7 ease nt. SRE eR

 

Frsruary 28, 1874.]

BHLLES AND BRHAUN.

  

a

 

-“ Then she is a natural actress! She could
make her fortune on the stage!”

““Do you think so?”

‘All her poses are full of grace, and so ex-
pressive! You have secured a treasure in her,
Miss Burke. I should call her a genius in that
line.”

“She is so pretty!” laughed Clara, ‘‘and her
shyness goes for dramatic effect.”

She scene was not without its effect on the
sensitive mind of the young girl. When she
took off her splendid robes, in her own room,
laying them carefully aside, the murmurs of
admiration she had overheard yet rung in her
ears, She had not been without the con-
sciousness of having deserved the encomiums
lavished on her,

“T might make my fortune on the stage,”
she repeated, quoting the gentleman’s remark.
“What if I were to try? I wish I could see a
play once, and then I could judge if I were fit
for it!”

She resolved to take an opportunity of con-
sulting Mrs. Burke. Why should she not es-
cape from the sordid thraldom of a sewing-
girl’s life?

The idea dwelt in her mind, and the next
day she ventured to ask her friend if that
career would not be a good one for her.

“Alas, my poor girl,” Mrs. Burke replied,
“you know nothing about the life or labors of
an actress. Dress and lights do not make
them. A girl who would go on the stage has
to prepare herself by long and careful study.”

“ Tndeed?”

“She must possess not only grace and
beauty, but high cultivation. She must be
able to take the parts given her; and they
often require breadth of understanding, as
well as deep study. You have never even read
a drama?”

“Never, ma’am; but I could study very
hard, if I had any one to teach me.”

“You would need the foundation of an ex-
cellent education.” ‘

‘And I am so ignorant!” sighed the girl,
bitterly.

“Then you must have a genius for the
drama; and must enter on a course of rigorous
and toilsome preparation—perhaps for years.
And very few debutantes, after all, make their
way into public favor.”

“Ts it possible?”

“T have seen many fail, and none entirely
successful. I had an idea of becoming an
actress once, myself!”

“You, madam!”

“When I was very young; after—after I
had made a mistake that threatened to blight
my life.”

“What was that?” asked the girl, lifting her
eyes in surprise to her mistress. ‘What kind
of a mistake?”

“Tecan not tell you. You must not ask me.
I have told no one.”

“Excuse me, ma’am; I thought you meant
a mistake in choosing the stage as a profes-
sion.”

“Tt was then I thought of it; but I soon
found I had not strength or perseverance to
go through with the severe labors necessary.
I was at school then.” 5

“Oh, if I could go to school!”

“You may, one of these days!”

“Perhaps I am too old. The other pupils
would laugh at me, and then I should lose
courage. If I could study, and have teachers,
like young ladies I have heard of.”

Much more disconrse there was on this sub-
ject; and the girl, whose instincts had begun
to rebel against her circumstances, received
lessons of good counsel. She acknowledged
that it was better to be content with her hum-

ble lot. But why should she not wish to rise’

above it?

 

CHAPTER XIV. _
THE BIRTH-NIGHT PARTY,

THE evening of the birth-night came. All
the preparations were complete. It was de-
termined to have the tableaux at the close of
the entertainment, just before supper; and to
present them in an arbor large enough for the
scene, in the grounds, *

It would be such a novelty to have them out
of doors. The evening was mild, and the
whole space was illuminated by lights hung in
the trees. The green drapery would be a
scenic background, and it was easy to have as
rich side-scenes of flowers as could be desired.

The carpenter made the stage, and when it
was decorated it looked a floral paradise. The
walks, lawns and avenues were all arranged
for promenades and dancing.

Alida was not called down to join the com-
pany during the first part of the evening.
She saw Mrs. Burke, magnificent as the
hostess, in lavender moire antique trimmed
with flounces of white point appliquee, dia-
monds and drooping plume, and a Pompadour
waist trimmed with point to match.

She saw Clara in a plain, but exquisitely-
trimmed Organdy muslin, going down to re-
ceive and welcome the guests before it was
time for her to dress for the tableaux.

A feeling of sadness came over the lonely
seamstress as she sat by the window, watching
the carriages rolling to and fro, and the cloud-
wrapped ladies as they thronged the entrance.
She heard the porter announce them at the
door of the drawing-room,

She felt discontented, she hardly knew why.
Never before had she wished to mingle in such
a scene of gayety. But after she had been in-
vited to take part in an artistic entertainment,
after she had had a taste of the “sensation ”
youth and beauty create, she was in a measure
spoiled for her own life.

“T wish I could go away!” she murmured to
herself, ‘I wish I had never come here! I

 

should like to go back to my little room in the
attic!”

As she wiped away the starting tears, Adele
came to help her dress for the first tableaux in
which she was to appear.

Clara received her at the foot of the back,
stairs, and led her to the ground. The director
took her to the place she was to occupy, and
put the different figures of the group in their
positions. i ;

The lights were so disposed as to give the best
effect ; the veranda and lawns being quite in
shadow. They were densely crowded with
spectators.

There was a murmur of irrepressible admi-
ration, when the curtain drew up and the scene
was exhibited. Alida was the most prominent
female figure. Leon was gazing at her with
the soul of love in his eyes.

The girl felt her cheeks burn as she met that
impassioned gaze. But she maintained her po-
sition. When the curtain descended—bravoes
rent the air.

“Who is she?” she heard from several
voices.

“ An angel !”

“An opera girl, from her self-possession,”
said another.

“Mrs, Burke brought her forward: they
have made a secret of the affair !” others re-
marked.

But no one suspected her of low origin, or ig-
norance of society. The girl noticed that with
a throb of pride.

In the next scene Lady Gwendoline -was
seated, with Alfred kneeling at her feet, his
guitar having dropped from his hands 4,

His eyes, as before, were fastened on her
face. The lady looked down, a consciousness
of love in her own breast giving a tender shy-
ness to her expression, Other figures were in
the background.

This scene was duly applauded, and so were
others that intervened before that of Lady
Gwendoline’s bridal, the last in which Alida was
to appear, 7

She looked radiant in beauty, Leon held her
hand, and he pressed it gently several times.
This picture was twice called for repetition
after the curtain had fallen.

Alida was glad to escape. She vanished be-
hind the arbor, in.the midst of a thicket of
evergreen, where there was a rustic seat, on
which “she sunk, striving to collect her
thoughts.

The screen of leaves was parted, the next mo-
ment, and Leon Burke stood by her side.

“Why do you run away from us? fairest
Gwendoline !” he cried, playfully. ‘‘ Indeed I
cannot permit you. I will nof lose you ! Come
out of this dark place.”

““No, Mr. Leon; I must go up to my room.”

“While all the company is singing your
praises, and asking who you are ?” ‘

“They would not praise me if they knew
who I am!” the girl exclaimed, bitterly. ‘I
was wrong to consent to appear.”

“You have charmed everybody.”

“T have stepped out of my place. Go in, Mr.
Leon, and tell the company that the lady who
figured as a bride just now is only your mother’s
sewing-girl. See what scorn they will show !
How the ladies will laugh, and the gentlemen
swear they were taken in! Oh, it was cruel to
ask me to do this !”

“ Alida,” cried the young man, seriously,
“there is one of them, and you know it, who
does not think the less of you! Alida, you know
Tlove you! I lve you!” . :

‘This is worse than all the rest !” exclaimed
the girl, struggling to snatch her hand from
his.

But Leon held it fast, and passed his arm
round her waist, drawing her close to his
breast. f

“And you love me, Alida ; you caanot deny
it! Isaw it in your face in the tableau—in
your eyes—in your blush! I see it now in every
look, even while you shrink from me. You
have known my love this long time—and your
heart is mine in return.”

“Mr. Leon, let me go! you are mistaken,
‘You insult me by such language !”

Her cheeks flamed; her eyes flashed with in-
dignation as she released herself from his em-
brace.

“You must not say so, Alida! You shall not.
Tlove you—we love each other ; and you shall be
my wife !”

He had released her, and he faced her as she
stood, with determination in every feature.

“You know that cannot be !” she answered.

“Tt can be; it shall be! I will marry none
but you, Alida! I resolved on that long
ago.”

He overcame her refusal by clasping her once
more in his arms, and pressing his lips again
and again to hers. :

Suddenly she disenaged herself, and he started
back. Quick footsteps were heard, and that
close to the group of evergreens. :

“Farewell for the present, my beauty—
my bride !” whispered Leon. ‘‘I will tell you
all my plans to-morrow.”

He vanished among the foliage.

The next moment the leaves were parted on
the other side, and Alida saw the intruder.

It was Charlotte Le Brun !

(To be continued.)

 

 

It is a good and safe rule to sojourn in
every place as if you meant to spend your life
there, never omitting an opportunity of doing
a kindness, or speaking a true word, or making
a friend. Seeds thus sown by the wayside
often bring forth an abundant harvest. You
might so spend your summer among the people
that they and their descendants should be bet-
ter and happier through time and eternity for

 

your works and your example,

   

 

COQUETTED.

BY CRAPE MYRTLE,

 

 

And is it thus that we must sever

' The bonds affection wrought?

And must I lose this pearl of light,
My soul in faith hath sought?

The charming fashion of thy face
Bound, like a apells my heart,

And, now that fickle fancy tires,
You say that we must part.

The stars in yonder Orient
Seemed not more true than thee;

But, ah! what treacherous changes
Sweep o’er life’s checkered sea!

False lips, and fair! as numerous
As Valambrosa’s leaves,

Are the vows you make, and lightly break,
And fond, true hearts deceive.

The rich wine glowed on either cheek,
And the brightness of thy eye,
Bespoke what faithless memory,
Your lips did not sony
Ah! brightening eye! ah! tender lip!
I deemed them fond and true,
But clouds will sometimes quench the light

. ”
From heaven's fairest blue.

And now, farewell; I will not pine,
O’er wafted sweets of old;

My manhood craveth constancy,
As misers love their gold.

For all thy faithless woman’s troth,
My full, free pardon’s granted;

For love’s young dream is buried deep,
And my soul is disenchanted.

 

 

A CARPET KNIGHT.

 

BY HENRI MONTCALM,

 

ISS MILDRED HEATHCOTE and Mr.
Ray Harding stood side by side looking
down the Devil’s Fall. The scene was one of
awful grandeur, yet just then neither felt its
spell; the lady was petulant, and her lover
nonchalant. Yesterday he had asked her to
marry him, and she had hesitated, saying “I
will tell you to-morrow,” knowing very well
that her answer could be nothing but ‘“ Yes.”
Just now he had repeated the question, but in
that cool, high and mighty way of his, which
piqued her, though she knew he meant nothing
by it. So she still coquetted and hesitated.

“Pooh !” said Miss Mildred, pouting pret-
tily, ‘‘you men talk eloquently enough of de-
votion and adoration, but you never do any-
thing to prove it. For my part I wish we were
back in the good old days of chivalry, when a
knight, if he loved a lady, rode bravely into
the lists and challenged the world in her name.
But now-a-days you are all carpet knights.
‘You can bow and waltz and talk nonsense, but
you never fight. The word heroism should be
marked obsolete in the dictionaries,”

Ray stood with folded arms, listening with
an amused smile to the very absurd rhodomon-
tade. Then suddenly becoming grave, he said,
“Tt is not so, Mildred. I am no hero, nor do I
pretend to a superfluous amount of courage.
Yet for your sake, if need be, I could face
death a thousand times; ay, and suffer death
a thousand times too.”

She looked up at him admiringly, half fright-
ened by his vehemence; yet still she foolishly
went on: :

“And would you be my own true knight and
do whatever I bade you?”

“ Anything reasonable.”

“Why do you say ‘anything reasonable? ”

“ Because I would do nothing unreasonable.”

“But I would not ask for anything so very
unreasonable, of course. I would not wish you
to die for me, you know; only what the com-
monest knightly gallantry would require. For
instance, I might express a wish for that bunch
of wild-flowers,” and she pointed down the
rock to a little venturesome tuft of blossoms
growing but a few feet from them, yet in such
a position that mortal man could hardly have
reached them and lived.

“So you might express a wish for the moon,”
he answered, rather curtly.

“But if I asked for them, would you not get
them?” -

“No,” and he spoke now quite impatiently.
The lady’s dark eyes flashed with sudden deter-
mination.

‘“‘Ray,” she cried, imperiously, “please get
me those flowers. I have taken quite a fancy
for them.”

“Excuse me, but—I decline.”

She regarded him angrily a moment, then,
drawing herself up haughtily, she said, ‘‘ Mr.
Harding, last night you did me the honor to
make 'me an offer of marriage.”

“T did, and just now I repeated it.”

“Well, excuse me, but—I decline,” and thus
quoting his own words, she laughed loud and
scornfully, and turned away toward the path
which led back to the road.”

“Very well,” he said, biting his lips in
smothered wrath; and they walked back to the
hotel together, talking polite commonplace as
indifferently as though they had met but yes-
terday.

That evening he sought her again, but she
was icily cold. At nine o’clock he went to his
room, cursing himself for his folly in fancying
so heartless a woman as Mildred Heathcote,
and hastily packing his valise, departed by the
late train, vowing never to see her again. And
she, the next morning, found, alas! too late,
that she had put her own happiness away from
her forever.

 

It took a whole year of vague unrest and
constant wandering up and down the earth to
convince Ray Harding that, after all, Mildred
Heathcote was not any the less lovable for her
capricious humors, and that, whether she was
or not, he could not possibly get through life
without her. ' It was a full year, I say, before
he arrived at this conclusion, and three months
more before he could so far overcome his pride
as to seek her once more,

.

 

 

But one beautiful September morning saw
him get off the train at the little country vil-
lage, where Mr, Heathcote’s country seat was,
and hasten off down the road toward the
house, He found Mildred’s father, with whom
he was but slightly acquainted, asleep on the
front piazza. The old gentleman awoke, ill-
natured of course, and the visitor was inform-
ed, rather shortly, that Miss Heathcote was at
the city, and not expected down until the five
o’clock train. In no very complacent humor
he returned to the village tavern, where he
found a passably good dinner, and managed to
doze away a good portion of the afternoon.

At a little past four o’clock, unable to keep
still any longer, he sauntered out and strolled
off down the road to where it crossed the rail-
road track. With no particular object in view
he turned aside here and walked slowly and
thoughtfully along the railroad, abstractedly
counting the sleepers as he walked, and won-
dering how Mildred would receive him in the
evening.

About a mile from the village, at the point
where he now was, the railroad and carriage-
road crosséd a narrow river by bridges sepa-
rate, though side by side. Beyond, the two
roads divided, the turnpike turning off to the
left and crossing the railroad again where the
latter made a broad curve a mile further on.
So much is necessary that the reader may un-
derstand what followed.

As Ray advanced across the covered rail-
road bridge he suddenly became aware that the
timbers at a certain place suddenly yielded to
and trembled violently beneath his tread. The
movement was so different from that ordina-
rily produced by stepping from one division of
a bridge to the other, that he was prompted to
stoop down and examine the path. Great
heavens! what fiend had been at work here?
There were bits of chips and traces of sawdust
lying about; and as his eyes became more
accustomed to the darkness, he discovered a
narrow fissure in the beam on either side, made
partly by an ax, through which he caught a
glimpse of the river foaming and _ boiling
below.

Strange to say, while at the instant his mind
grasped the whole truth that the down train
from the city must pass this very spot in a few
minutes, and be hurled far down into the depths
below, yet there came to him no thought
of the hundreds of human beings upon whose
destruction some wretch had calculated. One
idea alone possessed his mind. One person
only he thought of; she who was all the world
to him, Mildred Heathcote, was on the train,
which, even now, was rushing to its fate.

All these thoughts passed through his mind
in far less time than it has taken to record
them. But there was no time to stand and
think. He must save her! He rushed franti-
cally along the bridge, unmindful of its fearful
swayiug to and fro, How to stop the train in
time, that was the question. He might hasten
down the track; but could he get far enough to
enable the train to break up before reaching
the fatal spot? By the pike-road, however, it
was but a short three-quarters of a mile to the
crossing. A faint whistle came to his ears
from away down in the valley, and a glance
across the way decided him. There was a
young man slowly crossing the other bridge on
horseback.

Ray ran down the embankment and across
the narrow field between, and with one bound
clearing the low stone wall, he confronted the
astonished horseman,

‘“Dismount—quick!” he gasped.

“The deuce! And what for, pray?’ de-
manded the other, making a pass to move on.

Ray, wild with excitement and dread,
grasped the bridle and reined up the horse so
violently as to cause tho rider to slide from
his seat. ‘‘ The bridge has been cut and I must
stop the train,” he shouted, and without more
words leaped into the saddle, struck the horse
heavily with his clenched hand, and galloped
away.

Three quarters of a mile. Only a question
of two or three minutes at his present rate of
speed;—but would that be soon enough? He
strained his eyes to watch the crossing far
down the road. No sign of any train yet,
thank Heaven! But hark! A whistle louder
than before and a bell faintly sounding in the
distance. Oh, God! and not half a mile passed
yet. Now, good horse, do all you know. You
two, you and Ray Harding shall save the life
of the loveliest girl in the country to-night—
ay, and of many a lovely girl besides, and of
parents and brothers too.

Only a few rods now to the crossing. Ray
became more sanguine; his dread grew less and
less. Yet even now the express might come
rushing out of the woods which were so near
the road, and flash across his path. There
came a shriek of the locomotive still closer at
hand, and then a trace of smoke above the
trees, and the rattle of the rails. Now, good
horse, you must get there.

A man stood at the crossing waving a red
flag for him to keep back. The train was close
upon him then, But he heeded not the warn-
ing. The man advanced to bar his passage,
but he dashed upon him and forced him aside,
and riding straight upon the track reined in
his foaming horse directly across the rails!
He shouted and waved his hat wildly at the
great iron monster rushing toward him and
now not a furlong away. The signal man too,
who now comprehended something of the state
of affairs, advanced to his side and held up the
flag. The whistle shrieked again, the engine
was reversed, the brakes applied, and slowly
the great mass lessened its speed. The horse
reared and plunged as the train approached,
and turning in spite of the rider’s firm hand,
dashed away down theroad; but not until Ray
had slipped from his seat. He moved slowly