Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 1) (1880 03 02)
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
Ran ae No “GOD IS MY WITNESS THAT THIS DEED WAS NOTHING BUT A MISTAKE.” Trust Her Not; or, A True Knight. bY wakeaner ceiobsren CHAPTER I. THE long plate-glass windows of Barthold Verne’s up-town mansion | gleamed upon the gloomy night like the windows of some palace of fire: the soft lace curtains and lustrous azure folds which shrouded them scarce hid from the eyes of the passers-by the gay forms which flitted to and fro, while the softest strains of German music enriched the air— a PRs melodrama to the pageantry. er’s art; it was modeled from the ball-room in the palace of the King of Holland at Amsterdam. Its ceiling was blue as the azure vaults of heaven, its walls were alternate mirrors and windows, draped with azure velvet folds, and festooned with rich crimson; its floors were of glitter- ing woods, in quaint Dutch mosaics—pink, blue and tender violet—and its three gigantic crystal gasaliers swung by thick crimson-yelvet cables, The Only Young Ladies’ Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published! patos VOL I. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N. Y. PRICE,. 5. CENTS. ad ere “= ete eh so: 3 = old Verne’s ball-room was considered a triumph of the upbolster- | Price, but 5 cents each ey O a \ PN) SS ISS NSW NY h which were held in the hands of silver satyrs set in relief in the agure | vault, and bore aloft innumerable crescents of rose-tinted and perfumed , tapers, shedding around from every tremulous pendant and glistening: | facet prismatic rays like founts of living light. | | What with the gleaming splendor of this vast apartment, and the rick | dresses of its continually winding and unwinding occupants, and the | velvet strains of the finest German band in New York, perched yonder | inthe marble orchestra, half hidden behind a maze of tropical flowers, | and the glimpses of distant apartments, carpeted in royal tints, with here and there the gleam and sparkle of silver, and the smiling guests romenading in and out, and the softly-modulated murmurs of well- ~ed voices everywhere; the scene could have vied with that in many & European court. | Barthold Verne was a noted and a successful author, of Germay , origin; he had found time before his fiftieth year to acquire fame ang wealth; to travel the world over; to live through a marriage-idy! of Sine evi sweetness, and to bring up with all tender care and devoted aithfulness their one child—his 'Maiblume *—his pure white lily-of- the-valley, plucked, as it were, from the grave of her mother. Look at her now as she moves through the stately dance; does she rot: | Seem worthy of her father’s love and of all men’s homage? Regal in her form and besring, with the grace of a Spanish senorita, eac gliding; | |
Page 2
i A i: q A tow nae? fae le Ser * BO ti aN Ae 5 ae I i ttl ~~. - terposed Maiblume, gayly. 9 * step the embodiment of proud stateliness and dig- mity; from her small, richly-tressed head, upon which glittered a wreath of amethyst lilacs, to her foot of Andalusian arch incased in its fairy satin Dottines—oh, she was beautiful—beautiful! Maiblume! ; Her face was like a flower, white, pure and u Mooking; her eyes were dark, and lit by splendid Mires; her pale-green robes of silken sheen infolded her like the soft sheathin foliage of her name- fiower, and when she turned in the slow and sweep- ing windings of the dance, to give one of her own proud, majestic courtesies to her partner, there was | ¢ et a gentleman in the room who had the luck to witness the nameless witchery of her motion, who did not forget for the moment his own less brilliant tner in admiration of the glorious Maiblume erne. A word about her partner. A dark, gentlemanly, dashing man, say about forty, hook-nosed, hawk-eyed, with a gracefull drooping mustache, thin, sneering lips, and blac hair cur over his collar. A poet was this partner of bers—Paul Stanley—a poet who had long years ag0 achieved a position among his country’s celebri- ties, and who, like the ancient Dorians, worshiped only the beautiful. Another pair, who were dancing in the same set with Miss Verne and Mr. Stanley, deserve to be pre- sented to the reader. These are no less than Mr. Barthold Verne, the owner of the mansion, a tall, portly, well-preserved maian, with keen blue eyes and florid complexion, and fis favorite guest, Mademoiselle Coila De Vouse, an enchanting little French fairy, who, with long black ihasir combed down her back, and innocent, pale, eenfiding face, with her two shy eyes cast modestly down, seemed, in her white dress of priceless lace, _ ‘with the crimson roses in her breast, no redder than her own lips, and he crimson girdle round her tiny - waist, like a child playing at being woman. This pretty little creature had come to New York tresh from a Parisian boarding-school, to burst upon the delighted denizens of Fifth avenue under.the wing of the fashionable and admired Mrs. Stanley wife of the above-named poet. But hush! No more of biography at present; the mousie has glided into the stately march, and the dancers are promenading, two by two, round the grand saloon and into cooler apartments beyond. ” As Maiblume, leaning on the arm of Mr. Stanley, ‘passes through a flower-wreathed doorway, a young catenin who has been standing there watching athe stream of passers-by steps eagerly forward. ‘He has a handsome, sincere face, a profusion of Zeose, brown curls, and though he speaks to Mr. Stanley, his vxe falls on Maiblume, and he reddens' while he smiles. Heis not much older than she is. so she seems not in the least afraid of him, but rather to welcome his approach with a pleasure she dis not afraid of showing. “Mr, Stanley,” said he, hurriedly, ‘I have just «ome from Mrs, Stanley.” . 2 “Ah! and that’s where you were, you truant,”’ in- * Come, make amends mirectly, and engage me for the next dance.” “*¥ou have just come from Mrs, Stanley?’’ repeat- #d the harmonious tones of the poot, very gravely, after the lady had quite finished. “She has been indisposed all day,’ continued the young gentleman, his fine face positively burning mnder the cold stare of the other; ‘“‘I merely hap- pened to go in half an hour ago for that manuscript which you had promised Mr. Verne, and she called me up-stairs to ask me, if I found you here, to tell you that she was ill and out of spirits, and that she ey you would return to her soon.” hile he was speaking, Mr. Verne, with his part- mer upon his arm, had paused to listen, and now there was a moment’s dead silence. It was the common talk that the gifted poet was so weary of his beautiful wife that he continually and cruelly meglected her, and that she, once all the fashion in Wew York society, had gradually withdrawn herself from its bright circles, the victim of an incurable ioniiness, with her royal beauty already on the wane. Where was now a red gleam in his eye as it rested full upon that of young George Laurie, Barthold Werne’s secretary, and his thin lip perceptibly whitened as he answered, in low, well-bred accents: “Tanks for your trouble, sir. I shall return to irs. Stanley instantly.” : With a word of adieu to Maiblume and her father, he disappeared, and George Laurie offering his arm, poet ae lady took his place and they joined in the jpremenade. “Mh, I’m so sorry for dear Mrs, Stanley,”’ said ‘Maiblume; “does she seem very ill? “Yes,” said George, absently. ‘‘Poor lady! poor S3ady! I beg your pardon,” continued he, r to Auimself by Maiblume’s exclamation of dismay, and es bis eae rested on her lovely face, his eye svarm>d and the cloud cleared from his brow. “There was nothing special to-night, I think, only she seemed to be realizing more than usual some wivate trouble of hers, and to be yearning for her Prsaand to help her to bear it” “Poor, dear Madame Stanley!” Mademoiselle De Wouse was lisping behind them; “how terrible to suffer with nerves as she does; oh, my heart! how terrible!’ and she brought her dainty hands together ‘round the of the laughing man of letters, while she arched her demure eyebrows and shook ther bird-like head in a manner to bewitch you. Mademoiselle was the honored guest of . Stan- Jey, and, poor child, must have suffered considera- ‘Geto the morbid state of affairs in that house- ‘hold, but she was ‘unaffectedly attached to her hostess, and hung round her at home and abroad with the prettiest little clinging ways imaginable. nyt fi , ape \ ae eh Poe a ae a ifmagi ss i we a Ne I oh a al TRUST HER NOT. As to the poet, she seemed sama hp | frightened of him, and ran away whenever he ventured to ad- dress her, taking refuge with the elderly author, as if Paul were the wolf who was sure to eat her up—a little Red Riding-Hood. The sleet was dashi: against the windows of Paul Stanley’s brown-stone house in one of the quiet aris- tocratic streets west of Fifth avenue, and, as he | stepped shivering out of the shelter of his eae athe: the slippery pavement, he hissed between his eth; ““ Doesn’t the chain gall now?” In a few moments he was standing in his wife’s boudoir, biting the tips of his elegant mustache, as he gazed at her, lying face down, on an amber-satin coueh richly framed in gilt—for he was a wealthy, some said an extravagant man—and his house was furnished throughout with weli-nigh barbaric splen- dor. Rosa Stanley had been an English beauty in her day—by her gleaming golden tresses and snow- white, statuesque neck, fe could see that, though her face was hidden, and her attitude the very aban- don of grief. Her jong, somber, silken robes fell about her like the motionless folds of a pall. A tan- gle of rainbow-colored silk lay on the white carpet at her feet, just where it had fallen when, her heart failing her, her eyes growing dim and her fingers losing their power, she had dashed down the work with which she —— to while away the weary hours, and had given herself up to a passion of bitter weeping. ‘“*Rosa,’’ said Paul Stanley, very quietly. He had come in so noiselessly—his every motion being light and delicate, and the carpet being thick as the moss under the ancient forest trees—that she had never heard him—and started up with a sup- pea scream, the tears still raining over her ushed cheeks, her features quivering, and her hands at her throat in hysterical agitation. “Sweet Niobe, will the fountain never run dry?’ inquired the poet, leaning a need over the marble estal of a gayly-poised anity, to look at her with rk and Sore irony. For a moment she buried her face in her pocket- handkerchief, then, with a visible shudder, composed herself, and stood up, dizzily holding onto the arm of the sofa, and stri to return his look steadily. ‘he dimmed, yet: noble beauty of the woman might have | onan to his poet soul; the woeful drooping weakness of the woman might have appealed to the man’s heart, and, if he had either soul or heart, to think that that beauty was dimmed for him, and that weakness was suffered for him, should have brought him on his knees to her, imploring her forgiveness for all the wrongs he had done her. Well, well! the world is full of sorrowful ye but there comes a day when all their wrongs sh be avenged, CHAPTER I. A DREAD: MISTAKE. **Paun,”’ said Mrs. Stanley, in faint and broken accents, ‘I pray you, for Heaven’s sake, be patient with me; be kind for once, and help me to speak out bravely at last.” She stopped abruptly, and made a motion as if she would have thrown herself at his feet, but he checked her with an imperious gesture, aad folding his arms, gazed at her with an insulting and derisive smile. “So, my lady wife is about to tell the truth, is she?” sneered he. ‘* And at whose solicitations, may Iask? Notat mine. Since she chooses to have her mysteries, she is welcome to keep them from Paul Stanley.” ‘‘ Hear me,” whispered she, with trembling and colorless lips; ‘‘ oh, don’t frighten me away to-night with my confession still unspoken, as you have so often frightened me away before.” : “Stay,” said he, with a bitter smile; ‘‘may I ask whether this confession has not been poured into the ear of another than your husband ly?” She covered her face with her hands, to.hide its burning shame from his pitiless gaze, and a demon of fury seemed suddenly to possess the man. He reached her with one stride and clutched her by the shoulder so fiercely that she writhed from him with a moan of pan, and the comb falling from her tresses, down they fell, glitt:ring and waving far below her waist, while her wild, dark, violet eyes appealed to his mercy, passionately.” e put his foot upo e delicate comb and ground it into the carpet; with dark, fierce hand he dashed aside the heavy masses of her hair, in order to grasp her more firmly by the other shoulder, and bounding over the cowering and half-swooning lady, he mut- tered, in tones thick with passion: “You've made George Laurie the confidant of this secret, have you not? I ask you, Rosa, have you not?” ; For a few moments all-mastering fear possessed her, and she essayed to speak in vain. Then she made a mighty effort, and controlled her- self, and slowly lif her magnificent figure to its full hight, and erected her proud head with a glance of majestic innocence, “J repel the insinuation,” said she, slowly and clearly. ‘George Laurie discovered my secret by an accident, and preserved it inviolate through my prayers.”’ : e interrupted her by a furious hiss, but she went on without heeding him. “You ask me by whose solicitation I am about to make you my confession! I answer, before God and ‘| on my knees ’—here she tore herself from his grasp and sunk on the carpet, ne clasped hands an | solemn face, appealing to the heavens through the res \ ; - : : : ‘ \ “ a ter i etait yd PoE TS ane half-drawn curtains of the window—‘‘I make this icine art to you solely at the solicitation of George urie |” “Of George Laurie!’’ echoéd the husband, with a burst of most insolent laughter. “To be sure, my clever diplomat, to be sure! What could be better planned to hoodwink the too suspicious husband than a mock confession pre- scribed by the favored young Adonis?” ‘Be silent, for shame!” cried Rosa Stanley, spring- ing to her feet and towering before him wit the offended dignity of an injured queen. ‘‘ You are unworthy of the sacrifice I was about to make; the heart that could cherish such base thoughts could never hold mercy for the penitent. I passed him my word that I would tell you all this evening, could he but find you,and send you home to me, I have made the attempt, and you have met me with insult and violence. Sir, when you are ready to listen calmly to a recital which it will cost me the bitterest agony to make, you will find me in my own room.”’ She looked a moment at him after she had finished speaking in bitter agony and grief, then with a slight wave of the hand she passed through the noiseless folding-doors and left him alone. It oe be four hours afterward that Paul Stanle: ente’ his wife’s room. He was flushed, his gait was unsteady, and he bungled badly in turning up the gas, so that one of the slender crystal flasks upon the dressing-table was sent crashing to the floor, and the noise supplemented by a husky growl of impatience. | : In truth the poet, having retired to nurse his wrath in his sanctum, had found it necessary to uench the furious flame with so many glasses of champagne—‘“‘ Bouzey exquis ’’—for Stanley was ex- travagant in his wines as in everything else—that, unawares, a mood that was not quite inspiration, had stolen upon him, and having lost sight of the late scene with his wife, he was stumbling up-stairs to bed with only one distinct idea—that of repairing thither without awakening her. She had been lying on the bed, but not paper and she sprung to a sitting posture with a perfec’ scream of terror; then, seeing who the intruder w, she wrung her shaking hands together, moaning dnd sobbing hysterically. He stared at her stupidly, saying nothing, and presently she turned to him with an imploring cry: Xi cannot do it to-night,’ she said, hoarsely; ‘my nerves are all unstrung; if I try to speak I shall only | go into hysterics. ait till to-morrow—till to-mor- row,”’ she wailed, sinking back on her pillow, while a convulsive shuddering ran from head to foot. He a ery the bedside and stood looking down a but half-comprehending forgetting their cause. \ ‘ What’s the matter, Rosa? Sick, ch?” stammered he, thickly. “7 am going to have a dreadful night,” said she, in her sufferings, and quite a faint voice; “p! medicine in the bottle on my dressing-table—it is marked Bromide of Potassium.”’ He went obediently to the dressing-table and fumbled about among the bottles, then holding one up a amp oF light, said: 4 ‘ one ’ She glanced at it, a milk-white fluid was in it, and she answered ‘* Yes—the label is on it.” ' He was already on his way to the dressing-room when he found a glass, into which, forget the teaspoon, he pow a quantity of the contents of the bottle, to which add 4 a little water, he brought z coke and coe pa rts on cen seta swal- ow: eagerly and sun ck, murm : “ Now i think I shall soon calm sleep.”’ \ He flung himself heavily into a deep arm-chair be- side the glowing _— and in a few minutes was ie reamlessly, The minutes went on; the beautiful figure, swathed in its long black robes which lay upon the snowy couch, ted incessantly, twining the slender hands, and turning the restless head from side to side, with smothered sighs of weariness. . j Gradually these motions increased in violence; the white hands were wrung convulsively; the head moved with a terrible regularity and rapidity; the | whole frame twitched and started and tossed about, — while a deathly moisture oozed from the sunken op ae the pearly teeth were buried in the livid under-lip. ; At last an awful cry rung through the room, wak- ing the wine-drugged poet and jarring all the glitter- ing flasks and vases on the shining dressing-table ahd — gleaming mantlepiece. Rosa was holding on with both hands to the edge of the dressing-table, her lovely face frightfully con- .torted, her glittering eyes fixed wildly upon the bot- tle from which her husband had poured the draught for her to drink, *Paul!”’ she shrieked, ‘* set have poisoned me! You have given Coila’s * drink; and @¢ is half arsenic.” | } In a moment he was at her side, fully'in his senses now, sober enough, I'll warrant, by this vision of his dying wife pointing out the means by which he had riental Cosmetique’ to the bottle and,glaring at its diminished contents. “ Oh, yes, it is too true!” returned she, in a hollow voice. *It was quite full when she pioser it on my table this evening. She only brought it in for me to see it, and she told me—she told me it was half -ar- senic. Oh, Paul!” wailed his wife, fixing her eyes, already half-vailed in death’s darkness, full upon his, } er with the same dull, stupid air, evidently — lease give me a spoonful of that. down and go to ‘Nonsense! Nonsense!”’ he cried, snatching up aris 5% a
Page 3
in sorrowful anguish. ‘Oh, Paul! you did not in- tend this, did you?” He looked at her a moment horror-stricken, then lifted his right hand toward heaven, saying, with awful solemnity: “‘God is my witness that this deed was nothing but a mistake.” Tears welled to her fading eyes; she crept to him and laid her pallid face against his shoulder with a _ little glad cry. “*T believe you, I believe you, Paul!’’ muttered she, while he strained the poor tortured frame to his breast, frantically loo about for Belb. “You could not do this to poor Rosa, even though you had ccased to love her long ago. Lay me down, dear, aon anything can be done to save me, oh, make ste!” Nerved with superhuman strength, he carried her to the bed, and pressing a few wild kisses upon her death-struck face, he rung the bell violently until Mrs. ae dla maid rushed in affrighted and but half-dressed. ‘ ; “Attend to your mistress, I’m Zing for the doctor; she’s desperately ill,’ shouted he, hoarsely, as he flew ed er down-stairs into the spacious hall, where the porter yet sat in his chair ed gd awaiting the return of mademoiselle from the , “Fly for Dr, Herbert!” exclaimed Stanley, not heeding the domestic’s astonished exclamation at his ghastl cee as he stood under the hall lamp with clenched hands and bloodshot eyes. ' “Mrs, Stanley is poisoned with arsenic. I have gone for Dr. Talbot.” As he spoke he darted to the heavy portal—with- drew the bolts, and rushed into the winter night, bare-headed. Adams staggered after him, gaping in stupe- faction. At that instant a carriage rolled up to the curb; the footman sprung to the ground to open the door; out flitted a tiny sprite, shawled and hooded in . Searlet, upon whose wide, sweet, wondering eyes the carriaze-lamp shone, as she gazed, awe-smitten, ' upon Paul Stanley, who stood irresolute, looking upon the carriage. “What isit that it is, monsieur?”’ she cried, shrilly, elasping her fairy hands, ‘Is it that some one is il? Madame! No, no! Not possible!’ As she spoke, another of the men-servants ap- _ peared, hurrying down the steps, and observing the carriage standing there, but not his master, ex- elaimed urgently to the coachman: “Hardy, Mrs. Hlgcrag, 4 is dying; she wants Mr. George urie to be brought from Mr. Verne’s immediately. Better turn round and gallop back there, right away.” ¢ Paul Stanley stepped into the light. He was so quiet and self- that all his servants stared anew, while mademoiselle’s little '. hands flew heavenward, and she ejaculated: “Oh, misere/ A monster!” “¥ want the carriage, Hardy,”’ said he, takin, seat init and quietly sending one of the men back for his hat which he had forgotten. ‘The doctor's resence just now is of more consequence than even t of Mr. George Laurie.”’ CHAPTER I. ALAS! ALAS! MADEMOISELLE DE Vouss entered the house. As she stood for a moment on the landing outside Mrs. Stanley’s room divesting herself with trembling hands of her wraps, and listening with loudly-beat- ing heart to'the confused sounds within, she heard } the housekeeper and one of the chambermaids who stood on the landing stairs whispering together of he matter which was certainly no concern of eirs. Some short time previously an uncle of Mrs. Stan- fy had left her a splendid legacy of half a million of dollars upon condition that her husband—whose neglect of her he furiously resented—should never be allowed to touch a cent of it. This bequest was, of course, only an added mill- stone round the poor lady’s neck, and as yet she had had no heart either to enjoy her wealth herself or to make arrangements for disposing of it in charities, as some of the wiser of her friends advised her to his do. , “If any thing should happen to her, an’ no. will made,’ the housekeeper was whispering, “the ! money will go to him after all.” r Mademoiselle made a hurried gesture with her hands which startled the whisperers. Her pretty little face, usually, so pale and meek, was crimson now, and her eyes ‘were flashing fire, ** Mon Dieu |’’ she ie ee ““ What beasts these English are; they talk of her money while madame dies!” 2 _ She opened the door and flitted into Mrs. Stanley’s room, a lovely white-robed sylph with the blood-red flowers still in her bosom~-no brighter than her __ s blood-red lips, and the crimson girdle still around her dainty waist like a vision of Ukraine of old—the white virgin who flitted through the shadowy land i ab Bight mar! to destruction those wkom the gods ad doomed, Krai a three of the female servants fell back from the bed at her approach, when she bent over the awfully changed figure of ‘her friend and gazed 3 long and earnestly into the death-struck face. “Alas! Alas! It is too true; she is dying!” fal- _ tered the little Parisienne, sinking on her knees be- side the bed and giving way to a storm of sobs. “Ah, what is to become of poor Coila now? Mad- ame, dear madame, can nothing be ‘plored, Camping the flaccid hand which hung lifeless- ty over the bedside. : Mrs, Stanley slowly turned her ghastly face toward ‘ her and gazed at her strangely. & ‘ ‘ j ' Bial\ _ took the young girl from Maiblume’s arms, and sup- porting her tenderly to a sofa, seated himself at her ~. : side. sa a “Mrs. Stanley was, you say, your only friend,” observed he, gently. ‘ Now let me eee arte d or pincumebaniees fully, as I wish to act a fend’s past: ‘3 toward you. I have often caranaeg, edi! that youare . an orphan, and that your were brought pe ocean Jere, vent school. Have you any relatives in Franee, pote emg éxandbtnotiine aikobiie en re “Oh, yes,’ wept mademoiselle, clasping her Ry and shuddering. “I havea terrible old aunt, aneert ' tM diay 7.0 eee
Page 4
* me Bay - % \ / Z i } 7 — 4 n NaF aye pss bes L Be 4 ve : 2. as oe 3 is 4 - a a @ - Holy Cross, St. Omer. chan “ “wipe these tears away an wronlic yOu ; Vay more than I ever pitied you we ’ we iS bess, who desires me to take the vail, and oh! I am so afraid of her! For you must know, dear friend” —here she lifted her dove-like eyes, swimming in to his face—“ I have no vocation for religion, and I dare not enter the church with such a gay, wicked little heart as mine, always filled with mirth and pleasure.” i : ‘““No! no! you sha’n’t take the vail,’’ exclaimed Mr. Verne, fervently. ‘Proceed, my dear.” “Then { have a horde of fearful cousins,” wept mademoiselie, wringing her hands afresh. “Oh! such dashing cavaiiers and court-bred dames! who ail throw scorn upon poor little me because my yaamma was what you call poetess and received money for her efforts; I can’t goto them; I would icf Pas inl, hall not to th 0, no, poor gitl, you shall not go to them,” cried hee tater still more ardently. “ But your guardian—haye you no guardian?” “No, monsieur,”’ said mademoiselle, sadly. ‘‘ My guardian, papa’s friend, died two poe ago, leaving me in the care of the Sisters of the Convent of the There Madame Stanley to see me during, her visit to France, the year before last, and was so kind as to love me and ask me to come to the beautiful America and live with her, whenever I was old enough to enter into . I have money, monsieur; yes, plenty of money, but I have no one to love me, and to give me a home like that which I have lost by the ever-to-be- deplored death of my blessed madame!”’ za 1 the little lac i distress burst forth with such violence that Maiblume, kneeli by her, her sti arms around her and drew her to er shoulder, mingling her tears with hers. » “ather, father!” cried she, looking up with the same sweet entreaty. “Yes, my darling,” said the author, taking one of Coila’s tiny hands between his own, and patting it with deep affection. ‘‘ Now, little girl,” said he to listen to me, you like to come and live here, to be Mai- blume’s sister and my dear charge?’ “Oh, say yes, dear mademoiselle!’’ cried Mai- blume, with a burst of generous rs ga tery “We shall love you so dearly, and cherish you so tenderly that you will never regret having given yourse! see us.”” At Mr, Verne’s proposition mademoiselle had _ ut- tered a faint cry, and had sprung to her feet light as a thistle-down. She now stood with clasped hands and dilated eyes, looking from the one to the other with an expression half frightened, half-rap- ' turous, and wholly bewitching. At last her bosom hegan to heave, a wave of feeling swept over her imnecent little blossom of a face, and, while larze tears ed from her passion-darkened eyes, she cried, in the faintest, most musical, and tremulous voice imaginable: is h, Blessed Mother, dost thou see, dost thou hear?’ She sunk to her knees before the father and daughter, addressing them thus: ‘ Friends, I cannot thank you; this cold language of yours has no words passionate enough. Friends, I can only dive for you, calling down upon your dear heads every hour of every day the blessing of the orphan, -of the stranger, of the heart-broken and helpless.” Here, with a burst of emotion, she rose and threw herself into their arms. George Laurie, Mr. Verne’s secretary, sat at his desk in his employer’s study, busily copying manu- rag of while the scene just described was oing on in the drawing-room. metimes he laid down his pen, and leaning his head upon his hand, would fall to-profound and serious reverie, which he would anon shake off, aud start up to pace the room with hurried steps, his brows knitted and his eyes fixed on vacancy. “Did she confess last night?’ muttered he, at ngth, “‘or did her courage fail her once more? Good Stra BN per a shocking occurrence! Pois- oned! and by his own hand! Oh, is it possible that she made her confession, and that this is the result of it?” He came toa dead halt, looking out upon . the street and the streams of passengers muffled in furs and velvets, with unseeing eyes, then clenched bis hands and stamped impatiently. “What a young idiot I am!” he exclaim “Who but anidiot would weave this tragedy out of a tissue of circumstances such as these? No! The idea is ~preposterous! And her own servants say that she i ae as long as she had strength, that her : gave her the poison by mistake. Well, I shall know all in time. When the will is read we -shali see whether Mr. Stanley was in possession of its contents beforehand or not.” ‘He went back to his desk with a resolute air, and seed himself to his work again, but soon threw it side to run his fingers restlessly through his hair, and to resume his reflections, “What an unfortunate thing that I should be mixed upizall this! For all the assistance 1 have been to her I might as well have been left out of the ‘ser Still, if she has only told the truth, at last, -and if no guilt has come of it, I ought not selfishly to reject the part which was thrown upon me to play. _And the poor lady did seem sometimes to take com- fort from the thought that I knew the worst, and -€ 1eouraged her to doright. Well, well; I shall soon }.aow all, and so, alas! I fear, the scorning and fiouting world! Poor Rosa Stanley! I pity you ve, for you go ame fresh upon your ene reas you might have lived it down, and e happier and the better for it!” h, nor Jaid it Be took un his pen with a heavy { " when the day’s with the stain of down again until Verne en Ptioues line as usual. _ George lived in the house, and was held in high ¥ ‘ ‘ e 7 ~ 7 > Pav ae PT ai. ie : te ¥ TRUST-.HER.“NOT, esteem alike by the author and his ee both for the sterling faith and honor of his charac- ter, and its guileless transparency. Indeed, no one who knew George Laurie, and himself possessed an honorable and upright nature, could long withhold from him esteem and affection; while his frank, boy- ish good-spirits, and graceful, gentlemanly manner, recommended him to the favor of the ladies. And yet George Laurie was no stately hero of ro- mance, conqueror of fortune and of hearts, but only a single-hearted gentleman, intent on making his way in the world through the straight and narrow path of unsullied integrity. ; The night preceding the day appointed for Mrs. Stanley’s funeral was spent by the devout little Frenchwoman on her knees, in prayer, beside the corpse of her idolized madame. No persuasions of Maiblume’s could induce her to forego this melan- choly vigil, nor would she permit a solitary attend- ant to bear her company. Indeed, they were all so accustomed to the peneine and timid manners of the convent-bred girl, that she astonished everybody by her devotion and fortitude on this occasion: Behold her, then, in the pure white dress which was her almost invariable attire, kneeling in that black-draped chamber beside the casket which held the remains of the once brilliant and beautiful Rosa Stanley. Flowers everywhere, wreathing the shroud- ed mirrors, garlanding the empty , heaped in heavy profusion upon the still form in the narrow, Sie J couch in which it was to sleep forever. ut no flower among them all, with sheerest of transparent snow, could vie with Coila in her drooping ce and purity. Often t — pas by the ee door softly that they might not disturb her, and looking in, they always saw her kneeling there, motionless, her hands crossed upon her bosom, her death-white face upturned toward heaven, and her jong, black hair— a sable shroud—half infolding her slight, shimmering figure, while the tapers shed their soft luster upon the still scene, and not a breath was heard. But no one was in corridor or neighboring saloon, when, at last, the tiny figure rose, softly, noiseless- je a wraith from s ory stream, and gliding to 2 door, listened, ron lip and dark eyes grow- ing wild and wide. No one saw the lonely watcher flitting back as silently as a ray of light to the coffin; bending over the dead face in its fixed and stony pallor; slipping her small hands along the silver- studded edge, while her own face whitened to a ghastly likeness of that of the dead; slipping her small hands down the satin, and starting and utter- ing an involuntary cry when they came in contact with the rigid shoulders and marble arms within, running her trembling fingers along the edge of the lining in the bottom of the coffin, ro with one hand on a place almost under e pillow, then, snatching a tiny case from her pocket, flashing out a pair of scissors, looking round toward the door with blanched face, black eyes and bated breath; then back to the coffin, ripp ng. the lining where it met between the bottom and the side, holding the scissors in her clenched teeth while she drew from her bosom a small square packet, passing it through the slit and along the bottom of the coffin until it lay right under the dead lady’s head; folding in the ragged edges of the slit, arrangi the delicate lace of the pillow, over the place, scattering a few white flowers over all, and stepping back with a low, shud- dering hiss! The scissors returned to the case, the case to her pocket; no one saw the Ug oy child throw te? her clasped hands, nor heard her ery out in a burst of ungovernable emotion: “Grand Dieu! I have done it for the best—I have saved my friend!”’ CHAPTER V. A MAN’S KATE. Tue burial of Mrs. Stanley was over now; she was lying quiet in the cold mausoleum at Greenwood, with the sun or the snow drifting in through the or bars, a cold house for a heart that had always rahe cue 4 to every kind and tender emotion until now The house she had left had got back its old looks, now that her cold presence was out of it; the crape was off the door-handle, the blinds were drawn up, the footsteps of the inmates were no longer hushed, nor their voices subdued. Her interment had been a m ficent pageant; ote Be) glittering was the line of carriages which followed her to her tomb; distinguished had been the assembly, and many a notable name was inscribed in the roll of mourners, for Paul Stanley was a celebrated man, and his wite had been a fashionable beauty. Some humbler mourners, too, py ae the outside of the illustrious throng, stretch- ing their gaunt necks and straining their hollow eyes to get a glimpse of the’velvet-draped casket which contained her who had, many a time, spoken sweet words to them, and done kind acts for them, which were inscribed on their forlorn hearts in’ letters never fading. | The bereaved husband performed his part in the ceremonial with great e and propriety; he was noticeably pale; sunk in profound grief, and never once lifted his eyes or seemed to be aware of the presence of any one around him. ay “Perfectly stunned, poor fellow!’’ said his friends, as they sauntered back to their usual avocations. “ It must be a frightful thing for a man of his ex- quisite sensibilities to realize that he actually was the cause of her death. Heaven have mercy on us! I shouldn’t wonder if he should turn melan- choly mad!” The object of their aR returned from the of his wife, and threw himself in his easy- chair beside his study fire. The color had not re- turned to his tawny cheek, and from time to time he shivered involuntarily and looked uneasily around him, as if he felt some evil presence in the room. sy Well, well; she’s gone,” at last said he, ; and taking a cigar from its case, ‘‘and an eternity of regrets will never bring her back. I believe she loved me to the end, too,” he said, half groaning. “Oh, Rosa! Rosa! Rosa!’’ He flung down the cigar, and going to a little ebony and silver cabinet, brought forth a decanter of brandy, and was about to mix himsely a tumbler of it, when a grisly thought ascailed him, and he set it down hastily, and turned away with his hand to}, “Tf I hadn’t been too fond of this and the like of this, I would never have committed that fatal blun- der. I’ve half a mind to think this out seriously.” He sat down with his head between his hands, and so remained, moody and motionless, until a servant, opening the door, ushered in a gentleman, announc- | his eyes, faltering: | ing him as Mr. Falcon, solicitor. tanley started as his eye fell on the stranger—a smooth, ey obsequious little man, with a bland but wrinkled smile, and an ever-ready bow; but he recovered himself instantly, and rose with a civil though distant salutation. Ly “Take a chair, Mr. Falcon,” said he, waving him into one opposite his own; “you will find me any -~- ate but good company, I fear.” ‘*T should not have intruded, sir,” said Mr. Falcon, with a bow, while the i tara) gray eyes fixed them- selves upon the face of his host like burning-glasses, ‘but I have business to perform—business connect- ed with your late wife’s property.” Stanley returned his look steadily, but made no pe 4 beyond a slight inclination. ‘Six weeks ago,” continued Mr. Falcon, ‘I had the honor of Giada Te late Mrs, Stanley’s will.” He paused, w e usual smile and bow. while Stanley Bact at him with hardening eye, and the dark blood mounting to his forehead. “This is all new to me, Mr. Falcon,” said he, grimly. ‘You certainly astonish me.” Mr. Falcon made no reply to that, save custom- ary obeisance, but went on in a professionally sub- dued tone: gees, “Mrs. Stanley, on that occasion, did me the honor of showing me where she intended to keep her will, and of requesting me to seal the said receptacle immediately upon my knowledge of her decease— sudden or otherwise—which order I took the libert; of obeying, the morning subsequent to that event.” Stanley rose in great agitation and paced about aa room, striving in vain to conceal his perturba- ion. ; “A will! Bless my soul, what does all this mean?” he cried, in a burst of mortification. ‘To whom, or what, may I ask, did she will her prop- “With Mr. Stanley’s permission,” said Mr. Falcon, with a series of deferential little smiles, and pro- itiatory little bows, ‘t Ishallnow summon the ho old, bring the document, and, in their presence, inform you. There is one person who has a right to be present—whom I have taken the liberty of . bringing along with me—Mr. George Laurie by name.”’ Stanley turned upon him as if he had struck hima blow, and frowning blackly, ejaculated: “George Laurie! what in the name of wonder has he to do with this matter?” ? : ‘With your permission, again,” smiled Mr. Falcon, bowing self to the door, ‘‘I shall now introduce him; he is waiting just at hand, and the will shall explain all.” e opened the door, no wider than was necessary, however, and slipped out, closing it noiselessly be- hind him. Inavery few moments he returned, bear- ing in his hands Mrs. Stanley’s writing-desk—a pretty little thing of ebony, inlaid with amber—and with a most reverential air, laid it upon the poet’s writing- table. He then stood aside, and revealed behind him, emre Laurie, looking very frigid and resolute. With the slightest possible salutation, Stanley did the devcirs to his guest by waving him to a distant — chair, and continued himself to pace about the room, with the scowl ever darkening on his brow, until several of the servants filed in, in answer to Mr. Falcon’s summons, he reading out the names of those whose presence was desired, from a slip of paper which he held in his hand. “Now, if you please,” said he, when all were seated, and drawing the desk toward he expe ditiously removed one seal from the little drawer which contained the key, and another seal from the. lock; then, insert the key, looked round with a cunning twinkle in his eve Stanley stood at his elbow, looking on with de- vouring interest. “Mr. Laurie,” said Mr. Falcon, in his smoothest. most deferential tone, ‘‘ be good enough to draw our chair close to the table; there are portions of his document which it is ere, for any one to hear except Mr. Stanley and yourself.” A visible tremor ran through Stanley from head to foot; he bit his lip fiercely, but he took no heed of | the young man, as he slowly and reluctantly obeyed — a . re ho invitation and sat down close to the lit- tle Mr. Falcon turned the key, opened the desk, re- moved from it the loose papers, and finding the sp of a secret drawer, pulled it out. 4 All three, looking in at once, uttered a simultane- ous exclamation. : / a bys abetted aed oe ssibinaisy flash o umph broke from _ ley’s eyes; utter astonishment sat on George’s breed Phe noi eo turned scarlet with mortification—then, white with wrath, ; but the |
Page 5
wor. | ___ last with George Laurie. — 4 “Foul pee, cried he, in a voice that rung through the room, and startled everybody to their feet like the report “Foul play, I say! The will is stolen!” Stanley turned upon him with a look which might have scorched him up. “Sir, you exceed your office,” said he. That cool, crushing tone of superiority brought Mr. Falcon’s wits back to him. In a moment he was his own man again executing his most deprecating bow and smile. ‘*My dear sir, you are right,’ said he; “let us stick to business, The will was here; it must be here still; we mye find it among these papers.”’ In a twinkling he had turned them all over and examined the desk inside and outside, and was turn- ing his piercing eyes from face to face, ending at He looked at him full two minutes without winking, and Stanley, observing his antonse scrutiny, fastened his burning eyes also up- on him. George returned Mr. Falcon’s gaze steadily, but by his changing and hardening expression, it was plain that he did not feel at ease under it. -Having satisfied himself on this point, Mr. Falcon suddenly dismissed the servants, and, following the last of them to ths door, watched them out of sight, elosed it carefully, and returned to the gentlemen who stood together, but not looking at each other, at ‘the desk. | *t Mr. Laurie,” said the lawyer, ‘“‘you know some- thing of this matter; it is useless to conceal it, and tf I may be allowed to advise, your most prudent eourse is candor.” “Gentlemen,” said George, looking at them both with unflinching eyes, ‘‘I do know something about this will, but not of its disappearance.”’ “What do you know?” demanded Mr. Falcon. “‘T knew that Mrs. Stanley intended to make her will, and then I knew that she had made it.” “ You knew !"’ ejaculated Stanley, under his breath. The same ungovernable thrill seemed to run through him as he spoke, and, for the moment, he seemed almost demoniac as he stood there, trying to smoth- er his fury. _ Arve you aware of the contents of tl at will?” in- * quired Mr. Falcon, taking constant heed of both, but ‘preserving his calmest, most insinuating man- ner. \ sao turned away hastily, saying, in a low ce: ; “Be kind enough to excuse me answering that question. I can’t answer it.” - “Why can’t you answer it, sir?’ demanded Stan- ley, in a voice almost as low, but so fraught with and menace that the lawyer turned more heed- of a pistol. toward him. “It is nothing to the purpose whether I know or do not know the contents of the will,” said George, turning to him a pale and anxious face. ‘‘It was the result of a mere accident that Mrs. Stanley ever mentioned to me that she intended to make her will, and, if you please, I would rather not pursue the subject further, at least until you have answered me one question. Did Mrs. stanley make any especial statement to you on the night of her ' death?” : Stanley whitened to the lips. — : “T know,” answered he, still in that low, vibrating voice of chained-up fury, “I know that shé and you , had agreed between you that some statement was to tot ‘ be made to me.” He paused, malignantly waiting for Geerge to offer some assent or dissent to this; but George moved not a muscle. ‘*T know this,” reiterated Stanley, with a little bit- ter laugh, “ because she told me so,” “Did she make the statement?’ inquired George, with intense excitement. _ “She did not,” replied Stanley, between his teeth; “she left it, I presume, for you to make.” George again turned hastily aside, almost over- come by the revulsion of feeling. This man, wicked of heart and wild of life, must be innocent, then of the dastardly crime he had laid to his charge} Mrs. Stanley had died with her secret locked in ar oe bosom, and her death had been caused by a ake. The 7 tones of Stanley recalled him to himself. “Tf Mr. Falcon will step into the next room for a few minutes, perhaps m oun friend may be in- duced to give me his confidence.” ‘He need not go,” said George, firmly; “I have } nothing to say—no confidence Fi because I never had anything to do with Mrs. tanley’s affairs; at least, I became aware of some of them accident- ally; but she never empowered me to act for her in any way. This is all I can or will say on this subject, ee ca Mr. Stanley.”’ ~ “You absolutely refuse to impart to me the knowl- edge you have of my late wife’s affairs?” said Mr. Stanley, almost in a whisper. “T am obliged absolutely to refuse,” returned clenched hands, while a blaze of frantic r it his eyes; “you've said all that is neces- sary. Lunderstand our relative positions. Hence- forward, if you are not as rash as you are imperti- nent, you will keep out of my way!” ree started as if stung, and cresting his hand- some head, gazed at his adversary in burning er. “Gentlemen! gentlemen!” said the soft, smooth voice of Mr. Falcon, as he stepped between them with a little bow and smile, ‘‘this is all nonsense; let us go back to business. Mr. Stanley will you be od enough to assist me in a thorough search ugh the late Mrs. Stanley’s effects for the mis- ' “Very good, sir!’ said Paul Stanley, stepping back with é he . f Lo Bie ae sing documents! TRUST HER “NOT. While he was speaking, George, with a slight bow, left the room, and a few minutes after the house, crossing its threshold for the last time. CHAPTER VI. THE FACE AT THE CRAG. Srx months have passed—the scene is changed. We now bid you look upon a glittering sea-bight in one of the Northern States, where the hoary- headed Atlantic billows march in upon the golden sand in endless phalanxes; where a black reef runs out half across the bay, sending high the curdled foam in rainbow spray, where a snow-white hamlet nestles in a green rent between two flower- flushed mountains, and all along the sandy shore rug zed cliffs are piled mass on mass,.and perforated with innumerable tiny caves, into and out of which the sea-birds flutter, chattering. Stormeliff! Fitting name, indeed, when the _ storm-cloud darkens the summer sky; when lightnings play across the polished sea, and around these jagged rocks; when the foam-flecked breakers rush across the level floor, dashing far up the adamant wall; and the hamlet is hidden by the driving scud; but when the sea lies calm and smil in the radiant sunlight, when the long sand reach is strewn with shining shells and floating banners of bronze bright dulse, and the little azure pools at the foot of the cliff are alive with darting minnows, and gemmed with opal-tinted sunfish; when the scent of roses comes down from the rose-crowned crag, and the bells of the sheep in yonder velvet-green valley tinkle softly to the muffled roar of the slumberin, ocean, you would laugh at the boding name for suc a haleyon spot. They are all here—Mr. Verne, Maiblume, Made- moiselle, George and Mr. Stanley. They have re- tired from the vortex of fashion to this quietest of nooks, and have here lived for months, secluded. The author is a hard student, and works best in solitary places; the poet also loves loneliness and the sea, and finds his late affliction cheered by the resence of his friend Verne; thus they come to be ere, which is the reason for all the rest being here, too. Maiblume never will leave her father for the gayer summer resorts; Coila is her sister and goes where she goes; and George Laurie is as ind’spensable an adjunct as the author’s head—for heis his hand. he Vernes have taken a little cottage standing by itself apart from all other cottages; nestling under the shadow of a vine-clad hill and half-hidden by the waving foliage of shrub and tree and tangled creeper which lovingly crowd round it. A baby brook runs babbling out of the shrubbery hard by and winds in and out, through all the cottage grounds, like a blessing through a beautiful life, laddening the heart at every turn with its freshen- ing influence. y its velvet banks would Maiblume and Coila wander half the summer day, reading or sketchin till, in the cool of the evening, the gentlemen woul join nen, when they would all repair to the sea Stanley boards in the hamlet but spends almost all his leisure time with his friends. His wife’s will never having been discovered, he had in due time been put in possession of her prop- erty. it was a delicious August afternoon, about five o’clock. The two young ladies were waiting at a rustic gate for the approach of the gentlemen, always considered due at that hour. Maiblume, in her robes of tender green, clasped about the dainty waist with silver, looked like some stately maid of olden time, awaiting in greenwood glade her steel-clad knight to come through the wavering leaves and shadows to kneel in homage at her feet; while Coila, in her filmy clouds of white, with her black hair raining down, and a long, green fern-leaf in her tiny hand, looked like a fairy change- ling, listening for the elfin horn to recall her to that brighter land. B “They are coming,” said Coila, as a cheery whistle echoed through the leafy wood, and she lightly sprung to the top of a moss-grown urn to see further along the winding pathway. ‘Here come Monsieur the papa and Monsieur the poet, arm in arm; these two, how they together. My heart! neither of them should ever have married.” Maiblume laughed a : “T am glad see Mr. Stanley getting over his trouble at last,” observed she; *‘ he is almost like his former self again.” Coila sat down on the top of the urn with her little bronze slippers on its pedestal. f ‘“Monsieur the poet shoud marry again,” said she, gayly. ‘Ah, how I should like to be the wife of aclever man! Should you not?” “T don’t know,” said Maiblume, absently, and bending over the rude gate she plucked a pink wild rose from outside, touched it with her lips and fast- ened it in her bosom. . ‘““Ah! Here comes Monsieur George!” exclaimed Coila, waving her fern-leaf joyously—‘ dear, kind, good Monsieur George!” : Maiblume looked out to the shining sea and her eyes seemed larger and more dewy while the rose 1 | on her bosom’ trembled with the quick pulses of her | the advancing ‘Monsieur Stanley is clever, but—bah! he has not the good heart of Monsieur George. Which should you prefer, Maiblume, my dear?” i aa shrugged her shoulders, saying a little coldly: ** Nonsense !”’ | then mademoiselle’s,” eS : 5 pct? And Coila burst into a silver rill of laughter. “‘Oh, I know already!” cried she, “‘ and so dues the. fern-leaf. Which does she prefer, Monsieur Staniey or Monsieur George—head or heart?" and here she began plucking the fern-stalk bare, frond by frond, . while the gentlemen rapidly approached and Mai- blume’s cheeks flushed crimson—“ head or heart— head or heart,’ whispered the little witch, while her eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘ Oh ma chere, here it is—just as I knew—heart/ Gentlemen, Maiblume says she prefers marrying heart to marrying head. Is she not right, dear Monsieur Verne?” and descend- ing with a light bound from her perch she clasped that gentleman’s arm with the joyous freedom of a spoiled child. ; _ “What have you two been talking about?" said Stanley, stepping to Maiblume’s side, while . turned suddenly away and seemed intent on bark of a silver birch. Maiblume looked round with a quiet face. i! : “T have not been talking at all,” said she, care- lessly. ‘‘Coila has been arra: ing my future with , whe anagioal aid es 5a Sore leat oe t’s all.” a" nley’s scrutinizing glance fell; he opened the gate, and they walked all together down uiet, Dd ryt into the ravine, with the sea-beach full in front. And it was as strange to see the exquisite riet: of manner which was observed between Me aoe and George Laurie, with the unexploded mine de- scribed in the fifth ey still between them, as it was to see the nameless influence which Made- moiselle Coila exerted over every one of the party, but we all know that innocent simplicity is often far more artlessly artful than finished diplomacy. She moved them with a word—a frond that a child might have spoken; if she had had the key all their — nai a not have twig —_ powers with more clever finesse; yet clung “ all the while to Mr. Verne with a moncia: retivieas air, as if, half afraid of the younger gentleman, she felt truly hepey. and safe with the old, so that Mr. — Verne, full of wonder and admiration, could not see Se an inch beyond the pretty Parisienne. eT They arrived at the beach, and stood a moment— the sunset crimsoning their faces—to drink in the © crisp land breeze and to revel in the mystic peace of ne ca Sad ph aiblume, drawing a long breath, said at length: “Oh, that this cou d lant dorev ene and Laurie turned simultaneously to her, neither, Stanle each with eager attention; but she looked seemingly forgetful of all save the broad, glisten- ing expanse with its trailing fringe of foam at their r feet. “Monsieur Papa,” cried Coila, nestling up to him, ody" m about the sea; | “T want someb to repeat a to the rocks over | and somebody else to go ou there and pluck me some dulse; andI want both my desires gratified at once. Monsieur, my dear pepe, pil you not direct the kind gentlemen to te) «By all means, my dear child,” laughed Mr. Verne. “Which do you wish to send dulse-gather- ing? . ie Ean thousand thanks!” cried Coila, with her most __ delicious lisp. ‘‘Monsieur George knows the rocks by heart—and so does Monsieur Stanley the poem: behold then! And Maiblume will applaud the while I will eat the dulse so briny, so delicate!” " With a smile at her sauc George started on iS his errand, while Mr. Stanley drew a sudden breath __ of relief, and, well pleased with the 4 him, dived into the stores of his mind for some poem worthy of the theme and of his charming ex esis Coila uttered a littl ust then Coila u a little petulant ery. 3, “ Maiblume!"” my ‘ “ What, my dear Coila?” 4 ‘ Monsieur George—he knows not dulse from eel- “Ah! that’s fataJ. Recall him.” § “But you know every fairy weed that waves fron: ocean rock. Maiblume, sweet life, do you accompany” him!” Cool request, was it not? - , And, utterly unconscious of the poet’s freezing ; stare, and Maiblume’s gasp and burning blush, the little simpleton urged it persistently. LENE om “Go, Maiblume,” said Mr. Verne, laughing hearti- ly; “the poem can await your return!” ee ‘‘ May I accompany?” almost pleaded Stanley. — Maiblume only waved her hand in stately dissent and with a quiet step followed George down the level on, sands. ‘ * 3 Anon he glanced behind, and seeing her coming 4 4 es. ped. cried he hastened batvk to her with glad smi gayly; “thanks; it is a much better arrangement ene. ae mademoiselle’s,” observed Mai- blume, her deep, sweet eyes on the aronnain 2 mo\ Side by side over the firm, wet sand, while the | _ entle wavelets crept up to kiss their feet, and ran. E> ack laughing to whisper in old Ocean’s ear of a “You are coming to help me, are you?" “This, too, is . tale as eternal as the song he sings; side by si 7 while myriads of white sand birds Started up fro fy id before them and circled around them, merrily chat- ae tering their congratulations; side by side, whilethe ~ wild roses leaned low from their ledge above, and = | eart, | the honeysuckle sent its st ium “ After all I would rather be Monsieur George’s | : en cypher so wife than Monsieur Stanley’s,” resumed Coila, eying | entlemen, with babyish simplicity; | to bless and t them on their way, and eventhe grim face of the sea-washed rock seemed flushed with kindly et dS : 7 a Fe Oh, she was beautiful, this Maiblume! ee Rae ‘Miss Maiblume, you wished that this might al _ ways last,” said George, in 2. hushed voice. “Are you then oy very happy cn tel ¢ cay eile ap i appy,” answered Maiblut softly; “very happy and at rest.” i es ae Se he hls
Page 6
“™ vf you always be so!”’ said George, with sudden fervent passion. ‘‘May no blighting shadow ever fall across your path!”’. He spoke with such era rae ene that she turned quickly, and, seeing him pale and agitated, exclaimed, hurriedly: ea Tee, what is the matter? What do you fear : ‘for me?’ “Don’t ask me, dear Miss Maiblume,” faltered a a T have no right to speak to you on such a sub- lect. “You have a right,” cried she. ‘‘ Have we not al- ‘ways been like brother and sister? Have we not al- ways been the frankest of friends toward each other? Dear alg don’t let us misunderstand each other now! [value your friendship beyond words—and—and—your 2) mete . As she finished in a tone vibrating with a ; sweet emotion, she gave him her velvet hand. Its touch set all his being thrilling with a bitter-sweet ' pain, and as he clasped it close, his heart swelled and swelled and tears rushed into his eyes. For oh, he loved her with that deepest and truest ; of loves—the first-born! A rugged column of weed-swathed rock screened them from the bg of those they had left behind: a tongue of rough stones ran outward from before _ them, into which the sea swirled its pallid froth _and_glistening brown wave; not a soul was in sight. “Have La right to disturb your peace with my un- generous fears?’’ said George, trembling; “‘ will it be any proof of the—the affection I have always had for you, to trouble and, perplex you with my unde- , ce suspicions concerning one whom you seem to ’ old dear?” _ “Wait a moment!” exclaimed Maiblume, gazing up in his agitated face with wonder in her own; Pica te a speak most strangely. To whom do you al- *" Fude?” “He is not worthy of you, Miss Maiblume!”’ burst passionately from George, while the maiden started and her sweet brow clouded warningly. ‘‘ You say ; Thave a right to speak—then I will speak! He is as , far beneath you as this mass of lifeless pulp is be- _ meath yonder pure light!’ and he pointed to the . tremulous evening star, while he spurned a starfish from the ary, stone at his foot. . ' A moment’s deep pause, then she lifted her great, -- magnetic eyes full to his. | “George,” breathed the low voice, which was all ‘ music to his heart, ‘never mention him again. “ae n’t fear for me; I could not love him even if he i Friant son thank. youl” faltered George, tur 7" a: ou mk you!” fa! rge, turn- . ing very P e, for this was not what his boding fears had prophesied; and he pressed her two flower-soft han thin his with unconscious strength, and his pulses quickened wildly, and his kindling eyes dwelt upon hers so burningly, that little by little her rare, cold beauty warmed and glowed into rich, pulsating ' ~ life; her proud eyes drooped; her sumptuous bosom rose and fell with half-gasping sighs; she eee in fluttering uncertainty to release herself—and even tulle she averted her telltale face, her treacherous heart melted, and she leaned more and more upon Another moment and she would have melted wholly and yielded te the luring spell of the youth’s first wordless declaration of love; but, like a sprite from some eerie land, a strange boy-figure came out of the shadowy crags behind them and lifted up his "wan, unearthly visage with a sudden cry. ee ey God!” uttered George Laurie, hoarsely, and hestarted from Maiblume’s side as if shot. ers ; F Rcd CHAPTER VII. yest TAKE CARE WHAT YoU Do! ‘Jr was a weird little figure that, as % stood in the _. darkening twilight between the sundered lovers! __He seemed a boy in years with his slender frame, Lg his attenuated arms and shrunken limbs—the limbs on phe child of six on the body of a half-grown lad; he ported himself on two crutches; his clothes were torn and soiled; his head and feet were bare; a most forlorn and vagabond waif he was—but his face was the fairest that ever the sun shone on, and Pe. mergers blew like ropes of gold in the salt-sea wind! : nom Oh! the beautiful—beautiful boy!” gasped Mai- . blume. - 3 George. bent over the cripple, hiding him com- rtone ama 4 } fh Pistely from her. x t do you want here?” he asked, in a hurried undertone. ; Fy -Maiblume heard no answer. Having recovered ae her surprise at. his sudden appearance, she ad- _ vanced to see him closer; the glimpse she had had of his face piqued her curiosity and touched her sense of the romantic. |. George met. her half-way ; in the gathering gloom a he looked cold and unearthly. Leave him alone—don’t gonear him; don’t speak to him,” said he, in a strange voice. + “Why?” cried Maiblume, struck with amazement. and mechanically she tried again to see the object of - her commiseération. es George seized her by the arm and almost roughly drew her to the. other side of the projecting rock. _. “Maiblume, dear, dear Maiblume,” said he, in a -woice of tragic entreaty, _ this boy to me.’ ii Astonished questions crowded to her lips, but oak poole mare elearly the awful pallor of the youth as hk) Bey 4 toward her, she sat confounded, looking ‘ - silently at him. ; Be iy Ne a ome you go too Age Ee Ras ee ». Geo confus: ; “there danger to— ee g best for you md yemain here while I send him “let me ask you to leave % PRUST BER MOT: Maiblume caught his hand as he was turning to leave her. “What is this you say?’’ she cried, ps eon ge “Danger? I must not approach him? Isee it all; he has some deadly infection about him, and you bi expose basis sp Oh, et don’t go + a e young man irresolute, gnay s lip and ae convulsively the little hand that had cau i A low, weary cry came from the other side of the rock, and he broke from her as if he had received an electric shock. “Pardon me; I must go to him; but, for Heaven’s sake, don’t you stir!’’ he implored, and he darted away. A moment afterward she heard him in tones she had never heard heard before, seeming to chide the — waif bitterly for wandering about thus, home- ess and friendless. The a go answered, weeping. that he was homeless an iendless indeed, an —, the gentleman for God’s sake take pity on m Then there was a silence, and apd from her covert to look with sickening alarm for George Laurie, she saw nothing but the rough plateau of foam-sprinkled stones, the long wave sweeping in aoa gurgling murmur, and the gray cliff towering . Horrified at this inexplicable disappearance Mai- blume leaned dizzily against the stone, and for some moments se off a hysterical desiré to scream for help and the chill faintness which was stealing over her. She covered her face with her hands, and it seemed but a moment after when, looking up, she saw meee standing before her alone. “You are | ” said he, ved gently ; “come, sit down here and recover yourself.” He led her to a flat stone; then he stood before her, looking down, oh, so earnestly and yet so sadly upon her. ““Maiblume,”’ said he, almost in a whisper, “I have acted like a madman this evening.”” He came to a full stop, choked with emotion. “Who was that strange being?” asked Maiblume. ‘* Ask nothing,” said George, beseechingly. ‘‘ You know I would tell you everything if it was—if it was —well for you to know it.’ She sat dumb and astonished before him, not know- ing what to think. ‘Forget the waif,’ said George, still more im- loring ty 3 “never mention him, never allude to him, rop him from your speech and memory as com- pletely as if he had never been.” “You ask a strange thing,’’ said Maiblume, faint- ly. ‘‘Oh, that you would tell me why!” “Tean’t!” groaned George. ‘‘I dare not!” A chilling silence fell upon them both, and mean- ps the skies darkened and the waters gathered gloom, ‘“Why do you say you have acted like a madman this evening?” asked Maiblume, in a low voice fraught with pain. ‘*Because I have been foolish, impetuous and selfish,” answered he, bitterly. “t forgot that any bar lay between you and me, and presumed to offer— Oh, chase this from. your memory too, an Verne; forgive my presumption, and forget She sat like a stone, her white face ki gen through the dusk; it seemed an eternity till she re- collected herself, and with a little shiver rose from her low seat. i “Tet us be friends, George, as we have been,” she said, in measured tones. “I grant both your re- quests, and will forget both the occurrences of to- night. Now take me back to papa! Yet wait—here is a handful of Coila’s dulse in this pool—so—that is enough—now come.” ; And so they walked back again side by side, but the wild flowers dropped dew tears upon them, and there was no sound of chattering birds, and earth and sky seemed dim and cold—for the night was coming on apace, The author and his secretary were in the study next morning busil Nie ter as usual—the author marching to and ictating with the voice of a general on the field of oe a ed his secretary’s pen moved swiftly and noiselessly over the fair white sheet. The study was a dim, quiet room at the back of the cottage, lit from the end ne tall bay window, which looked out into a somber myrtle thicket, brightened here and there by some snow-white flowering shrub or the silvery leaves of prickly holly, whose roots were banked with scarlet gera- niums. The middle window was thrown wide that the gold- backed bee might flutter in and out, and the scent of unseen beds of mignonette, musk and verbena, might waft in to inspire the author. As he marched about, Mr. Verne kept glancing ever and anon, somewhat ae Ty, at his Etim as- sistant, whose haggard, ill-slept_ looks and sternly- a ae lips betrayed a mind but illat ease. At last he paused by George’s side, and, waiting until he had eh finished the sentence, he s nee im on the back in his genial hearty way, and, descending from his Pegasus, said, in his most prosaic tone: ““ What in the world’s the matter with you, boy? I’ve been watching you all the, 1norning. Some- thing’s on your mind, I could take my oath on’t.” George, coloring deeply, laid down his pen and met his employer’s eyes with ingenuous frankness. “Something ds on my mind,” said he; ‘I’ve some- thing to say which I fear will not be agreeable to Yous and I’ve been puzzling my head all day to know ow to say it.” “Oh, I’m concerned in the business, am I?’’ said tr re, the kindly old author, drawing in a chairand sitting ~ down close beside his young companion. ‘Tut! don’t be afraid! Speak out: atever it is, you’re in the right of it, I know.” ; ‘ ‘But this,” said George, laughing, ‘‘ this really is a most awkward request which I have to make.” “Oh, ho! A request!” cried the author, ‘ All right; go ahead; if you can stand it,I can.” And throwing himself*back in his chair, he folded his arms and regarded George with a most indulgent air. ; The author’s study was almost as cool and silvan as any lady’s bower of olden story. A carpet like forest moss covered the floor, gigantic vases of flow- ering shrubs and trailing vines stood here and there and everywhere; garlands of wild flowers hun, about the bust of an angelically pure ‘‘ Eve,’’ which surmounted the simple davenport, and wreathed a long mirror which, facing the middle window, dis- played a picture very much after Rembrandt of the myrtle thicket with its stray gleams of silver leaves and lurid petals. Was the cunning little smile which crept about the author’s mouth, as he glanced round upon all these evidences of Maiblume’s constant care and loving service, caused by any reminiscence in which she | and George figured. : ‘““Mr. Verne,” said George, “circumstances have arisen which make it absolutely necessary for me to board somewhere else than under your roof. T have to ask your permission to leave you every even- ing at eight o’clock. I shall be on duty as early as you please in the morning.” ’ The author started aghast. An awkward request, indeed, for he was one of those erratic geniuses who, struck by a_ brilliant thought in the night, was Meier Sen getting by a write it down in the most atrocious hand, and then in despair at the sight of the illegible hieroglyphics, was constantly obliged to summon George to create a readable copy of it in his dressing-gown. ; “Bless my soul!” ejaculated he, ‘“‘something des- perate must have occurred! a Task for any rea- son? Ah! ha! Ah! ha! I think I see light!” cried he, as the crimson mounted to George’s brow; and bending forward, he scrutinized the handsome oung face opposite with the keenest relish. ‘* Some- ody has not smiled of late, and’ the foolish boy wants to run away from her,” said he, experiment- ally. No, no!’ said George, overwhelmed with confu- sion. ‘That is not it, indeed; and that is another subject in connection with which I have a confession to a to you which is quite as awkward as my re- quest. ‘Stop a bit,” said Barthold Verne; ‘‘ one thing at atime. You want to live somewhere else than un- der my roof, and no fair lady is the cause of your wishing to leave me. Now, George, what is the rea- son? Have you any cause of dissatisfaction? Stan- ley, I know, is somewhat supercilious to you, but he does not live here—” “Mr. Stanley has nothing whatever to do with this matter,’’ said George, hastily, ‘‘and—in fact, Mr. Verne, I can assign no cause. I am obliged - it is right for me to do it—that’s all I can say.” ; ‘All right, boy; that’s enough,” said Verne, heart- ily; ‘I haven’t seen you, morning, noon and night,, for two years without learning to place implicit faith in your honor and integrity.” 5 : “Thank you,” said the youth, earnestly, while his fine eyes shone with gratitude. “Your generous praise almost resigns me to my lot. You permit me to £0, do you?” “Certainly; where do you think of going?” Again the young man flushed high, and gnawed. his lips impatiently. “That’s another thing I have to beg of you not to: ask me,”’ said he, in deep vexation. ‘* Oh, Mr. Verne, I dare scarcely hope that you will have patience with these petty mysteries, but they are thrust up- on me, and I have no choice but to do as I am do- . Al \* he author betrayed his amazement by a short whistle, and burst into a roar of laughter. ey, “Oh! ho! ho! Ah! ah! ah! This would make a ood novel! ‘The Mysterious Secretary,’ how would that sound? But come, now, my dear fellow, cheer’ up; don’t look so rueful, and, mind you,” he added, holding out his hand with frank cordiality, “if you are in real trouble, you are not to keep it all to your- self; you’re to tell me as much of it as will give me a chance to help P pas Now, now, not a word!” ex- claimed he, hastily, as George faltered forth his thanks. ‘ Let’s have the confession, I think I can make a rough guess what it’s about.” , George covered his face with his hands for a few minutes; then, removing them, turned his gallant,. boyish face, pallid with deep emotion, toward his . employer. “T don’t know how long f have loved her,” softly; ‘“‘I never knew my own presumption until i saw another trying his every art to win her. I could have borne the discovery of my own passion,” said George, faltering more and more, “I could have kept it to myself forever if I had seen her wooed by one who could make her happy—but, to witness her gradual entanglement in the net of one whois both rae a cruel—oh, pardon me! I don’t know what say ’ : / “One who is both wily and cruel!” echoed Mr. Verne, perfectly aghast. ‘‘My dear George, you are dreaming! Who sees Maiblume but yourself and. me? Good heavens! you don’t mean—you don’t mean—Stanley ?” } on *f Forgive me, Mr. Verne—indeed I have forgotten _ myself!” said George. ‘‘ Let me go on with my con- — fession. Last evening as we walked together—Miss said he Maiblume and I—beside the sea, the thought of her helplessness came over me—her helplessness and the BED
Page 7
_ wrecking of all her peace and happiness, should her father, whom she loves so well, desire her to marry one whose first wife’s life was one of long sorrow—” ' . “ This is all nonsense, boy!” interrupted Mr. Verne, warmly. ‘‘Mere jealous fancies. y friend has no more thought of Maiblume than—well, than I haveue little Coila! So you spoke to Maiblume, did you?” “JT had kept such a long constraint upon my- self,” said George, “that when at last my feelings carried me away, though I was dying to offer her ; my life-long homage and protection, I could not utter a word—but my looks spoke—and I think—I , fear—she understood me.” ‘And what did she do? How did she act? Did she repulse you?” asked Mr. Verne, breathlessly. “Thave not dared to take the meaning of her looks,” said George, sadly. “She did not repulse me, and I think she understood. We were inter- ‘ rupted before I had spoken, and, by the time I saw x her again, I had remembered my duty to you and the hopeless difference between our stations,” “Good boy! Brave boy!’ said Mr. Verne, rising to put his hand affectionately on his secretary’s shoulder. ‘ Now listen tome; I’m going to talk to you from my very heart.” As George raised his eyes in gratitude to his most indulgent of employers, from whom he had ex- oasis a very different reception of all he had to say hat morning, he beheld a figure slipping into the ~¢ . myrtle thicket, in the mirror—Mr. Paul Stanley. Mr. Verne’s back was to the mirror, and his eyes 4 were glued to his secretary’s face; he went on in his breezy, hearty voice, every syllable rolling out 7 through the open window, and falling distinctly on f | the ear of the arrested poet. ‘ “Men say I am a fool in money matters; well, pertapest am; yet at fiftyI could buy up many a een speculator; I can no more speculate in my daughter’s beauty than I can in stocks. Her heart is as sacred to my eyes as was the heart of her mother long ago when I entreated her to give it to me. God forbid, George, I should ever come be- . tween my child and the man she loves—if he is worthy of her. You are neither rich nor famous but I do believe you are true as steel. So, boy, if you can get Maiblume’s ‘yes,’ mine will not be wanting.” Little by little the youth had risen—the color " coming and going in his eloquent young face—his heart tilling to bursting with wild joy and amaze; and now, forgetful of the mirrored picture of the myrtle grove, and its dumb-struck listener, he seized ' both the author’s hands, and wringin; them con- vulsively, tried to speak, but burst into fears instead gs ta the unworldly man of fiction caught him to his breast, and patted and soothed him like any woman. pon this tableau came Mr. Stanley, stepping y through the open window, with a face like a demon. “Verne,” said he, in a hushed voice, ‘take care what you're about. I couldn’t help hearing what |. you said to this young man, as I came down the walk, and as your friend—an older friend by far than he _ —Lsay, take care what you're about |” , CHAPTER VIII. THE TEST OF A MAN’S HONOR. tees At these boding words, the author and his secre- Gi tary started apart, both struck speechless for the : | moment by the manner no less than by the words of the intruder. _ . . “I don’t speak without cause,’’ said Stanley, fold- F ing his arms and drawing himself ae his full ier hight. “I know too well—too well that the man whom you are taking to your unsuspicious heart as ee the lover of your precious daughter is a destroyer of ot family peace—a meddler between husband and wife e _ —a black, traitorous hound, fit only to be chased He orn ated men’s houses, with disgust and indigna- - “Hold—hold, Stanley!” cried the author, aghast. ‘These are terrible things to say of one whom I love as. if he were my own son!” ' “They are true!” returned Stanley. “Look at him i there! Can he deny them? Speak, young man, be honest. Have I no cause to curse and con- _ demn you?” ; ; George, looking steadily at him, caught a glimpse over his shoulder at the myrtle thicket, and of an- other figure, sweet and stately, pacing between the - flowers—Maiblume, with alarm in her eyes, hurrying - toward the study window. The shock of this dis- LG oon froze the words upon his lips; he stood dumb ’ -confounded. Vv d. laugh of biting scorn broke from Stanley, while Terne, watching George anxiously, grew a shade paler and sunk into his chair. “What say you, Verne?” cried Stanley. “ Does this look like innocence or guilt? Is this George Laurie worthy of the confidence you have reposed -him 29 i “George,” said.the author, imploringly, “have ‘you nothing to say for yourself? What does Mr. , Stanley mean?’’ ; y George, gazing still in the myrtle thicket, made a Sastre of despair. Maiblume, having distinctly eard the words both of the poet and of her father, stood motionless with blank, blanched face, and hands pices upon her heart. What! not one word! No ready lie at your com- _ mand? No specious explanation, false and fawning as your own nature?” flouted Stanley, scorningly. end hs “ Look at your precious favorite, Verne; is he not a __ notable personification of Injured Innocence?” 1 {os God forgive ze an, but you have a bitter ra tongue!” groaned Mr.. Verne. ““ George—George. _ my boy, speak, if you love me—if you love her, iy Nok Liebe : ‘ fay ‘ t We ‘ *) 4 > Pe oe wy .. +. bs ye SO SERUST HERG NOT: BELL EE AD SU al ar ” ; , y poor Maiblume! Explain what Mr. Stanley means, I pray you, explain!” ; e Laurie, never removing his fascinated gaze from the awful countenance of the woman he adored, made shift to answer these imploring pray- ers. “Mr. Stanley suspects me of interfering between his late wife and himself. I have a y assured him to the contrary, but he will not take my word.” “Not against proofs of the accuracy of my worst suspicions!”’ said Stanley, darkly. ‘‘How came you to know a secret: connected with my wife’s past his- tory which she never confessed to me? How came you to know that my wife made a will, a circum- stance phich she never confided to me? Why did she call for yom when upon her death-bed instead of me ? Why did you refuse to explain your connection with her when after her interment I, thinking I had some right to the knowledge, demanded an explanation? Come, sir, answer all these questions now, before my old friend, mht Pet dare to hope that his confidence will be restored!” “That seems simple justice,” said Verne; ‘‘ dear enc be candid. I can’t judge you hardly—I love you ” Tears were in the warm-hearted fellow’s eyes as ne sete this appeal; it was hard—hard to resist m “Oh, God, remember!” groaned the youth, cover- his face. ‘For Maiblume’s sake, speak out!’ entreated Verne going to him and leaning fondly upon his shoulder; ““T want her to be happy, and I think she can oy: be happy with you. For her sake, speak! S Yr “Yes, for her sake speak!"’ echoed Stanley, be- tween his teeth; “‘the truth will cure both father and daughter of their misplaced affection.” George raised his face; it was cold and white, but a brave smile was on his lips and his eyes flashed dauntlessly. He looked at his friend—great-hearted Verne who loved like a child and shrunk like an angel from the ugliness of sin; be cast a last glance upon fair Maiblume, listening with white, parted lips and heaving bosom for his reply; and then he spoke distinctly, decisively. ** Honor forbids me to make the explanation re- uired by Mr. Stanley. Mrs. Stanley reposed a con- dence in me which she did not repose in her husband—beécause I stumbled upon the truth and she could not help herself. I cannot betray her con- fidence—I will never betray it as long as God gives me strength to act a manly part by the dead.” A cry of derision burst from Stanley; Verne turned away witha gas ing ejaculation; but George was deaf to both, for Maiblume had thrown up her clasped hands toward Heaven, lifting a face of wildest anguish, and was now flitting away among the shadows with bowed and unsteady feet. ‘Nonsense! dear Verne; bea man!’ remonstrated Staniey, leading him to a distant lounge; “‘ what is this miserable fellow that he should have the power to trouble you so? Put him back in his own place, or better still, dismiss him; I will engage to get you as competent a secretary and a more honorable one in a few days.” “Silence, Stanley! I can’t hear you speak thns,” exclaimed the author, sternly. ‘I never sawa man with God’s truth written more plainly on his face. He may be rash and impulsive—brave hearts are often so; but my oath on it, he. is incapable of treachery or vice.” ““You are infatuated!’ cried Stanley; “‘you are —— going tosacrifice your daughter to this per- son notwithstanding my warning?” Verne writhed away from this Job’s comforter and marched about the room, sighing audibly in the most disconsolate manner. At length he stopped in front of George, and eyed him with a yearning ne m tihte b “ Boy, you hink our du eep a secret of the ate Mire. Statiley's from Mr. Stanley?” inquired he. ““God knows that honor is the only barrier in the way of a full explanation,’ returned George. “And the other things you mentioned this morn- ing—the mystery we laughed about,” said the author, with glistening eyes; ‘is that connected with the same affair?” ‘ “Please, dear, generous friend, ask me nothing!” whispered ee ee “Through no act of mine Iam forced to deny you my confidence on this and on the other point. I can only beseech you to trust in my honor as you haye always done hitherto.” ; “George,” said the author, seizing his hand in a burst of confidence, ‘‘ZJcould take you upon trust, I could believe in you whatever appearances said; but I dare not let Maiblume take you upon trust; you see?” “T see too clearly, alas!”’ sighed George. E “You must clear yourself of these imputations and be able to stand up unblemished before the world, ere I consent to your speaking to Maiblume,”’ said Mr. Verne, very sadly; “she is my own child— my darling; don’t think me cruel or unjust!” ‘I, can’t think you that, Mr. Verne,” replied George, profoundly affected; “some day, please Heaven, you will see that your great kindness has not been misplaced.” With a convulsive pressure of the author’s hand, and a slight, cold bow to the sneering poet, George left the room. : * While this interview was taking place in Mr. Verne’s study, little Coila was tripping bare-footed among the periwinkles and sea anemones, the foam- bubbles and the tangled heaps of sea-ware on the beach. Her broad straw hat was tipped jauntily over her radiant eyes; her long thick black hair, | | | | songs in the sea, | poi t blank, fe Monalatt swung on the salt breeze, and her smart scarlet bathing-dress frmged and tasseled like any Turkish -Sultana’s, glowed in the noon sun. , ‘Coila was i uE her mind to adventure he: “nice, warm, dry litile body into the cold damp ” and as this was usually a process of some duration, Maiblume had not as yet joined her, pre~ ferring to come in at the crisis, when, tremors and alarms over, mademoiselle was singing mermaid ow she laughed as she pressed her little toes upon the tiny shells, not half so pink anit smooth, and crushed_the little wonders, occupants and into ruin. How she danced round the frightened crabs that tried to scurry into the shelt- tering pools of the big black rocks! How she rir brimmed with gleeful mischief, when, running out after the edge of the retiring wave, she sent up @ cloud of startled sand-birds before her! Such a merry Thalia never danced along that solitary beac I trow. She might have been a ‘‘water baby” come out of the rocks to play at being a humam ¢ All at once, dancing round a jutting rock, she tripped over the sea-glass of a man who was upon his face behind the rocks, with his elbows buried in the sand, his chin on his palm, and his ome eye fixed, with the gravity of a Solon, onthe blank orizon. x “Mon dieu, monsieur! Ten thousand pardons!" cried ,the young lady, recovering herself, with French address and executing a ravishing little bow and smile. 4, The gentleman jumped up with a muttered: “ By George! It is a real woman or a fairy!’” To which mademoiselle responded with a silvery of laughter—moving toward the sea, how- ever, as if to escape therein, should his evident: ae tion take any more tangible shape tham ooks. The gentleman was possessed of a sallow, coffee— colored complexion, silky black mustache and whiskers, prominent glistening brown eyes which had a trick of rolling in their sockets, and peeping: at one out of their corners with a sly laughing dev: in them, always peng Ses mock at one, while fron: — his sine f lips issued only careless jests and laughter. He had also long brown sinewy hands, which whem he spoke, he placed meekly palm to palm, as if supp rcp the forbearance of all who heard him. His general appearance was that of a a in very free and easy cos ume—a gentleman who a to enjoy his holiday ard no nonsense about it. “Madame!” said he, entreatingly; ‘‘stand there; don’t move a muscle, I beg. I must sketch you. i never saw any thing half so much worth sketchin and I believe the world knows something of Nowe Wylie’s pencil, too.” ; \ “Ah, an artist!” murmured Coila, taking a step. nearer and falling into a ie more ravishing pose. { “ Delicious!” cried Mr. Wylie, seizing his portfolio, dumping down on the first rock and plying his cray~ on with immense gusto yee "Yes, am an artist—a caricaturist—don’t — move for the world. I’m not caricaturing you; | that would be sacrilege! In return for your good- ness, I must show you the contents of my portfolice —they'll amuse you Iknow. Ah, now I’ve caught your outline! Jehosaphat! It’s ry Me beauty” curves! May I trespass on your kindness a few" moments longer? I should so much like to catch. that inimitable expression. Do you know where &. | aoe by the name of Verne lives? I have a etter of introduction to him, and Iam sucha con- foundedly 1 fellow, that if Ican find a thing out: by asking, I always save my legs at the expense of. my tongue.” ‘Monsieur Verne? Oh, my dear pape Vernel’” | exclaimed the little mademoiselle, looking archly at- the queer artist. ‘‘Oh, certainly, ‘Monsieur Artist, E shall myself conduct you to the retreat of Monsieur Verne.’ : “Thank you! thank you!” returned the genth man, with admiring fervor, as he acard from his very handsome gold-mounted card case. ‘You are, then, his daughter?” Py “His adopted daughter,” murmured Coila, looking | down with an air of gentle sadness. ‘‘I am a home- less little Frenchwoman, a stranger in this great land of yours; but monsieur papa and mademoiselle: ma seur Verne, have taken me into their hearts,and@ Tlove—ah! I am devoted to them.” z The artist stared at her; his brown eyes filled with — unfeigned admiration. / i oe “Jerusalem! She’s an out-and-outer!”? muttered he—‘“‘a perfect baat tip Sees to stare apparently los sense of propriety. r eaks!” said Coila, her litthe inaikoe one side, and her coral lips apart in innocent ex- pectation. ws ‘“‘ Ahem! Yes!” said the artist, recovering him- self. ‘‘Here is my card; and now, if you'll give me your name, I guess we'll commence our acquaint . i ye hastened toselecé ug % ‘ ¥ ra “a af 3 r = +a ‘> Xe 4 ‘ a ance on the square, and all the Grundies on the planet will find nothing to say.” r He stepped down the wet sand, holding out the bit of card-board, and she, with fawn-like timidity, al- — lowed him to come just near enough to hand it to her- at arm’s length; then, with a ge ge that scarcely left_ a mark upon the yellow floor, she skimmed off to the lace-fringed skirt of the tide, and stood with — ee) little feet imbedded in foam, demurely scanning — is name. “Charmed to make the acquaintance of Monsieur Nowell Wylie!” cried she, executing a reverence, which, consid her lack of sweeping robes, was. & marvel of sta grace. ‘‘My name is Coila De Vouse. And now, if you will excuse me, I shall re- turn very soon and show you the way to my papa’s.
Page 8
3 f her REO St quizzical Se to the roots of his hair, fastened his great a - weverie. ; CHAPTER IX. t A BRAVE HEART'S GOOD-BY. A wmex or two have passed. How stands the game now? . ~ Mr. Wylie, an eminent New York caricaturist, ‘bearing a letter of introduction to Barthold Verne from a well-known popuiber of that city, is a daily visitor, not only of the author's, but of his lovely _ children Maiblume and Coila, He cheerfully ‘‘ roughs \ at” in the village, sleeping in a whitewashed bed- ' xoom the size of a bandbox, and smoking all night 4o keep the musketoes at bay; eats flapjacks and Ahominy with pres thanksgiving, and hob-nobs with ‘%rown-handed farmers between the turnip-rows— wall for the felicity of dawdling some hours every ; beside the ladies of the cottage. ae hb an amusing man! He has been all over the _ evorld; gives such graphic descriptions of what he _ Jeas seen; and his portfolio is crammed with bur- rf Jesques of every thing, from a German cathedral to a Brazilian worker in the diamond mines. Coila thinks he is better than the Paris cirgue, and evaven Maiblume’s sad face sometimes brightens be- fore his spirit of mocking gayety. ; Mr. Verne is in great trouble meanwhile; his big, “ thonest heart is torn between conflicting emotions; N the is learning, for the first time, the bitter lessons o: suspicion and distrust. He who Nea all men by this own sterling self, is gradually finding out that a some who seem fair without, have hearts as black as f sin—and the hardly learned knowledge is crushing ‘him, hour by hour. Paul Stanley is his master here, and teaches him . he hateful lesson with untiring assiduity. ' George Laurie comes and goes, haggard, care- ; worn, and abstracted, yet obstinately silent about @he meaning of the change in him. He sees the aultered looks of his dear friend and master; he sees the sea shadow upon Maiblume; he knows ‘bat his Dappiioes and all his hopes for the future are being whispered away by one whose hatred as bitter as death, relentiess as the grave—Paul Stanley, wiom a word of his would make his friend. . . That word he cannot, will not speak, even for . *he sweet sakes of friendship and of love, for, al a | varus as steel, he will die rather than betray his | : arust, E At Jast comes a crisis. George, riding into the -. %semilet in his usual mad haste that he might not Study, encountered Stanley’s ironical stare as he athe himself from his panting horse at the village ostelry. ; fhe peculiar malignity of that look struck like an gh ice-bolt to the youth’s heart, and he pursued his “vay to the cottage even more dejectedly than usual, for grief and care sat heavily upon him, and dark _ ferebodings beset him that he had not fathomed the 7 alept of his misfortune yet. 4.3 “T am in chains,’ moaned George, as all his tet prospects seemed darkening before him. “Chained by her dead hand, and honor rivets my fetters. Oh, that I may not act a coward’s part __- wvhatever befalls me!”’ a He hurried into Mr. Verne’s presence, and was ‘scarcely surprised when the author did not raise his wale and troubled face to greet him. : George sat down to his work, and oh! how heavily '. ‘the moments dragged with that desponding figure : opposite him, so different from that which Laren oo marched up and down with gay and jaunty tread, iming brilliant society hits, and delicately-ten- der love-episodes. The secretary’s pen moved moreand more slowly, ~while his eyes wandered more and more frequent toward the silent author. _ At last he threw down the pen, buried his face in this hands, and gave himself up to a short but terri- ‘ ble mental Struggle. When he looked up, his face _ Seemed to 6 with brave and patient resignation _ —fthat handsome, boyish face, which had made the in eee of the author's study fer many a happy ry, a Pig af r. Verne,’’ said he, in his simple, direct way, “the state of things between us is getting to be RS tes & = igen > oa too much for you, 1 want to put an end to it - --- Verne looked at him earningly. ._ 4~ .“Yes, George,”’ said he, faintly. “TLsee that you have lost all confidence in me,” ‘continued George, ‘‘and that you will never regain it until I explain every thing that I have been keep- , dng secret.”’ + ' “Yhat’s it! That’s it, boy!” said the author, his eyes glistening with hope and expectation. ‘‘ Ex- } \ Giatu every thing—make a clean breast of it—I will mever judge you harshly.” _ Fer .a moment or two they looked at each other bg with strange intensity. Oh, the fond longing which ‘ft filled the author’s heart to Sresep ine h, the | furing temptation that struggled hard with principle * tia George’s breast! “Explain!” said he, in a low voice of pain. “God knows I would have done so long ago had it been y wrong-doing of mine. I have done nothing \ mbich you would not approve of, Mr, Verne. This ssecret is not mine, but another’s, and Iam bound ip 7 honor to keep it. a, Phan Hush | You are obdurate as a stone!” Awep the author waiting a moment for him inthe | now this new mystery—this hiding cried Mr. Verne, in sudden and fierce excitement. “*Stanley must be right! He has told me all about Hagel pig creat ai interference between him and is wife; was there no wrong-doing in that? And ; of yourself every night—what explanation can be given but that some shameful secret connected with your past has start- ed up at this mal apropos season when you were about to win my heiress’s hand— Oh, God! that such a face should hide a vice-blackened heart!”’ “Stop!’’ cried George, springing to his feet, as if touched with the -hot fingers of Torquemada. ‘** You try me too much; I can’t bear this! My se- cret! My past! What have J to do with it? In God’s name, send for Stanley and let me tell the truth—” He stopped; the wild flush faded from his cheek, the flashing fire dimming in his eye. ‘‘ No,’’ said he, clenching his hands, “I will never save myself by such a poltroon’s course!” Verne, who stood with the bell-rope in his hand. beaming with exultation, dropped it with a cry of grief and anger piteous to hear. “No!” reiterated George, more calmly, while the same shining serenity overspread his care-worn face; “‘my dear mother used to say to me, ‘Do right though the heavens should fall.’ To keep silence on this subject is what I think right, and I shall do it, ough all that makes a heaven on earth to me should fallin ruins round me. Let me say what I intended to say when I interrupted your reverie. Mr. Stanley thinks he has cause to hate me; he has not; but as I can not prove that he has not; he will continue to hate me to the end of the chapter. You and he are friends of many years’ standing, and you have the highest respect for his opinions. You can’t be comfortable aslong as I am here, a daily subject of contention between you. I began by sy a a I must put an end to that state of matters to-day; I can only do so by resigning my situation as your secretary.’ His voice died away in husky murmurs, for dearly he loved the man who had ever been so truly kind ire a ee his face still shone with that pure, proud strength. Verne writhed in his chair, changed color, gnawed his lip, and finally two big tears rolled down his cheeks, and he looked up in the heroic face with harrowing entreaty. “T am a fool, I dare say,’’ said he, ‘but I can’t believe you false, George—I can’t believe you un- worthy! If you go away, you’ll break my heart— and Maiblume’s, too—poor Maiblume!”’ ‘Oh, have mercy!” gasped George, trembling. “You tempt me too much! Itiscruel! I must go— I couldn’t siay another hour here, or I should forget sa iy and prove indeed both false and unworthy.”’ ry, Verne turned away abruptly, and, leaning his forehead against the window-pane, remained silent for along time; but George could see by the move- ment of his shoulders that he was sobbing like a See aid to lieieuen d, his f iciousl By and by he turned round, his face suspiciously glistening; and said, with a forlorn attempt at frigid majesty: ‘“Yes, Mr. Laurie, I see it is best for us to part. | Since yon are quite willing to give us all up for the sake of some Quixotic scruple, it is evidently the best thing to do. You will find what is due of your salary in the drawer, there, and the girls are at hand, I dare say, if you wish to bid them good-by. You don’t wish to? Oh, very well—perhaps it is better so! Good-by, then—and—and—God bless and keep you, boy, wherever you go!’ He wrun George’s hand convulsively, broke down, and hurrie from the study. George left the house a few minutes afterward with a heart that was bursting with grief. In a his ees a3 short life nothing like this had ever be- fallen him; love, honor, respect, had ever been ac- corded him. And now! Homeless, friendless, enveloped in a cloud of sus- picion and distrust—oh, it was hard to bear! In his distress he had hoped to slip away without the agony of encountering Maiblume, but this was not to be. He came oe a very silvan group beneath a wide spreadin ar in the grassy lane which led to the hamlet; Maiblume, Coila, Mr. Paul Stanley and Mr. Nowell Wylie, all reclining in languid attitudes on the flower-gemmed grass. Stanley’s richly curled head lay upon the gauzy hem of Maiblume’s draperies, and his full do papa rested upon her pallid, half-averte ‘ace. Mr. Wylie, his back eee up against the trunk Siang tree wed ae sketch- — coacl pea pr made 8 pass the time agreea’ y handing cartoons by the gross to the Chatteving Coila; who, in a diaphanous cloud of rose tinted frippery, reposed by Stanley’s side at Maiblume’s feet; and with inno- cent wile sought to lure that gentleman from his un- welcome worship at her grieving Maiblume’s shrine; and this in spite of the shrinking timidity with which she had never ceased to a he gifted bard. De- voted Coila! No wonder if Maiblume’s cold, trem- bling hand often stole with grateful pressure into hers; no wonder if the admiring Wylie turned his ee globular eyes upward as if appealing to the eavens to behold and reward such beauteous self- sacrifice; no wonder if even the infatuated poet himself sometimes glanced her way with’ lazy interest in his beauty-loving eye! ee this pastoral idyl came George Laurie, hag- gard, broken-hearted, with despair in his hurried gait. “Oh! George!’ gasped Maiblume, hearing and seeing him first as only Love can hear and see; and she rose with her dear hands outstretched as if to grasp and comfort him, while all the dainty color 7 ~* ' ees Sr be Ried j forsook her quivering lips, and the big tears brimmed in her exquisite eyes. Coila, too, uttered a tiny scream of sore dismay, . - and ran out to him and stop him. He saw he was in for it, and like a brave man he ph eae down his heart for that time and met it right an & J. He took Coila’s. oo hand and walking with | her into their midst said with a smile: “T thought I was not to see you again, ladies, but Fate is kinder to me than I deserve. Circumstances have arisen which make it necessary for me to leave Stormeliff, and Pah father’s service, Miss Verne, without delay. fact I have bid him good-by and am going now.” Paler and paler waxed the stately Maiblume till no lily-of-the-vale could outrival her in bloodless purity; and a woeful shadow crept into her dilating eyes. “You leave us now—forever?” faltered she, un- consciously wringing her slight hands. ‘““Now, and forever!’ answered George, low- voiced, while all the heroism in his heart trembled on its throne. She gave him one look. Oh, agony! Love— reproach—despair appealed to him to be merciful = ~— to remember her even at the expense of onor He looked—hesitated—tottered on the brink of a wild disclosure. Love luring him on, Love neaer § him forward; when—thank God! his good ange ' | snatched him back whispering: “ Be true to your trust!” , He turned away, white to the lips, but smilin bravely. “Tt is inevitable; I must go, indeed,” said he, and taking her ice-cold passive hand, he pressed one thrilling kiss’ upon it and hurried away, quite oblivi- ous of the presence of all the others. The dead hush was broken by Coila bu into a passion of tears; whereupon both the gentlemen awoke from their rigid petrifaction and hastened to calm and soothe her. And presently, glancing with some timidity, but with devouring curiosity at Maiblume to see how she sustained the loss of her father's secretary, Stanley had the felicity of discovering that she had quietly fainted away. CHAPTER X. THE CHILD PRISONER, Mr. Nowsmi. Wy1ir, with rare delicacy, excused wate at this juncture and disappeared like a He reached the hamlet in time to see George starting in a light wagon, with a lad to drive it, from the hostelry before mentioned; whereupon, after waiting until he was almost out of sight, Mr. Wylie, as if seized with the spirit of imitation, got himself a horse and saddle, and trotted off in pursuit, The wagon drove at a dashing rate through the looking hilly country, neither driver nor Lemp ae back; and the equestrian followed, bro: under : the noon sun, but seemingly quite restenedt to the infliction and even pr it. The sly twinkle of those ro eyes as the hot. dust rose in stifling clouds under the horse’s hoofs; as he wiped the streaming perspiration from his face and neck; as the winding road took him up and up among the-fir-clad hills where not a breath was stirring, and even the grasshoppers chirped faintly on the scorehing soil! The silent, chuckling triumph of the fellow, as his horse, with drooping head and reeking sides, at last walked into a bustling townlet after the wagon; as pausing in a by-street, while George dismissed his team and hurried off again on foot, he stealtbily kept him in sight, till clear of the houses, he saw him trudging higher and higher among the hills; as sta- — bling his horse on the outskirts of the village, he ran after him, and slouching his hat down over his olive- colored physiognomy and muffiing his chin in his scarf, he stole so near that he could distinctly see . the convulsive working of George’s hands, and hear his broken murmurs of despair! All at once George stepped off the highway and ee into the deep cedar forest through which it wound, The artist, twisting his flexible features into a Kin. frightful grin of neoeree plunged in after him. —— silt was but a broken footpath, grown up in many places, and rendered slippery as ice, though soft as a carpet, by the deep layers of cedar spines which successive seasons had dropped upon it, : No footfall could be heard here, and the only gate which the pursuer had was the sound made ; y George as he pushed his way through the rus- . tling, crackling undergrowth; yet he boldly held on_ no ays apparently only stimulated by fresh diffi- culties, Up! up! every moment nar ipeme the tangied briers and sharp-thorn ines scratched and tore them; while the breathless air, rank with — Fi the death odors of rotting vegetation and laden with miasma from moist, unsunned bogs, seemed to choke them; while the green snake undulated acrors their path, and the big drab-coated toad hopped into the covert of yellow fungi to look out at theme with black bead eyes; up! up! till Mr. Wylie was forced, to divest himself of muffler and coat, and are | and panting like a grampus, to toil on with bis han on his side; and yet George never slackened speed, 1 and he never thought of giving up the chase! At last, far from village, highway or path; hidden i * in the heart of the cedar forest on the mountaintop —they came upon a ruined mansion! eee S “Hal” snorted Mr. Wylie, with a very demon of glee in his eye; “ now for Rosamond’s bower!" __ He fell behind, and sheltering himsclf under the t : / higher; while me rs
Page 9
a > _. TRUST HER NOT. ; led brake, reconnoitered the precincts and fetched his breath. : A crumbling stone house it was, built after the fashion of a Swiss chalet, with ed roof and num- berless verandas. Smothered it well-nigh was in the riotous luxuriance of weeds and creepers which swathed it about from broken piazza to ruined chim- ney; its pleasure grounds were wastes of foliage; ‘ its ornamental trees grotesque caricatures of them- selves; its very windows, yawning for lack of sash or pane, were choked up with flossy vines and rank _-», flowers. : aoe sat down on the piazza steps to rest and think. Mr. Wylie took the opportunity to make the cir- cuit, at a safe distance, of the house. At that side which was opposite to the entrance where George sat, he observed a wonder in that desolate place—a whole window with a thin white _ curtain drawn across it. Some yew trees, black as night, jealously screened this marvel from all rae casual eyes; but Mr. Wylie’s were sharp and keen f ‘as a ferret’s; he saw, antl burned to see more. He crept, bit by bit pes pe the shrouding L shrubbery till he reached the window, and, hiding ; himself in the very heart of the yew tree opposite, he awaited results, He was just in time; a moment afterward he heard footsteps in the room, then some one swept aside the muslin blind, and threw wide the window. ; _ It was George, with a smile on his pale face, and pleasant words on his lips. “Yes, early to-day, dear Aubrey; and better still, Isha’n’t leave you again,” he was saying. Mr. Wylie almost dislocated his neck trylng to see in the other cour ge of the room; but it was not until ) George turned back and bent caressingly over a large invalid chair, that the gifted artist beheld a boy of perhaps thirteen, lean: back with languid hands hanging down, and sharp white face up- turned. The face of a Gabriel! Blue-eyed, pallid, golden-haired—a beautful, an enchanting face! Was it the sight of such unexpected grace that stirred the artist’s soul so profoundly, as to leave Mr. Wylie gaping and staring at the child asif he hadseena specter? Or wasit the shock of discovery, _ that all this loveliness could be marred in a moment by a dark and sullen frown? “T am wen. of staying here!” cried the boy, tulantly. “‘Why do you hide me away in this readful lonely place? 1 was better limping about the road-side, for then I could see people and I hadn’t to be alone all day.” * You sha’n’t be alone any longe.’ my poor child,” } said George, arranging with gentle care the pillows : behind him, and putting closer to him a little table on which stood some tood, a jug of milk and a basket of fruit. “I will take you away from this place be cacti you are able to travel.” ‘*‘And meantime you let me pine here, you let ma _ pine here day by day. I shall never get better!” said the boy, with a burst of angry tears. ‘ Why ' do you treat me so, Mr. Laurie? what have I done to sd shut up and hidden away like a prisoner or a fugitive? Dear Aubrey, bebe Shall not be shut up much longer,” answered George, patiently; ‘get strong as soonas youcan. I sha’n’t leave you again until yo are well.’’ “I am well now; take me away from this place!" rs exclaimed the boy. ’ 17 “No! No! Not well enough for the journey we ; must take,” sighed George. ‘I want to take you to ‘ my mother, Aubrey; she will be a mother, I know, t to you, for she is good as the els in heaven.. Sha is an invalid and has gone South to Florida for her health—a long, toilsome journey for one so weak as you; you don’t know how closely you skirted the edge of a dangerous illness, —— boy, nor how very frail your strength is yet. ose terrible wee .s of exposure were almost too much, for one so deli- cately nurtured and as feeble as you.” i ‘““Why—why do you taunt me with my beggary?” cried Aubrey, clenching his thin hands in impotent Taunt you?” murmured George. ‘No! No! “e F “You only do it to remind me that I am in your Cae power!”’ continued the boy, never heeding him; and sia es at his long bright hair as if he would téar it ‘om its roots. ‘‘ 5 eep me here, your prisoner hidden away from every one, that you may force --y me to buy my freedom of you. You have found ; out whose child I am! I am some great person's ~ heir—tI felt that I was—and you are hoping to make your fortune out of me!” George recoiled from the dreadful elf-like being while a wave of bitter anguish swept over his C2, _ Was this the reward of his heroism? This vaunting ’ __ ingratitude—theso foolish reproaches? - Involuntarily the concealed artist cast a keen 2 oe about the tidy room, filled with every com- Sle ort which tender care and kind solicitude could sug- Le gest. Rough only where the unskilled hands of the arr secretary had framed table, chair and bedstead out + of the old boards which had lain there for years. mat bes Fe SSS r. Wylie emitted a sniff of intense disgust. George must have heard the graceful sound, for, next moment, he stood at the sd Hivos listening with ‘ a searlet look, and entreating the boy with urgent gesture to keep silence, At length, satisfied that he must have been de- _ eeived, he turned boaks into the room and, taking a charge, took both the eae his own, and said very softly is t beside his fret > Shadowy hands within and tenderly: 5 ee fe ic Lat Z h ® Yo: ras ‘ mt But what toil, what thought, what expense had the 7B ‘“My poor Aubrey, dismiss these idle fancies from your brain; there is not the slightest foundation for them; some day I will tell you why I kept you con- cealed in this lonely place, but not yet—you are too FoeEe. You must be a man first with a man’s strong eart to meet sorrow right valiantly, and to over- come it by a brave and patient life.” “There is foundation for my fancy,” wept the boy. “Tama yee child; she used to come and see me; you are hiding me from her. Oh, Mr. Laurie, Vil die if you don’t give me up to her, she loved me so! When she came to the Home and saw me among all the other children, she ran to me crying and sob- bing, and took me in her arms, and called me her beautiful boy. Oh, do take me to her, or 'll run Ear from you as I did from the Home to search or her!” “Hugh, my child,” said George, soothingly; ‘‘you speak the wildest nonsense. Whoever she was, think no more of her.” Aubrey burst into a wilder passion of tears and in the bitterest language taunted and 1 eproached his benefactor, who became so absorbed in the task of calming him that Mr. Wylie found an opportunity of gling out of his uneasy resting-place and of es- caping into the covert of the woods. Arrived at a a nt beyond the range of the chalet, he sat him own on a mossy win and after elevating his eyebrows and shrugging shoulders for some min- utes in the hope of relieving his overcharged feel- ings, he drew from his pocket an envelope contain- ing,a number of photographs, and, shuffling over these works of art, he selected one and glued his globular eyes upon it. ‘“By the jumping Jehosaphat!"’ exclaimed Mr. Wylie, ‘‘this is the rummest go yet!” esolemnly returned the photograph to the envel- ope, secreted that, and Re e bijou compass which led at his watch ain, proceeded placid- bre find his way down the mountain, arriving in ue course of time safe and sound at the little town. Here he took some pains to secure himself a com- fortable dinner, and, having discussed the same with hilosophical serenity, he trotted back to Stormcliff in the evening @ much wiser man than when he had set out. CHAPTER XI. ARTFUL MADEMOISELLE, A FEW evenings subsequently the man whom Coila thought ‘more amusing than the Paris cirque,” pro- that, instead of returning soberly with the others along the quiet lane from the back, he would show her a far more interesting and adventurous path on the top of the cliffs. Now Coila was such an affectionate little witch that I don’t believe she would have consented to leave her beloved pape Verne, who, at this time, took more and more comfort in her artless fondness, had Mr, Stanley and Maiblume not been walking in the rear—to whom she could confide him, thus giving him the rare pleasure of walking with his Maiblume, and at the same time interrupting a /efe-c-tete which child though she was in mind and heart, she could read was irksome to her idolized Maiblume. That was why she consented to trip away by the stranger’s side, while the twilight gathered closer, and the broad, burnished moon d over the sea, lighting up her small spirituelle face and her big black yee he, she seemed like some sprite bent on elfish mischief. “I say, Miss De Vouse,”’ quoth the artist, taking her fairy hand to lead her up the rough defile rs ain’t oa two going it, now the secretary’s out of e way?” “Eh! monsieur means? What dves monsieur mean?” queried she, with delicious simplicity. “IT mean that the widower and Miss Verne are go- ing to make a match of it,” said he, rolling his eyes into their corners to get a good Jook at her. Coila uttered a shrill, tiny cry, and stood still that she ‘ht stamp her little foot. “Ah! Bah! But clever Monsieur Wylie makes the ridiculous blunder this time! Miss Verne! She will never marry unless she marries Monsieur George!” ; “Stanley's bound to have her,’ said Mr. Wylie, “‘and unless somebody stops him he’ll have his way.” Pte sha’n’t! He sha’n’t!”’ reiterated Coila, with another fierce stamp of her tiny foot. ‘My heart! she would die of grief in a week!” “Why don’t (Og go for him yourself then, and save her life?’ drawled Mr. Wylie, helping her over another steep bowlder. She lit like a bird at his side, and waving her white hands like snowy wings cried, passionately: “T would die to save my Maiblume—but to marry monsieur, the poet— Oh, Sainte Virge, succor me in this strait!” “TI believe re: could have him if you took the trouble,” said Mr. Wylie, with admiring warmth. “Blest if I don’t sometimes feel fit to pop the ques- tion myself, crusty old bachelor as I am—but you wouldn’t look at me if I did, so I won’t transform myself into a middle-aged adorer.”’ She averted her modest face from these ardent compliments, and_tried_coyly to pluck her fingers from his as they climbed higher; but he only pressed eee closer, continuing, after a season of dumb ™m . *‘ Or if you won't rid Miss Verne of her unwelcome admirer that way, why don’ ba set your sharp little wits to work to do it some other way?” Ah, monsieur, my wits they are dull to scheme!” sighed Coila; ‘‘but my heart is hot to work for Mai- blume, Tell me what I can do, my friend?” aw this time they had arrived at the top of the cliff, and were ng slowly along the thyme-car- peted led plain, with the: ocean moving far = and spanned by a silver bridge flung by | una. There was a hush up here never to be obtained down by the sounding sea; a feeling of loneliness and isolation which might have quite disconcerted a creature as shy and easily alarmed as was tender mademoiselle; but her beautiful devotion toward her adopted sister inspired her with courage; she looked up in Mr. Wylie’s eyes with shining expecta- tion in her own, and tightened her clasp of his hand in urgent Bete: . For once . Wylie was not ready with an an swer. He knitted his brows, coughed uneasily, cast upon — her several side glances of surpassing keenness, and at last spoke: “T suppose you believe, like all good Catholics, in pious frauds,”’ he commenced. She opened her innocent, wide eyes wider. ‘Eh bien! monsieur! You speak in riddles!” cried the fresh, young voice in wondering accents. “Ugh!” grunted Mr. Wylie, impatiently. “I’m 2 afraid you haven't the pluck, after all.” y 7 “‘ Dear friend,"’ said Coila, modestly, “I’m a foolish little one, but when I love I have what you call the . \ valor, too. Confide your scheme—you shall see!— 5 you shall see!” 4 “AN right. Il tell You what a spirited wo would do under the circumstances,”’ said the i somewhat reassured. ‘She'd just go to work draw the wool] over the widower’s eyes—" “Eh? Monsieur means?” ““ Well, to be candid, I mean that if you'd set your fascinations to work to draw him off from “Miss ~ Verne, I bet a cool ten thousand that in a week he’d be ope lg you about like a dog. All pretense on your part of course, but it would relieve of his attentions, and, at the same time, give young | Laurie a chance to vindicate himself an 6 up matters with Miss Verne again.’ : ; Coila clapped her little soft hands in a burst of > y Verne applause. “Excellent!” cried she. ‘‘ For Maiblume's sake I a will begin at once. But oh, how I dread monsieur the poet!”’ faltered she, relapsing into timidity. “I _ tremble when he looks at me, How do I fear him so, dear Monsieur Wylie?” 4 5" Mr. Wylie came to’a standstill, and, fixing his eyes with solemn earnestness upon hers, said more impressively than she had ever heard him a “You, and all innocent little creatures like you, ‘ flutter affrightedly befcre Paul Stanley, as the } pretty little bird does before the serpent—fascinated : y his graceful exterior in spite of the inward monitor which declares him to be a monster. Do P you know, Miss Coila, that I, and in fact a lot of people in the city, have had some very queer suspi- cions about Mr.Paul Stanley ever since that d : Hage! death of his wife, and the suppression of er ° . , Coila’s bplcoking eyes, into which the moonbeams shone as into two limpid age flinched, and her -f whole face quivered—only for a moment though: the next, she was looking with wonder and dismay a at Mr. Wylie: ‘y “Oh, what a cruel suspicion!’ cried she. “I cannot believe this, monsieur, Why should Mon- a sicur Stanley do such a wicked thing?” PS" y “Why, you innocent ern exclaimed Mr, Wylie, so charmed by her simplicity that he took her _ by the chin and raised her face that he might lock at it more closely. ‘‘Didn’t he come intoabig fortune by the transaction? Who else profited pe Fo Who else had any motive for suppressing Mrs. Stanley’s will? Eh? Do you know of any one?” “Ah, no, no!” cried Coila, her sweet eyes ewimming in tears. ‘‘Poormadame! Dear Madame soe, Mr. Wylie wo me her chin with an inarticulate i growl, and, rubbing his hands softly, stood off to — view her, as if she were some piece of art. ’ “All right!” said he at last. ‘Time will show; ‘murder will out,’ as the detectives say when the knave has pron them the slip; and I tell you, my = little half-blown blossom with the dew yet im istening = = on yours innocent leaves, that, sooner or later, the == world will hear who stole Mrs, Stanley’s will.” N y She stood a moment breathless, actually gazing . in horror at the artist, then she shrugged her shoul- ders, crying, tulantly: ? . “You terrible man! Don’t talk thus any longer! You, make me-feel as if I were surrounded by wickedness and treachery. Tout bien! Time shall = show, indeed!” and waving him to follow, she lifted her floating train and Jed of the cliff. fn Mr. Wylie sauntered after her, his hands plunged deep into his pockets, his motith open, and his e g upturned to the beavens till only the whites were if visible, in speechless admiration of her innocent — trust in fallen human nature, ke Some few minutes later and they stood at the _ rustic gate, hand locked in hand, the bent of friends. - “You'll do your part, Miss Coila,”’ said Mr. Wylie, affectionately; “draw off Stanley from Miss Verne, ane meantime I'll see what can be done for young urie.” ; In her pleasure she gave him her other hand to | my tir u Ting back in tionok, wuss} ss if. you will only bring him inhonor, all will be well” cooed nly And thus they parted. Next morning Coila was taking counsel with her- self. She was alone on the beach, Maiblume not having joined her as yet. re Lovely sprite! at more enchanting vision could mere mortal see than she, as, bending over a . deep, clear in the shadow of a monsterrock, she wove bright’ amber ribbons of kelp among her —s_| raven tresses, fastened starry shells across her bi rw, a” ¥ y' ie ae e way along the summit 3 at ee “abs nts% ee i» id
Page 10
oe il i ee ~ ieee 7 . P X88, en Maiblume was indeed pining. ___ Proud though she was, and quietly though she bore her pain, she could not hide the increasing transpar- _ ency of her lovely cheek, nor the deep gloom of her sipcinue eye, nor the heart weariness and hope- — less disgust of life which possessed her. Ready with a smile, aus never lacking in ree! pa ean ee when called upon, there was yet a col somberness about her which chilled and kept at bay __ the advances of Paul Stanley, while it deepened the grief and distress with which her father regarded Cee unhappy absence of George from his customary post. | Paul Stanley, beauty worshiper from his infancy, ane owning no other deity, was at this time the an ‘ is rv, aceful exile, he permitted this immer og to take entire possession of him, and feeding it with his own wild, ix gies it burst forth daily and hourly in * y “ : \ conflagration which was destined either to consume him alone, or, if she became his to feed upon her glorious beauty for a little season, and then die out ‘In the cold ashes of satiated passion. Insensible she was as the Alpine glacier: cold, pure, luminous, wrapped about with the chilly mists of her own sad thoughts; and as yet, scarcely con- scious of the smothered volcano at her side. For she had given—oh, priceless gem! the true love of her unsullied heart to George. Brilliant though her lot in life had ever been, and girt about with all the splendor and fashion of the voluptuous city, she had preserved—by the side of her great- hearted father—a crystalline purity of soul, a na- ture rich in all womanly attributes, and an apprecia- tion of true worth wherever it was to be found which was simply sublime in those days of dollar- worship. While Coila was unfolding the ces of her mind to Mr. Verne upon the beach, Maiblume sat in the cottage parlor alone, her head on her hand, her sad eyes fastened upon a little vase of wild roses on the table before her, and the slow tears rolling unheeded down her cheeks. How often had ke whom she never more must see. brought her these simple blossoms, warm and sweet as his own pure love! Wild roses! She ever thought of them as his flower; she had ever worn them for his sake; as she gazed at them now they breathed nothing but reminiscences of his faithfulness, modesty, and manly uprightness. The cottage parlor was cool, shadowy and fre- grant from the odorous zephyrs which wafted through the open casement over hay-field, thyme- plots, and honeysuckle tangles—as silvan a retreat as one could imagine for weeping eee How beautiful she seemed in her drooping sad- ness, with her rich tresses half uncoiled and billow- ing over her pearly arms and downcast face, with her pale roseate robes flowing about her noble form to the carpet _of tangled flowers which her arched, black satin-shod feet rested upon; with the glit- tering drops upon her long curved Jashes and her rich violet eyes brooding over the roses! So at least one seemed to think as he paused at the window to oe his fire-filled eyes upon her, and as he stood, the dark blood surged into his stern cheeks, and a smile of insatiable longing curled his thin lips. That intense gaze ere long drew up her startled eyes with its subtle magnetism; she rose hastily, exclaiming: “Mr. Stanley!”’ He entered the room and shut the door. Hestood before her, tall, commanding as a Spanish caval- ey his arms folded, his gleaming eyes riveted upon er. ‘“You are alone?” said he, in a deep voice, slowly. She bowed; and sunk into her chair, waving him another. ; He was something different to-day from what h had ever been; he was something to tremble before —to shrink away from. ne ae Verne,” said the deep voice, ‘‘ tell me I may speak,”’ She gas and half rose as if to fly, then recollect- ing herself, drew about her that cloak of regal dig- nity and icy coldness under which she alone felt safe, and smiling politely, remarked: ‘You may certainly speak, Mr. Stanley, but seb be comic, not tragic, this morning, for I have no wis to see the pathetic side of life at present.” He drew closer; he was dead pale now, and she could see him trembling. “‘Maiblume,” whispered he, bending toward her with jee hands outstretched; “‘come to me! I need you! llove you, Maiblume, Maiblume!” ‘*Nomore!” she cried, in a thrilling voice of com- mand, as she rose, waving him back with imperious majesty; ‘‘I shall forget that such words were ever uttered by my father’s friend—words which but mock a sorrow he cannot choose but see and com- prehend. No more, Mr. Stanley, I entreat—I com- mand you!” He waited in blank, blanched dismay until she was finished—then with one stride he was before her, kneeling at her feet, pouring forth his long pent-up passion. She listened coldly, calmly. ‘Rise, Mr. Stanley!” said she, when his impetu- ous eloquence had spent itself; “‘I have no heart to ive you, and you do not want a wife who does not ove you.” He rose, black with sudden rage. '“You have given your love to that miscreant, Laurie!” muttered he, grinding his teeth—‘‘ a wretch whom all good women should shrink from!” He stopped astounded. The ice-cold glacier had shot into a blazing volcano. Towering above him, head crested, cheeks aflame, ap like live coals, and bosom heaving—what, was this Maiblume, the frigid? ; ““Miscreant in your teeth, sir,’ quoth she, between hers; ““George Laurie is an honorable gentleman whoever belies him. You have compassed his ruin; ‘ou have sent him wer S from me; you have blasted is life and mine with your curse—and now you come suing my love! Sir, I have suffered your ieee a hitherto only because you were my father’s riend—I suffer it no longer! Away! I dare not look upon you—I loathe you so!” ‘ They — into each other’s eyes. Such a look! So might two tigers, oscillating to the attack, gaze into the fire-sparkling eyes of each other! “ Away!” reiterated she, fiercely; ‘‘do you dare to insult me by remaining?” and with a grand sweep o her pearly, lace-draped arm she pointed to the oor. Bowing low and sardonically, Paul Stanley moved \ t ! ee ret af AY i oe haf \ al ORE ee ee Oe ey es ¥ . toward it, turned and fixed his glittering gaze upon her once more. ‘‘Madam,”’ said he, with a smile to madden her. “T perceive that you are capable of that rarest of emotions nowadays—a burning and passionate love. Hitherto you have spent it upon an object equally | unworthy and unable to comprehend it; hencefo I, a poet, with all the fire and susceptibility of a poet, claim such love as my right. Night or day I shall never rest until I subdue that proud heart of yours, and hold you in my arms, conquered! Re- member—I swear it!” And he was gone. She uttered a wild, tingling ery and sunk down te her knees blanched and trembling. “Blessed God!’ gasped Maiblume, ‘protect me from that demon!” Stanley, in ee als a the garden, observed | Mr. Verne and Mademoiselle De Vouse standing at the gate, and would have turned into another path to avoid them had not the bright eyes of the little mademoiselie lit at once upon his stormy face. Alarmed lest he had been annoying her dear Mai- blume, she impulsively ran up to him, and, to his astonishment, laid both her soft little hands in his, exclaiming hurriedly: “Dear Monsieur Stanley, what is wrong? You ; look like a corpse! Is anything the matter with © ) Maiblume? Don’t let papa Verne see. Come this — hi and tell me all first.” Ni e obeyed her, simply because he would not for — the world have had his friend’s inquiring eyes read his own devil-possessed ones at that moment; as j for the little girl, he scarcely noticed her presence as he strode grimly under the overarching foliage. “Monsieur Stanley,” said a tremulous voice pres- ently, ‘‘I read sorrow, I read anguish in your looks. Isee it all! She has trampled upon your love.” The thrilling sweetness of her lowered tones forced him to look down at her. | Two ghstening rills were Seren down her sea- shell-tinted cheeks from eyes as soft as the pools of Heshbon; two snowy hands were clasped in gener- ous distress! i He looked closer. Her coral lips were were flushing; her pret sively. The sprite! She was crying for his sake. ¥ Mademoiselle,” said he, in a peculiarly metallic voice, ‘‘my sorrows won't kill mie. Spare your grief; ou are far too pretty to cry over any love trouble ut your own.” She lifted her shy, sweet eyes to his with a solemn awe in their depths. : “Oh, you are the brave man!” ejaculated she, clasping her hands; “the strong soul! With what endurance—with what fortitude—with what heroism you front these successive storms of misfortune! You are like a god; I, poor, foolish trifler, might well worship you.” = attention was now riveted upon the inspired speaker, Never in her life had Mademoiselle De Vouse been better worth looking at. In her enthusiasm she had quite forgotten her usual fawn-like timidity; had quite forgotten the misconstruction he might put upon her impulsive words, and glowed before him a ie pe Venus endowed with Sappho’s burning spirit. Paul Stanley stopped under the overarching foliage to offer her his hand with a gloomy sort of fnendh. uivering; her downy cheeks y breast was heaving convul- ness. “Thank you for your “and for your sympathy,” he added, with an omi- nous grit of the teeth and glint of the eye. “Don’t let Miss Verne turn you against me, and—and—bemy adyocate—won't you?” é Having let him take her hand, she bent, pressed — her velvet lips upon it and dropped a tear upon it, — whispering: “Ah, yes! I shall do any thing—any thing for monsieur.” With which assurance she flitted away, and Stanley looked after her almost with curiosity. “TIncomprehensible little thing!’ muttered he, as he turned off; ““I always thought she disliked me, oe, by all the gods, I think she’s half in love with me j A few days afterward, Mr. Wylie, who was a most devoted atiache to the ladies at Stormeliff cottage, maneuvered for another ftele-a-tete with Coila. Now, that gentle fair had fought quite shy of Mr. Wylie ever since that walk on the Cliffs,.and it re- PL a good deal of Sess to carry his point. owever, after beating about the bush with some — of the diplomatic talent of a Wolsey, he caught her one morning sitting on the doorstep,‘with her lap i fe of dewy-red clover with which she was feeding her own glossy black pony, as miniature an edi of the equine species as she was of the h race. Seating himself close beside her, said Mr. Wylie: “Tsay, you know this ain’t business. we have , _. to get the secretary back. Stanley don’t bite, and — Miss Verne is getting sick over it.” t She threw back her bird-like head and warbleda ; _ laugh. ; ; “Wonsieur the poet does not give me a chance,” _ she; “the is injured—he is sullen; he hides at ome. bs ye you pitt age ae eH tite! Hag ? meantime,” sai ie, rolling Te balls into the corner next ic hey, boven Se you take Laurie’s matter in hand yourself. I’m too us I cou quired little mademoiselle, while she kissed the black velvet nose of Hadiji. aie Bs obit ita “j fo: se og 3 4 a ied Aer "ul Sy Re ty + vie ’ >. +) fton #5" ait till monsieur comes forth again to the © 2 b ne bungling; I can’t meddle, and besides, ’ve done all “Eh? What has monsieur done?” carelessly ins good o inion,” said he, Fae 4 gS ie | ’
Page 11
ae Pl eB eb - “T’ve found out where he lives,” returned the 4 artist, chuckling. “Mon Diew!” cried Coila, brimming with lively curiosity. ‘‘ And where dves he live? And why does he live there?” . “T can tell “ise where he lives, but zohy you'll have to find out for yourself. If he was to catch me in- terfering I’d get into the darnedest row—you under- stand; whereas, if you poked your nice little fingers _into his pie he would be only too grateful to you for taking such an interest in him. A petticoat makes all the difference in the world,” added he, philo- sophically. : ‘Monsieur has a long head; monsieur schemes well,” said Coila, looking at him earnestly, while he eyed the drifting summer clouds. ‘‘I wonder why monsieur takes such an interest in all our fortunes.” ’ “Nothing else to do,” drawled he, politely sup- epee a yawn, ‘‘and being a benevolent sort of a ellow, 1 like to see nice people happy.” She set her glittering teeth and shrugged her shoulders. oe : “All well!” said she, airily; ‘‘ only continue to act the good geni. Now tell me all about this hiding- place of Monsieur Laurie’s.”’ So. then he invited her out to ride with him, and off they cantered to Linsdale, the little town once before mentioned, and having lunched there, they spent the afternoon in scaling the mountain, re- connoitering the premises where George and Au- brey lay concealed, and in returning home quite wearied out, but perfectly confiden toward each other. ' _. * Now attend to this business according to your lights,” said Mr. Wylie, “and I miss my guess if you don’t bring him home in triumph before the week is out. Holy poker! won’t the Vernes be ready to _ worship you, though.”’ ; 4 “Trust to me, dear friend,” said Coila, radiantly; _ “Monsieur George’s little secret. shall be share with me immediately. His conduct shall be discov- ered to be irreproachable; he shall be reinstated; Maiblume shall reward him for his sorrows with her hand—and voi/a / sunshine, felicity!” ; CHAPTER XI. ee WHO ARE YOU? SPEAK! Ou, those long, sunny, listless September days in ' the heart of the cedar forest! Oh, the anguish of longing, the infinite gradations of passionate pain! Oh, the pale, short gleams of resignation—of Heaven’s approving smile, which beamed athwart the cold gloom of this weary winter of the heart! ; George and Aubrey sat side by side in the cool, _ dim chamber in theruined chalet. ' The casement was thrown wide, without fear now, and the invalid’s chair was drawn close to it. 14 Nobody ever came there and the boy was gasping or air. ' His exquisite countenance had on it a pallor yet . more transparent than before; violet shadows en- circled his glittering eyes, and his lips were of a pure and vivid carmine, at the same time a pathetic pain and weariness clouded its loveliness; so that, with his head thrown. back, his gold-bright hair scattered about on the pillow, and his white lids closed and quivering, he seemed like some stray seraph grieving over the paradise he had lost. George watched him with a haunting pity in his deep, true eyes. : He had been reading to Aubrey—a letter from his ' mother, a letter which tenderly welcomed the friendless waif to her fireside, never to leave it _ until he had found another home which he could love better—if such a home was in reserve for him. She had also sent a tinted photograph of herself to the boy, remembering with womanly tact d delicacy, how hard it is to’ desire that which we have never seen, or to feel drawn toward one whose appearance is unknown to us, — ubrey still held the likeness in his languid hand; he had pest upon it long and earnestly, and now lay quiet, thinking: A noble face it was, and formed to express only noble emotions, delicate in feature, bright and beau- tifulof eye; a faint rose bloom still mantling the comely cheeks, and the abundant hair, though sil- y BS Al lel still curving and curling about the placid _ brow and graceful neck. A sweet, a divine face, lit by a radiant spirit! ‘ By such a mother, judge, dear readers, the son! i “Dear boy, cheer up; you. shall be very happy among the lovely flowers of Florida,” said George, tenderly, thinking that Aubrey’s heart sunk at the prospect of such a journey, and of a home among - strangers., : : The boy’s whole face quivered; large tears rolled from under his closed eyes, but he did not speak. - “Qh, come! come! Lid will never do,” said George, cheerfully; “you have only to see my mo- the and you can’t help feeling at home with her. ‘That picture frightened you; it does not do her _ justice at all; itis like a lamp without a light; my mother’s soul shines like a light from her eyes. Mean help loving her, Aubrey; when you see her. - ~ __ Asob escaped the boy; he covered his face with his hands, while a sudden storm of emotion con- vulse and shook his attenuated frame. Ina moment George, faithful and tender, was be- _ ‘side him, his kind hands caressing him, brotherly _ words of cheer falling from his lips. _ §uddenly Aubrey flung his hands away and _ -writhed from him with a low, bitter cry. “Go away,” said he, “ you torture me.” . be Set drew back, cut to the heart. yy & d . “IT want to comfort you.” - 4 o-% ¢ . _to God by these wor on’t wish to torture you, my poor boy,” said TRUST HER NOT. Aubrey writhed again as if these words stung him anew. “‘ Why are you so kind to me?’ cried he, fixing his eyes blazing through their tears upon that sad yet patient face. \ ‘* What would you have me do?” answered George; “you have no home; you can’t work; you are ill; what in Heaven’s name would you have me do? i can’t let you starve.” ““What business is it of yours?” said Aubrey. “All the rest of the world is willing to have me starve, why are not you?” George said nothing. “Don’t, don’t look at me so!” exclaimed Aubrey, | vehemently. ‘Always, always the same pitying, | loving look! Oh, you are either an angel or the worst } hypocrite that ever lied!” * Ah, child,” sighed George, ‘‘ when you know me better you will trust me more, and when you see my mother, you will be sorry you ever doubted me, ” ‘Yes, your mother,” sai Eka with a fresh burst of tears; “you have a beautiful mother—and so had I once. here is she now? Oh, she was an angel, Mr. Laurie, and J loved her so. She had yel- low hair like mine, and eyes like a bit of Heaven and when she kissed me with trembling, hot lips, and called me her own darling boy, I used to forget that I was only a poor, sickly cri ple, shut up in an asy- lum for incurables, and I knew what it was to be BEROTc: ‘ e wept so violently that George once more at- tempted to comfort and soothe him, but Aubrey took no heed of him till his passion was spent, when, lying back, faint and exhausted, with his nerveless bos still in George’s tender clasp, he seemed to ee The soft wind whispered among the crisp foliage outside; the autumn flowers bowed their Coat faces, raining their ripe petals on the tangled weeds at their feet, and the red sunset peeped through the gray tree-trunks under the motionless cedar branches like the glare of some far-off conflagra- tion. The red light lit those silent faces with an un- earthly beauty—the sleeping boy’s and his watching protector’s, Suddenly the lovely eyes of Aubrey flew wide; he looked round him with a little shiver, then long, and with passionate earnestness, into George’s. A thrill seemed to pass ea a a his whole frame; his face worked; he snatched his hands from George’s, and with a faint cry wound his arms round his neck and strained him close, pressing his burning cheek against his. ““My dear Aubrey,” faltered George—and could say no more. * Oh, you kind, good man!”’ said Aubrey, choked with sobs, ‘“‘I can’t hold out against you any more.. I do believe in you; I dolove you, and if I could only have the hope of dying with your arms round me, I would be almost glad to go!”’ ““My dear, dear Aubrey!” repeated George ten- derly smoothing back his tangled curls. ; Aubrey put up his thin hand and felt George’s ace. “You are crying?’ said he, with a laugh, half- glad half-anguished; “you are crying over poor, elpless, ungrateful, unthankful Aubrey. Oh, how good God must be to be able to fashion such a heart as yours! Howcan you care for me? How can you bear with all my wicked suspicions and insolent re- proaches? Why don’t you hate me and leave me to erish as I deserve? Instead, you treat me like a rother; you are never weary of showing me kind- ness. George could not answer except_by caresses; per- haps he thought of the Elder Brother who is so unwilling to forsake his unthankful brethren, who will never leave them to perish if they will only accept His a ; ‘Ah! you think I am such a child, and such a selfish and wicked one that I have been quite blind to all you_have suffered for my sake,” continued Aubrey, with the same fervid earnestness. ‘I’m not so blind, though, but that Ican guess that in staying here to nurse mé, you have lost your situa- tion. know that by the letters you are me answering to those advertisements you see in the papers. I’m not so stupid but that I ean see that you’re not a rich man, that you give most of your money to en a your mother, and that you save everything off yourself to buy these expensive com- forts for me. At first in ig disappointment at being shut up here instead of being allowed to find the lady who visited me at the Home, I was base enough to suspect you all the time—to think that ae knew who my father and mother were, and were eeping me hidden until they would offer you a large enough reward to restore me. But now—oh! my true-hearted, generous benefactor, I believe in you —I ai you—I would lay down my life to serve ha You make me happy, very happy and grateful dst said George, tremulously; “life can never seem so bleak ard_ hopeless again, nor duty so hard to perform. God bless ge my boy, and give you many ha Racy for need your love, Aubrey, having los love who used to light my life-path like a star.” Fifteen minutes later, Aubrey sat alone immersed in thought. The window was closed now, and the curtain carefully drawn; the lamp stood ready to be lit on the little table by his side with his books flowers, and a basket of grapes to cool his fevered mouth—all set in their places by George before he went down to Linsdale to see what letters the mail might have brought him. ‘ Aubrey had placed Mrs. Laurie’s poe where he might catch its beaming eyes from time to time, and whenever -he glanced that way, his breath quick- ee ened, and he murmured: » “Oh, how kind—how generous!” _ | * At last, after musing deeply for some time, he ex-' claimed, half-aloud: : “IT must do something to help him! I dare not be a burden to him any longer!” : A soft rustle behind him startled him; he turned his head to see the strangest vision in that lonely hiding-place! A tiny woman stood just inside the door, clad from milk-white throat to the fairy feet—which were stout- ly shod moreover—iu a heavy dark-blue dress, her r head and face being thickly shrouded with black a ng lace, which quite concealed her features; but her = Sen they shone like stars through the dusky © ‘ olds! ’ Aubrey half-rose in his astonishment and fright, and opened his mouth to scream, but she hel up the minutest of gloved hands with a quick, imperi- 4 he ous gesture, hissing out: ad “Hush! ‘You are safe, mon enfant. I am George / Laurie’s friend.” . Aubrey sunk back gazing at her in mute surprise. In his present position his face was in deep shadow as the twilight was falling and his back was to the window. But he could see her distinctly as 1 she rapidly unwound the long scarf from about her jaunty little hat and exposed the loveliest, gentlest, * most girlish face imaginable. “‘ Mon garcon/” murmured she, in a seductively — tender voice, as, throwing the scarf over her arm, she tripped in her Titania-like boots close up to him. “Tam enraptured to have heard what yousaid asI stood at the door looking at you. You would help a Monsieur George, your noble benefactor, who has y lost situation and lady-love for your sake? Good. aia I have come to tell you how to help him. Come, let *s me see your face, and tell me your history.” . She turned at these words, drew aside the curtain, y and stepped aside from between Aubrey and the — light, looking upon him. ! ae _He, watching all her movements in agitated Vay silence, saw a sudden wild astonishment sweep « across her dainty visage—a sudden glare shoot from A her soft eyes, a ghastly pallor steal allthe rich roses from her ripe cheeks! 3 : F Next instant she swooped upon him, a tigress, = with cruel hands griping is shoulders till the little oe gloves = t audibly—with set teeth acing 4 an Siert BBas h her whole body quivering like an n lea ° ‘Who are you?” panted the terrible creature, _ ; shaking him fiercely; *‘ speak, or I shall strike you! Your name—your name! . “* Aubrey Armand |” gasped the boy. y's Oh, what a shriek! Only one, though; then she lay on the floor at his feet in a deathlike swoon, CHAPTER XIV. x THE CAT SHOWS HER CLAWS. Ve PaRaLyzeD with horror the boy remained in his | chair, gazing at her with eyes starting in their sock- ets, for he thought in his inexperience that she had — fallen down dead. ; He scarcely breathed or moved a muscle until, af- ter what seemed to him an hour of dead silence, Z though in reality it was not more than a few min- utes, she stirred andmoaned. Afewmomentsmore _ and she opened her eyes, and seeing the white, terri- : fied child bending over her, uttered an inarticulate ava staggered to her feet and flung herself into a— chair. “Oh, lady, what is the matter?’ stammered Au- t brey. ‘Do you know who I am? For if you do, pray—pray tell me whose child I am!” yey _She burst into a torrent of French, gesticulating res a madwoman; then, dissolving into tears, fak red: ; “ Grace de Dieu! there is nothing but ruin; nothing | but ruin!’ ; ; Not yoninay, address her again, Aubrey sat tt watching these wild gradations of her mood, She soon dashed away her tears with an impetuous hand, and, dragging her chair forward till she was © in arm’s length of him, she looked him all over with as a devouring attention. ‘‘ Boy,”’ she said, abruptly, ‘‘ where have you been all your life?’ ie . e recoiled, frightened at her flerce bright eye and savage manner. She clenched her hands. ‘* Yo ea must tell me, you shail tell me,” cried she, with. aie (Sais tle furious growl like a snarling cat. *tI cannot wail om upon your tremors, your agitations. $ outan@d speak to the point. Holy mother! thetime is pass) = in 9 He cowered back in his chair, and the thought of = his dear benefactor’s warnings rushed into his be- wildered mind. “If any one should ever happento find you here,” George had said, ‘‘answer no ques- | cs tions but refer them to me.” ¥& ““T can’t tell you any thing,” murmured he; ‘* wait Nhs till Mr. Laurie comes.” } os She started from her chair with a perfect scream? — of anger and surprise, and seizing the unhappy © child, shook him till she was out of breath. eye “You will be dumb. will you, impertinent?” cried she, shrilly. ‘‘ Take care, my little beggar, that you Geaniseie me too far! Come now! Speak! Speak, say!” : Pale as death and gasping painfully, the boy looked up in the convulsed, furious face of the litile lady, — saying between his gasps: _ ri hale “Tlove Mr. Laurie and I will never disobey him. You are no friend of his or you could not treat me 80, when he is so kind to me.” a ‘All well, little vagrant!” exclaimed sh hiss like an angry serpent. *‘ You defy me, do you’ Very good! Ishall give you time to dbserve who j 7 ae °
Page 12
te be master in this struggle.” Shestopped sudden- KS : + ha Vy. apparently struck speechless by the look of in- _. domitable resolution sho met in the cripple’s flashing * eye; then she flung from him, and retreating to the window, stood there like a stone for a few minutes, fost in busy reflection. ' “ Aubrey Armand,’’ said she at length, with an ab- rupt change of manner, ‘‘I am sorry for my brus- rae * you are a child, yes, but you can understand e thing when it is explained to you. You love Monsieur Laurie, you say?” “Yes,” said Aubrey, faintly, for the violent ex- _citement of the last few minutes was telling upon him now, **So do I love Monsieur George,” cried the little lady, enthusiastically. ‘I love him so well that I came here to find out the cause of his great trouble and recent misfortunes, I see it in you—you are the cause of, all.” Aubrey only wept, for he guessed this was too true, } “Do not wonder,’ continued she with effusion, “that in my wrath I should be rough an1 cruel to you, the destroyer of Monsieur Laurie's happiness |” “What have [done? What have I done?” wailed the child. “T have no time to tell you now,” said she, ap- proaching him with rapid step and hurried manner; ‘there is only one thing you can do now to save rom him this very hour!”’ al him from utter ruin. Fl ™ Aubrey. “ Anything but “No! No!” shudder that.” **You want to see him prosperous and happy again, don’t you?” said she, in softer, sweeter ac- ce. n! “Tdo! God knows I do!”’ said Aubrey, weeping. “Then you must bear the separation for a little time: you must be his brave Aubrey—willing to sac- rifice yourself for him. When you meet again, ah! the happy reunion! the joy, the pride with which he will fold you to his happy heart!” ' She clasped her hands and looked heavenward ' with an enthusiasm fit to inspire a stone. “Tf I only understood it all,” faltered Aubrey, ng at the strange creature with a wildly-bound- ing heart, “I would do any thing you say, even if it cost me my life.” : “You would?” cried she, with animation. ‘“ Now, indeed, pen begin to retrieve the error you make in living at all. You wish to understand? Come then, Iwili tell you. Because Monsieur Laurie has chosen to succor you, his employer, for reasons which I do not know, has thrust him forth in scorn and anger. AS soon as you leave Monsieur Laurie, he will be received again by his employer; and the lady whom he loves will marry him. There—that is all I know of the matter.” ? Aubrey wiped away his tears and with trembling haste reached for his crutches. _“T am ready to go,” said he, getting dizzily, and walking unste rd across the floor. t how can I get down ‘from the top of this mountain?” | “How did you get up?’ inquired she, returning q from the closet with some wraps in her arms. . “Mr. Laurie carried me,’ said Aubrey, with a gush of tears. ‘‘Oh, my dear Mr, Laurie! Am I to go without s you again?” “Courage, little one!”’ said she, kneeling down to wrap him up and kissing his forehead lightly as she rose; “‘you shall not regret this sacrifice—my word upon that. Fear nothing; you shall get down as you came up; I have one with me who is able to : a ih a weight like you.” She put her arm around him and assisted him from the room; at the door he looked back, and, seeing Mrs. Laurie’s portrait where he had set it and bitterly weepi suffered himself to be led out of the house, of which the little lady possessed a ‘ key, bright and new; and so with burs heart, but full of grateful devotion, he fled. Behind a screen of ewig | vines they came upon a stout villager, a woman of masculine appear- ‘ance and of undoubted toughness of muscle. Into her arms the beautiful little lady placed Aubrey Ar- ' mand, and they were about to plunge into the re- pies th of the forest when she uttered a sharp excla- mation. vee ' TO Misere cried she; ‘‘I have to go back; I have Se ae my vail. Wait here for me,” and she skim- wh med back to the houce., -. In ten minutes she returned and they clambered through the gloomy woods in breathless haste, fear- - ing lest night should overtake them, besides which _ the wind was rising and a storm was brewing. All at onee Aubrey uttered a scream, They were crossing an open space, and casting ‘his eyes upward to the summit of the mountain, he saw a thick cloud of smoke mingled with fire as- cending. ; “The house is burning down! Look! Look! Oh, what will Mr. Laurie say? What will Mr. Laurie ‘think? Let us go back!” cried he, breathlessly. _ Tho little lady and her attendant both uttered a shower of horrified interjections. * Mon Dieu, how terrible!” said the little fady. _ “But do not distress thyself, my little one; it is bet- ter’ that Monsieur Laurie should think thee dead than _false and ungrateful.” : _ No, no, no! Take me back! Take me back!” eried Aubrey, struggling way in the stroug grasp of the feminine Sampson, “Oh, if you won't carry _me back, let me crawl home again myself. He has been so tender always to me that I dare not be so _ cruel to him!” ; “Be quiet!’ hissed the little lady, fiercely; ‘the woods ring with your voice! Do I not say that ’ u “ 4 ee ‘ an Bows Be . Y ry itis well that Monsieur Laurie should believe you dead?” a j oa Rubrey cowered under the flash of her Ley ge and _ the menace of her upraised hand, but repli | | firmly: in a very hard, unemotional voice: TRUST HER NOT. ‘Lady, you say you wish to serve Mr. Laurie, but he would not th you for this service. I know him better than you; I know that if he thought that I had been burned to death up there he would never get overit. You must please let me go back—you must indeed!”’ “* A—h!”’ cried she, shaking with anger once more; “Rebellious! Woman, muffle his head; we have no time to argue with him,” Aubrey fought against this barbarity with all his little strength, fillmg the echoing glades with his shrill cries, and imploring his abductors to set him free, but all was in vain. A few moments the struggle lasted—then he lay limp and senseless across the woman’s brawn shoulder, and so was borne through the Linsdale streets to an obscure quarter and swallowed up ina filthy tenement just as the town clock struck eight and the first big, warm drops of the summer storm were falling. CHAPTER XV. THE TRAGEDY OF THE WAVES. Aw hour afterward Mademoiselle De Vouse entered the cottage parlor, where Mr. Verne and his daugh- ter were entertaining a visitor, Mr. Wylie. She wore agray cobweb of a dress; her hair was smoothly banded about ‘her small, trim head; she looked as demure as a little gray mouse, and just as harmless and timid. ‘Dear Coila, are you better? I amso glad you eat able to come down,” said Maiblume, aifection- ately. sf am—ah, quite recovered—convalescent,’’ said Coila, with a feeble little chirp, as she languidly ap- proached their guest, who sat sta at her with round, unblinking eyes, his sinewy, brown hands tucked neatly away between his knees, and his con- versation suspended. The wind was tearing round the house and the rain was beating against the windows; one had to speak pretty loud, or to advance pretty close to be heard in the din. “You look well enough,’ said Mr. Wylie, in her ear, as she sunk into a chair beside him; *‘ your cheeks are like fire.” Pe gi a headache, the wind is so high,” said ““You were out in it, then, Miss Coila, were you?” “Out? Oh, Mon Dieu, no! I have been lying in a darkened room all the afternoon. Whenever a storm is brewing I have this malady of the head. The rea of the atmosphere, Monsieur Wylie, noth- else. i How bright your eyes are, Miss Coila!—looks as if you had been up to some devilment, eh?” ‘Monsieur Wylie laughs at me! Are they bright? They were dull enough when I looked at them a minute since. It must be that the pleasure of see- ing be has kindled their brightness.” . *Oh, come, now! Don’t be sarcastic, you know! Compliments ain’t in my line; I never get °em ex- cept bones ax to be hoodwinked. Glory! your hair’s dripping wet!’’ ’ “Wet? Yes, monsieur is right. His eyes are as keen as a detective’s. I've been bathing my poor head with cold water. But, adieu; this wind makes me nervous and I must return to my room.” “Stop a minute, Miss Coila; how about the Laurie business? Found out his secret yet?” “Not yet, monsieur; I go to-morrow, should the storm blow over.” And with murmured apologies mademoiselle withdrew, considerably paler than when she had entered. The wind rose higher and higher; the rain splashed in whole sheets upon the shattered foliage all around; the roar of the trees and the boom of the distant sea swelled the loud tumult hour by hour. It was an awful night. Mr. Verne would not hear of Mr. Wylie braving the tempest, and so he stayed all night at the cot- tage trying vainly, in common with its other in- mates, to find repose. About daylight the rain ceased, the wind drop dead, and when the sun rose the sky was unclouded. An hour afterward Coila, slumbering like a child in her virginal nest, was roused by Maiblume stand- ing —— side, partially dressed. ‘ih bien? My sister! Whatis it?” queried she, nestling down on her pillows again, ** Listen!’ whis Maiblume, turning her pale, awed face toward the window, all dra: with green leaves all glistened over with diamon -drops. The deep-mouthed roar of a cannon close at hand wrong & scream of terror from Coila. “This is no place for you!’’ said he. almost roughly; — “what are you doing here?” > a She gazed with keen alarm at him. sf ‘But, monsieur “Who is ice enough to seclude one’s self when lives _ are in danger?” aS us ee “You can do no good here; go home!” said pio with a rough decision, that perfectly astound-! er, She looked round for Maiblume, but she and _ toward Mr. — George were walking rapidly occupied by © awa, Verne, and the green plateau was ri ees — the artist. 4 ‘er, if ah ‘ at. are you going to do? may I not stay?’ demanded she, with a little backbone of x ¥ ; bellion running through her baby accents. a “You don’t want to see a lot of epee i ; whe es *, one e ‘ ve ry We 4 : j P ve - ‘ i t3if ‘ : ah, Se ob ot <1 a) ’ . aby. ? ¥ 5 oc ee ne ~bige Lae TOS ~ an why not?” remonstrated she. | 7% at e iY i - poonle; do you? Jerusalem! It ain’t a si sanker after if T was a lady. Come, be : + uy \ f ae
Page 13
Run away. I'll describe it all; upon my word I will —first time I see you.” She looked at him Beanery: he could have sworn that n sparks flashed from her eyes. “Monsieur is not reasonable,” said she. ‘* Mon- sieur is insolent ’’—the words died upon her lips, for a sudden wailing cry went up from the throng around them, and darting an anxious glance sea- ward, they saw a seething waste where the boat had been, and a few black dots floating about. A fierce oath burst from Nowell Wylie, mingling with the girl’s scream of dismay. : “Drowned at the very door!” groaned Wylie, and off he darted, and in an instant was fighting his way through the water, in the futile hope of reaching some of the struggling figures. Barthold Verne and George Laurie were before him, in swimming manfully out against the tide. Thay had tied ropes round their waists, which men on the beach held, paying them out as they wanted length; they were both powerful swimmers, and, as they struck across the great gray plains and shot like water birds through the towering ridges, a blow of which would have struck them dead, the villagers cheered and waved their caps as if they were mad, while Maibtume on her knees among the pie rubble, watched and prayed, and the women laugh and wept around her. cS / Coila stood, a tiny oo on the sunny , with 4) liquid mountains rolling in flattening themselves, __. jike fawning spaniels, at her feet; with long black . hair about her snow-drop face, and her little hands : clasped tightly in a tragic attitude. Such a wild scene sure these ped eyes had never before be- held; yet a careful observer would actually have said t there was more of vexed reflection in her introverted gaze than of humane interest. Mr. Verne and George reached the place where the boat had gone pide cad Get ana , and , each one of the struggling figures and began to fight his way back again. One or two more were | now to be seen clinging to the boat which appeared above the swirling foam, bottom up, and _ rolling about like an empty cask. Of the rest the wild waves made short work; one by one they went | down, beaten senseless by tons of falling water, and - vere drifted in, some to be frightfully panes by the grinding rocks, some more gently carried to the sand-beach and laid within reach of the awe-struck villagers’ ready hands. / . Coila began to watch, with awakening attention one of these lifeless forms as the sea carried it, stride by stride, nearer to the place where she stood apart from all the rest. ; : Mr. Wylie, too, might be seen frantically making his way toward it, though, being no swimmer, he made no progress, and was constantly being flung back high and dry mPa the beach with all the Tek breath knocked out of him. ’ Stride by stride the livid waters carried in the inert body, and laid it at last at the feet of Coila De Vouse. _ She recoiled with a of horror, then catching a lim: of the blue, bloodless face through its long Black hair she darted forward, bent over it with a long, fearful gaze, the blood slowly receding from lip and cheek—mortal terror in her dilated eyes— and broke into a faint, shudde wail: { Hear heart!’ exclaimed the Frenchwoman. “Tt is, e Armand!” : Yes!" shouted the hoarse voice of the ps Wylie, at her elbow; “you would stay, you know ‘And now, how do you like it?” ° 1 CHAPTER XVI. ¥ THE POET’S NEW LOVE, He was wet and dripping as any sea-monster, and he glared at the fair lady with anything but ad- : She fin h in f d e up her arms in a paroxysm o meper. “He pate} all—oh, the verfidious!” shuddered she, in her own ee “You bet your head on that!” retorted he, in round English. ‘‘I know that this fellow here 4 the last man you want to see, though he has put himself to a dashed lot of trouble to come and see you, Z “ Traitor!” hissed she, out between her teeth is as she turned Bpen him like a fury. ‘ You’ve acted spy, have you? The honorable office! I compli- - ment monsieur upon it and upon his aptitude for it, and for no others!" and she made him a mock courtesy. “You she-demon!" said he. “Do you actually scorn and flout beside a corpse?” - She looked down at the with a sudden hope, and for a moment or two med absorbed in her scrutiny of it. : “ 1” said she, loo! up at Wylie with bright, id eyes. ‘Then, monsieur, I have nothing to fear. Morbleu! hy do I suffer your insolence for a moment? one, spy! Mr. Wylie regal _ her bag ay ae fear- admiration ou are 8 r ea a “What a tead youve got i" sure enough!’ takes bn ;eeceneeer the body moved, and Coila’s um: She again became frightfully pale and began to ej esp ie unutterable consternation. It was now Mr. : Wy e’s turn. pe You precious conspirator!’ said he, “I think our cake’s pretty well-nigh dough, by this time. ; That fellow’s good for twenty years yet. Bless you! he was only stunned! Look at the color coming back to his lips—he’s going to open his eyes in a ute, and see you—and Ee dey ” She made one spring toward fiight, but was caught with great adroitness by her artist friend. “Don’t, now, lbeg of you—you’ll run yourself all eT reget 1 +. = a 4 > Pog or. Be ; eel re "m wc ae = Se a wy ee uss? said he. TRUST HER NOT. out of breath,” said he, gallantly, ‘‘and then you won't be able to tell the right of this story to the friends you’ve been honoring with your company so long.” : She struggled and tore like a Young cat, but he held her firmly. “Take care, miss!’ drawled he. ‘It won’t be comfortable for you to make a clean breast of it before all these people—you’d better make terms with me.” She stopped struggling to get away, and clung to his arm instead. ; “Terms?” whispered she; “then you don’t want to ruin me?” “No, I don’t; only want some folks to get their own,” said Mr. Wylie, keeping one eye on her and the other on Emile Armand, “Tl do a pretty good thing for you if you’ll just answer me straight one leetle question. I'll keep this here fellow out of the way till you have time to clear, if you'l! tell me where youre rs. Stanley's will after you stole it out of her 8; > She reeled, and would have fallen but for his sup- porting arm. “What proofs has monsieur?” asked she, husk- y. “Never you worry about them,” said he. “ Ar- mand is jest about to wake up. Ginger! I wouldn't like to be you!” “You will let me save myself?’ shivered Coila, - ing wildly to him; “you will protect my re- reat?’ “All right, only go ahead,’ quoth her friend. She put her trembling hand up to her brow, and strove to collect her thoughts. She was successful, and soon looked up, with a lurking diadlevie, though she spoke with tragic earnestness. “T have a little confession to make, Monsieur Wy- lie,” said she; ‘I make it brief because I am imper- iled. I come to Madame Stanley—she is pas, kind; I love her. She dies one night, and her death-throes she tells me that she has a secret which she has never dared to reveal to monsieur, her hus- band. She also tells me that she has made a will— and its contents. She get he me to tell this secret to monsieur, her husband, and to see that the will is fulfilled. She dies, and I am the only one who knows her shame. I reflect; I grow troubled; I falter; I cannot publish this thing; I cannt injure my mad- ame’s reputation even at her bidding—I risk all; I hide the will, and lock the secret in my foolish breast.” “The will! the will! Where is it?” burst forth ‘In madame’s coffin |” whispered Coile. Wylie, savagely. e Presto! Change! <A dazzling scene! A suit of drawing-rooms flooded with gas-light; mirrors flashing, pictures glowing; bronze statues, porcelains, and rich, inlaid woods catching the eye everywhere; sumptuous i oy of Tur dor, under foot; satin and e draping the lofty walls, and a soft crush of richly dressed men and women pacing to and fro! The plash of silvery fountains, the breath of tropical flowers, the gentle waving of perfumed fans above which glittered eyes as bright as the gems which adorned the owners; the soft hum of voices, the apple of ladies’ laughter, and the distant ebb and swell of some grand organ far away, what the melody is to the drama, re- one in music language the spirit of the ro- mance A great prima donna is receiving her friends to- night, at her beautiful house in Lexington avenue and many of the notables whom we met at Barthold Verne’s mansion, just eight months ago, only too proud to see the glorious singer, without the barrier of the footlights between them. Among these, behold our friends, the author, the poet, the Lily of the Valley, whiter and purer than ever, and the airy fairy Purisienne. Well-a-day, that hearts are cold and men must sue in vain! Although in the exigencies of society, Maiblume’s hand rests, as when we first saw her, upon Mr. Stanley’s arm, only frigid words pass be- tween the two, and Love stands aloof with folded wings, shivering in the chilly atmosphere. Yet, thanks be to Heaven for the eternal law of compensation! : Coila, skimming by Mr. Verne’s side as when first we saw , beams warm as Aurora, and the man basks in the glow! Maiblume, robed in palest rose-velvet, half covered with crepe of the tenderest ash hue, witha simple diamond star on her brow, and another on her mo- tionless breast, looks like the chilly Jungfrau which the last gleams of departing light warm into a d and evanescent glow, while the gray mists ud it, and the evening star shines down upon it, glitter- ae Om frosty pure. ila, wearing a grand train of pom nate- colored satin, draped with rich black lace, with little flames twinkling at her ears, strings of sparks round her neck and wrists, a burnished serpent coiled about her waist, and a little blazing parokeet, with jewel eyes and spread wings and tail, oscillat- ing in her hair, reminded one of some enchantress clothed with lurid fire and girt with smoke-wreaths. And now, why has Coila neglected Mr. Wylie’s warning? Why is she here still, among her friends? Stay, then, we shall explain. Like the storm of ead morning, the evil shadows seem to have i ae the scene is changed from gloom to glitter. Mr. Wylie has been persuaded to grant Made- moiselle De Vouse one week of grace, before he hunts her from her home by certain disclosures which he has proved to her he can make. F Shoeked by the frightful sights she witnessed on the beach, this tender birdling of the Verne nest has / h splen- . Q 13u% a - * = beeepd her benefactors to take her back to New York so earnestly, that they have obediently folded | their tents and left Stormeliff, with only a day's notice to the domestic force at home. That glimpse of George Laurie gallantly breasting the swollen tide for the sake of the perishing strangers, has almost broken the heart of Barthold Verne, ose noble words of George’s, and that harrowing sight of his face, has turned poor Maiblume to ice, hope- | less, yet patient. They are both glad to fly from a spot endeared and embittered by the passionate affection which they have lavished on one whom their hearts still cling to, in spite of all their heads can say. Coila has faithfully promised Nowell Wylie that, at the end of the week dedicated to unspoken adieus to the friends she adores, she will disappear from their lives—never more to be seen or heard of. What does she here, then, in these magnificent robes; the rich bloom on her cheek, the electric fire in her eye, seductive smiles and words upon her blood-red lips? Follow her closely ! Barthold Verne and his fairy companion Lape in the bright train through the spacious salons of Ranars Carissima Del Cieli, and murmurs of admi- ration followed the distinguished genius and his radiant Phares, He heard, and smiled, well pleased. Anon they drifted into the Signora’s fine conserva- tory, but, unlike the rest, they did not drift out again; for Coila stopped to bury her face in a bank co) lish pansies, and looking up from them with tears glittering in her eyes, cried faintly: ‘* Helas! mon ami—dear friend, if I should leave thee—should die—wouldst thou think of thy poor Coila tenderly ?”’ ‘ Dear girl!’’ exclaimed Mr. Verne, quite startled; “what should make you think of death? You, my bright Bird of Paradise!” e led her to a velvet seat and took his place be- side her. She shook away her tears, laughing. “Ah, monsieur, lam b ue—dispirited. It is that you and my sister are unhappy, and me, I have no wer to force Fortune to smile on you. If monsieur Fade Coila can but pine. My heart, it aches! it aches!’ Pressing her fairy hands upon her side she lifted _ | her large, liquid eyes filled with pain to his. ; ; So then what else could the admiring dealer in the emotions do, than enact a little bit out of his last love story—snatch the fairy hands from the aching heart of this ingenuous birdling who had crept into his home—kiss them, and bless her for her dear love and tender sympathy, and at last: x “Darling! love me! marry me!” whispered Bar- thold Verne. Oh, the wild glint of her eye! Oh, the strange smile on her crimson lip! She hid both upon his shoulder—she trembled, she sobbed, she prayed to him to be kind and give her time to understand this wonderful thing which he had said—to give her till to-morrow evening! , “Tam an old man to you, my little girl,” said he, sadly, ‘‘but I can love you as faithf as the youngest. Take time to think over it, Coila, and if our heart says no, don’t fear to tell me; I can bet- r bear to live without you than to see you wear your life out in discontent.” She blessed him with her tearful eyes, and they re- entered the drawing-room. : A few minutes after Mademoiselle De Vouse, nes- tling under the wing of one of the wealthiest dowa- ers in New York, observed Mr. Stanley and Mai- blume enter from the picture-gallery, both unnatur- ally pale and with a smothered fire in their averted looks. There was deep silence through all Sa- loons, for the prima donna had taken her silver- stringed harp, and, sitting down in their midst, wag about 2 ena their ears with one of her celebrated mad ¢ As Maiblume, observing Coila, walked down the long room to oin her, the gloomy poet by her side, every eye in the room was upon them, and while the | ladies smiled to each other over their fans, the gentlemen lifted their eyebrows with derisive enjoy- ment. Stanley felt the significant stir and his heart grew black and bitter. Maiblume’s latest icy repulse still rung in his ears; her stately glance of indignation and aversion still sent the blood tingling in hot shame through his veins—he looked like a demon as. he handed her, with a respectful obeisance, to her Pes gap nanerid the lat h turning ‘Stay!’ whi e latter, as he was ‘ away. ‘‘Why Le you forsake us, you cold man?” . He met her eyes, large and pitiful, glistening, too, with unshed tears. ; “What a fool I am!” thought Stanley. ‘She is more beautiful than Maiblume! I'll show these people that I’m not always spurned in woman’s scorn!’ He to the back of Coila's chair, and bending over her whispered a gallantry which again drew her innocent-seeming eyes up to his. ; e darling of the heavens bega & At that moment t. to sing. Oh! voice of tremulous, melting tenderness, all velvet, all sweetness, all matchless, incomparable melody! No earthly taint there, no human crack or effort; naught but pure heaven—tones rising and falling in smooth ‘perfection! The words too—what soft and Pleading on throbbed in erry lingering syllable; w. heart yearnings—what subtle pile Nokes from love to pain —from pain to blank life—weariness. _ The pie gaze of the poet was riveted the while upon the upraised eyes of Coila De Vouse; _ they darkened and pulsated, waxed dewy tender or blackly desperate with the mood of mad-— x ft oe 4 i. ; % :
Page 14
/ a the best. \ TRUST HER NOT. ‘“* She loves me!’’ thought the disappointed suitor, in sudden fierce exultation; ‘t why sigh like a school- pe ee the coldness of yonder iceberg, when such a flame burns here for me!” He bent lower. . “Miss De Vouse,” whispered he in her od ear; “ you. were made for me; come, I must spea. or die!” The song was finished, the soft applauding of gloved hands was sounding in every direction as Mr. tanley and mademoiselle passed into the deserted picture-gallery. A few minutes, and a jeweled head lay upon a manly breast, two ruby lips were brushed by a long silken mustache. Then a faint cry, and a tragedy queen in miniature standing before the poet. “Ah, my friend, what madness!’ aspirated Coila. “Monsieur my father—I would say Monsieur Verne —has already asked me to be his wife!” * Gonfusion!” hissed Stanley, growi the instant his prize seemed about to from him. ‘“ And your answer?” ““What can I say?’ moaned the afflicted beauty, wringing her hands in the most ghee manner. “T owe all to Monsieur Verne—so kind, so protect- aoe. I have asked time to consider—but, misere / I know what my answer must be—I must say yes, for Iam grateful!” “But you shall not sacrifice yourself so, my angel!’’ vowed the suitor, warming to his work; ‘‘[ have won your love, and no other man shall win your hand. Come, dear, let me call you my affi- anced wife.” “J dare not!’ shivered Coila, retreating into a moon-lit embrasure where she looked far more beautiful than before. ‘‘I must accept and marry Monsieur Verne—”’ (a heart-rending sob here choked her) “or I must leave his house. Alas! Monsieur Stanley, the situation itself is enough to compel me to give thee up!” “T see!” said Stanley, following her up with ardor. “He has put ae in such a position that you must either marry him or leave his house. I perfectly appreciate your delicacy, but, by right of our mutual love, I a oo the opportunity of suffer- ing by it. You shall leave his house’ to-morrow td mune. We shall be quietly married in the morn- nz." i ®But—but. Ah, monsieur!” gasped the lady, in such agitation that he was obliged to support her in his arms. “But me no buts!” cried he, triumphantly. “And may all the world wonder—the women envy, and the men rave!” She melted with a glad murmur, and nestled on his breast, his own fair bride-elect. “Madam,” said a stony voice that mace them start apart like a thunder-clap, ‘‘Mr. Wylie desires ou to return to Mr. Verne’s house instantly ;—you, 400, Mr, Stanley.” CHAPTER XVII. ; A STARTLING REVELATION. A MAN wrapped in an ample cloak stood before ‘them, the footman who had conducted him thither stealing noiselessly eae “Who are you, sir?’ demanded Stanley, irritated at the mig oe on, “Tam Mr. Wylie’s messenger,” answered the man, ‘ eoolly; “he has sent me to summon Mr. Verne, Miss - Verne, yourself and this lady, as you are all inter- ested in the communication he has to make.” Coila uttered a Bene French hiss and made a gudden movement asif to fly. The messenger put out his arm and barred the way, with a quiet: “Not so fast,madam. My orders are not to lose ‘sight of you.” She stood glaring at him for a moment, her hands elenched and her teeth buried in her lip; then, re- gaining her composure, she went back to Stanley. “There is a cons iracy against me, Monsieur Stanley,” said she. ‘I have long known it, and the man Wylie is at the bottum of it. Come, you shall ear both sides of the story, and if you lovo e, aS you say,” she added, lowering her tones, “you will not recall your love from her who has risked so much to save you from sorrow and shame. Conduct me to the dressing-room and don’t leave me with that insolent there.” She put her delicate glove tips upon the thunder- struck poet’s arm, and, with as much haughtiness as if she was six feet in hight, she sailed from the _ room, followed as closely as her grand train would 4 permit by her unwelcome attendant. . p the dressing-room they found Maiblume in a state of dense bewilderment, who, frigidly ignoring _ Mr. Stanley’s presence, received Goila in her arms, whispe! oh sae rng : *Do you think Mr. Wylie can have brought bad news of—of George?” , “Scarcely!” said the little lady, writh’ greedier wrested r away from her. “But wait, my sister; you shall soon hear your Coila belied. ” Meanwhile 4, still tongue is hey drove awa; eceer in Mr. Verne’s carriage, the messenger on the box beside the coachman. A servant led them to one of the smaller parlors where _ they foun 1 two gentlemen patiently awaiting their - appearance. These were no other than our old ac- uaintance, Mr, Falcon, the solicitor, and Mr. Wylie, : artist. the others clustered round these gentlemen *g dark eyes traveled around the room an 2 fixed themselves joa tern upon the closed fold- a e next parlor from this. , She ae kok with rapid and noiseless step and ‘was about to sweep them apart, when Wylie’s long fingers sed on hers like a steel-trap. ; ar] don’t leave us, dear Miss Vouse,”’ said eee ue Nae pie yt " , I 4 paca Man Sh oat Werte NL <9 sami pA wl { % eS ph een -doors which separated t he, his malicious eyes rolling in ecstasy. ‘I'll take 3 your wraps myself if you’ll only consent to stay.” ey all turned and looked at him with astonish- ment, as he led her, quiet and unresisting, to a sofa at the other end of the room, and took an arm-chair close beside her. Mr. Falcon kept smiling affably, but in the mean- while his piercing eyes were taking in every item of her appearance. The ladies threw aside their ing 2 in silence—Mr. Be and Mr. Stanley standing by perfectly non- plused. When all were seated, Mr. Falcon alone standing in an obsequious attitude, and prefacing his re- _—— with a deprecatory little bow and cough, he said: ‘This is rather a disagreeable business, ladies and gentlemen, but the best way is to get through with it as quickly as possible. I am the lawyer who drew up the late Mrs. Stanley’s will; Mr. Stanley will remember how surprised I was at its disappear- ance. I knew by the contents that the late Mrs. Stanley could not have destroyed it hérself, and, in fact, I vowed that I would find out the mystery if it took me ten years to do it, I never was so affronted in my life,’ said Mr. Falcon, casting a look of meek reproach upon Mr. Stanley, ‘‘as when m word was doubted and Icouldn’t prove it true. kept worrying my head about that affair, but couldn't wer my business to follow it up. At last I thought of Wylie here, an old chum of mine, who had spoiled the best detective ever born with eagle’s eyes, by turning artist, and as I knew he was ordered by his physicians to idle about fora ear, and that he had an uncommon relish for solv- ing a mystery, I went to him and just told him all about it, and he promised to run the thing down by way of wholesome pastime and to oblige an old friend. This, Jadies and gentlemen, is all I’ve got to do with the business. ylie will now teil his ex- perience.” Mr. Faleon retired rita to a chair which he placed directly in front of the folding-doors, nodding and smiling to his obliging friend to pro- ee ceed. Before he had opened his mouth, Coila’s white face, encircled by an aureole of gliniing and glitter- ing gems, bent closer to his, while her little hot hand stule into his. ‘‘Monsieur,’’ muttered she, in a voice inaudible to all the others, ‘‘ you do not break your word to me, do'you? There are still two days.’ ‘All right !’’ drawled he, in his usual distinct tones; “*T ain’t the one to betray the innocent.” She sunk back, closing her eyes. ““My story may be interesting,” began he, glanc- ing toward the Os across the apartment with more of respectful seriousness than he had eyer yet shown, ‘‘ but I dare say if won’t be an agreeable one for all parties. We must take the good with the bad, however, and be thankful that guilt has such a trick of eping out from under its vail, however cleverly drawn around it. Having got hold of Fal- con’s case, the first thing I did was to look up the re-histories of all partiesconcerned. To be candid, r. Stanley was the one Falcon and I were most apt to suspect of having destroyed the will, for he was the only one who seemed to have a motive, and his life I took the liberty of sifting ane thoroughly. My dear sir, don’t be affronted; you'll thank me af- terward that I didso, Finding nothing to go upon in that direction, I did the same by Mr. George Lau- rie, and discovered such a character as— Jerusalem! But that don’t come in here.” Stanley cast a quick glance toward Mr, Verne, a smile of triumph wreathing his thin lip, but the au- thor only lowered his eyes, filled with auxious pain. Maiblume, perhaps seeing for the first time the cause of her presence being required, rose unsteadi- ly, and creeping to her father, took refuge behind his chair, her face bowed down on its tall back. Mr. ee eyes glistened; he emitted a sniff preg- nant with unimaginable significance and resumed his narrative: ; ‘Winding nothing to the purpose on that track either, I ventured to ae my sacrilegious finger into one of the ladies’ pies—in fact, to furnish myself with the charming biography of Mademoiselle Coila De Vouse. Stanley scowled like a thunder-cloud, and striding across the room took his place by Coila’s side. a Take care, sir,” said he; ‘“‘you’re on dangerous ound!’ or All right!’ drawled Mr. Wylie; ‘Tl get over it as fast as possible.” Coila turned to Stanley with a look of angelic suf- fering and patience. ‘Let him speak ’ sighed she, ‘He will ruin poor Coila, with all she holds dear on earth, but he cannot rob her of the sweet thought that she has sacrificed herself for love of them!’ “From certain suspicious trifles im her life with Mrs. Stanley,” said Mr. Wylie, chuckling and press- ing his palms together as if he held between them some very precious secret, ‘‘T thought it best to take atrip to France to pursue my inquiries, At first I went on a wild-goose chase to the Pension at St. Omer, where Miss De Vouse claimed to have got her education, but the sisters assured me they had never had a pupil of that name there, nor could they recognize her photograph—a very excellent one, by vayiy which I had taken the liberty of abstracting from the late Mrs. Stanley’s album. I was certainly stumped there; and wandered about among ¥e aris photographers for some weeks without the smallest success. One day I saw an ad- vertisement in a paper which set me thinking in a new track. It was by one of those chaps who pro- od fess to make people over again—that is, to turn out | i F ’ ; | . i ) 4 j : $ ‘ ‘i z i ; ‘ ¢ Wee es : t / . a 4 Y - 4 ‘Of | ees * 7 a eee Be abt abe cans sEie A \* pao OW eee ee ‘ x meena Heth ee Oe ee oe from his establishment a fair young create of six-, teen who entered a grizzly gri of fifty. The Frenchwomen are so desperately afraid of old age —(and no wonder, for they make about the homeliest old witches you could see out of a mummy’s case)— that these artistic establishments are much patron- ized, and really turn out very good work. I took the trouble to post myself in the thing, and, having paid my char-woman, a perfect Medusa, to consent to the transformation, 1 took her to Monsieur Gorget and had her operated upon in my presence. ell, he ave her a new face, new neck, new arms, and the oveliest crop of black curls I ever saw; he filled out her sunken cheeks; he put in the teeth she wanted; he gin her glossy, arched py ck er were red, and coarse as a cocoanut’s fiber—he painted out her parchment hide by painting on a porcelain complex- ion with delicate veins that would have deceived the very Old Boy; as to her neck and arms, actual skele- tons in their way, since mere paint could not fatten them, he covered them over with air inflated rubber of the finest texture, which so exquisitely imitated | real warm flesh that even by the touch you could not detect the fraud. All this was done for the moder- ate sum of five hundred frances! My char-woman returned home with me such a Venus that her own children did not recognize her, and, like any other princess of i al oo as beauty, she was terribly inconvenienced by her transformation, until I found a Pac for her in a glove bazar, where she attracted i all the gentlemen, and is now doing a flourishing : business. After this experiment, instead of haunt- 7 ing the photographers’ galleries, I haunted the establishments devoted to this branch of art, and : diligently showing my picture of Mademoiselle De Vouse, had the beatitude of at least meeting the potent geni whose wand had given her thecharms | — you now see and admire.” _- At this point a half-shriek broke from Coila; there was a swish of rent satin anda flash of lurid dra- pery, as with clenched hand, she struck him in the ce ace, “Wretch! Thou liest! Thou liest!’’ cried she wildly. ‘‘Monsieurs, I’m insulted! Do you stand ei by and see me insulted?”’—turning to the others in passionate ap eal. “Oh, miseve, what black con- aa is t ‘Will no one stab this base hound to the heart?” No ono moved; horror and amazement sat upon every face but the lawyer’s and the artist’s; they © only interchanged a grin of malicious triumph. “Sit down, madam,” said Stanley, in a str voice; ‘let us hear the end of this man’s tale.” 2 She put a sudden forced constraint upon herself; she approached him, her hands out, her most de- ‘ pendent, her most seductive manner in full play. “Save me, Monsieur Paul!’’ said she, in thrilling’ tones. ‘ You who have won my promise to bé your wife, protect me from these insults; upon your chivalry I cast myself, monsieur, I shall not plead ; ny st ee in vain, I know.” She dropped before him, white and sweet, her iM toilette of Miilliant dyes and glancing gems, only a bringing out her pathetic manner and trembling a helplessness into strong relief. She had MY og to the F ogee chivalry, and his chivalry awoke at her } word, te . He rose, drew her hand through his arm and ; haughtily faced the rest. Lk { ‘*Mademoiselle De Vouse has indeed pro to be my wife, and under these circumstances I re to allow Mr. Wylie to utter another syllable to her discredit.” 40 aie Mr. Verne, who had involuntarily started forward with a confused idea of comforting and protecting i her in her distress, stop}-ed in stupefaction, his hands 3 to his temples, looking from one to the other, — Maiblume, too, lifting her bending figure, flasheda = keen glance of dawning mistrust at the littlesiren. = Mr. Falcon broke the silence: — ee oh ff “T believe I had the honor of telling Mr. Stanley ‘ in the outset that this affair could not be agreeable , to all parties concerned; and I hope he will allow us © to proceed with the disclosure of the imposition — which has been practiced upon himself and Mr: — Verne, especially when he learns that it is yeetort : lubly connected with the late Mrs, Stanley’s secret, = and with the disappearance of her will.” 5 de Stanley flushed darkly, then grew bres Ae 5 He ..8 looked at Coila in a sort of fascination—irresolution By 1 in his shrinking eye. : j Robey She made one mad effort to assert her power; she pet her small lily hands upon his shoulder, and — *} eaning there with dainty forehead almost touching | his lips, moaned: “Tt you give me up, Paul, I die at your feet. Tenez garde!” : : He disengaged himself; he took her by the chilly ; finger-tips and reseated her. / rob ‘TT have aright to hear this story,” said he, in a 4 voice that struck like death to her heart. “Ifyou. 4 are innocent, you have nothing to fear.” Vee She Obwarka down, and crossing herarmson her =| Imnees, rested her ghastly face upon them, Ns ‘ CHAPTER XVII < THE KNIGHT APPEARS, Mr, Wyure proceeded: “Mr, Gorget, naturally proud of his skill, had in bs his possession a photograph of Mademoiselle Coila De Vouse before his magic brush had touched her, and another taken after the transformation, Both were admirably tinted, and did full justice to the © 7 subject, and, in fact, here they are, with the French- fe man’s mee ap that they were taken fromthesame original.” ~ oe ssp So RR TN He took from the same envelope which we once ‘before saw in his hand, two photographs and. thom ta MP. Stanley's hand’ Me Vai dente tenes os hurriedly to look at them over hisshoulder, ;
Page 15
= ed a small, spare woman with an undeniably good outline, and small, graceful hands and feet, but with aunt neck and arms, hollow cheeks, bloodless yel- tow complexion, dark shadows under the eyes, and thin, light-brown hair. i The other, marked “‘ after treatment,” represented the plump, beautiful Coila, whose graces we have admired so long—the innocentismile on her painted lips, and the infantile surprise in newly-fringed The first, marked “before treatment,’’ represent- eyes. | Dissimilar as these pictures were there was a nameless resemblance between them—a subtle iden- tity which would reveal itself in spite of all the art- ist’s genius—the same Coila looked at them from each carte. : Both gentlemen recoiled from the unhappy origi- pal struck by the genuino Saxon disgust at impos- ure. Maiblume, reddening to the roots of her hair, turn- ed her back upon Coila, | a Mr. Wylie went on with increasing spirit: “Mr. Gorget put me on the right track at last; he pict? told me who his client was, occupation, family con- XN nections, etc., etc. She was attached to the Paris cirque, and’on the pei ae figured as the Beautiful emp of the Air, Bebe Baron, alias Coila De Vouse, the daughter of the drunken host of a brusserie, in vi the Rue St. Martin. As I was anxious to give her . full justice in her biography, I took the trouble to visit the manager of the troupe to which she had be- longed, and, after some slight difficulty, which was oe adjusted by the aid of the almight. dollar, be con- ris fidedin me. He was a miserable fellow, a confirmed opium-eater, his business going to the dogs won ) $ own incapacity, but he had once been a gentle- Ww man, though always 2 base and vicious one, He in- formed me that Bebe Baron had of late years been ie too many for him, and, being a very valuable star, he had been obliged to accede to her most prepos- terous demands—in fact, that she was mistress and more, and twirled him round her little finger. Her ke _ beauty had been waning for some time, and her movements were not so flexible as they had been— in fact, she was over thirty and worn out. Some two ears and a half ago, ths distressed manager had beer plunged into further trouble by a circumstance connected with his past life starting up in the most { unexpected manner. He met, face to face, one day Y in the street, a lady whom he had cruelly wronged in those days when he was a gentleman, and the ight of her, beautiful as ever, and Jey | him by thout recognition, almost took away the little rea- ‘son which opium had left him. He followed her to her hotel, foreed an interview, and almost killed her by the shock of sseing him. She had married an- : _ other, was wealthy, and loved ‘her husband. You 4 may suppose how the sight of this dissipated, worth- : less wretch appalled her, possessed as he was of a fact in her history which she had never dared divulge \to her husband.” The wretched Coila was quite forgotten now; _ every eye was fixed in painful anxiety upon the art- ist, whose voice grew lower and his manner grave : and more earnest as he proceeded. ‘ “The man urged her to return to him, threatening her with exposure if she refused; but she, struc with unu terable loathing, declared sho would dio by her own hand first, and defied him. He would oy have carried his threat into execution, had he not recollected the emptiness of his coffers and ths bic pare sod aspect of his future; so, extorting her address from her, and as much gold as she could give hin he left her for that time.” Stanley, with convulsed face, sprung from his seat and paced about the room. Maiblume hid her face, weeping, and Verne kept + his eyes fixed upon the carpet, in stern sorrow. : pee talki ou .are ng of my wife,” said Stanley, in a Ving Sa * ‘ f choked voice, as he paused before the artist with _ elenched hands; *~ bet hesitated, flushing scarlet. _ “Wait, sir; don’t be premature,” urged he; “you will only prejudge the case if you do.’ “Tknow you are talking of my wife!” said Stan- ley, in a hollow voice. “She had a secret which sha kept from me from the first day of her ay te Two years and a half azo we were in Paris, and she had an illness there for which she could assign no cause. I know ye speak of Mrs. Stanley!” “Be patient, | pray you!” cried Wylie, warmly. “Think nothing, but wait for the end.” Stanley turned on his heel, and grinding his teeth, commenced a weary march up and down the room. “Upon reflection,” continued Mr. Wylie, “the man resolved to forego vengeance, and make his victim pay for the self-sacrifice. He commenced a system of blackmailing which lasted until she sent him word, a year ago, that she had resolved to con- fess all to her husband. Miss De Vouse here roap- ' pears upon the scene. Discovering that her em- ployer was in trouble, she wormed the whole secret {out of him, and suggested a new course to be pur- ui sued. She proposed that she should be sent as the _--_—s gireus manager's agent to the home of the unfor- _ tunate lady, in order that she might maneuver mat- ters so that the secret would still be kept from the ' husband and the hush-money still continue to be i pee She had her way, and a year ago landed in few York, sent for their victim, found her wavering still between fear and z her as her honored guest—and burst upon poco; the young Mademoiselle De Vouse, beauty an bbe n pn big 3 the protecting wing of the un- : y, yet guililess, Mrs. ey” ? ‘ ) ae ned, having uttered these words italicised . with extraordinary energy—and they all gets if moved by one spirit, and looked at one another |. with a low deep gasp of intense relief. ry Guiltless!] ie) y duty—forced her to receive - ‘ Oh, sweet dead, sorrow-slain, yet spotless; sleep on—thy sacred memory held pure as light! As that deep breath passed away, Coila raised her ji face, rose, and stood before them, drooping, de- ected. “Now hear me,” said she. ‘Let me take up the story here; let me expiate all and I shall go from your presence with one gleam of comfort to light my darkened path.”’ he looked from one loathing face to another; every eye avoided hers. Oh, agony—she the ad- mired, the beloved, to stand abhorred in their midst! “T came—I saw madame—I loved her, Monsieur Wylie knows., I have told him how my health was changed. I pitied my madame; I helped her to bear her secret and to hide it from Monsieur Stanley. On her death-bed she tells me that she has written a confession which I am to give to monsieur after her death, and then to place it in her coffin that it may be buried with her; also a will to which the confes- sion is a. key, She tells me that Monsieur Laurie has discovered her secret long ago, and has ever urged her to be brave and confide in Monsieur Stan- ley, so that he and she and the man in Paris and Coila, are all who know the little history, which, if breathed to others, will blow her good name away, consigning her to infamy. “She dies; I retire to think; I mourn; my heart is torn with pity; her fair fame seems more precious to me than this useless babbling of a bygone mis- fortune to the ears of a husband who will only loathe her memory because of it. I steal through the house, bring her desk to ts 4 room, and Pay the Blessed Virgin to teach me what to do, and it is re- vealed to me thatI must be dumb for madame’s sake. So then I take out the confession and the will from madame’s desk, and, with aby Dhaset and tears, I place the will, to which the confession is the key in madame’s coffin; but the confession—yes, if preserve that madame’s purity may still be vindi- cated, should Monsieur Laurie ever be coward enough to betray her. Monsieur my employer I silence by revealing to him madame’s death, and by sending him a seguior. allowance as Jong as he leaves me un- molested among the purer influences which surround me now. “For the rest, I have dared to give Monsieur Verne my deathless gratitude—to hold Mademoiselle Verne dear as my own life—to atiempt thé vindica- tion of Monsieur Laurie, and, for the dear sakes of these two, to divert Monsicur Stanley from his pur- suit, to lose my heart to him, and to promise to be his wife. These are my crimes, oh, friends, oh, judges! Can repentance, can bitter tears never ee them out? Is there no mercy for lost Coila De ouse?”’ Another breathless pause, while doubt and com- passion struggle for the precedence in the breasts of her audience, by which term, however, I dare not inelude the lawyer and his friend, for they only looked at each other like leering satyrs. Maiblume was the first to move; she hurried he cg and stopped, looking earnestly at her ather. “ Papa,” said she, in a thrilling voice, don’t let us be cruel! Who is there among us who does not need forgiveness? Dare we deny it to her?” e author started to his feet, generous pity obtaining the mastery over him. ktanley, too, was moved, and turned toward the suppliant, when Mr. Wylie stretched out his hand with an emphatic: “Wait a moment, please; you have not heard Coila De Vouse gave him one look of bitter ha- tred, and folding her arms, stood like a statue in the middle of the oor, listening to the words which ruined her. ‘Justice must first be done to Mrs. Stanley’s memory,” said Mr. Wylie, waving his hand at Mr. Falcon; ‘‘the rest of the circumstances about to be disclosed follow in due sequence.” Mr. Falcon rose, removed his chair, opened the folding door alittle way, and beckoned, A man entered. ¥ His skin was like parchment, his eye dull and slumbrous, his bones stood out like those of a skele- ton. A terrible man! He wore a suit of ill-fitting clothes, and leaned upon a stout staff—the very personification of miserable debility. Coila emitted a fierce French execration. “ Tout bien | Mademoiselle Bebe,” said he, bowing low and sneeringly; ‘“‘ thou wert ready to play thy master false; thy perfidy returns upon thee!” “This,” said Mr. Wylie, “is Emile Armand, the circus manager, employer of Coila De Vouse, and lawful husband of sa Cresswell, known as the ha of Paul Stanley. Armand, produce your proofs!”’ ; He laid the yellowed papers down upon the table. There they were—the marriage certificate of Emile Armand and Rosa Cresswell, married in London from the house of Rosa Cresswell’s nurse, fifteen years ago! Other papers, too, he laid beside them—a packet of letters written by Coila De Vouse in New York to her accomplice Emile Armand, in Paris, concerning the secret of the so-called Mrs. Stanley, and the money they extorted from her to keep it. These, having been examined in moody silence, at a sign from Wylie, Armand proceeded: ‘*Messieurs, I ever admired Madame Armand, ‘who, for love of me, had eloped with me from her rich and proud family; but she soon ceased to give me wifely submission or love, because she was—well —Puritan, poor madame, and I had my niche in French society, and would not step down from it at her pleasure.” “He was a explained Mr. of it.” sponta a gambler, and a roue,” ylie; “that’s about the English | 15 | ““Our tastes being so dissimilar,’’ continued the Frenchman, with serenity, ‘‘ at the end of the year, which she grew more unreasonable every | t rs gee 5 day, I permitted my wife to return to her father’s house, where she was received upon condition that she would resume her maiden name, and conceal < her marriage with Emile Armand. We lived in ad- , mirable concord apart for some time, until begin- ee feel my rope gall—”’ “Falling in love with another woman,” put in Mr. Wylie, as before. “I took advantage of my natural ingenuity, and released myself by sending her undoubted proofs of my death, Inever heard of her again until I met. her in the street in Paris, nearly twelve years after- ward, when I permitted myself the felicity of re- newing our acquaintance.” , ; “That’s enough, my man; you can take yourself . off now,’’ said Mr. Wylie. And, with a profusion of polite bows to the as- sembled company, and a jaunty kiss of the hand to Coila, he retired through the folding-door. Stanley’s face was in his hands; Verne waslean- . ‘der; Maiblume’s row and heaved a deep sigh ing in mute sympathy on his shou tender tears were falling softly. Wylie wiped his hot of satisfaction. “That’s. done!’’ muttered he to Falcon, who bowed and smiled in his most affable manner. ‘*Justice must now be done to Mr. George Lau- rie,” said Mr. Wylie, after allowing sufficient time for his audience to recover themselves, and here a flush began to dawn on Maiblume’s cheek, like the coming of the day over the pale *Yungfrau. “Before he was in your employ, Mr. Verne, you remember he was secretary or book-keeper, or something of that sort; in one of the sanitary insti- tutions in New York State—the Havisham Home for Incurables it was called. During his stay there he had often noticed a little af Sat poor boy whose limbs had been useless from babyhood, and who had _always’ lived there, having, the matron said, neither father nor mother, but being ha by a benevolent lady, who often came to see him. Ag } “Having obtained a situation with you, Mr. Lau- = rie was one day astonished to see a lady in your drawing-room whose face bore such a striking re- semblance to the boy’s that he could do nothing but gaze at her, until she noticing him asked somethin about him from Miss Verne and heard that he hi come from the Havisham Home. This was Mrs. Stanley and the boy was Aubrey Armand, the fruit ye of her unhappy marriage, whom she had all her life kept concealed. She understood too well the , reason of the secretary's agitation—he had stum- - re bled upon her secret. e sought him at the first opportunity, and throwing herself upon his mercy ; ed him to keep silent what he knew, telling him the sad circumstances. It was then thathe acted a ne entieman’s and a true man’s part; he promised "1 keep silent, but from the first day of knowl- edge. of the matter he never ceased to urge her to go to her husband and bravely to declare the truth. But, if he was her good angel, Coila De Vouse _— was her bad one, and filled her with such ungovern- able alarm at the possible consequences—at the ; same time reaping a rich reward from these very — fears which she engendered—that, till the day of her death, Mrs, Stanley vacillated between the two, ~ You all know with what faithfulness Mr. Laurie — preserved the poor lady’s secret after death, u Ber un E eitin self-defense. - circumstances where ninety-nine out of a would have felt bound to div: You all know how he has suffered, and what a brave, ; patient spirit he has shown through all.” Oa Maiblume’s tears. were falling like rain, but an a April smile lighted up her lovely face. fetTBE Pace tanley, too, looked up, his dark face kindling, while Mr. Verne, beaming like a happy child, cried: i “Bravo! Bravo! I knew he'd come out right!” VN “Stop!” said Mr. Wylie, hugging himself anéw. ““There’s more yet! One evening when Mr. Laurie is and Miss Verne were walking on the beach at Storm- : cliff their conversation—an interesting one, I be heve—was bitty Lage by Aubrey Armand starting « - up from among the rocks, the boy with Mrs. Stan- = ley’s own face right in front of Miss Verne! You may imagine the fix the fine fellow was in—how to get him away without Miss Verne’s seeing him istinctly, and how to explain the thing satisfactori- ly afterward, I guess he didn’t eng o e very well 1. »% either, for they haven’t been such friends since. Well, he hid the boy hetween two big rocks and _ after he had seen Miss Verne home, he went back to 7 him and heard his story. No money had come to — pay bis nage at the Home for six months. I suppose . Stanley, dying so suddenly, had not ~ thought of providing for him in any other way than through her will, and being a high-spirited little fellow, and, besides, passionately attached to the lady who visited him, he could hot bear theircold looks, and so ran away, poor little chap, hoping to J find the lady who was in her grave. He had wan- _ dered about, God knows how, for thore than. three weeks, and was just about, gone when he came to Stormcliff, and to his joy, recognized Mr. Laurie on . the beach. Of course the first thing to be done was _ ght for Aubrey without letting enyhogy who . had ever seen Mrs. Stanley see him; and Mr, Laurie, true to his trust, took this upon himself. He got a wagon from the village and drove him over to Linsdale where he housed him comfortably for the night, and, making inquiries for some out of the way place where he might nurse the little fellow in secrecy, for the present, he heard of the old ruin oe | the top of the hill, and next evening went up to loo | at it. Tt ended in his carrying the boy up thereon _ his back, I believe, and making him as comfortable _ as humap hands could in such a place. Then he | wrote to his mother, who is living in Flo asking « ae \ : Ny «! Bee oa
Page 16
B f ed een TRUST HER NOT. leave to take the little waif to her, which she frank- ly gave him, being ee the woman to have such a son. Meantime he had left your employment, sir, sorrowful enough, I dare say, that his dut; should be so hard, none the less resolved to do it for that. Mio I have said enough on this subject,’’ observed r. Wylie, rolling his eyes round the excited, beam- ing faces, ‘‘unless you’d like me to say where this young hero is to be found now.” tie Yes—yes—that’s it!”? cried Mr. Verne. : Mr. migne made a sign to Mr. Faleon, who again opened the folding doors and beckoned. George Laurie came in. ae f Pale with excitement, yet smiling radiantly, dear, faithful George, tender and true! ota at him, author and poet together, and whi Mar. Verne hugged him in his arms, crying and laughing, Mr. Stanley wrung his hand convulsively, exe ng over and over: “God bless you, Laurie! me?” “Go, boy, there she is!’’ cried Mr. Verne, at length, posting him toward the angelically-beaming Mai- lume; and as they clasped hands, pure heaven in their hearts—he sat down, sobbing like a child. / CHAPTER XIX. KNIGHTED IN LOVE. Cora became impatient of these raptures. are set permitted to retire now?’’ said she, breath- On the. contrary, Pe are very particularly pressed to remain,’ said Mr. Wylie, and raising his voice called—** Officer!” The messenger entered without his cloak. Alas! His coat was blue, his buttons were brass, and he carried a short truacheon in his hand! “Arrest that woman if she attempts to move!” said the inexorable Wylie. ee Officer took his place beside the lady in lurid satin. “The night pefore the storm at Stormcliff,” re- Can you ever forgive sumed the artist, ‘‘Miss De Vouse visited the ruin where Aubrey Armand was hidden, accompanied by a@ woman, rather a rough character from Linsdale, of the name of Louisa Garth. She stole the child in Mr, Laurie’s absence, Dg ae J at a places, his likeness to Mrs. Stanley. She also set the ruin on fire, that Mr. Laurie might be induced to believe that the oa had perished in the flames and make no for him elsewhere. I had seen her go, although she thought she had eluded all observa- tion, and when she denied having gone I suspected at once the effect which the discovery had had upon her. Next morning the steamer Simphic was wrecked on the bar at Stormcliff and Armand was tossed ashore at her very feet. Taking advantage of her terror at his Bappananch, I wrung from her the information for which alone I had made her uaintance—I mean what she had done with Mrs. : Btanley’s will. It was not until afterward that I dis- covered why the young Jezebel had made the con- fession. Read the will, Falcon, will you?” Mr. Falcon drew a leather case from his breast pocket, opened it and produced the mildewed packet which had lain for eight months under the dead lady’s pillow, and opening it with professional for- mality, read in a resounding voice the testamentary wishes of Rosa Stanley. The will was brief; it simply and concisely settled a life interest in Mrs. Stanley’s fortune on her be- loved and only son, Aubrey Armand, with the re- version of the whole fortune to her true friend, Georee Laurie, referring to the confession which was tobe found with the will in her desk for ex- planation. This, with some handsome legacies to the older do- mestics, made the contents of the document. “Yo hide this will,’ said Mr. Wylie, ‘‘became a necessity of Miss De Vouse, who had set her heart on marrying a wealthy widower instead of livi et on her ek engant ett Be PL wi n ng appea e property fell in due time into the Beictaa of Mr. Stanley, and Mr. Stanley fell in due time into the hands of Miss De Vouse. When Vouse recognized Aubrey Armand, the heir, she saw it was about time to quit or inake afresh start, so she sent that boy, half dead as he was, right along to New York with Louisa Garth as jailer, and hid in an attic in First avenue, I’d my eyes on her, though, and with the assistance of Constable Johnson here, we tracked her last night, between one and two in the morning, making her way with the woman Garth to the hole where the poor boy was shut up. Well, it ain’t worth while to say much more, I guess. ey thought they had ‘drowned him in the river, but we were handier than ee imagined, and fished him up again. Poor lit chap, he'll never be nearer gone! That's why it ed you false, you little Hecate!’ exclaimed Mr. Wylie, turning upon her with anger and admi- ration struggling for the mastery. ‘If you’d be- haved yourself I couldn’t have served you so, for you’d played your part so well. Han ever saw anything half so clever! Off with her!” | added he to the policeman; “I guess we’ve had enough of her!” As the man’s hand touched her shoulder she uttered an oem scream, then fought like a tigress for her liberty. i _“ You'd best come along quietly,” said the officer, Sem a pair of ‘bracelets rather grimmer than sparkling rubies which encircled her white That grisly sight cowed her; she quietly put | subscribers, pos draping it about | rates, viz: on her white camel’s-hair shawl her face and throat as delicately as if she were going to the opera; eae) drawing herselt to her yen she loo at them all with flashing scorn, “Messieurs, my judges,” said she, “and Made- | | day! moiselle Purity, I defy you all! Your benefits I re- turn them to you with disdain! Your kindnesses I spit on them; they were false and fleeting! Fate mocks me now, the jade; but wait, her wheel shall turn again, and I shall soar higher than ever, for voila/ I was born under a fortunate star! I was to have been married to Monsieur Paul Stanley to- Ha! ba! His passion was amusing, but I would have wearied of it in a week! Adieu! I shall find equal amusement in the—ha! ha!—Tombs; for my mind is my kingdom, and it never forsakes me!” With a sweeping stage bow, and a scons wave of the hand, she disappeared in good form, her light hand on the grinning officer’s arm and her train sweeping behind her. “There is only one thing more to be done con- nected with this matter,” said Mr. Wylie, when all were breathing freer and the sound of the officer’s carriage wheels was no more heard; ‘in her absence this evening, and armed with a search warrant, Johnson and I went through her effects, and we came upon this packet—Mrs. Stanley’s confession, I believe.” He handed a sealed envelope to Stanley, who read these words on the back: ' “To be read by my husband only. the seal.” saree held it in his tre r bling hand, musing with profound emotion over the sad, sad history of the woman who had loved him so well. Friends,” said he at last, breaking the respectful silence which they observed, ‘“‘my wife’s honor is already vindicated; I desire no other proof of her purity. In hyd presence let me burn this unread; it relates a past which I should never have wished to unvail had not evil ad ye prompted the cruel suspicions whieh aliena me from her gradually and fatally. Thas T age to oblivion my dead wife’s secret, and believing henceforth in goodness and purity, I shall I trust, prove worthier of your friendships—my friends, Miss Verne, Mr. Verne, and Mr. Laurie—-and also in the source from which all goodness flows.” He placed the packet in the heart of the glowing Finder, respect | anthracite fire, and, in deep silence, they all watche it burn brightly—die out in lurid flakes and fiutter up the chimney. “And now, let me show you ie said George, turning for the first time from Maiblume. The folding oors were both flung wide now, and they saw the child lying on a sofa, his miserable father slouching at a distant window and drumming the devil’s tattoo on the sill. George took him in his arms, a light weight truly, but love thrilled every fiber of the little form. ““My dear Aubrey,” said George, ‘look up, look up. 2 is is Maiblume, the lovely lady who is to be my wife.” And the boy looked up in the sweet bending face, and the next moment was in her arms. nba shall ay. Meantime Aeuhtay, in a few terse sentences, was disposing of Monsieur Armand to his entire satisfac- tion—in fact buying his son of him. Having agreed to an exorbitant demand, and seen him out, he re- turned to his old friend Verne, who stood near the sofa quite A ee by the little scenz he had witnessed. ‘““We shall be old chums still,’ said Stanley, link- ing his arm in his, and leaning on him with a wistful dependence new in him; ‘‘and for these three, may God shower His richest blessings on them and spare them to each other many years.” “Amen!” said the author, wringing his hand. THE END, The Saturday Journal. “The Model Family Paper Most Charming of the Weeklies.” A pure r; good in every thing; bright, priliiant sar aaetactive, ee " Serials, Tales, Romances, Sketches, Adventures, Biographies, Pungent Essays. Poetry, Notes and Answers to Correspondents, Wit and Fun— All are features in every number, from such celebrated writers as no paper in America can boast of. What is best in POPULAR READING, that the paper always has; hence for Homm, Sxop, Li- BRARY and GENERAL READER it is without a rival; and hence its great and steadily increasing circulation. ’ The SaruKDAY JOURNAL is sold everywhere by newsdealers; price six cents per number ; or to Piotd, at the following cheap Four months, one dollar; one year, three. dollars ; or, two copies, five dollars. Address BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York. A Fifty Cent Novel for Five Cents. RY, COVERING THE FIELD OF LOVE and SOCIETY ROMANCE. Perfectly pure in tone, spirited and captivating in story, as the title ‘‘ Wavertey”’ implies: Everything to please and nothing to avoid— Wholesome, Vigorous and Fresh / ‘ 1 Tae Masxep Bripr. By Mrs, Mary Reed Crowell. 2 Was Ir Love? By Wm. Mason Turner. 8 Toe Girt Warr. By Bartley T. Campbell. 4 A Brave Heart. By Arabella Southworth. — 5 Bessie Raynor, rHE Work Girt Wm. M. Turner. 6 Tar SecreT MARRIAGE. By Sara Claxton. 7 A Davcurer or Eve. Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 8 Heart to Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 9 ALONE IN THE WortD. Author of “ Clifton.” 10 A Parr or Gray Eyres. By Rose Kennedy. 11 Enranatep. By Henrietta Thackeray. 12 His Lawrot Wire. By Mrs. Ann §. Stephens. 18 Mapcap, THE Litrie QUAKERESS. Cushman. j 14 Way IMarricp Him. By Sara Claxton. ; 15 A Fam Face. By Bartley T. Campbell. 16 Trust Her Nor. By Margaret Leicester. 17 ALoyst Lover. By ArabellaSouthworth, Ready March 9th. 18 His Inot. By Mrs. M Reed Crowell. Re March 16th. ee A new tssue every week, For sale by all Newsdealers, price five cents each or sent, postage paid, on receipt of six cents. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William street, N. ¥. THE NEW YORE Fireside Library Of notable works by notable authors. Beautifully printed in the popular folio form, from clear, open type; each issue a complete novel and sold at the uniform price of Ten Cents each. Wo double price on © double or extra size numbers. The cheapest library ever published; embraces only the choicest of recent fiction. : 1 Was SHE His WIFE? Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 2 FLEEING From Love. Harriet Irving. J 8 Dip HE LOvE HER? Rartley T. Campbell. 4 ASTRANGE WoMAN. Rett Winwood. 6 Two Girts’ Lives. Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell,. 9 THE Wak OF HEARTS. Corinne Cushman. . 10 LEIGHTON GRANGE. Miss M. E. Braddon. \ 11 THE Fase Wipow. Mrs. Jenny D. Burton, ‘ 12-18 Lost For Love. Miss M, E. Braddon. ‘ 14-15 TOILERS OF THE SEA. Victor Hugo. 16 THE QuADROON. Catharine A, Warfield. 17-18 UNCLE Siuas. J. 8. Le Fanu. ; 19-20 Deap-Sea Fruit. Miss M. E. Braddon. 21-22 LirrLe KatTr Kirgy. IF. W. Robinson. 23 SOWING THE WIND. Mrs. Mary Reed Crowelk 24-25 Bips or Prey. Miss M. E. Braddon. 26 THAT Boy or Norcort’s. Charles Lever. 27-28 CHARLOTTE’S INHERITANCE. Miss Braddon. 29 AGrrw’s HEART. Rett Winwood. ( 80-81 Rep as A Rosr 1s SHE. Rhoda Broughton, 82 THE Lity or St. ERNE. Mrs. Crow. 33 STRANGELY WED. Mrs. sennn axe Burton. . en. ‘ graham. 36 WirHout Mercy. Bartley T. Campbell. 87 BLACK EYES AND BLUE, Corinne Cushman, 838 BRAVE BARBARA. Corinne Cushman, 89 A DANGEROUS WOMAN. Margaret Blount. ny Ourpa’s Love. Henrietta E. De Conde. 41 Lost; A Wire. Corinne Cushman. 42 WINNING Ways. Margaret Blount. Ay 43 AWoMAN’S HEART. :. M. V. Victor \ 44 THE Deap Lertrmr. Seeley Regesier. I 45 LorD LISLE’s DAUGHTER. ©. M. Braeme, 46 A WoMAN’s Hanp. By the author of “Dead Letter,” 47 VIALS OF WRATH. Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 48 A WILD Girt. Corinne Cushman, 49 Toe MADDEST MARRIAGE Even WAS. Jennie D, Burton. 50 LOVE INA Mazz. Mrs. E. F. Ellet. 51 CATHOLINA; or, WALLED UP ALIVE. J. H. Robinson. 52 A ROMANCE OF A Poor YOUNG GirL. Mrs. E. F. Ellet. 53 THe LocKED Hesrt. Corinne Cushman. 54 THE PRIDE OF THE Downts, Margaret Blount. 55 A STRANGE GIRL, Albert W. Aiken. 56 THE Prerry Purrran. A ‘“Parson’s Daughter,” 57 Dm SHE Sry? Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell: 58 DouBLY DIVORCED. Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton. 59 A WICKED WomMAN. Lillie Devereux, Umsted Blake. Ready March lith. For sale by all Newsdealers, or sent, postage paid, on receipt of twelve cents. BEADLE AND AD. ublishers, | ie Willian bureoe %