! J wish Coralie were here!” again said Ber- tram, clutching at his gold locks in mock despair. “How she would onoy this melodrama, farce, or whatever we are minded to callit. By Jove, Lizette, my pretty one, you remind mée*of her—and there’s a high compliment for you!” No time for flirting, Cadet Leigh,” interrupted the lawyer; ‘‘I must know about the phantom busi- ness.” “Wait a moment, sir, until I bring this Miss Cor- alie,Clyde, and so satisfy the young gentleman,” mur- manned Lizette, in broken English, dropping Mr. Do- bell a coquettish courtesy and running into the bed- room again. : “The plot thickens!” cried Bertram, in mock- heroics—but he held very tightly his new sister’s hand, whose loving eyes scarcely left the boy’s glow- ing, handsome countenance. ‘It seems strange that you are two years older than I!”’ said Ethel, ‘“‘ you seem such a boy!” + apne Til let you know I’m about twenty- one!’ Poor Evelyn sat silent, devouring the couple with his eyes, jealous almost to fury at the tender looks and loving words lavished by Ethel on her light- hearted, beautiful brother. “‘She will never waste a loving word on me/” he thought, bitterly. In three minutes Lizette returned from the bed- room. But, was it Lizette? Some change had come over | | er. There was the print frock—there was the white, ruffled apron—the cunning cap on her dark locks. of Ger e Clyde!’ shou ertram, in astonish- ment. Lizette lot off the muslin cap and the false front—took the comb from her hair and let it fall about her shoulders, and stood revealed—Madcap Coralie! . All regarded her with astonishment, except Ethel. ‘Don’t look so surprised,” she cried, in her own | musical, joyous tones; ‘a little burt sienna, a pair of heavy eyebrows and a false-front did it all. Come! | praise me a little! This is the last dissolving view | in the transformation scene!—am I not a pretty | good actress? Have I not shown talent? spirit? courage?” ‘ ** You are a little fraud!’’ cried Bertram, deserting Ethel and seizing Coralie’s hand. ‘A perfect little fraud! How about that letter all the way from Nan- tucket, eh?’ “That I wrote to my aunties?—oh, I wrote that in the Wainwright library and forwarded it to my uncle with a pressing request that he would attend to getting it mailed in some seaport town! Zhat was easy enough!” “ But the rest was not so easy? Tell us about it,” requested the rag aS “Here! letus all place our chairs about this table, so as to form a cosey circle. Now, you little adventuress! what have you been about?” “T really, really, really don’t know what made me take the first rash step,” began Coralie. “I was mad, I confess; but there seems to have been a method in my madness, after all! In view of the results, I think I ma: call my mad plot providential. ou see,’ with a shy, shy glance from under her long drooping dark eyelashes at the cadet, ‘I could not—I really coud not make up my mind to marry that John Garwell. There was my wedding-dress and vail and so forth—and aunties were determined —so I just had to run away. Wouldn’t you, if you had been in my place?” she added, turning suddenly upon Mr. Dobell. to me; and gave me the use of * - “Well, yes,” answered the lawyer, deliberately, “T think I should prefer running away to marrying the man you speak of.” “80 Iran. hile I was packing my bag to run, it came into my head that it would be a good joke on Mr. Garwell if I could place myself where I could — observe his charming ways with other ladies. Out — of this idea came my plan of b ekearioed myself to Miss Myra Wainwright as a dressing-maid. The first evening of my flight I went over to West Phila- delphia, and spent the night with a school-girl—a bosom friend of mine—who did not even let her arents know that I was there, but took me up to er room and smuggled my eee and breakfast in ier paint-box to dye ede’ Hs ?* my skin and fix ap my eyebrows—and went out ~~ se and bought my fa hair—aud wrote me a first- class recommendation. She’s a brick—that girl is! and I’ve promised she skall be my bridesmaid if I ever—” here Coralie broke off with a sudden blush which Bertram thought made her look most pro- er pretty. ; “Well, that was the way I got a situation with my youee lady. It was only for a lark at first. I used to langh myself weak over Mr. Garwell’s atten- tions to the new heiress; and I was awfully, awfully angry at the way Miss Myra treated my friend, Ethel, here; though I didn’t know Ethel very well. then—but I knew it was mean of Miss Myra to treat her cousin so. : “At first, as Isaid, it was all in fun. But, one evening I got caught in the boudoir—I roamed about more than a servant ought, I daresay—and sia behind a high chair, or an easel, or something, while Myra came in with the Cuban. mean, at first, to hear what they said; but I could not help it; and after that I always tried to hear all . I could, for I was convinced that Olive was maps up lies and brewing mischief. I learned that sh and yra both meant to cheat my dear friend, here; and Iinvented a way of frightening them out of their plans. Itookit upon myself to become Mr. Wain- wright’s ghost. Opportunely for my pee covered—behind Myra’s high-headed bedstead, a speaking-tube which came out in one of the flowers of the wreath about*the chandelier in the boudoir. I don’t think the young lady knew about | tube, for she had not occupied that chamber lo: and it was concealed by the bed. I found ak By accident, having lost my thimble under the bed, and, squeezing myself up between the bed and the wall, I came upon the mouth of the speaking tube. “J know all about it,’ here spoke up Ethel. ‘‘ It— was a ane tube, being intended for use only in the chamber. My father’s mother had it put in, after she became an invalid, confined to her room. The boudoir was the library in those days; and she used to enjoy sending down messages to my grand- father, when he was reading or writing in the library. I have frightened many a visitor with that tube when I was a child. But, as you say, Myra may have known nothing about it; she has been there but a little over two years, and I tired of playing tricks with it longer ago than that.” ! ‘‘T practiced sepulchral tones whenever I was alone; and, having heard the family history from these two, I made the ghostly suggestions, warnings and threatenings, whenever I had a fitting oe tunity. Poor Myra used to be frightened out of all comfort; I had to sleep with her, she was so timid; but I could not stop to pity her, I was so bent on seeing Miss Ethel righted.” ; * Sa Miss Ethel know about these tricks of ours font ‘* After awhile, Mr. Dobell. Icame here and told her all; and I coaxed her to go with me—because I could not venture to run about alone at night—to further frighten the stitious nature, by lookin evenings, masked in a Devil’s head.” “But what made you suspect that the infant j ban, and work on her super- s rc? in at her window, of rise. / 4, ri I did not Po * a m4 - Fs or ‘ son of Mr. Wainwright was not dead?’ asked the © lawyer. “Something in the woman’s voice when she told _ the story. I ae new she was lying, when she said he was dead, by a peculiar change in her voice.” — * But did you associate this infant with our cadet, hcre? You are not a seer or a prophet to do that, Miss Clyde.”’ ‘No, but I am—I was very much interested in Mr. Leigh. He had told me, in the hospital, that he was — | a foundling—from some Southern country—and that the name, ‘ Cyrill,’ on one of his baby garments, was the only clew he had to his parentage. Now it did not take me long to put two and two together and make four. Of courseI did not know that our Ber- tram Leigh and this infant were one and the same —but I inferred it. I was bold enough to put the question to Olive this evening—and you see I was right?” smiling triumphantly. — , : ‘You were,” assented the admiring lawyer. “I did not know that she had not exchanged the | little girls—but 1 believed it, and acted on ray betiet bid “You have done well—you have played your char- Cn French maid to good purpose,” said Mr, ‘obell. “She isa trump,” added Bertram. ; “Oh, I had lots of fun,” ran on Coralie, dimpling at the memory of some of her tricks. “‘It was as — good as a play to hear Garwell going over the same compliments and vows to Myra that he had done to me. Ienjoyed that part of it. And had to exercise my ingenuity to devise various things to perplex Myra. I put a carmine saucer in the water of her wash-bowl, and the ghost called it blood, when she put her hands in the bowl. That time I used my © powers as a ventriloquist. Fact, Bertram! practic gave me considerable skill in that line. Ob, I wae always studying how to carry out my plot. used to.be shocked when I told her—but I didn’t ‘ Le | Ethel
Page 20
4 eS Bo, ve ' “Ts that my reward for all I have done for you, sir _ “You have given me something sweeter than all these!” cried the boy, in a sudden rapture. ‘Can you guess what? ou have Seen me your own sweet self! Ah! I know the Misses Featherflight ‘will begin to appreciate my good looks, my talents and amiable disposition, now that they will learn what are my letters of credit! You little madcap you! Ishall be allowed togo courting you now—and not be limited to fifteen minutes and the presence of Miss Priscilla!” ’ “Come, Mr. Dobell,” said Evelyn, rising: “since _ theseyyoung folks have gone to love: making before our very eyes I think we may be excused. We can ; tall about business to-morrow. Good-evening, all. I congratulate you on your little melodrama turning out so happily,” and his fine, earnest eyes rested on Ethel with a melancholy smile, far sadder than as if he had not attempted to look cheerful. . ' Ethel looked at the closed door, when the two “Ai had gone, with a gentle, pitying shadow in her lovely eyes. _ ‘T wish he were as happy as weare,”’ she thought. _ But Bertram gave her little time for reflection, ow that the men of business were gone, he acted lie were suddenly gone mad. He danced about, ugging first his sister and then Coralie—clapped vr r be, ; his hands—turned a somersault—kissed the girls ; again; he was wild with joy and hope fulfilled. ee On ou are not going home to-night?’ Ethel asked _ .* Coralie. “No, I’m going to stay with you. My aunts think I am snug in bed; so I will Jet them rest; and to-morrow I will make to them a full and free con- fession.”” Suddenly Bertram darted to the door. ** Where are you going, my brother?” **To order in a jolly supper, fair sister,”’ “What will the good people of the house think?” ‘* Who cares what anybody t 8 to-night. Hur- i woeae for the Stars and Stripes! The Union forever! _ Oysters, woodcock, salad, ices, coffee—’’ he closed the door after him, and bounded down the narrow stairway, singing. “Are you satisfied with him for a brother?” asked * . | Coralie ve t “You little witch! you know Iam!” “So am I” “You forgot to tell them about the hole in the garret floor, above our heads, through which the ghost spoke his part this evening.” “Never mind. They will infer there was a hole re, pe “Yes. You did a good work by inference, Cora- lie.” ie aot yndal = Se most scientific discoveries are “\- made by the imagination. We imagine things; and then set to work to verify them. That was m cess—so you see I am quite a scientist, Ethel.’ **No one would have guessed it of such a madcap.” ** And oh, I am such a happy mortal,’’ added Cora- lie, with a sigh of deepest contentment. ‘‘ And now ta —here comes Bertram, and we shall feast on nectar | - and ambrosia, and— Pi ee ‘lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon,’ i _ as Keats said; and— pat ‘How happy, happy, happy, 4 E> How happy we Bie bel + pro- ; CHAPTER XXIII. 2 ; FRUITION. LN Tue delicate sweetness of a June evening brooded ‘In the air which stirred softly in the large flower- garden that spread away from the south side of the roomy, old-fashioned cottage, for many years the ainwrights’ summer retreat. j Ethel Wainwright was standing therein the moon- -__ light—lost in some deep dream—more motionless than the roses and lilies which crowded about her— for these waved gently in the moving air, while she ‘stood still as a statue. How beautiful she was! 4 The old bright expression had come back to her _. face. Her white dress clung to her youthful, slender _. figure with a tender grace; her brow was white as _ ivory—one might see the rich blood mantle in her _ velvet cheeks, even by moonlight. a (Of what, or whom, was she dreaming? ‘Some one glided out from the shadow of the vine- '. -‘wreathed on Pees a& atin go hoe girl as young, as charming as herself, but of a more pas- _ sionate, tropical beauty; a girl whose round arms and whose superb bosom sparkled with jewels, and whose dress was of glimmering India mull, sprinkled with embroidered butterflies and silver stars. f “Ethel,” whispered the intruder, with strange tim- . idity, ‘‘may I speak to you?” | _ “Certainly, Olive. I did not know you were there.” . _T have justcome. Don Ignatio is in the parlor. He has spoken to me; it is all settled.” . ‘How, dear Olive?” ; We are to be married in four weeks.” _ “Are you certain that you love him, Olive?” “I think T do. I have a great regard for him; ' gnd—he loveg me, I know, and that makes me grate- ss fultohim. He is rich—rich enough to give me my wildest desires; and_he will take me home to my beautiful land; so, Ethel, I am certain I shall be iG yautte oP ” ~ “Tam_so glad for you, dear Olive, PY. 1 ‘iy, ae THe, girl threw herself on the other’s bosom and _ sobbed out: » **T owe it all to you, dear Ethel. You came to me wey vy e4 ast wea * 4 Fy bat | ry. al 4 i sas rm : - ——< ag . and forced me to be You kept me from doing anything wicked—desper- ate. You took me to your own home—treated me as a sister—introduced me to your friends—to Don Ig- natio. You have done everything for me!” ‘**No, you have done much for yourself. You fought to overcome temptation. I respect you, as well as love you, Olive. Irom my heart I congratu- late you! Go back to the don and tell him how glad Iam; and that I congratulate you both,” and she fondly kissed the sobbing girl. Left once more alone, Ethel began to walk up and down the broad garden path. It was a warm, dew- less evening. She paced up and down with folded arms and lovely face lifted to the tranquil skies. She had suffered a great deal in the last year; but she seemed nearly at peace now. For she had been generous and forgiving in all her conduct. She had not grasped at everything which she might have made her own. There was poor Myra! Mr, Dobell had talked with Myra and John Garwell, and had offered them, from her, if they would compromise quietly instead of compelling her to go to law, the money they had already wasted and fifty thousand dollars; and John had seen, very clearly, that it was best for him to accept the offer. But he was a tea cas ay man; and an ugly one. Myra felt the cull effects of his disap ointment, in his cruel treatment of her. If she had been his dog instead of his wife, he could not have treated her with so much contempt. Ethel, thinking of them as she paced the garden path, foresaw that it would not be many years—or even months—before her cousin would be driven to ee him up, and to take refuge with her, a broken- earted woman, without aim or purpose in life. “Myra plotted and planned for her heart’s desire and got it; but what has it availed her?” mused Ethel. ‘Poor, weak, foolish cousin! I would it were otherwise with you!” It was pleasanter to think of Olive—that foster- sister whom she determined to rescue from the desperation of her unchecked anger and disappoint- ment—from the unprincipled counsel of a bad mother. Olive had already found a lover who romised to be just the husband for the brilliant, beautiful, ambitious girl he had chosen. It was pleasant to think of Olive. The friend and pro- een was well paid for what she had done for 7. It was pleasant to think of her brother, too; of his good heart, his amiable qualities, his beauty, his gay ways, and the mad love he made to Coralie Clyde, now that he had a good chance. It amused her to think what a pet he had become of the two old ladies, Coralie’s Quaker aunts. “They are a darling pair; I adore them both!” mused Ethel, linking her thoughts of Bertram to Coralie. ‘Coralie is coming to visit us to-morrow. It is delightful to see her’ and my brother together! Ishall have two pairs of lovers to study to-morrow!” be thought, with a smile—but the smile ended ina gh. Perhaps it made Ethel sad to see so much love- making going on around her. Coralie and Olive had both asserted that she was too much of a saint to love any man; and that they expected to see her die an old maid. Ethel had seen too much of worthless protestations to be easily won. She walked up and down the flower-bound, moonlit path, like aoe fair spirit, too pure for thoughts of earthly ove. Some one had come silently into that sweet place and was watching her, while, in the shadow of a tall rose-bush, he waited until the throbbing of his heart was less violent, and he could speak to her without that betraying tremble in his voice, It was Mr. Evelyn who stood there, waiting and watching. He was only home from Cuba that afternoon. He had been there on business connected with Donna Marie’s will. Miss Wainwright had sent him to tell the relatives who supposed themselves secure in the enjoyment of the property that she had no intention of dis- possessing them—that they had a better right to the estates than she, though the law made them hers; but she should exact of them a handsome marriage-portion for Olive. “Tt was Donna Marie who tempted the mother; and it willbe just that her daughter shall have something,” reasoned this Portia, when she made the provision, The longer Evelyn, from his odorous covert, gazed bet the rb ae figure, on which the moon shone whitely, the faster his heart beat, the more his limbs trembled. “Tf Tam to speak to her at all I had best be about it,” he concluded, ‘‘ for my little courage is slipping away,” and with that he stepped forward, so that when Ethel turned in her walk she would see him in the path before her. “Mr. Evelyn!” There: was a sweet thrill in Ethel’s voice, as she spoke his name. Then she stood quite still, and he could see the rich color rise in her cheeks until they. were the hue of the roses beside her. It was a full minute before she held out her hand, and added: “How do you do? I did not Jsnoqw you had re- turned.” | “T only returned to-day.” “Are you well? I was so sorry you went when the weather suddenly became so hot. I was afraid you would fali ill.”’ ““Were you?” he murmured, hardly knowing what he was saying. “T did not suppose you would think of me at all.’ “Did you arrange the business satisfactorily?” she asked, her voice faltering in spite cf her efforts to “ ! ‘. ' Maks A our friend, whenI hated you. | .valuable,’’ he went on, as in a dream, ‘‘ and so I pray keep it firm. She was embarrassed by the intense look of those eager eyes fixed upon her beautiful’ face with such hopeless passion. 2 : “Ob, yes. They were satisfied—and grateful. They will give Olive five thousand pounds—and the send this casket of jewels to you, as a token of their appreciation of your generosity. I thought I ought to deliver the casket into your own hands, as it is so you to excuse me for seeking you here; the man ¢ said I would find ee garden.” “Thank you. You ee are to be trusted, Mr. Evelyn,” murmured Ethel, taking the casket from his extended hand. 7, “Do you think so?” “7 have always found it so.” : “How beautiful it is out here in the moonlight,” he went on. * “he “Then, will you walk here awhile? It is anter than in the house.” “Oh, a million times pleasanter,” he responded. ““May I take your arm, Mr. Evelyn?’ she asked, with a smile. . uM He offered it, and they paced back and forth to- z gether. t wets The soft wind blew her dark hair against his shoul- ; der; her white hand lay lightly on his arm. It was too bad—it was cruel—to try him thus, he thought. ‘ She might have had some consideration for him— ( might have known that a man who loves a woman cannot look at her divine eyes in the moonlight, and not grow mad if she will not love him in return. ‘ , The lilies glimmering in the night—the breath of the roses—the notes of a Growsy bird—the sight of that loveliest, purest face beside him—overcame the. pride, the resistance of a man not easily conquered. Suddenly he turned and paused. His eyes searched the eyes that slowly drooped beneath his regard. ““You know that I love you,”’ he said, almost as if his teeth were clenched in pain. “Why, then, are ou so kind to me? Do you think I can be with you ere, under God’s holy heaven, and not pour out the burning words that beat at my lips? hy do you 7 try me? Why do you allow meto be with you at } all? You are no coquette, Ethel Wainwright, or I should accuse you of trifling with me to-night. Why do you stand and smile at me now? Why do, you blush? Great Heaven! Am I to be mocked with these sweet blushes! Why do you not sneer instead of smile, girl? Why do you not tell me to go about my business?—that I have no right to aspire—to wish—to hope—to die for you?” he con- cluded, with a heavy sigh, that seemed to rend his , pleas- = heart. f : ” Ethel turned pale as she stood there; but with a ; brave effort she lifted her shining eyes to his face _ and answered: ! ’ ‘ ‘* Because I /cve you, Mr. Evelyn.” “y \ “Love me?” 1 : “Yes, I think so,” with a little resigned smile. ““T don’t know when it began, I am sure—or why, or e how—but I begin to realize that it is so. Yes, 1 think I ny say, truly, that I am following the ex- ample of all the rest—that I am in love—and uith you,” in a sweet, thrilling whisper. = ab OK Here let us roll down the curtain upon the moon- light, the roses, the dark hair, the white dress—the two figures which stand under the deep, azure sky. True life is just beginning for these young people. Let us hope that their future history may be such , as should happen to'youth and beauty and goodness. THE END. WAVERLEY Each Issue Complete and Unabridged. A Fifty Cent Novel for Five Cents, = LIBRARY, COVERING THE FIELD OF LOVE and SOCIETY ROMANCE, — Perfectly pure in tone, spirited and captivatingin || pega as the title ‘‘ Waver.ey”’ implies. oes: 4 to please and nothing to avoid— Wholesome, Vi orous and Fresh! ia 1 Tae Maskep Brips. By Mrs. Mary Reed.Crowell. 2 Was Ir Love? By Wm. Mason Turner. ae oa 3 THe Grr WIFE. Ry Bartley T. Campbell. F 4 A Brave HEAR?. Arabella Southworth, 5 Bessre Raynor, THE Work Girt. Wm. M. Turner, .— 6 Tae SecrEeT Marriace. By Sara Claxton, % A DAUGHTER or Eve. Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 8 Heart To Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 9 ALONE IN THE Wortp. Author of “ Clifton.” 10 A Parr or Gray Eyes. By Rose Kennedy. 11 Enraneiyp. By Henrietta Thackeray. oh 12 His Lawrun Wire. By Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens. ja Hifi ret 13 Mapoar, THE LirrLe QUAKERESS. Cushman, , “ 14 Wry I MArrrep Hiv. By Sara Claxton. — 15-A Farr Facer; or, Our IN THE Wortp. By Bartley ; T. Campbell. Ready February 24th. hae 16 Trust Her Not; or, Tom Trur Kyiaur. By Mar- vey garet Leicester. Ready March 2d. Te 17 A Loyat Lover; or, THE Last ofr THE GRIMSPETHS. F By Arabella Southworth. Ready March th. sae 18 His Ipou; or, Tae Itt-Srarrep Marriaer. By .: Sie * Cae ae ef ~ rs. Mary Reed Crowell. Ready March i6th., , | | A new issue every week. ey For sale by all Newsdealers, price five cents each, or sent, postage paid, on receipt of six cents. “i ‘ BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, ___ ai 98 William street, N. Y.