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£0 Ii/Ir’ear. Entered at the Post Office at New York. N. Y., at Second Class Mall Rates. Copyrighted in 1883 by BEADLE AND ADAMS. February 22, 1883.
M . - , ~ ,

 

 

N0172. VOL. VII. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N. Y.

PRICE, 5 CENTS

 

 

BTack Eyesand Blue.

BY CORINNE CUSHMAN,
AUTHOR OF “A WILD GIRL," are, ETC.

CHAPTER I.
_ HIGH WORDS AND HARD.

st Twp girls formed the center of a group, an
'andlng on the bridge which crossed Silver
Ll‘eek at the entrance to the little village of
ofycuraus, nestled among hills in a rural portion

the State of New Hampshire.
em S_Was Saturday and these were the “Acad-
lovz‘zirls,” who had taken advantage of the
her Y, warm hohday, to improvise a straw-
ndrY‘Pflrty. They had been ranging the hills
“(I meadows all the long, sunny afternoon,
I were now on their way home. Loitering

 

 

 

on the brid 9, some unpleasant words had been
exchanged etween Florence Goldsborough and
Violet Vernon, for which Florence, as usual,
was to blame.

It seemed the inevitable destiny of those two
girls to be rivals in everything. Yet Violet
would never have felt any consciousness of ri-
valry, had not Florence perpetually exhibited
a etty jealousy that was painful to its object.

erhaps the two looked all the handsnmer for

the excitement which flashed in their eyes and
burned on their cheeks, as the sun, sinking be—
hind the low mountains, touched their bright
young heads with a. hand of gold, gently, as it
reproving them. School-girls, of sixteen sum-
mers, they were. Altogether the prettiest of the
flock, and already acknowledged the coming
belles of the village.

Florence had hair so black that it took a purple
tinge in the sun, and hung down to her waist in

 

cris waves. Her figure was slight and pecu—
liar y graceful, even at that “ unformed’ age;
her com lexion was a smooth, dazzling olive,
with litte threads of scarlet showing in the
cheeks; her eyes were deep, dark and lustrous,
and could be assoft and bewitching as ever a
girl’s eyes were; though, at this moment of her
introduction to the reader, they flashed fire.
Her father bein the richest man in the village,
and she the on y daughter, Florence was “a
spoiled child,” too used to having her otvn way.

Violet was a little taller than Florence; her
skin was cool and fair, with a color in the cheeks
and 1i 3 like that of the wild May rose which
she he (1 in her hand; the lashes over her dark—
blue eyes were so long and thick that people
often mistook the eyes for hazel; her (pale—gold
hair, as wavy in the sunlight as a fiel of ripe
wheat, was so burdensome in length and quan-
tity that she had braided it half—way down in a

 

v V, 

2

BLACK EYES AND BLUE-m

 

“thick braid leaving the ends to burst out below
the blue ribbon in a thousand shining ripples.
She had on her sweet face, at that instant, an
offended expression, and the wild-rose flush on
her- cheeks deepened and dee ned; but she
 none of the angry, wicked)e
which flashed from Florence Goldsborough’s.

“ At least, I know who my parents are, and
that they are respectable people 1” Florence was
 mg, with a spiteful smile.

‘And do not I?” Violet rejoined, hastily.

but is as muc  As to my r
mamma—she died whenI was born—andrizois
shameful of you to refer to the dead.”

“ Wait till I know she is dead?” was the
am re‘oinder. ~ . v   . _

“ at do you mean?” asked Violet, opemng
’her e es very wide, her lip trembhng as if she
woul have said more but could not.

“ Oh, hush!” “ Florence. you ought not, real.
ly!” “For shame!" interfered several of their
companions as the fiery brunette began her an
sWer; but Florence was in one of her passions,
during which to expostulate with her did as
much good as to combat a whirlwind with a.
feather.

“ mean,” she said, deliberatel , with the in-
tense distinctiveness of scorn,» t t no one ever
knew who your parents are. Mr. ,, Vernon
b not your father. He is' not even a relative.
He fished you out of this very creek that is run-
ning under our feet this minute, a little half-
drowned waif, aboutzsix' months old. He was
sitting just beyond that turn, there, behind a
clump of bushes, fishing, when you came sail—
ing and bobbing past, in your long white

scorn-

‘ clothes, and so fished you out, instead ‘of a

trout. Some person dropped you in the water
by the bridge, but, 'by the time Mr. Vernon
had you out, and had got the breath back in
your strangled body, and ran up the path to
see who had doné' the deed, the one who did it
had escaped I’ve, heard my parents tell the
whole story many a time—and Mr. Vernon,
whose young wife and baby had died but afew
months before, concluded to keep you and
bring you up. Of course, we don’t know what
kind of a mother you had, but the inference
from her probable attempt to murder her own
child is “that she is not a mother you would
want to know.”

By the time that Miss Goldsborough had fin-
ished her cruel story, the delicate, wild-rose
color had died out of her rival’s cheeks and the
great blue eyes were regarding her with 9. her-
rified look. ,

“ Is this true?" Violet asked, witha pitiable
tremble of the mputh, looking around upon the
startled group whose silence gave consent.

“ Why did no one ever tell me before?” she
asked again; and then began to walk away as.
fast as her quivering feet would carry her.

“ Don't go, dear Vfblet.” “ It wasaburning
shame of Florence to tell you.” , “\You know
it makes no difference to-usll’ were some of the
exclamations which follomd her, and two or
three of the girls ,ran' after her, and would
have walked by hex-side, but Violet fled like‘a
fawn who hasheard the hunter, until outstrip-

' ping the pace of the others, she found herself

» alone, going rapidly along the path beside the

stream; while her companions took the road
and sauntered on into the village.
Violet hhd but judt gotten out of' sight of the

others, andwasstillfiying alongasifpursuedh

when she was metby a young man, with afish-
ingrod on his shoulder,_,and a string of trouth

“Why, Miss Violet, what is the matter?" he
asked, putting out his disengaged right hand to
arrest her flight, and darting a keen look for-
ward,asif he expected to see-amad,dog,at
the least, in pursuit. r v

“Nothing, nothing, Charlie! Let me go!”

' “But you are as pale as death. Something
is the matter, I know. If you are in any
trouble you might tell me, I’m sure!”

Violet burst intotears. '

“ There! I knew something was wrong. And
you won’t tell me?” reproachfully. “ Has any
cue dared to insult you, Miss Vernon?” asked
the young gentleman,‘ looking wrathfully up
and down the path. “ Ifhe has, I’ll kill him!”

' “No, no; oh, no! It is something Florence
Goldsborough said to me, Charlie. I am fool—
lab to cry about it,” and the girl sobbed more

Y

fire in her eyes

 

violently than before. Charlie then threw
down the rod, laid his trout in the grass, and
getting hold of one of Violet’s faintly-resisting
hands drew her down to a seat beside him, on
a moss-grown log near the path.

“Tell me all about it,” he said, caressingly.

“I can not. ' I never can tell you! Oh, it
was something dreadful, Charlie!” and the
pink lips quivered, and the dark-blue eyes

_ : flash ’ ' ~
3 ‘ Mfi father ma not he quite as rich as yours, , ed for an instant through their showers of
e

tears.

The young man immediately guessed 'what it
was, fpr he was quite familiar with poor Violet’s
history; and he felt extremely vexed with
Florence, knowing how assiduously Mr. ‘Vernon
had ' endeavored to keep from his adopted
child the dubious story of her first appearance
amid the gossips of Lycurgus. But he would

‘ not hint to the weeping girl byhisi'side that he

was aware of what had so wounded her; he
patted her little hand gently, and, after a few
minutes, drew out his white cambrl‘c handker-
chief and made a half-comical attempt to wipe
the glittering drops from the roses on her
cheeks.

Violet laughed at this, hysterically; broke
down into a dozen little sobs, rallied, brushed ofl
her own tears this time, and finally looked, v‘ery
forlornly, and very defiantly, straight before
her at the golden streaks in the western sky.

Her companion sat quietly waiting for her to
recover her composure, occasionally stealing a
aidelong glance of admiration at the beautiful
face which, despite the stain of tears on the
fimhedcheeks, looked all the more lovable for
to storm which had passed over it—the trem-
ble of the rose-bud mouth, the droop of the
long lashes, the fire and dew in the sorrowful,
resolute eyes.

Finally, seeing that she had grown compara-
tively calm, Charlie said: “I was going to your
house to give the trout to Chloe, for Mr. Ver-
non’s supper. I am afraid we shall be too late
is: that—but they will keep for his break-

t.

Violet rose instantly.

“Yes, it is time I was home. Papa will be
uneasy about me. I don’t want him to see
that I have been crying, Charlie. He would
askme about it, and I could not tell him. Oh,
Charlie, I shall never be the happy, careless
girl I have been!”

“Do not say that, Violet. I hope you will
continue to be very, very happy. You have
at least one friend who will try to make
you so.” ‘

Violet blushed under the meaning look with
which this was said, pulling her broad-brimmed
halt:fl a githtgulowemver tllimer. charming face;
w e epic u estrin ot“speck-'.
ledbeautiee” and (11163531!) agnd the two
set ofl.’ at a quick pace onxthe r return tothe
bridge, from whence they took the rouleading
into the village, and were soon passing along a
pretty street, with elms on either side, and
neat, vine-decked houses,  back a little,
_with grass-plots and flower—beds in front; -

' Charles Clarence Ward was a lawastudent in
Mr. Vernon’s emce—the‘ only one the lawyer
cared to take. Mr. Vernon was considered the

. ablest pleader and most thorough scholar in the

county; once he had done a fine amount
of business and promised ,to grow speedilyi
rich. but Ly
Englhnd towns, first camerto a stand-still
inI'its growth and then receded} so that
to-day, and in the very prune of his pow-
era, the lawyer found himself with far less
todo thaninthebe’ginnmg ofhiscareer.
He had a. lovely home,.and'enjoyed évery com-
fort; but his income was very moderate, and
he had.some ambitions for Violet which ren-

dered him anxious to increase it.

Young Ward was the son of an. old friend

living in a neighboring town; he was a college-
' graduate, his father had a. good deal of money,‘

he was very good-looking, had something of a.
Bostonian air about him, brought with him
from Cambridge fine prospects, fine health and
fine spirits; altogether he was the young gen-
tleman of Lycurgus, and the young ladies
were all sad when he went home on his va-

cation. \ -
He did not board with Mr. Vernon. but had

like so many New,

I, a standing invitation to take his Sunday din-
ner and tea with him, which he generally made
use of. He was very fond ’of Violet—but
whether only in a brotherly way, or a more
tender one, was what the girls of Lycurgus
would have liked to know.

Now, then, you have the secret of Florence
Goldsborough’s jealousy. . It was not enough
that Violet should win the prizes at school, and
sing the Sweetest in the choir, but she must set
up claims to the undivided attentions of the

» only“fellow in the village worth having. Flor-
ence never saw Violet and Charlie together——

a bitter heart-burning, not free from malice.

Mr. Goldsborough was the owner of the Ly-
curgus bank; believed to be wealthy, and own-
er of the only house in the place built in the
modern style, with Mansard roof, and painted
brown, and having a tower.

Florence had reached home half an hour be-
fore Charlie and Violet went quickly by, and
was standing at the parlor-window, feeling
ashamed of what she had said, and wishing she
could take back her words; but when she saw
those tvm go by together, she pressed her little
white teeth into her scarlet under lip, and was
no longer sorry.

“I .wonder what he can see in her—a tall,
gawky creature, as washed-out as a. last sum-
mer’s muslin !"

She looked after them with scornful eyes, as
far as she could see them; then ran over to the
great mirror at the back of the double parlor,
to take a long look at her own elegant little fig-
ure, and dark, glowing face, with its small fea-
tures and velvety-black eyes.

“ I hate- blondes!” she muttered to herself.
“lam twice as handsomeas she is, any day!
Charlie Ward would not care for her if she was
not forever hanging around him. He has an
: errand to the house every day, and is there ev-

 

Which was pretty often—that she did not feel

ery Sunday—of course, she makes the most of "

J her opportunities! Never mind, Miss Violet!
! you won't have your own way altogether. if
i you do have the advantage of me! I’ll never
' rest until I make a quarrel between you and
Mr. Ward.”

The great,'velvety eyes had a wicked laugh
in them, as she turned away from the flatter-
ing mirror. Florence was not a very bad per-
; son, generally; but she had strong, vivid feel-
‘ ing; and her selfishness and vanity had been
fostered by indulgent relatives, who thought
there never was another child like her. Never

- having been taught the hard lesson of self-

control, she naturally gave way to whatever
passion was aroused for the moment. ' She was
growing into a woman, now; and was some-
times surprised at herself, when she found how
impetuous, how even dangerous some of her
fits of impulse and feeling were. If any one
had a dress, or a jewel, surpassing her own, she
was imhappy; if any one of her young com-
panions was
once, she was jealous and invidious; all her feel-
ings were proportionately strong and unreason-
ing; so that it wouldnottake'a prophet to fore-
tell that much wretchedness, for herself and for
others, lay close in‘the future

 

. CHAPTER II.
ran mrmous Lanna. I

tunate strawberry excursion, it was so near
twilight that Mr. Vernon did not notice the,
traces of tears on his darling’s face. Indeed,
his own thoughts were preoccupied. Tea was
waiting, and the trout was deferred to break-
a fast; for, as aunt Chloe said, “Ef dar‘ wus one
 t’ing wuss’n anudder to keep arter it wus ready
 to come out do oven, dat t’ing wus Sally Lunn.”
“You mus’ walk right in do dinin’ roomy

i

 

' honey, an’ you, Massa Ward, an’ done set right .

1 down, an’ I’ll bring in de Sally Lunn'disin‘
l stum. Massa Vernon

i of his paper by de winder.”

“ Since you hurry me so, Chloe, I must wash 
my hands in your kitchen. Will you follow ,.

; suit, Charlie?”
| Aunt Chloe produced a. snowy

l
l them, pumped water on each other-’3 hands, and

\‘,.

. .

or addressed with defor- - ‘

'WnnN Violet reached home, after that unfor- 

he in dar, now, a-readin"~ . .

towel from a  "
dresser-drawer, and “ do children," as she called 4

.v

‘.‘

c “is.me 1.2.2.4.“... u." 

 

 

 

 
 
  

I

.8

 

 

had such a merry time of it, that Violet had
almost forgotten her heavy heart, when they
passed on into the dining room; but the first
sight of her father called it back. Young
Ward thought it very pleasant at Mr. Vernon's
tea-table that evening; he did ample justice to
the repast, for he had been fishing, and caught
an appetite. A light breeze brought the odor
of a thousand roses through the open windows,
and the light of the lamps shone cheerfully over
the polished silver and quaint old china.

He stole many a sly look at Violet, whose
sweet face wore a most touching trace of sad-
ness; yet was lovelier than usual with the soft
flush on the cheeks and the wistful look in the
eyes When with Violet, Charlie always knew
that he preferred her in his heart of hearts; but
When he came into the Witching presence of
Florence Goldsborough he was sometimes tempt-
651 to believe that she was his favorite. The
little brunette was irresistible when she made
an effort to please, and there was no dark mys-
tery surrounding her origin—and Charlie had
a.  degree of family pride. To—night he
illljled and loved Violet; who, poor child, wor-
shiped the ground he trod upon, Without in the
least understanding her own feelings, or ever

ving-questioned them. I

Mr. Vernon was pleasant, during tea, but
seelned pro—occupied. When the meal was over
the young people went into the parlor for some
Illusic, while he returned to the library to read
his magazine. Charlie stayed only about an
hour longer—just f r a few songs—-—returning
t9 the office for a little more reading of the
13W, before bed-time. After he had gone away,
Violet—having mused a. few moments over
what she was about to venture—~with a slow
step and a; drooping head'went toward the li-

, which lay on the other side of the hall,
Opposite the parlor. She stood in the door,

 Her father had laid aside his book, ,

and was reading and re—readin a letter. He
sighed deeply, more than one; and afterhe
hadflnally. folded and returned it- to a safe
fix in his pocket note-book, he leaned his
v on his hand, and appeared lost in thought.
iolet supposed it must be about the new
befirgers.

oorpapa!" she thought to herself “h
does not like the idea of these intr'udel‘s an;
more than I do. I wonder why he takes them!
I thought his income was quite sufficient 1"
our modest needs.” _

Again Mr. Vernon sighed, while his head
Bunk lower. ’

“Papa is in sore trouble tonight. But I
must speak to him! I cannot lay my head on
my pillow until I know whether or not that
was an infamous falsehood which Florence told
me to-day.” '

She crept into the room so hesitatingly that
at the last she might have retreated, but in her
Went she stumbled over a. foot-stool,
cursing Mr. Vernon to start, and look around.
d In an instant, acting upon impulse, she sunk
hizwn on the carpet at his feet, caught one of

hands, and resting her soft check on his
E33331 1:1: fiteoustllyia into his face.
, . m8 ' '
.me—-—that I am not ydur chilglgg the 81:15 ten

“Mouton youth‘sz the sternin-

“Oh, papa, is it truer only answer me
that.” ‘ I

Mr. Vernon leaned back in his chair with
the air of one to whom a crisis, long dreéded’
has come at last—bringing with it, after all, a.
certain relief, that the worst is over. He look-
ed down very tenderly at the pleading, pallid
young face, and his hand, trembling a little,
touched caressineg the lovely pale-gold hair. ‘

“ S“Pposing my little daughter was only an
“1°th daughter, would she be any the lose
my Child on that account? Would she be any
the loss contented and happy! Have I failed
m mli'thing, little Violet, that a. father should
‘10 0" be» to make you discontented, now that
some .meddler has informed you of my misfor~
tune 1930‘? being really your father? Remem-
ber» if It is 3 regret to you, it is a still greater
regret to me. I only wish the blood in my
‘Veins did flow in yours, my darling 1v

., “All. how good you are, dear, dear papal”;

!

 

sobbed Violet.‘ “A thousand, thousand times
more to be loved and worshiped by me, to
whom you have been so loving and so indul-
gent, than as if I had some claim to your aflfec-
tion. Do not think that I am discontented—um
will be—dear father; only—only—the girls
said such cruel, hateful things! Oh, you can-
not think how it wounded me! They even
said, dear papa, that it was believed my own
true mother was a murderess!” Violet pressed
her hand tg her heart, as if she felt the sharp
thrust of those wicked words again piercing
like a sword.

A dark frown gathered on Mr. Vernon’s
usually benevolent face. He sat for a few mo-
ments in silent thought, his hand, meantime,
gently stroking the bright hair that streamed
over his knee. .

Finally he aroused himself, and lifting the
sweet, sad face between his hands, and earnest-
ly scrutinizing it, he asked:

“Now that those malicious things have been
said, and my little girl knows the worst, does
she feel that she will be any more contented, or

"better satisfied, to know the whole truth about

herSelfl—be it good or bad, remember l—the
plain truth, whatever it may prove to be, and
whatever the consequences of the knowledge
may be to me, and to her?” , '

“ Why, papa, do you know the truth?”

“ Answer me, first. Would you prefer to
remain just as you now are, or to learn all that
can be learned about your origin?”

it was now Violet’s turn to take time for re
fiectien.

it was fully five minutes before her answer
came: '

“ Papa, after what has been said to me—after
what I know is in every one’s mind about me———I
don’t believe‘that I can ever again rest really
content until I have found out more about my
parentage, you understand—that it is not be-
cause of our relations to one another—yours
and mine—but because people will always re-
gard me in a certain light. Yes! I amcertain
I would prefer to hear the truth—however bad
-—-than to be always brooding over possibilities.
The worst—the new worst—can be no more
bad than they make it out to be. N ow. tell me,
papa, have you 493mm anything at all about
me since that day when you fished me out of
the water?”

“Nothing,” was the disappointing answer.
“As far as I am concerned it can only be pain-
ful to me to take any steps to learn anything.
I have always regarded you as a sweet and
special gift of the Heavenly Father, to console
me, in some measure, for the loss of my own
darlings.”

“Oh, papa then I am content, too!
what I said a moment ago.”

“No, no, my dear. Your head spoke then,
not your heart. I feel that it will be as you
say—you will be gnawed bysecret suspense, by
hope and feu—shhdowed by an undeserved
sense of shame. I wish to Heaven, my child,
that I had it in my power to furnish you the
information you crave! But I cannot—and all
the advice I can give you, is to be brave and
good, and to think as little as possible about
the matter.”

He kissed her even more tenderly than usual,
as be dismissed her for the night. After she
had crept from the room, he looked once more
over the letter he held in his hand.

“ How strange—how passing strange it would
be,” he murmured, “ if this should prove to re-
late to something or some one connected with

Forget

BLAclg EvasmAND BLUE. _,

 

was very sorry and partly because she feared
Charlie Ward would be offended with her. it
was inconvenient not to be able to visit at Mr.
Vernon’s, where Charlie spent so much of his
time.

On the evening of Monday she strolled out
toward the bridge alone, just after sunset. Of
summer dusks the bridge was much frequented
by young and old; she hoped to meet Mr.

‘ Ward there, and perhaps “make up ” with Vio-

let, who had answered her note very sweetly
and courteously, but a little coldly. There was
no one/on the brid e, however, when she reach-
edit. She resolved to wait a. little while—it
was dull at home, and the summer evening
tempting. Dusk came slowly on; but the
western sky was still streaked with scarlet and
gold, the zenith was a lovely purple, and the
birds chirped as one by one they dropped into
their nests.

She leaned over the railing, thinking of noth-
ing in particular, amusing herself by dropping
the petals from a. bunch of roses which she held
into the creek below and watching them asthey
were swept away, while she vaguely wished
that Charlie Ward, at least, would chance that
way.

Presently it grew quite clerk, but Florence
was not afraid. In that village it was consid-
ered not at all improper for young girls to run
about alone; the moon was just wheeling up, a
great golden globe, in the east; it was dull
and stupid in the house—doubtless some one
would soon happen along—and so she lingered
on the bridge. She was standing quite‘ in‘ the

f shadow of a huge old chestnut that grew at one
 extremity of the bridge. A thousand times,

 

my little Violet’s history! But, pshaw! how  I
would gladly have gotten out of it; but it was

idle is such a thought! I do not see why it

should have come into my head—or why it '

should linger there, as it does. I have had let-
ters from unknown clients before this.”

CHAPTER III. ‘
want a mvnsnnorrun ovunmuns.
Vlonm VERNON did not sing in church the
following day; and Florence, who, by this time,
was heartily ashamed of the attack she had
made upon her, bad no rival in the choir. On
Monday Florence actually humbled herself to
write and send an apology—partly because she

 

when she was a romping child, had she, with

‘ her playmates, climbed that tree, by swinging

on to the railing and from thence achieving a
foothold on the‘first great branch which hung

3' out over the stream.

Now, as she idled than, herself in shadow,
but the road silvered by the increasing moon-
light, whom should she see slowly approaching
but her own fatherl-and with him a lady—a
strange lady—whose presence, dress, manner,
all arousedner strongest curiosity. Wh should ‘
her father Inwalkingatevening with t ' beau-
tiful and richly-dressed woman? Florence’s
home-training had never been of the noblest;
she was capable of unladylike actions, as we
have seen. She thought of her old perch in the

‘leafy boughs above her head; quickly as a

squirrel could have done it, and as lightly, she
sprung to the railing and from .thence into the
crotch made by the dividing trunk, and in a.
minute was snugly seated where she could see
all that passed without herself being Visible.

The couple came slowly on until they reach—
ed the middle of the bridge; here they paused,
looking in every direction as if to be sure that
they were secure from observation. Neither
spoke for a moment. The lady drew a tiny
watch from her bosom—Florence saw the moon-
light sparkliug on the diamonds which encircled
it—and said, in a low, slow, cold, but exceed-
ingly sweet voice: .

“ It is eighto’clock. I expected Mr. Vernon
to meet us here at this hour."

“ Vernon l” exclaimed Mr. Goldsborough,
starting as if struck. .

“Yes. no is my lawyer. He must hear all i
that passes between us two.”

“Emilie, mustI be humiliated by having ’a
third person present at this interview?” Flor-
ence had never before heard her father speak

-‘ in a tone of such passionate agitation. She was

thoroughly alarmed at her own position, and

too late! She was more afraid to betray her
presence than to remain concealed.

The lady untied the ribbons of her hat and
removed it from her head as if the string:
choked her; but she looked as calm as marble.
Florence could see every feature of he! oal'
cold face, for she stood with the moon full up-
on it. It was the face of a woman no longer
young, but still wonderfully beautiful, with a
delicate, high-bred charm so rare in any part
of the world. She spoke with a. slight foreign

‘ accent; her features, her dress, had the some

foreign air. Florence was fascinated; she could
not remove her eager game from the stranger.

\ l r l ' Q

4" ' f  ' ' BLACK EYES, AND BLUE. ‘

 

' Who was this lovely lady, who seemed to her

‘ part of my story this morning.

- ——“it not unfrequently happens, in this Worl

' banker, abjectly.

v to betray such a low spirit of revenge!

 

girlish imagination like one of those fair, proud
countesses or duchesses of whom she had read
in novelsi—«whose small fingers flushed with
jeweled rings and who wore at her throat a
cluster of superb diamonds—whose gems, silks
and laces seemed so native to her that she
thought no more of them than the factory girl
does of her cotton gown. '

“Emilie! Emilie!” pleaded this man whom
Florence called her father, but who seemed sud-
denly to have been transformed into another
and quite different person, “I did not expect
this of you. I thought, from the tenor of your
note, that I was to see you alone.”

“ I should be wanting in ordinary prudence
to meet you alone, Ethan,” replied the lady,
glancing toward the village, from which direc-
tion another person could now be seen ap-
proaching. “The last time I met you alone,
you made a nearly-successful attempt to MUR-
DEB ' me—and our child! The temptation is
probably not less upon you now; but I do not
propose to give you the opportunity. My law;
yer must be witness to all that passes between
us, this time. Here he comes.”

The florid face of the banker turned a sickly
yellow. Florence was so absorbed, so horrified,
so filled with wonder, dread, suspense, that she
leaned forward until the branch shook and rus-
tled, and her own dark, startled, vivid face
might have been seen peering out of its leafy
screen, had any of the trio below chanced to
look up—Mr. Vernon had now joined the

up.
“Sir,” said the lady to him, “I told you a
I want you to
hear what I have to say to this man—my hus-
band, who hcs come to meet me at my request.
Ethan Goldsboroug ”—turning to him and
speaking in those slow, low, solemn tones that
carried an icy conviction in their every accent

that men, scoundrels at heart and vile of deed,
wear the mask so well that for years their
friends and neighbors never once ‘see the Me-
phistophelean face behind it. You have worn
your mask in comfort and security; you are a 1
‘leading citizen,’ 8. deacon of the church, a man
who heads subscription-lists, a man severe and
pitiless toward sinners—especially poor sinners
-—a man eminently respectable. The time has
come—after sixteen years of patient waiting——
when the woman—your own wife—whom you
have so wronged, proposes to lift the mask from
your featm'es and allow your fellow-citizens to
see you as you are. You cannot escape the ex-
pcsure which threatens you. I have the proof
of everything which I assert, in the shape of
legal documents—except the attempt at willful
murder, and that I can so nearly prove by cir-
cumstantial evidence that the fact will not be
doubted, when taken in connection with the l
main story.” ‘ ‘
“ Spare me, Emilie, spare me!” groaned the 
“ Let this matter rest be- ‘
tween us three, as it does now. What satisfac- i
l

 

tion can it be to you to ruin me—now, at my
time of lifel—a man in his forties—with a
grown-up daughter! Spare me, for her sake—— 1
my child’s sake! I used to think you loved me i
once, dear Emiliel—you are too fine a woréan 3
on 1
are rich, comfortable, contented—far richer 
and more prosperous than I am. Oh, let me 5
alone! Everything conspires to bless you. {
Your child is living—-has grown up into a ’
sweet, good, ladylike girl. Take her away I
with you—and leave me as I am. I have I
worked hard for my place here. Indeed. u.- 1
deed, I have bitterly repented the injury I did 
you, Emilie, when I was young and inconsider-
ate. I have been living a pious life since those .
days. Do not be revengeful. Remember the '1
.old times, Emilie,” he added, with an attempt ;
to simulate tenderness which made Mr. Vernon ‘
blush for him. 
The lady looked scornfully over him and in-
to his evasive eyes, which fell before her clear,
fiery glances.
“Mon Dieu I” she cried, as if to herself,
“ and I once loved this man! Adored the
ground his foot spurned!" hung upon his words! i

!

-months old 1 escaped from the convent.

was wretched when he frowned—in heaven
when he smiled! Ah-h! but young demoiselles
are fools—fools! But I loved you, as you say,

1 in those days, Ethan Goldsborough—loved you

well—well—when I consented to a private
marriage—to become your wife in secret and
keep our relation hidden from the kind eyes of
my only true friend, my dear uncle. You be-

“; lieved me’to be an heiress in those days, and

you wanted to secure my hand and my interest
in the large fortune and estates of the D’Eglan—
tines. You made yourself certain, by private
research, that I was the true heir—though an-
other contested my claim—and then you has-

tened to marry me secretly, out of pure love, i
as I, fond fool, behaved Well, I was very, i

very happy with you—despite the gnawing un-
easiness of feeling that my uncle should knowall

—for almost a year, Ethan! Why, what a child :

I was! Only a little over sixteen at last, when
the cruel blow fell!
forever deprived me of faith in man, of hope,

of happiness! My cousin Philip was pronounced ,
the true heir, by the voice of the courts, and :

you ‘Were disappointed. You lost the stakes
for which you had played so cunningly. In
less than one week you were on your way back to
America, your native country, after a brief in-
terview with me—your wife—in which you
heartlessly asan'ed me that the marriage be-

tween us was not a legal one, and you would I

not hold me to it.
“Ah, mon Dieu! mon Dieu!
suffer during the year that followed !”—she

clasped her hands, turning her pale face up- '

ward—“it is incredible that the human heart
can bear such trouble and still beat on. You
knew—villain! scoundrel!—~before you left me
-—me, a poor, young, timid creature—that some
time I would be a mother. You knew that I
was your true and honorable wife. Yet you
left me to bear the burden of sorrow and shame.

d, 4 I could not prove the story I told my uncle, for

I could not tell him on what street was the
church, nor who was the priest. He was very
fond of me; but he doubted my word—every

one doubted the word of poor Emilie in those ~

days. My uncle sent me to the sheltering arms
of the sisters. In their dull home the weary
months dragged by, till our child was born.
As soon as I could sit up, I began to embroider,
and to sell my work for such small sums as it
would bring. When our babe was three
I had
a little jewelry with me, which I disposed of,
and made my way to Havre, where a steamer
was about to leave for New York.

“Worn with illness of mind and body, almost
wild with despair, but kept from suicide by a
fixed determinatién to prove my poor, innocent
infant’s rights to its father’s name and care, I
landed in the great American city, a stranger,
friendless, and nearly destitute of money.

“ I learned afterward how my husband had, ;

meantime, been amusing himself. He had lost
no time. On his way home to America he had
made the acquaintance of another heiress, the
daughter of a New York speculator in petrole-

. um—a coarse-grained, ill—educated girl, with a

certain sort of vulgar beauty—and this lady he
had married within a month after their arrival
in New York. Her father gave her a few
thousand dollars, and her pretended husband—
driven by the fear that his real wife might pos-
sibly take a fancy to follow him—persuaded
her to come with him to this out-of-the-way
New England town, where her wedding-por-
tion enabled him to set up a banking-house and
assume his natural position of eminent respecta-
bilit ! ,

“ Ilere he hoped to enjoy his well-earned
peace; but the meek, quiet, timid little wife,
afraid of her own shadow, was unaccountany
bold enough to trace and follow him; she, and
her babe, appeared before him, one evening, in
a startling manner.

“ Do not groan so, now, Ethan—that was six-
teen years ago! But you recall it all. Look at
him, Mr. Vernon! Do you see his hand trem-

. bis, his lips turn white? No wonder! Itis un-

pleasant to force his memory back to that time.

.‘ I ought to spare him. God knows, as far as I

alone am concerned, Iwould freely do it. But

‘-

-/l I. ' ‘4‘!

The cruel, cruel blow that l

What did I not ;

justice bids me speak. My child cries to me,
forbidding silence. Ay! guilty man, with the
crime of attempted murder on your soul, I
would spare you. But it must not be. As a
wife and a mother I must assert my rights.

“I surprised him under the shadow of his
own vine and fig-tree. In his dread of discov-
ery, he told me a thousand lies, ending by ap
pointing a meeting with me on the afternoon’
of the following day, in a lonely part of the
woods not far above the bridge on which we
stand. He swore to me that if I would meet
him there, and talk over our affairs calmly, he

1 would acknowledge me as his first and true
wife, and return with me to France to assure
my uncle of my innocence. Despite of the
‘ dreadful wrong he had done me, 1 still loved
Ethan Goldsborough, and craved a reconcilia~
tion.

E “ He met me, in the lonely, hidden place in the
woods which he had appointed. I held up to
. him our smiling babe, that should have touched
the heart and the conscience of a demon.

“The place of our meeting was near the
ruins of an old mill. Only the wheel and a few
timbers remained; but the dam across the
stream was there, and the pond above the dam
was deep and still. He took our child in his
arms, and, while I looked for him to caress it,
! suddenly, with a furious gesture, he whirled it.
far out and it dropped into the water of the
I pond. Then the cry which arose to my lips
was choked in my throat—and I knew no more
I —for some time. I know, by the gleam in
your eyes and the working ff your lips, Ethan,
that you are only wishing hat your plan had
not failed. But it did fail—despite of the stone
which you tied to my feet before you threw
me after my babe, all unconscious as I was,
with the black marks of your wicked fingers
about my throat! ‘

“ Doubtless you hurried away after the bid,—
" eous deed, creeping back to town by devious

ways, to resume your part of ‘leading citizen)

‘ “The swiftness of the current swept me
f against the walls of the dam, and my poor feet
became entangled in the timbers; the cold bath
restored my senses, and I found myself being
dashed back and forth, my stone-laden feet
caught and held, but my face floating, and a
jutting end of a sluice-board within reach of
my arms. I seized the board and clung to it.
I could quite easily have crawled out had it
not been for the stone tied to my ankles. As
it was, I succeeded, after exhausting struggles,
in freeing my feet from the burden—I think
the cord broke. After that it was not so hard
to reach the timbers, and to make my way,
inch by inch, back to the bank, over the moss
grown, slippery dam, covered six inches deep
by swiftly-passing water. It was sunset when
I reached the solid earth. Ifainted, and when
I again became conscious it was dark.

“ I told you the particulars of the remainder
of the story this morning, Mr. Vernon—how I
crept back into the village, listened, crawled,
hid, like some guilty thing, until I heard of the
safety of my child, and then went. back into
the woods to sleep. How I hung about the
town for days, never allowin myself to be
seen, and living on the barrios which I gather-
ed in the fields, trying to make up my mind to
leave my babe with the kind gentleman who
had concluded to adopt it. I was at your
kitchen window, seveml evenings, Mr. Vernon,
and heard the colored woman telling various
neighbors what you proposed to do for the lit.
little waif; I felt that you could care for her
better than I could, and I finally left the
country, resolved that Ethan Goldsborough
should believe he had murdered me, until I
could, sooner or later, return armed with such
authority as would place him in my power, and
restore my daughter to her rights. That time
has been long—long, in coming. I have en-
, dured years of hope deferred. More than
i once, meantime, have I stolen, under cover of
the night, into this village, and feasted my fam- .
ished eyes on stolen glimpses of my child. For
the last five years, however, I have been in
France, fighting again over the contested heir-
ship. . At last, I have triumphed—not alone in
securing the estates, which belonged from the

\

!

 

 

\

"2, «finals
’ I l ‘ ‘.

"a .
5,. ,.

 

, :for my
I)

' to leave here,

- quaint some one

first tightly to me, but I visited every church
in, Paris, I made the acquaintance of every
priest—and I found the church where my mar-
riage was recorded, and I have the evidence of
the priest who performed the ceremony, and of
the clerk—and I have come here, at last, as
your wife, Ethan Goldsborough, to rout the
spurious wife from her title. and to take the

gcrown of legitimacy from the brow of her
daughter to place it on that of Violet Golds
borough’s—where it belongs.”

Florence, hidden in the tree above, heard the
terrible words; she clung convulsiver to the
limb on which she was Seated, but she shiv
cred so, and was so icy cold, that she expected,
every moment, to lose her hold, and go crash-
ing down into the stream. _

Ah! what wild, incredible story was this?
How completely were the tables turned upon
her, who had twitted Violet of her doubtful
origin? Her heart swelled and knotted itself
in her panting bosom until it seemed as if she

' should die.

Florence was extremely vain and ambitious.
She had that same eager desire to be foremost
-—-a leader—which had betrayed her father in-
to crime. She had always been courted by the
other girls; and was rather imperiously proud
of her father’s position in the village. The sud-
rden ruin and disgrace which threatened him
pierced to her very soul.

“Violet—my sister!” she thought, growing
dizzy; but, with a violent effort she steadied
herself and listened with intense interest and
terror to what followed.

“You ought to remember, Emilie, that my
wife is not to blame for anything which has
happened,” pleaded the father, in trembling
tones. “ You ought to have some mercy upon
her! And on my daughter, too. As a moth-
er you ought to sympathize with that poor
child. Think of the blow it will be to
her!”

“I think only of my own child,” was the
“com 1‘ GSPQDSB. “My first duty is to her."

“It does come hard upon poor little Flor-
“Sncef’ said the kind voice of Mr. Vernon. “ I
hfwe alwaYs liked the child—a merry, bright
little maiden, as ever was. Madam, I wish

‘ . there was some way to spare her feelings.”

“I can think of but one, Mr. Vernon. I
have no wish to be revengeful. The wrong
that was done me was of a kind not to be re-
paired in this world—least of all by a harsh re-
venge. I would like to spare even the unfor-
tunate lady Who has so long believed herself
this man’s wife. As to their daughter, if I
could help it, she should never learn how bad-h
man her father is. But my daughter’s legiti-
lnacy must be established. I shall see that it
isleft with no shadow of a doubt upon it.

p “I am willing to make this compromise. I
. would like to spend a few weeks in this village
health. I will remain quietly at the
; PM Meantime, Mr. Goldsborough, if he de-
ms’ 0311 01080 up his business and seek a new
r 9315191190, and the denouement need not come
“um  family are removed and provided for.
I take 1"! f0? grflnlaedfllthat the lady will desire
_ 8n . at her dau hter will '0
with the 31103513913 1Mr. Goldsborouggh must mafia
111361711 Promion for them, which you must see,
Mr- Vernon, 18 so secured to them that he can-
» not afterward trick them out of it.

I further Propose to very .quietly seek a di—
vOl‘ce from the husband who so many” years
fig? deserted me; and then, of course, if Mr.
craggborough desires to make the amende hon-
no 9: he Will at once re—marry the lady who

)7 deems herself his wife.
the pugfed, I might so arrange the divorce that

man waécfneed not know the truth, until this
when doe?th ratify his present marriage.
.VemOD?” e court of this county sit, Mr.

“ In August we. 7)

“Very weu.’ I prldhiise to an noth' in
public, until about that time; bit I Shgg’ac‘
other party with the facts
18° that my daughter will be protected, 11;
43986 1101: and 1 should die suddenly, Mr.
. .ernen,’ and. the lady shbt a. m glance
4“? the banker, who bit hi lips but said noth-
defense 0,1? himself. “A180,. I must

i, .,_. ,- i .,
it. w 2» I r ' u

 

of

5

 

make my sweet girl’s acquaintance. Every
hour is an age that keeps me from her, now
that I am so near her. You may trust me not
to betray to her that I am her mother, un-
til the time is ripe. But I can feed my hungry
heart on her looks and words—”

“And that is where my loss begins,” said the
lawyer, sadly.

Madame looked at him a moment inquiring-
lyathe tears rushed out over her pale cheeks
and her mouth trembled.

“Ah,” She murmured, feelingly, “I am sel-
fiSh—I forgot you, who have been a father and
mother to my darling. The saints will reward
you! God himself will not forget your good
deeds. Think not that I will tear her from
you at once. No. no! we will loosen the roots
by degrees—I will stay here, in this far vil-
lage, so that she can be near you—~something!
We will talk it over. , You have the right to
decide what we shall do. We will do nothing

without your consent!” and she laid one small
hand on his arm and looked up at him grate-
fully, so smilingly through her tears, that the
sedate lawyer hardly knew whether he was
most pleased or embarrassed.

“ Will you tell my lawyer, in the morning,
what conclusion you have come to? I do not
propose to have another personal interview
with you, sir,” the lady then said to the banker.

Mr. Goldsborough nodded, unable to speak,
and she took Mr. Vernon’s arm and walked
away.

For perhaps ten minutes the ruined man-of-
the—world stood motionless. where they had left
him; then a sound, half-moan, half-curse,
broke from his lips, and he stalked away, while
his daughter crept from the old chestnut tree
and dragged herself wearin home like a bird
with a broken wing.

CHAPTER IV. ,

. A VANISHING FIGURE.

THE sun shines as brightly on the stream
that flows over a corpse as over a reed; the
most dreadful tragedies are those that happen
silently and leave no outward mark. A new
pallor on some young face, a deeper wrinkle on
an older one, or a thickening of gray in the
changing hair, is often all the token given of
ruined hopes, wrecked hearts, terrible earth-
quake outbursts of feeling which leave the soul
scarred and seamed. \ 

No one in the village, saving the four who
were at the bridge that evening, knew any-
thing of the little drama which had been acted
there—three performers and one spectator.

The spectator was as hushed-as death about
the single scene in a lifelong tragedy. which she
had chanced to witness.

Florence came down to breakfast the follow—
ing morning looking a little pale and heavy-
eyed, but when her mother noticed it, she gave
her father a shifting glance, burst into one of
her merry laughs, and began to prattle about
some trifle, light as thistledown glistening in
the blue air.

Her father was not, by nature, so quick-wit—
ted an actor as Florence—he appeared a little
dull that morning—but-he simulated an appe-
tite which he did not possess, forced down his
breakfast, kissed his wife and daughter as
usual, when the ceremony was over, and stroll-
ed down to his bank.

Florence went up to her own room, shut and

locked the door, and was sitting staring stonily‘

out of the window, astrange, hard, rebellious ex-
pression on her small, dark face—the scarlet
lips pressed tightly together, the black brows
contracted, the usually sparkling, flashing,
melting eyes glittering under them black as
night, but curiously small and intense—When a
servant tapped at the door to say that Miss
Vernon was in the parlor and wished to speak
with her a moment.

A mocking smile trembled on Florence’s lips.

“Oh, how I hate her!” she murmured, and
her little white teeth flashed savagely as she
said it. “Fated to be rivals in everything!
And I always to get the worst of it! It must
not—shall not be!” and she sprimg up from her
chair andstamped on the floor. ‘
her 03 yet! lell—l will! I will wring her
heart undue is wrung! And, she my father?

“I, will my. 1

§_l:_ACKaEYES AND BLUE.

 

softened it and added a grace.
young lady sit 1y her, on a sofa, and chatted. ‘
I ‘ I I _ > i . ‘ a. fl Jl

fl

child—my own half-sister!
how dreary!”

Going to her mirror she gave herself a scru-
tinizing glance, as if she feared her thoughts
might be written on her face; and the next
moment flew down the stairs, and, with a gay
“ good-morning,” gave the Judas kiss to Violet.

“Papa is waiting for me at the gate,” said
the caller, “so I dare not stay a minute. We
are going to call on a lady at the hotel—a
stranger, and client of papa’s—and I just stop-
ped to tell you that I want you to come to tea
to—night—will you?” Ever generous and im—
pulsiVe, Viblet took this way to assure Florence
that she had really forgiven her her cruel
tauntings. “Be sure and come. It will be
very entertaining,” and then the two girls

Oh, how strange,

laughed, as girls will laugh, at they know not ,

what, and Violet kissed her friend again, and
hurried out to join her father.

“ She is going to meet her own mother-and
she does not dream of it!” thought Florence,
looking after the slim figure, in its fresh morn-
ing muslins, with a deep interest. “Yes, I
shall go there to tea, of course. I must play
my part for a while yet. I"wish I could be
present at this romantic reunion which is
about to take place. How Mr. Vernon must!
enjoy it!” and she laughed bitterly.

Florence’s was no common character. She
overflowed with vitality; the rich coloring of
lip and cheek, the velvet smoothness of her
skin, the luster and power of her splendid eyes,
her whole vivid expression, told of life of the
intensest kind. Her feelings were of the quick-
ness and passionateness indicated by her tem-
perament. Well-governed, subdued by con-
science and religious aspiration, they would
never bring her to harm. But hers was not a.
nature to bear trouble or disgrace meekly—the
first she would find too tedious, the last she
would seek compensation for in some desperate
acts of her own. Self-restraint she had never
been taught. However wrong a part he had
acted toward others—knownto be, in business,
cold and calculating—a man whose inner life
was quite different from its outword pretense——
yet to his daughter Florence Mr. Goldsborough
had been a fond, devoted father. She was per-
fect in his eyes. He had laughed at and ap-
plauded her baby-storms «of rage; and he did
so still, when, less often,‘she got into one of her
passions. He had always told her how hand-
some she was—what a belle she would be,
when grown into a young lady—and had en-
couraged her love of finery by buying for her
everything she asked for. Nor had her mother
been much more judicious. Poor, spoiled child!
illy prepared to face the trOuble about to
come!

Mr. Vernon and Violet walked on in the di-
rection of the hotel.

“Make yourself as pretty as possible, child
——-the lady may be critical, you know,” he had
said to her before starting. . ‘

So Violet, modest as her namesake, was
dreading a little this visit to the wonderful
French lady, who had, of course, seen so much
of the world and would be so fastidious.

Madame D’Eglantine had taken the most ex-
pensive suite of rooms at the hotel; her maid,
waited upon her as if she were 4a princess in
disguise, and all, consequently, were deeply im-
pressed by the merits of the beautiful foreigner.
One of the hotel waiters, with a mest deferen-
tial air, showed the callers to madame’s private,
parlor. “ v

Violet could not be otherwise than graceful,

\

and she was most shyly and charmingly 30, ,

when her father took her in and presented her
to Madame D’Eglantine, who came quickly to»
ward her, put her arms lightly about her and
kissed her fair cheek.

“ What winning manners!” thought the girl
-—“ perhaps it is the way with all French ladies
-—they are said to be so demonstrative. ”

Her own slight confusion prevented her no—
ticing the tears in madame’s beautiful dark
eyes, or any other of the signs of extreme agh-
tation which she so soon controlled. '

Madame D’Eglantine spoke English easily,
with only a delicious little foreign accent that
She made the,

,_ l...' 'LLHIA“ «- 

 

 

» and be glad to have found me.

e " "  spam EYES AND BLUE.

‘

 

 

 

 

on so pleasantly that Violet felt at her ease al-
most immediately; and as madame  on
a prolonged call, Mr. Vernon excused himself

for a half-hour, going to look after the alfairs 

of his office, and then returned for his daugh-
ter.

Violet rose to go. Madame kissed her again,
thanked her for her visit, and added:

“You must come to see me almost every
day. I am very lonely here. I will try to re-
pay your attentions by improving your
French,” with a smile. “ You speak my lan-

. guage tolerably; but you will improve. We
do all our gossiping in French, my dear.”

“ Oh, thank you—it will be a great privilege.
But I did not need that temptation,” rejoined
Violet, prettily—and so the first meeting of
mother and daughter terminated pleasantly,
the latter going away delighted with Madame
D’Eglantine, and without one thrill of intuition
to warn her of the truth.

As for the lady, no sooner did the door close
between her and her meet child, than she
pressed her hand to her heart, calling faintly
for her maid, who came running from the ad-
joining room, and supported her mistress to the
sofa. .

“ You saw her, Teresei—my own, own child!
My dear daughter! Was she not sweet, good,
charming? Ah, Terese, it is for this I have
contrived to live through all these dragging
years! For this that I fought, like a tiger, for
my good name—that I would not die of sorrow,
or even of shame-of loneliness, misery, sus-
pense. For this that I contested my rights to
my inheritance, and never abandoned them
through the long struggle with my selfish rela-
tives. And now, thank the good Father, I
have an unspotted name to give my child—her
father cannot spurn her from her right to his
name; and I have a noble fortune and the pres-
tige of my own old family name to bestow up«
on my darling! How happy it makes me that
I have so much to give her! Ah, I repent my
promise to that man, last night, that I would
say nothing to the world until August. I
should not have waited an hour—not one hour!
-—-for have I not waited sixteen years? I'can-
not smother the mother-cry of my heart. I
know, I feel, that the next time my darling
comes to see me, I shall tell her all. She must
know that I am her mother. She will love me,

Terese, do I
look as happy as I feel? Why, I seem to my-

selftobethe careless girl again tl1atha.~z;.bl
’1 e.

when he came to me, and turned the sunshine
black for me! Everything is bright once more
-—-give me joy, Terese!”

“ I do, madame, with all my heart,” respond-
ed the faithful maid, who had long been her
mistress’ most trusted confidante. “ Your
daughter is all, and more, than you could ask——
so pure, so artless, madame, it does one good to
beiin her presence.” _

“ That is true. It cannot hurt one to love a
creature as good as she is,” and the lady, her
cheeks glowing like those of a girl of
eighteen, her eyes shining through happy tears,
fell into a smiling reverie.

Terese looked at her mistress affectionately,
but would not disturb her by speaking until
she came out of her dreamland.

“The gentleman who adopted her—madame
must feel much gratitude to him! He is one in
ten million !——and he is so modest about it, he
presumes not at all.”

“ He is a gentleman, Terese, who would do
honor to any society. He is too generous to
demand my gratitude; but he knows that he

has it. Ah, Ciel! how different would my life I
have been had Fate thrown in my path a man "

like that in place of the villain Whom I was too
ignorant to comprehend! Brush my hair,
please, Terese. I am nervous, after the excite-

' that will ui t ,
ment of the morning, and q e me ‘, next time we meet?”

sooner than anything 0 .”

TheaFrenchwoman smiled to herself as she
Went after the brush.

“Madame looks almost as young and quite
as pretty as the chil ” she thought; and re-
turning, she.took down the lady’s long bright
hair, and brushed out its threads of gold gently

\ and patiently, while madame sat lost in a. half~
 reverie. ' -

' fl
, q

I Meantime, on her way home, Violet put her -

 bright face in at the office door, and told Char-
- lie that he must be sure and come to tea that
afternoon, for Miss Florence Goldsborough was
 to be there.

i “ As if that would be any additional induce-
ment to me!” answered Charlie, in a low voice

a meaning look which brought a touch of color
and a faint smile to the young lady’s face. “ So
you have forgiven your naughty little friend,
already 1” he added, reproachfully.

“Not until she asked forgiveness, Charlie. ”

“Oh, it’s all right, then, I dare say. But I
’ can’t affirm that I admire Miss Florence’s spite-
ful little ways, for all that.”

Yet that evening, had you been at Mr. Ver-
non’s tea-table, or in his parlor afterward, you
would not have believed Mr. Ward had he
again afiirmed that he did not admire Florence
Goldsborough—his whole manner would have
contradicted such a statement; and Violet saw
it with a silent, sharp pang, not so much of
jealousy as of sorrow.

If Florence had been in a room full of bril-
liant people she could not have taken more
trouble to be charming. She‘was gay to reck-
lemness. Never had her eyes been so laughing,
dazzling, glorious, changeful; her cheeks burn-
ed with too intense a red; neither of the others
noticed the strange, quick, sidelong glance she
occasionally darted at Violet.

“Why! it is ten o’clock! I did not dreamit
was so late!” she exclaimed, at last, pausing in
the mad waltz she had been taking with Charlie
about the parlors to the time of the music
which Violet played for them. “Where is my
hat? I shall be chided by mamma for staying
out so long!”

She tied on her hat, with a most coquettish
look at the young gentleman, who stood ready
to wait upon her to her home.

“ Good-by, Violet, my pet. Forget and for-
give all my sins. won’t you, little saint? Dor'l
think anything bad about me, whatever others
may say,” saying this, a little incoherently, she
kissed her hostess, took Charlie’s arm, and
Went down the steps, in the full moonlight,
flinging back such an arch, mocking, half-wick-
ed, wholly-fascinating look that poor Violet
stood staring after them, with aching heart,
afraid to think of Charlie alone with the en-
chantress, walking under the wayside elms,
with the moon’s glamour on that bright, mock-
ing face to make it more lovely and irresist-

“She does not care for him—she isonly flirt-
ing with him; but he cannot see that,” Violet
whispered to herself, watching them until their
forms were lost down the tree—shadowed street.

Now that they were out in the magical,
warm moonlight Florence did not seem to be
in so much haste to get home; she herself pro-
posed that they should prolong their walk;
and she looked up at the sky with. those great,
soft, melting eyes, and then at Charlie, until she
had him quite confused.

“Charlie,” she said, very softly, as they fi—
nally approached her home, “I want you todo
one little favor for me—make me one little
promise—will you?”

“If it lies within my power,” was the rash
answer.

“Oh, it does! It’s the merest trifle in the
world. I want you to let me slip this ring on
your finger,” she said, drawing a quaint and
valuable ring of Opals and diamonds from her
second finger and playfully utting it on the
little finger of Charlie’s left d; “and now
that it is on, I want you to.promise me—On

it until I see you again.”

1.

-—not intended for Mr. Vernon’s ear—and with ,

“Whatever you ask, Charlie. You Illa.
choose your reward.”

“ThenIpromisetowear your ring uni! I
see you again.” .

“ Good. Now, one more stipulation: will
you also promise not to tell any one that I ask-
ed you to wear it?”

She was smiling again, looking coaxineg up
at him from under drooping lashes. What a
beautiful girl she was! and howfull of wit, fun
and kittenish tricks! the young man thought,
as he dallied with his answer just for the sake

? of prolonging the pleasure of having her coax
? him, and of watching the changing eyes and

 

the little mouth curving from a smile into a
pout. ‘
“You shall not have the ring at all unless
you promise both things, Mr. Ward.”

“Ah! Well, I promise.”

“ There, now, it is a solemn compact—as sol~
emn as if signed and sealed! You are to wear
my ring——without telling any one how it came-
into your possession—~th you see me again.
And, Charlie, be very careful of it! Papa
brought that ring from Paris when he was a
young man; he had it laid away for years, but
gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday, a.
month ago. It has more than a money value,
though that is great. And now I must really
go in the house. Good-by,” and she held out
her little hand, but snatched it away.when he
would have held it longer than was necessary,
kissed it, airily, to him from the steps; and,
the next instant, vanished in the darkness of
her father’s hall.

When certain that the Witching vision had
quite disappeared Charlie turned and walked
toward his hotel, his hand burning at the touch

of the ring which sparkled balefully in the ,

moonlight, and his mind a chaos of images of
dark curls and splendid eyes, of rash promises,
a sweet, persuasive voice, a charming little
figure, full of grace, kissing its hand to him.

“But how icy cold her hand was!” thought
the student.

When Charlie awoke the next morning the-
first thing of which he became distinctly con,
scious was the ring, which was a little tight on
his finger, and which flashed like a small rain»
bow when he raised his hand.

“ It is every conspicuous jewel,” he thought,
“I hope the little witch will reclaim it before

n

his

But “before night ” it had become apparent
to him that Florence Goldsborough intended
him to wear her signet for some time.

Indeed, before noon, the whole village knew
that Florence had runaway from home; that
she had left the home in the night and gone to
the station, where she had taken the midnight
express—which stopped at Lycurgus for water
--north.

Only her father knew, however, that she had

. taken with her a thousand dollars, which she-

; had abstracted from the safe in his bedroom.

your word of honor as a gentleman—to wear E

Only her father had a suspicion of the real; ‘
causes which had led her to this desperate ac-
tion. A guilty conscience burned the truth in-
to his heart. -

Of course, Mr. Vernon had his conjectures
that the girl might have learned something of
the disclosures soon to be made; and, in her
shame and anger at her father, been rash
enough to fly from her friends. But he was not
certain of it. .

As the gossips said: “ Florence was not like
other girls —she had lots of good and bad in her
—-.it was just like her to want to get up a sen-
sation by some such trick !” and so, with others,
looked for her speedy return.

Not so her wretched father. He felt that his.

" child had made a desperate move in a desperw

“By which you mean until to-morrow,” 

laughed Charlie.
“ Do you promise to wear my ring until the

“ What shall be my reward for so serious an
undertaking?”

He spoke in jest, for her manner was that
of a frolicsome girl bent on some small piece
of mischief; but that manner suddenly changed
andshe gave him a thrillinglook essheen—
swered in a solemn voice, as if entering into a
compact: " ‘ , ',

 

ate mood; he knew that he had lost her!

. Nev rtheless, he had telegrams sent to Port?
“ land,

oston and New York, instructing the
detectives to look out for a young lady, and
take the best care of her, if found, until her"
parents could reach her._ He, himself, as soon
as he believed a clue had been ‘v’found, started
out in search; but he came home, at the end of

' a week, without her, or any tidings of her.

“ Ethan, do you think she has hilledherself!”
asked the unhappy mother. ~

 

Kansanshnuxry. ‘, a s;- has. tag

mini...

 

 

 

'BLACK' EYES AND BLUE. ‘ _  ‘ ‘ '7

 

“No, she is not one of that kind,” was the
moody reply.

It seemed, however, as if that little figure
Which Charlie had seean out of the moon-
light had from the face of the
earth; so utterly was it lost; and the opal ring
centinued to glimmer and flash on the hand
where it had been so artfully fastened.

 

CHAPTER V.
m spam. moon 3! m ante.

(hum Wm felt a little ashamed of the
ring which he wore whe nhe found,as he did be-
fore the day was over, how many peeple rec-
ognized it as Florence Goldsborough’s, and ral-
lied him on having a knowledge of her where-
abouts. Every one who saw the ring took it
for granted that an engagement existed between
him and the runaway girl. Long before night
he wonld haVe thrown the costly bauble into
the first rubbish-heap he came to had he not
been bound by his promise.

Charlie was not so dull but that he compre-
hended that Florence had purposely entangled
him; annoyed and surprised, only half-seeing
through her purpose, he yet felt himself inex—
orably bound to keep his word. He had said,
upon his word of honor, that he would wear
theringuntilhesawheragain, andwearithe
must. His embarrassment increased, when,
late in the afternoon, Mr. Goldsborough called
at the ofiice, having heard some rumor of the
jewel. .

“ You are wearing my daughter’s ring?” the

said, in a tremulous, eager voice—it
seemed to Charlie that he had aged ten years
Since he saw him last.

“ Yes,” answered Ward, blushing to his
eyes.

‘ Since when, may I ask?” '

“Since last evening, Mr. Goldsborough.”

“ Did you know, last evening, that Florence
was going aw ayi” ~

“N

thing? sir; I did not even suspect such a

“Mr. Ward—you will excuse the question
under the circumstances-are you and my
daughter engaged?”

“Oh, no, sir; not at all. There has never
been anything particular between us,” stam-
mered Charlie. ‘ .

“Then, perhaps, you will not refuse to re-
turn her ring to me. It is a family jewel which
I do not care to have in. the possession of a
stranger.”

“Mr. Goldsborough, I am very sorry; but I
am not at liberty to resign the ring to any one
but Miss Florence.”

“ indeed!” exclaimed the banker, with a
sneer, “perhaps you are too well aware of its
intrinsic value.”

“Say what on please, sir; I am under a
promise and I shall keep it. 1 only wish that 1
could honorably be rid of Wearing the ring,” he
added, indignantly.

Ami the father ’-went away with the very
natural impression that young Ward, in spite
°1 his denial, Was. 01' had been engaged to his
“fighter; bull. 311106 the step she had taken,
.mshed to be free from the engagement.

“He should have returned the ring to me
and said so, like a man,” he thought. ,

Charlie was very‘ nervous indeed before the
day was over. The interview with Mr. Gelds-
borough had been sufl‘iciently embarrassing yet
there was another which he dreaded more.’ '

What would Violet think vwhen her eyes fell
on the detested ring? For Charlie had been

' having some very serious thoughts during the

. none!

day, being driven to reflection by the step
which Florence had taken. All day, in his
mind, he had" been contrasting the two girls;
and there was no longer any doubt in it as to
which of the two he most admired- for the
first tune he said to his own heart: “I love Vi-
olet, and Violet only. There is none like her,
How could I \ ever have thought of
Florence in the same breath with her?”

The summer dusk was full of sweetness ashe
finally took the familiar path to Mr. Vernon’s
house._ It was with a-feeling of relief that he
saw Violet’s white dress'glimmering on the pi-

' use, where she was pacing ‘ back and forth

 

alone—waiting for him, Charlie thofigdit, with
a sudden, sweet, warm thrill of the heart; and
he could walk and talk with her, and she would
not see, in the evening dusk, the hateful cir-
clet that burned his finger.

“Oh, Charlie!” cried Violet, in her silver
voice, coming half-way down the steps to meet

“I thought you would never come! I
have something wonderful, miraculous to tell
you! Something you will be so glad and so
surprised to hear! Guess!” and as the moon,
which had long been brightening in the east,
just then poured a golden radiance into the per
fumed dark, its light fell on a lovely face all
aglow with joy and excitement, tentimes more
beautiful than it had ever been before.

“Guess!” she repeated, “before you taki
another step!” and her eyes shone and her
cheeks were flushed, and she stamped her little
foctwith an imperious air as new to her as it
was becoming.

“ Guess!” answered Charlie, laughing, “ do
you take me fora Yankee! Well, I guess that
Florence has been found,” and he glanced co-
vertly at his left hand, hoping that it would
prove his conjecture was true, and the
wildgirl had repented of her freak andro-
turned. V

“ No,” said Violet, almost petulantly,” it is
nothing about her. It is something very, very,

very important, indeed—to me!”

He looked at her more closely, fairly starting
as a thought finally flashed over him.

“ Violet, can it be that you have heard any
thing about your” parentage, to please y
so?” *

“ Ah, I knew you would find out! Charlie, I
don’t care to go in, do you? Let us walk here
on the piazza while I tell you something which
papa says I may tell you, and you only.”

She took his arm and they paced back and
forth in the moonlight; her heart was so full
that at first she could find no words; they had
gone the length of the piazza twice, when she
paused at the further end, and all in a glow of
smiles and tears, sobbed out: “ Charlie, I have
found my mother! I have seen hen—kissed her
—she has held me in her arms this ‘very day.
Oh, Charlie, I am 'the happiest girl in the whole
wide world I”

“You hhve found your mother!” repeated
Charlie, quite sufliciently astonished, and con-
scious of a jealous pang even in the midst of his
surprise. “And is she—do you—is she—”

H Y
go. 3:: the loveliest, sweetest mother! Why,

the angels had sent her down in answer to
my prayers and dreams she could not be more
nearly what I have imagined! I seem already
to have known her always! Charlie, you must
see her to-inorow. She is at the hotel. Madame
D’Eglantine, they call her—Li‘or oh, Charlie!
she is a French lady! Isn’t that strange?”

“ What! the French lady, so rich and so
elegant, with her maid and her carriage, the
best rooms in the house, the landlord flattered
todeath to have her in his hotel, of whom]
have heard so much' in the last few days? Mad-
ame D’Eglantine your, mother, Violet! Well,
now, I shall look. for the end of the world to
come next!”

“ You think she is too good for me?” asked
the girl, with a pout of the rosy lip that was
ravishineg pretty in Charlie’s eyes.

“ Violet, you know I should not think a
queen too good to be your mother, but ‘I am so
astonished! It will take me days to realize it.
Why has she come, now! Why did she never
come before? You . see, it is quite enough to
puzzle one!” .

“True; I have all those things to explain to
you—only I don’t half understand them yet,
myself. However, papa says 'it is all right;
and only in deference to the interests of an-
other person, that he does not tell me all now.

word of” it until papa gives you permission.
Oh, my beautiful mamma! I” wanted to go and

es! She is everything adorable, Chars

 

sleep in her arms to-night, but papa said, that ?

would'malre' people talk; 501 am obliged to

deny myself her company. Have you seen her, '
Charlie? Is she not lovely? And now I must tell j

you all the littlelI myself know,” and clinging
to his arm, while they resumed their prome-
nade, she poured out the fullness of her heart
into her lover‘s sympathetic ear. 1

Her lover! the words are written, for such
Charlie Ward felt himself to be before he came
in sight of the white-robed girl who awaited
him on the piazza, and more and more every
moment, as he watched the kindling eyes and
heard the silver tones, and saw what a luster
happiness added to that pure face. v

-

It caused him a severe struggle with his own '

impulses not'to catch the sweet story-teller to
his bosom, and tell her how he loved her, in the
same breath with his congratulations. She
seemed aluiost to expect something of the kind,
as they finally stood by the rose-wreathed rail-
ing, he uttering his warm good-wishes, with
faltering voice that made her look down and
idly/pull to pieces the dewy flowers, while her
fair face was fairer than a lily’s in the moon-
light, and her slim figure, in its soft white
dress, palpitated visibly with joy and fear.
Better would it have been for both, perhaps,
had he yielded to the longing of his heart, and
told Violet how dear she was to him.

But two reasons restrained the tender words
which trembled on his lips. ).He felt that this
was no time to win from his companion a. prom-
ise to lie his own; she would never suspect him
of mercenary motives, but this new mother
and Mr. Vernon might very properly Question
his right, under the circumstances, to speak to
her before consulting them. They might say:
“ You were slow to make up your mind when
the shadow of a dark doubt lay over the girl’s
origin, but now that you find her the inheritor
of an ancient lineage and a princess’ fortune,
you are quick, indeed, to make up your mind
that you love her!” Therefore,‘ he felt that he
had best keep silence, now, though every sweet
look and appealing accent of the conflding girl
made the task more difficult. Then, too, there
was the ring of Florence Goldsborough! He
must wear it, and he must not tell any one,
even Violet, that he had been asked to wear it

—duped into it, in fact, for some not evident »

PW .
While Violet, all fair, and soft, and smiling,
stood scattering over her white dress the pink

petals of the perfumed flowers, and Charlie

looked at her with his soul in his eyes, a
sudden movement of his hand caused the ring
to flash in the moonlight, and drew her glance
to it. She caught his hand; he forced a laugh
and attempted to draw it away—why is it,
in such emergencies, people always do the very
things they ought not and do not intend to do!

—-she held it, and turned the glittering ‘dia-‘

monds and the one great, burning opal to the
light. ' -

“Charlie, this is Florence’s 11mg!” « ‘

“ Yes—and the worst of it is, I have prom-
ised to wear it untilshe returns.”

Violet’s clear eyes attempted to search those
of her companion, but he looked away in at.
fected carelessness. When she spoke again her
v 'oe was so changed that it startled him—low,
co d, sad—and her sweet face was pale and dull:

“ Do you know when she will return, Char-
lie! If so, you should give some clue to her
distracted parents. 'Did she give you this, last

night? , I know she did, for I noticed it on her

hand when she went away.”

“ She lent me this, last evening; but she did
not tell‘me that she was going awa . I know
no more about her thanyou do, Vio et. it was
foolish 'of me to take her ring—you know how
young people are always jesting——and neither
of us meant anything serious by it.”

“ I suppose you will send it to her parents,
then?” r '

“ No,” answered Charlie,. desperately, feel~
ing that he was being sacrificed to an unlucky

. . . v 3 promise, “I told Florence, upon my- word and
52.2533 shamans; $3.21: :   wear   I saw  sam—

secret with you; but you must breathe net a

and I must. When Isaid it, i did not dream
that I should be in possession of the ring
more than twenty-four hours. You believe
me, do you. not, Violet?” .

“Certainly. I can not insult a friend of

'mine by doubting his word. An'd Ihave no
Vmasonto doubt .yours, Charlie.~ Florence‘s!-

‘\
e:
s

 

w

-- are lying halfon the upper step

A___l3LACK EYES :AND BLUE. \

 

ways favored you above all others,” and then
she began to talk of other matters—mot brightly
and blushingly as she had been doing—with an
,air of reserve and weariness. _

It was to poor Charlie as if the little cloud,
no bigger than a man’s hand, which had sailed
across the moon, had chilled the warm earth,
and was destined to grow and grow until the
heavens were blotted out. Violet shivered, as
if she too had grown cold; he was ferced to
suggest that she had better go inside; she did
not object, and so, he wished her a wistful
good—night on the steps, and walked away, op-
pressed and sad. , .. ,

Violet, who had said to: herself an hour be-
fore that she was the happiest girl in the land,
crept up to her room and threw herself on her
bed, sick at heart, _ jealous, wretched. 'She had
not dreamed there was such passionate emotion
to he suffered as the love and despair which for
the first time fevered her gentle nature.

“ Either Charlie is a heartless trifler, and has

deceived Florence as well as me, or there is.

something between those two!” she. said to her-

,, self, over and over again.

If the subtle Florence—:who had planned for
precisely, these effects—had poisOned her ring
with one of the slow and dreadful, the surely
fatal poisons of some oriental sorceress, she
could hardly have made the wearer more rest-
less under its pressure; or produced deeper dis-
tress in the loving nature of a rival.

Unhappy as the wanderer doubtless was,

\ , wherever hiding at that hour, uncertain of. her

own future, and bent on desperate attainments,
her great black eyes would have burned with
an evanescent flash of triumph could she have
witnessed the parting of the lovers on that
evening. I ,
' Down in the bottom of her turbulent soul
she had vowed to have revenge on Violet, for
all the ills'which had 'befallen herself, and be-

hold! here was one of her, purposes already

taking shape and sitting, like a vampire, on the
breast of her innocent rival.

But, at least, however miserable, one girl
was safe at home, under the shelter of her
adopted father’s roof, while the other—who
knows what dangers followed, like blood-
hounds, the trail of the other, who had been so
rashes to flee from the only safe refuge of girl.
hood, her mother’s arms?

. CHAPTER VI.
MASQUERADING—WITH A VENGEANCE.
\A VERY curious adventure had Redmond
‘Rhodes as he was returning to his residence

 

., ——facing Gramercy Park, New York—about
: "midnight on the night of the fourth of June.
,,_,He had been to the Academy of Music, but a
‘ few streets below, to listen to Nillson, in Mar-

guerite—there being a very brief season of
summer opera, and hebeing passionately fond
‘of music—and was passing up the brown—stone

steps—guarded by stately lions—of his stateh'er I

.house, when he stumbled over a prostrate fig-
and half on the
threshold. ’
The figure could not have been there. many
minutes or it would have been observed by the

, policeman pacing his rounds, whose steps could
now be heard, a few rods away. With an ex-

! ticed that her dress was that of a neat old lady
1 fromthe rural regions; probably, from the bou-
| net, and the prudish shawl pinned about the
E shoulders, a Quaker; but he had also observed
a certain incongruity which had aroused his
; curiosity: a pair of spectacles had fallen from
i the closed eyes. and a “front” of gray hair had
become sadly disarranged, being quite pushed
to oneside by her fall, revealing an abundance
of jetty ringlets that looked strangely out of
place against the wrinkles plainly to be seen on
the pallid forehead. .
“James,” said Mr. Rhodes, as his man open-

the unexpected tableau on the steps, “help me
to take in this poor old lady. She has fallen
down and fainted away at my very door.”

“She’s most likely a vagrant,” the careful
James ventured to remonstrate; “ ’adn’t I best
just call a" officer, sir?” n

“She is no common tramp, James; I can see
that. N o, I think we ought to take her in, and
make an effort to revive her—at once. She
will die if she is neglected many minutes. See!

she is too respectable for the station—house.”

“ Sure enough, sir, ’ere’s her pocketbook a-
dropped out 0’ ’er pocket; an’ it seems stuffed
full enough,” cried the man, picking up a full
wallet, as be bent over to assist in raising the
woman. .

“Perhaps she has arrived on a late train-.—
thought she knew her way to a friend’s house,
but lost it, and became frightened and tired
out. It would be a shame to neglect her. Lift
her feet gently, James, and we will place her
on the lounge in the library; is there a light
there?” ,

“ Yes, sir. My! what little bits 0’ feet, Mr
Rhodes! She isn’t much of a weight, is she,
sir?” »

“Not much. Now, thatis right—here! Run

then bring me a spoon and. a bottle of brandy

yor wine frOm the pantry. Quick! And wet
a napkin in cold water, James, to lay on her
forehead.”

The man moved with the soft and steady ra-
pidity of a well-trained servant, to obey these
orders, while Mr. Rhodes took off the stiff
Quaker bonnet, laid the head of the unconscious
stranger low, so as to facilitate the return of
the blood to the brain, felt the faint, almost

dimpled. roundness of the little wrist, and at
the mass of raven hair which came down when
the bonnet was removed, and fell in a rippling
tide on either side of the queer little brown,
wrinkled face. _ - V .
.His vague wonder increased and grew posi-
tive when James brought the wet napkin, and
his master,pwiping the wrinkled brow with it,
wiped eyery one of those wrinkles away! It
did not take long, after that, for Mr. Rhodes to
understand the false front and the black hair.
“Poor foolish child!” he muttered, to him-

 

I
r

}
I
i

self. .“ Some reckless or unfortunate girl in
disguise! I’m afraid this masquerading will
prove sorry work for her. It is well she fell
into my hands! If that officer had discovered
her, she would have figured in the police-court
to-morrow.”

While thinking this he was working also.

clamationr of mingled surprise and impatience , He Ministeer brandy in doses of a few

——for Mr. Rhodes took it for granted that the
prostrate woman ' was either intoxicated, or
' worse—aha stooped, and drew her partially into

. a sitting posture, turning her face toward the I

moon, which shone down from over the trees

[
4
i
I

in the park with a light like that of a softer '

day. I 1 . _
At the same time he rang the door-bell
rather sharply, with the intention of telling
James, his man, to speak to the officer and have
the vagabond taken oil? to the station—house.
But by the time James had opened the door
his master had changed his mind about sending
for the policeman. ‘ ’
He had seen something very/odd indeed when
he turned the face, half-hidden in the depths of

-I mawa bonnet..sothat the moon-

beams fell upon it. He had seen that the figure
was scarcely larger than a child’s, that the face
was pale, the eyes closed,.the woman or girl, or
Marsha was,  He lgan-

‘ e
‘ . > . I
\-,

. ‘ \> '
‘ . ' .\ I

drops, rubbed the slender wrists, bathed the
smooth forehead; and, being a calm personage,
of mature years and cold temperament, was
not too flurried to notice critically, while doing
these things, the exceeding grace of the trim
little form, the velvet fineness of the skin, the
extraordinary length of the black lashes which
finally began to quiver as they rested on the
ivory cheeks.

When a pair of dusky blue eyes suddenly flew
wide open and fixed themselves inquirineg on
his face,_Redmond Rhodes thought to himself,
not without displeasure:

“ Here is a first-class adventure! I am afraid
I have been rash; I am certain‘that this is an
embarrassing situation! What is tovfollow, I
wonder? Ah! the lady must have friends near
at hand—she will give me their address—I will
send James to take care of her—shewill hasten
to fly to them—Land I. shall be out of this awk-

 

ward predicament.”

, .

ed the door and remained stupidly starng at'

l Easier planned than executed, Mr. Redmond;

Rhodes !

Among all the staid and irreproachably-re- .,

spectable citizens of the metropolis, there was‘
none—not one !—-who stood more calmly secm'
and above reproach than this wealthy bachelor, ,
with his forty years, his quiet habits, his sump
tuous income and his grim and stately mansion
on Gramercy Park. Never, in all his dignified
life, had he been guilty of an imprudence.

He had a clear conscience, now, as he sat by
thelounge, bathing that fair forehead and giv-
ing those tiny doses of brandy; yet he felt that

the situation was becoming awkward, especially '

after the dark, dreamy eyes had opened, and a
silver voice, tremulous and sweetly-broken, had
murmured: , .
“ Father!” . v
“ I am not your father, child,” said Mr.
Rhodes, 9. little hoarsely .
The great black eyes opened a little wider,

the curved lips parted-afor a moment there

was silence on his part, speculation and return—
ing memory on hers—With a gasp, a. moan, she

struggled into a sitting posture and clasped her

 

and close and lock the hall-door, James; and .

l
>
I

 

two little hands together. _

“Take this,” ordered Mr. Rhodes, presenting
a spoonful of liquor. 1

She swallowed it, and then her eyes glanced
wildly about the, beautiful, strange room and ~
back to his anxious countenance.

“Are you a doctor?” she asked. “Where
am 1'! Oh, what has happened to me?”

“Nothing very serious, I trust, my dear
young lady. I found you, insensible, on my
doorstep, on my return from the opera a few
minutes ago." I

“Oh, what will you think of me, sir?” she
cried, putting her hand to her head to feel for
the false front, and darting swift glances about
her, at the Quaker bonnet, and at him.

“Nothing very bad; that,is,.if this is your
first escapade, and you promise not to go out
masquerading in this style again. Young la-
dies cannot be too prudent in their conduct-—
and you are very young, I should say,” for a.
flush of shame was kindling in her cheeks, and
as her color came back, with some of the glo-
rious, liquid light to her large eyes, he saw more
plainly how much of agirl she was—and what a
pretty one!
covered you before the policeman came arotmd.

I would be b ht ' ‘ '
suspended pulse, and vaguely wondered at the j gdggrefion Nowyzgg mSEhgnadmsg’fryifi

friends, child; and my man shall go out for a.
carriage and take you home at once.” ,

“I have no friends! I have no home!” she
sobbed. - ,

“ How is this?” he demanded, sternly.

“At least, I could not go to them to-night,
sir. .They are far, far away. ,And I never
will go back to them. No, no! I. will throw
myself into the river first. I cannot tell you
all—only that I have m away from my home
in disguise—not for any fault or sin of my own!
—believe me, I was driven away by the sins of
others l—and I came to this great city because

I thought I oculd hide here more effectually -

than anywhere else. I had money, and I
thought it would be easy to find a safe and
respectable boarding-place. But they all want-
ed references, or would not take me because I
was a woman, all‘alone; and it was after dark,

I and I grew afraid to go to any more houses;

 

and so I walked and walked, and I was so tired
and hungry and frightened that at last I knew
I must go in somewhere, and I went where the
houses looked safe and nice—and I suppose I
fainted away as I was going to ring your door-
bell, sir.” ' .
“ You should have told your story to some
police-officer. He would have found you ’a
stopping~place. As it is, that step will have to
be taken yet tonight- And here it is, one o’-
clock. ” ‘ -
“ Do not send me away with a strange officer,
at this hour of the night,” she begged, flinging
herself at his. feet before he could reach out a
hand to prevent her. “ I have gone through
so much to-day. You seem kind; do let me
stay here until morning. Where is your wife!
Surely, she will pity me, and allow me to 1‘9'
main." ' 
, ‘f But, my child, I haveno wife. There‘s the .
difficulty. I wouldvnpt think of permitting you .‘

' a

l > .  v 3 ‘
. . ‘ 2 .. - .1.»

  
   

“ Itis fortunate for you that 1 dis- v

is

 

 
 

 

q.r

.‘-

 

to leave my roof if it were proper for you to
remain.”

, “Is there not one woman in this great house?”
pleaded the young stranger, looking so child-
like, so helpless, so bewitching, sad, irresistible,
as she smiled up at him through her tears, that
Mr. Rhodes felt how cruel it would be to drive
her to the cold protection of the city authori-
ties, and turning to James, said, in desperation:

“ You must call up the housekeeper, James,
and put this young lady in her charge. She
Will be cross, and, I fear, not very hospitable;
but I will not send this girl away to-night.”

“ Certingly not, sir; you really couldn’t, un‘
der the circumstances, sir; and so I will te l
Mrs. Plimpton,” answered, the man, who ha. i
listened to every word, and had also been much
affected by the sight of beauty in tears at his
master’s feet.

When the servant departed to summon the
hOusekeeper Mr. Rhodes lifted the little figure
to its proper place on the lounge.

“ You must have some supper and go to bed,”
he said, very seriously. “I shall bid you good-
night the moment Mrs. Plimpton appears.”

“I am so sorry to make you so much trou-
ble! I shall never, never forget your kindness
in letting me stay here,” was the murmured re-
joinder, while two cold little hands caught one
Of his and a pair of rosy lips pressed on it a
qlfick kiss of gratitude.

“ You are too impulsive,? said the wise man
of forty, moving his chair to a safe distance
from the demonstrative stranger. “Even our
feelings of gratitude or kindness should be duly
Pestmined. I can easily see how such a quick
Pature as yours, my child, may have gotten you
mto trouble. I know that you, have been rash
and willful—or you would not be here ”-—his
sermon, perhaps, would have been longer had
it not been interrupted by the appearance of .a
severe person, tall, ‘angular, and sharp-visaged.
hoiPhrnpton," said the master of the

_ 11g, You wi obli me b ivi
this Young lady something toggat, undyagroolhfi
near 3’0!" own- I found her, unconscious, on
the steps; and cannot feel it to be my duty to
send her to the station—house. She is a stran-
ger, Wlth go one in the city to whom she can
30- You are a good Christian woman and
member of the church, Mrs. Plimpton, and I
m net afraid to leave her in your hands. I
am going to retire, confident that you will see

her, as a sister woman. Perhaps she will
tell you her story, and you can advise her in
her difliculties. Good-night, mademoiselle,”
and the haughty Mr. Redmond Rhodes, the
honor of whose acquaintance was vainly sought
by many a wealthy society belle, bowed and
smiled very benignly, as he went away, to the
:2an little girl he had found on his door-

p.

Mrs. Plimpton dared not disobey the letter
0‘ 1161' master’s instructions, but she did the
“pint” Ungraciously as possible she brought
some cold_chicken, a biscuit and glass of wine
to the “little impostor,” as in her own mind

'uhe dubbed one whom we know to be innocent

of any guilt, if passionate and rash. The
stranger choked down a few mouthfuls of f00d,
dram: the Wine—for she still felt dizzy and sick
—-and followed With faltering steps where the
[5011me led, to a bedroom on the third

oor.

“You can deep here,” said Mrs. Plimpton.
“pm moss the hall—if you want me in the
night, come and knock on my door. Here’s

your pocketbook; James picked it off the step.

ere seems to be some money in it; bolt your
d05W; there may be burglars.”
“ ‘Yes, making, I Will,” said a meek voice.
rm 80 sorry you had to be aroused to attend
to me- If I dared, 'ma’am—if you would not
be offended—.1 would oifer you some of this
$2111?) in return for the trouble I have made

“ We, in this house, never take no presents,” ‘

said the housekeeper, 310me-

“But if you’ve
803 a good conscience,

and have a mind to con-

, tribute your mite to my church,’for a Sunday

Offering, I won‘t refuse it, as a Christian.”
» The httlexstrangerdrew out a five-dollar bill

and thrustit eagerly into her hand, and Mrs-

/

 

Plimpton went to bed a trifle mollified, though
still amazed at her master’s folly.

CHAPTER VII.

‘ run TABLES TURNED.

CONJEO’I'URE ran riot in the little New Hamp-
shire village for weeks after the disappearance
of Florence Goldsborough. It was evident to
the dullest comprehension that something very
strange was transpiring in the history of the
Goldsborough family. Not long after her
daughter’s flight the mother went to some rel~
atives of hers at New York, for a long visit.
This was followed by the announcement that
the banker had concluded to change his place
of residence and was advertising for some man,
with money, to buy out his banking business in
Lycurgus. Such a person was found; and, on
the first of August, Mr. Ethan Goldsborough
retired from the bank, with a snug little for-
tune of seventy—five thousand dollaraiand leav—
ing his residence in the hands of an agent, to
dispose of at the first opportunity. he bade a
feeling adieu to his minister, his brother dea-
cons, and all his long list of friends and flat-
terers, who expressed their deep regret, at the
loss of so excellent and substantial a citizen.

Nor had the voice of gossip been entirely si-
lent with regard to the great and sudden inti-
macy which had sprung up between the Ver.
nous and the French lady at the hotel.

Lycurgus was haunted by summer-boarders
during “the season,” and Madame D’Eglantine
was not the only stylish, wealthy lady stop-
ping at the Lycurgus House; but she was cer—
tainly the lion of the hotel and the village. A.
woman of such winning manners, great per—
sonal beauty, absolutely mrrect taste in dress,
possessed of such rare jewels and reported to
be the owner of old calates in her native
country half as large as a small province,
would naturally make a sensation in almost
any community. In Lycurgzus her every
movement was noted by a phalanx of curious
admirers.

It was said that the grave lawyer, so long
devoted to the memory of his young wife who
had died so shortly after their marriage, was
wildly in love with the charming madamwor
her estates—and encouraged a friendship be—
tween her and his pretty adopted daughter as
an excuse for himself being often in her com-
pany. -

Certain it was that after her second visit to
Madame D’Eglantine—that visit during which
the fetters which the yearning mother had
placed on her own lips were unlocked, and her
whole story, names excepted, poured in the
ear of the astonished girl—Violet was daily,
and for hours each day, in the French lady’s
society. Their affection for each other was ap-
parent; yet, curiously enough, no one suspect-
ed the fact that Violet might have found her
mother, at last.

Finally, on the sixth of August, the court
sat in an adjacent county-town; and it was from
there the story came, breaking over Lycurgus, '
like thunder out of a clear sky.

The French lady was Ethan Goldsborough’s
first and true wife; Violet was their child; and
the lady had now applied for papers of separa-

 

BLACK EYES AND BLUE. ’ ' . i ' 9,

 

, interesting!

drive her into deeper sin!” was the general
tenor of the comments upon her case.

Lo! Mr. Vernon had good reason, with that
complicity suit on his hands, to consult the
beautiful stranger frequently; while the friend-

ship between the two ladies was most fully ex. '

plaiuod! And so! Violet, the flower of the vil-
lage, the favorite of young and old, was des-v
tined to be a great lady and a. great heiressli
And so! the good lawyer who had taken her,
dripping, from Silver Creek, and brought her“

up as his own, was likely to receive a rich re- ‘

ward from the gratitude of the mother! How"
And every light and shade, every

3 possibility and impossibility of the affair, was-
 dwelt upon with lingering relish. Meantime,
, the case went into court so fortified by proofs
 already prepared, that in three days the long-r
? rusted link was legally broken, and madame
‘ had received the right to assume her own

 

 

tion which would allow him to do justice to the
deceived woman who, for so many years,

yegarded herself as his legal and only wife.
All the details of the scandalous history, as they
were revealed and proven in court, were seized i
upon and devoured by the hungry neighbors of
the absconded banker. Well for him that he
had taken himself away in time! So surely as ;
he had dared public opinion by remaining, ,the ‘
{late of “old Floyd Oirson ” would have been ;

ls—

“ Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart.“

His Poor daughter Florence‘was now pitied,
and the motives of her flight better under-
stood.

“ Poor child! poor, sensitive, potted child!
She could not bear to show her innocent face "
among those Who would so soon learn her fath— 3
er’s infamy! Ah, where had she fled, poor ‘
young thing! Pray Heaven to keep her in the i
right path, and that her father’s sins might not 

family name, under which she was already
known. ' And Violet Vernon was Violet D’-
Eglantine, by special permission -for she would
not claim or hear her father’s dishonored name
—-and, reluctant to desert the adopted father to
whom she was far more tenderly bound than to
her mother, had persuaded Madame D’Eglantine

to become a visitor at Mr. Vernon’s during the ‘
short period of her proposed further stay in the

e.

Time fairly flew. To poor, weary, life-worn
madam, his wings seemed made of thistle-
down, glittering whiter and silently in' the
blue air, leaving no sign, making no noise
She was resting, and heavenly happy, after
years of unquiet and misery.

But the middle of September came all too
soon; when the measure of the idyl must be
changed. Her plans, as far as she had made
any, were to spend the winter in New York,
keeping Violet with her, and to return to France
the following summer.

Convinced of Mr. Vernon’s strict integrity-
unwilling to separate, him entirely from Violet
—-—anxious to repay some of her money obliga-
tions to him, she had offered him the agency of
her estates at a salary quadrupling his modest
income as a. village lawyer.
yet been accepted; Mr. Vernon was a “crea-
ture of habit,” and it was hard work to uproot»
his life from its native soil.

But the temptation was great in two Ways;
he knew that he should like the gain of a
larger experience after the first eflfort was made ::
and his home could never again be really his
home to him after the bright girl had deserted
it who had so long been its sunshine. He saw

and acknowledged that the retired village,

where she had hitherto grown like a wild blos—
som was no longer a suitable residence for a
young lady with Violet’s prospects.‘ Destined
to queenship, she must learn to rule. The art
of trailing the courtly robe and wearing the
insignia of rank must be acquired. . She was
her mother’s girl, now. If the thought gave
him many a keen pang it gave him also many
a throb of proud delight. Violet would be a
lady, lovely as the loveliest, proud and pure——
stately, perhaps, as the years were on—but al-
ways with a sweet charm of her own, like that
of the moss in which the richest rose half-veils
its peerless beauty.
‘ The fifteenth of September, as we say, came
all too quickly; the lawyer had not made up
his mind; but when madam’s baggage came
down into the wide old hall, and among it one
modest trunk with “V. V.” painted on it, his
doubts vanished in one sudden resolve.

“ I shall join you in New York before the
first of October,” he said, when he came into
the dinner-table. “That is settled!”-

Violet jumped out of her chair and ran.

around to give him a hug.
“ Cannot you go with us to—morrow, papa! ’
“ Impossible. Two weeks will be little

5 enough time to close up niy affairs here. I
must find a tenant for the house—‘the books.

must be boxed—including those at the office —-”’
_“ 0h, papa, what will become of Charlie?"
cried Violet, interrupting. , \ ,r
“ He will have to place himself in some other
lawyer’s omee, I suppose. Poor Charlie! he’s

. v91? blue aboutour desertion or him I told.

,u

u

The offer had not -

 

{couldasktoseel



._ ..  Z._‘..f‘.;.. H ._L_,_... .. ml...
him yesterday I was afraid I should yield to

the temptation, and resign law in Lycurgus,

with the brilliant prospect of a judgeship just
before me!” , V

“ Yet he has not been here fora week—Char-
lie has not,” thought the beautiful girl, going
back to her plate, slowly, with downcast eyes.
“ Oh, how cold, how distant he has been, late—
ly! Blue! Papa need not flatter himself it is
on our account! I do not wonder that he is
blue, since he has learned all that wickedness

"of Florence’s father ”—Violet never could, fora ,
single moment, then or thereafter, think or “

feel that Ethan Goldsborough was her father,
also! “Perhaps he has had bad news from
Florence herself. If he is law—spirited it is
about her—not about me I” and the blinding
tears rushed into her eyes, as they had got into
a. foolish habit of doing.

Very little dinner did Violet eat that day.
Every mouthful was an effort. It was not only
that Charlie had kept away so much, recently;
but this was the last day at home, and, fond as
she was of her new-found mother, eager to
taste the joys of the world, her heart clung to
home, and seemed breaking when she thought
that she was leaving it forever.

As soon as the dinner was done with——they
dined at two o’clock in that primitive village—

'she told her mother, who usually indulged in
a siesta from three to four, that she was going ,'

out for a. farewell stroll through her favorite

' ' , haunts,

‘It was a glorious September day. The deep-
blue sky fairly burned with intense luster.
The morning had been cool in that mountain-
ous region—frost, the night previous, had sly-
ly loosened the forest leaves which it had paint-
ed, and, all day, like gorgeous, lazy butterflies,
those leaves of scarlet, purple and crimson had
slowly floated and settled down.

' Violet took a. path through the fields back of
the house, which brought her out, sooner than
the village street would have done, tothe banks

of Silver Creek, a short distance below the .

bridge, and. on the edge of the woods. Far oi!
the blue hills stood dimly agaiii’st the more
blue horizon; the stream, strewn with fallen
leaves, sung dreamily, like a lady in love, to
itself, between grassy banks, along one of
which the path led on into the woods. The
place was the frequent haunt of the villagers;

not a shadow of fear, any more than as if she 5
had been in her own garden, fell on Violet’s ‘
‘ mind, as she wandered along the well-known
way, thinking of her brief past and her strange ,
future—a dreaming girl on the verge of wo- :

manhood, and the swsetest picture ever seen
between sunlight and shadow as she finally sat
herself in a grapevine swing ‘ not far from the
ruins of the old mill, where she and her moth-
er, had once been so near to meeting their
doom. ‘
‘ As sweet a. picture as painter, poet or lover
‘ The fair, fair face, half-
drooped in reverie, the bright hair glistening
and waving in the breeze, the slender, girlish
figure, in its white dress, looking like a Spirit’s,
so lightly poised in the swing—great bunches
of purple grapes almost touching the golden
head, and framing, with their green leaves and
dark-red tendrils, the whole airy picture—the
little, meekly-folded hands; the tiny, slippered
feet—no wonder Charlie Ward, coming to the
house five minutes too late and following in
swift pursuit, paused long to look and love,
adore and glorify.
But Charlie saw more than the girl’s beauty
add adorability; he saw the jewels flashing
about the lily throat and on the little hands,

placed there by a. haughty mother, who had ,

doubtless planned a. splendid marriage, some
day, for her beautiful daughter and heiress.

'For young Ward, in addition to his other
doubts and troubles, saw, or fancied he saw,
that Madame D’Eglantine despised him—-

“ A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown,”
and sought quietly, without giving the affair
the shape of words, to discourage a sentiment
which she Was resolved should never amount
to anything serious. The mother discounte-

« ‘nanced him—the daughter doubted him! Char-
- ' lie stood, his heart in'his eyes, the shadow of
his tgouble darkening  frank face, nervouslyl

‘4 i . -~» '/ _.“

i
)‘1

. -

 

I'clutching his hat, which he had removed, the ‘

iwayward woodland Wind waving the light-
brown curls on his almost boyish forehead——
scarcely knowing whether to creep away with-
out speaking the farewell which, at best, must
be but a hollow, half-way expression of his
feelings, or whether to risk all on one rash
burst of love’s young eloquence.
‘ While he hesitated, two pearly tears gather-
ed and fell on the face before him, and her lips
parted in a low, soft cry:

“Charlie! Charlie!” .

He knew that she was unaware of his pre-
; sence—aunaware, indeed, that she had spoken
‘ aloud—but her voice told him all; that she
loved him, reproached him, wondered at his
absence!

haughty smile of patronage, for the ring burn-
ing so wickedly on his hand! '

thought, and starting, the tear-brimmed eyes
met his; soul spoke to soul; no need of words
of explanation. He held out his hand, and
Violet, slowly slipping from the swing, whose
came coyly forward and gave him her own.

their hearts each felt the throbbing of the oth-

human life—the first moment of knowing and
feeling for the first time that we are beloved-—
fled swiftly over them. Oh. rapturous mo-
ment! -

A thrill ran through the quiet woodland, the
leaves whispered, the stream laughed softly, a
bird high up in a scarlet maple burst into a
trill of exultation. '

Presently Violet, with checks colored like
carnations, and a little sweet, shy laugh to hide

 

ing her too tenderly.

ful move to do so. h ‘
“That is the only thing you could have ask-

! Violet.

' a reason, which I am not at liberty to tell any

one, why I must wear the ring until I see Flor-

; once. But it is not—Violet, I swear to you it

is not because I have any interest in her. or

that there ever was any understanding between
us.”

“ You expect me to be satisfied with that,
, Charlieo—and yet allow youjo wear her ring

and to have a secret about it!”
They were walking along the path now, to-
ward the village. Violet was not suspicious by

{ nature; but just in proportion to her love for

i the one by her side was her intense jealousy
about the ring.

4 “I would like my Violet—if she is mine—to

trust me !” said the lover, trying to take her

hand as he spoke.

She folded her arms before her, looking at
the path, not at him.

, “If you cannot trust me inso littlea. matter,
Violet, how can you confide your whole life
and happiness to my keeping?”

l “ I have not promised to do that yet, Mr.

; Ward,” she answered.

| “Violet!” he spoke, almost sternly, stopping

: and standing before her so that she, too, was

! obliged to pause. “ Do you love me?”

For a. moment the soft, clear blue eyes were

1 raised to his with a look he had never seen in

them before; her lips trembled; but when she

answered him her voice was steady and cold:

“ You have no right to ask me that question
as long as you wear another girl’s ring. And
' I will not reply to it as long as you do.”

2 “ Very well, Violet. Let the subject be

opped between us, then.
 confidence in’me, you can have no real, love for

1 me. I may as well bid you good-by here as
anywhere. You leave in the morning, I be-
lieve. Good-by, and—and—a pleasant winter

X to you, Miss D’Eglantine.” _

i The fiery pride which struggled with his love
could not quite prevent the ; choking of his

, voice overthe last  '

\ me

What did he care then for the mother's '

“Violet,” he answered, to her 

purple clusters had kissed her golden head, :
He drew her to him, and for the first time 1

er, while the happiest moment possible to any 5

her confusion,- drew away from the arms press— 3

“ You will let me take Florence’s ring from ‘
your finger now, Charlie?” and she made aplay- .

ed me which I would not do joyfully for you, 3
Why did you think of that? There is -

If you have no .

I ' v. ,.

 

The next instant, Violet, who, without look-
ing up, had just murmured, “Good—by,” heard
his step crackling over the underbrush, as he
turned out of the path'and struck into the,
woods without once looking back.

She remained rooted to the spot, believing
that he could not really be gone. Yet she had
driven him away. She had ended her own hap-
piness—quarreled with CharlieI—and about
what?

Ah, that dreadful ring! Was it not destined
to be associated, in her family, with sorrow and
tragedy? Her mother had noticed the ring on
Charlie’s hand, some time ago, and had declared
it to be an heirloom of the D’Eglantines, and
the very ring which Ethan, in their mad
. flight, unprovided with another, had married
her with, and afterward baser robbed her of.
Yes, her mother had asked Charlie to restore
her ring to her, and he had politely, but firmly,
declined! Yet he expected, under these strange
circumstances, that she would be content to see
him wear it, and demand no explanation.

But indignation could not make Violet less
miserable. She stood there, angry, suspicious,
jealous, yet in love all the same, vaguely hop-
1' ing and expecting that Charlie would ieturn
and make some sufficient apology, and they
would be happy again.

Five minutes passed. She did hear a step
approaching, and then, perverse as her sex is
sure to be under such circumstances, she would
not turn—she would not yield an inch!

Then some one spoke to her, but it was not
Charlie.

A voice which she only half recognized said:

“ Will my daughter do me the first favor her
father has even asked of her—grant me a few
minutes’ interview?”

She wheeled about and stood face to face
with—~Mr. Goldsborough.

A strange, creeping chill of dislike ran
' through her when she heard herself addressed
as his daughter. Her first impulse was to
scream and run, but she conquered it.

“Come!” said he, and he did leek ill and
worn. “I am in trouble, and I want only to
talk with you a little while. I did not care to
venture in sight of those who  W me. It
would make scandal and excitemen for noth»
ing. Walk along the path with me a little
way, while I give you the message which I
wish you to take from me to your mother.”
 Very reluctantly she turned and walked with
him.

And Lycurgus had another sensation that
night. It was in a [fair way to “sup full of
horrors ”--when the church-bells rung at nine
otclock that evening, and the news flew from
mouth to mouth that Violet D’Eglantine had
gone into the woods for a ramble and had not
come out. All night the villagers, led by Char-
lie and Mr. Vernon—both of them nearly mad
'with anxiety—searched the grove, the pond,
the stream, but found nothing.

CHAPTER VIII.
rim BELLE PETITE warm: DRAGON.

THE little adventuress awakened early in the
strange room in which Mr. Rhodes’ housekeeper
had ’put her to sleep. Fatigue had given her
Some hours of sound repose, but the light steps
of the first servant who descended from the at-
tic to the regions below aroused her, and she
whad at least two hours for meditation before
I Mrs. Plimpton knocked at her door with word
i that it was time to rise.
‘ In those two hours Florence Goldsborough
5 did ages of hard thinking. She had a clear
‘; head, like her father, and something of his lack
Of moral principle As yet she had never done
anything really bad; she" shrunk from wicked
things with the sensitivenees of a young person
reared in a strict and critical New England
‘ community; but she had little of that innate
modesty which distinguishes many girls of her
age; and none of that keen perception of the
1 right which would prevent her from commit-
; ting a thousand small deeeptions and shame for
i the sake of accomplishing herwishes. ,
; That she had plenty of energy and executive "
I ability was proven by the success with which
imam planned and carried out her flight event

a. - . .. . ,

 

 

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t

, , , .. ‘1

 

' " > ' BLACK

._.. _.___... L..__.._. -..,. _.,.,4 ____

Eras; AND 

 

‘ Now, as she lay on her lace-ruffled pillow,

her great, velvety eyes, soft as dark~purple
violets after the dew of sleep, roving about the
elegant chamber, drinking in, with a sense of
luxurious delight, the details of its decoration
and furniture, her busy mind ran over a thou-
sand improbable plans for retaining the foot—
hold she had secured in this house.

“ l muststay here!” she said, over and over
again; “I will stay here! He said he had no
Wife. What a proud man he isl—not hand—
some, but better than handsome—a perfect
king! It’s a. revelation to poor, ignorant little
me! I did not dream there were any such
men! Yes, I am going to stay! I will stay!

“ Mrs. Plimpton don’t like me. She Will
Want to hurry me ofl——but I am not to go.
Did not Josephine foresee that she was to be an
lEmpress-when she was only a poor young girl!
She believed in her destiny, and so do I in
mine! I have been wronged—~wickedly, cruel—
ly wronged. A girl whom I hate has my
name and my rights; but I will triumph over
them all; I will; la belle petite is not to be put
down! She will live, thrive, triumph" she will
be empress yetl” ‘

La b’elle petite jumped softly out of bed and
stole to the mirror.

“Providence has given me a gift which oth-
ers cannot take away,” she murmured, as she
gazed at herself in the glass. u “They may take
my father, my name, my fortune—~they can-
not take my beauty! My beauty shall be to
me what the sword of the warrior is to him—-
1‘ Shall conquer the world for me. 

“ Ah, yes, la belle petite, you are very beau-
tiful—«there’s no denying that!” and she con-
tmued to gaze at her image lovingly, caressing-
13'; ' “‘My face is my fortune, kind sir, she
*Sald.’ No pale, expressionless blonds, like Vio-
‘9‘3 could be as attractive as I am. A man
might look. forever into my eyes and he could
never see to the bottom of them. How lustrous
and large they are this morning! And what .
color I have! I wonder if this Mr. Rhodes—
forty ye?” 01¢ if he is a day l—ever saw eye-
18§hes With such a curl to them as mine have!
Eight 0’010ck!” looking at her tiny gold watch,
Which she drew from under er pillow, “and
no Signs of life in this house yet. They keep
lugmnous hours here. Hark! there is! my
fmend, the housekeeper, now—coming to call
me up. Yes, ma’am, I’m awake, and quite
Well, thank you; I’ll be dressed in a few mo-
ments.” ‘

“ I’ll come for you in twenty minutes, Miss,”
said Mrs. Plimpton, on the other side of the
door. “We. will have our breakfast to-
gether.” - .

“Oh!” breathed Florence to herself, more
disappointed than she cared to acknowledge,
“ of course I am not to breakfast with his king-
'hlp- .Iaeem tobe regarded quite in the light
of a beggar here. Suppose I should be dismiss-
ed. after the charity of the morning meal, and
11°“ see him again, at am But I will see him!”
added Miss Beauty, setting her little foot down,

dwidGCuY- “1 must light my own battles—I
must help myself.

“What a hams that I have no other dress

\ toput on,” she sighed, as 31191.6 ded 1mm
favor the drab-silk garment wigs; EYE,” ‘

chair. Florence nan Obtained ner disguises out
Of a chest of ancient costumes in the mt at
home. “Lucky for me that I thought to put
r(Ea-colored ribbons in the pocket~they win

' 80 very well with the. gray, after all.” ,

She brushed out the purple-black hair into a
Ousand rippling tresses, pinned a little rose.

°°1°red bow in their midst; d0nnod the Quaker ‘

dress‘which fitted her trim little figure exact.
13': 3301‘ she had once altered it to wear to a
masquerade—placed another bow at the throat,
asSulned her watch and chain; the costly pink-
cora‘l earring“ and necklace which had been her
father’s last gift, and which she had secreted in
he? bosom along with the most of her jewelry.
‘There!” she ejaculated, almost satisfied, “I
am sure I look as fresh as if I had not fainted
at 1118 door-Step last night.”
a 10,7116“  Plimpton came for the stranger,
pass 915’ littlelady, modestas a rose and self—
esised'as a Drillcess, opened the door of her,
bet and fleshed out upon her, she was fair-

 

 

 

ly surprised out of her severe expression of
righteous condemnatidn.

“Well, I declare, MISS, you do look revived,”
she stammered.

“Call me Miss Golden, please,” said Flor-
ence... who had already decided to assume that
 as having the initial engraved on her
possessions, and as being a compromise with
the truth. “Yes, thank ydu, I am quite re-
covered from my illness, thanks to your care,
Mrs. Plimpton.”

“ It’s a. shame to make you eat here,” the
housekeeper remarked, as she led the way down
to the servants’ dining-room.

“ Oh,  don’t mind it, ma’am——-not for once,"
murmured Florence. “I am too grateful to
have been sheltered here, and protected by a
nice, motherly person, like you, Mrs. Plimpton.”

“Just so. It seemed to me more properer
you should eat with me than alone with mas-
ter. It wouldn’t be just the thing, you see,
Miss. He’ll have his coffee about nine o’clock,
in the breakfast-room overhead.”

Florence was burning to ask a'hundred ques.
tions about “the master;"'but she was too wise
to betray her curiosity about him.‘ She felt,
by instinct, that the moment she showed the
dragon—es, in her mind, she had already dub-
bed Mrs. Plimpton—her interest in Mr. Rhodes
she would excite her suspicibns and shut oir‘all
further communications.

80 she demurely ate her eggs and toast, and
sipped her coffee, saying nothing at all but
“ah,” and “ oh,” and “indeed;” yet before the
meal was concluded she had learned that Mr.
Redmond Rhodes owned the house in which he
lived—was very rich—~was in no business—led
a retired life -—did not care for ladies’ society

—-was a highly—esteemed, solid citizen—and ex-

pected to leave New York, on the evening
boat, for a few weeks’ sojourn at Newport and
other seaside resbrts!

“Checkmated at the very beginning of the
game!” thought little Florence.

“ And now, my dear young lady, what do
you propose to do!” asked the dragon, when
they had finished and were lingering over the
table. '

Florence cast a‘ sweet, innocent, apgealing
look out of her longsfringed eyes at the oman
sitting grimly regarding her—clasped her pret-
ty hands together, and said, sadly: ‘

“ Ah, Mrs. Plimpton, you advise me. I
know so little of the world 1" '

“ If you have a home the very best thing you
can do is to return to it,” was the decided an-
swer. “ You are too young—too good-look-
ing—though I don’t want to flatter you—to be
wandering about like a lamb in a den 0’ lions.”

“ Ema—supposing I cannot go home? Ahd
from no fault of my own?" ,

“ Do you know how to do any kind of work?”
snapped the housekeeper, looking at the soft
little hands and the pink-coral jewelry.

“ No, indeed, Mrs. Plimpton. I am an only
daughter—at least, IL-I always thought I was,
until lately, and that’s what makes the trouble,
you see—but I can’t and I won’t explain it,”
—rather incoherently~“ and the greatest pet,
Mrs. Plimpton! Oh, I am spoiled, I lmowl—a
poor, potted, vain, spoiled darling—good for
nothing practical. My father is a rich man——
not rich like Mr. Rhodes—but a respectable
banker. He did something wrong; I could not
bear the disgrace; Iran away. 1 will never—-
never—never go back —not if I die. I cannot
work; but I have money to pay my board for
a. long time. Mrs. Plimptbn I have just
thought of something!”

' “ What is it, Miss?” , -

“ If Mr. Rhodes is really going away this af-

ternoon, why cannot I remain here with you

1

.until his return, or just before his return? I

need not see him agam' at all—I cant-713qu my
room all day. You might ask his permission.
If he is so good and kind as he appeared 135%
night he will make no objections. I Will take
one of the plainest rooms; and my meals With
you; and reward you handsomely for all .the
trouble I am to you. I shall feel so safe with
your—you can pass me off as your niece from
the country, if ,you see "fit. Then, probably,
before Mr. Rhodes comes, back you can place
me. with 501.119 acquaintance: of. mentors-:2 . _

LU

 

 

 

,..

\

“ Let us hope, before that. you will be among
your own friends,” interrupted Mrs. l’linlpton.
“I see no objections to keeping you, provided
the master is willing. It’ll be mighty lone—
some for a young thing like you—nobody but
me an’ two servants.”

“ I shall be lonely wherever I am,” was the
answer, while the dark eyes filled and the lit-
tle mouth quivered. “All I ask is to be under
the care of a respectable, Christian woman. I
got so frightened yesterday; I did not know,
until then, what it is for a girl to be alone.
And, Mrs. Plimpton, remember! I am a lady
—and must be treated as one. I shall prefer
to take my meals with you; but the servants
must understand that I do it from choice.”

“ Oh, certainly, Miss; any one could tell at
a. glance you was a lady. You shall have your _
own room, an’ the others shall treat you as if
you was master’s sister, as far as that goes. .
But, first; we must get his consent to your
staying at all.”

“I know that, dear Mrs. Plilnpton. And
now I will ,go to my room and remain there un- -
til Mr. Rhodes has breakfast-ed, and you tell me
my fate. Is that the material for a cap, in
your Sewing-basketl—then, let me take it with
me, and make it up for you. I will not spoil
it; and I shall be so restless, with nothing to
do.” '

She carried the basket of! with her. Fate
must have smiledon her maneuvers, for just
before she came opposite a certain door on the
first landing, on her way to the third floor, it
opened, and Mr. Rhodes looked out onssomo er-‘
rand of his own.

Notwithstanding his vivid recollection of the
scene of the previous night, a flash of surprise
and pleasure went over his sedate face ' as he
saw the bright, pretty, blushing, shrinking lit-
tle creature, who gave him a timid bow and
hurried on as if anxious to escape his inquiring
eyes. Why, what a marvelously-grme little
thing she was! And‘how youngl—and how ,
exceedingly pretty! ‘

“ It is well for her I saved her from the sta—
tion-house!” he thought. “ But, what fol«
lows?” ’ . ‘

He was pondering the question when he went
down to breakfast. He ate his meal like one
half-asleep. Hardly had he passed into the li-
brary, afterward, when Mrs. Plimptbn knock—
:d and wanted to know if she could speak to

1m. - .

“ Really,” he said, when she had laid the
stranger’s proposition before him, “I feel quite
relieved. I was wondering what we would do
with her. We cannot avoid all responsibility
in cases of this kind, however much we may
wish to. If you, Mrs. Plimpton, are willing
to assume the trouble of her I see .no further
objection.”

“ She won’t be any trouble to speak» of, air.
And thank you, sir.” - l

“ Stay. Perhaps I had better have a short
talk with the young lady. She will have hard
work to deceive me. If I decide that she is no
impostor you may keep her in the house with-
out distrust.”

“ It’ll be very embarrassing for her to meet
you, sir,” said the wise dragon. “ she’d
rather not, I know; for she told me so.”

“If she has a clear conscience she ought not
to dread any one,” said Mr. Redmond Rhodes.

“ If she shrinks from me it makes it the more
imperative I should see her. ” i
“ That’s only her modesty, as a young girl,

sin?” Very well; when shall I bring her to you,
sir ~ '

“ As soon as I have finished the morning pa-
per; say in half an hour.”

At the appointed time the housekeeper ap-
peared with the fair adventuress. Mr- Rhodes
arose from his chair, bowing courteously, and
handed  visitor one by the table at which he
had been staying; Mrs. Plimpton at a look
from him retired. He retained the morning
paper which he held in his hand, and, looking'
sharply into the velvety eyes that were timid
lyraised to his face. he said: '

“Miss Goldsborough, if I am not mistaka .
Florence sprung from her chair, turning pal. I
mg red 'endrpale again- , 4

at

r. '
1w e.

 

 

 

 

 

 

’12

 

l

-

I

 EYES AND BLUEWW

 

 

He smiled, and handed her the paper, point-
ing out a paragraph among the personals.

“$500 REWARD, for any information as to the
whereabouts of my daughter Florence. aged six-

teen, small of stature, dark eyes and hair, who left ;

home on the night of the second of J une, and is
InppOsed to have gone to New York. Address
“ETEAN Gonnssonouon, Banker,
“ Lycurgus, New Hampshire."

“See! how easily I can earn five hundred
dollars this morning!
in your roOm and step around to the telegraph-
ofiice,” and he half-smiled. .

“ But you will. not do it!” said the little girl,
in a low voice, coming nearer to him, and fix-
ing on him the full power of those splendid,
winning eyes. “ You will not do it, Mr,
Rhodes.”

“Why not!”

‘ “ A gentleman like you will not care for the
reward—not take it. You have no right to in-
form on me, sir. It is true that I am not yet
of age—a child, in the eyes of the law, subde
to my parents—but I am not a child, really. I
have judgment beyond my years; my father
has forfeited all claims on my respect or obedi-
ence; I made up my mind to leave home on
good grounds—ah, Mr. Rhodes, have mercy on
mel—have a little confidence in me, as one able
to judge for herself what she oughttodo! You
never had a sister, I am sure, or you would
pity me.”

She allowed two tears to brighten in her
splendid eyes and gather slowly on the long-

, curved lashes, where they glittered for a mo—

ment, like diamonds, before they fell. Then,
with a pretty, imperious ac ion she dashed
them from her peachy chee with her lace

handkerchief, and smiled at him coaxingly, like

a child begging for sweets.

“Tear out that advertisement, Mr. Rhodes,
please; for if Mrs. Plimpton should see it I’m
afraid the five hundred dollars would outweigh
her friendship for me.”

“Then I am not to telegraph to your fa-
ther?” '

“ Oh, thank you, sir!
generosity.”

Well, certainly, it was pleasant to have it in
his power to please and gratify this little crea-
ture. How her beautiful eyes kindled, and the
scarlet threads came out in her dark, clear
cheeks, end her whole expressive little figure
and vivid, splendid little face breathed the
gratitude and relief she felt! '

“I hope I shall have no reason to regret
yielding to your wishes—that you will be very
prudent and careful, Miss Goldsborough. This
is a censorious world; it will be easy for you
to incur its frown.” '

“ I shall not go out or come in—speak, smile,
move—except as' Mrs. Plimpton advises me.
I’m quite certain, sir, the watch of the dragon
will be sufficiently strict! Indeed, after the
«lesson of ' yesterday, I’m horribly afraid of
everybody, Mr. Rhodes. All I want is to hide
myself. And, speaking of hiding—~of course
the detectives will be looking for me now, in

You are an angel of

/ hopes of the reward. Don’t you think this

house, sir, is the very safest refuge for me in

> the whole city?”

“I do,” was the answer, after some reflec-
tion—“that is, provided you remain inside of
it, denying yourself all promenades.”

“I will not put my foot out of doors for a
month, Mr. Rhodes.”

“ You will be quite a prisoner this June wea-
ther. I am sorry for you. I give you the
freedom of the house -—the library, music-room,
picture gallery, and so forth."

“ Ten thousand thanks. May I trouble you
to tell Mrs. Plimpton sot-you see, I do not
wish her to think I presume.”

“ I will give her my orders on the subject.
She shall treat you well. And now, good-

, morning, Miss—Goldsborough. I have some

matters to attend to. Ah, Harold! how the
deuce did you get inl—I did not hear you
knock,” and in spite of a self-possession called
by acquaintances absolutely unassailable, a
slight flush of embarrassment and chagrin rose
in the face of Mr. Redmond Rhodes, as a dash-

"ing, foppish, brilliant-looking gentleman of

a

I have but to lock you ,

i and looked keenly from its master to the lovely. for me that this little episode will help to fill

 little lady who blushed and fled from the room,
5 not without throwing back a girlish, sparkling
glance at the new-comer.

, “James admitted me by the usual means,
 Redmond. ’But I must beg twenty pardons for

, F walking in here without warning. You see, I

never suspected—I did not know—«you of all
jrnen! Ha! ha! ha! But I do not blame you.
5 I shall never forget those eyes!———melted dia-
monds—night and fire—how they flashed!”

“ You oblige me to explain,” said Rhodes,
stiflly. \

 

CHAPTER IX.
nan nosns AND STOLEN swam" 8.

IN every large city there are a few men like
Fraser Harold: imperfect products of over-
civilisation, one might sa .
there, indulged from the awing of their first
breath, pampered in every way, they grow up
with nothing to do but to amuse themselves.
There is very little of the tough fiber of man-

ly becomes such hard work, that they let even

that go, and sink back into utter supineness.
Fraser Harold had more brains than some of

his class; he had considerable taste for art, and

about it.
on his neighbor, Mr. Rhodes, as a vine fastens
on a pillar.

hood in their make-up. Pleasure is their par-5;
suit, not their recreation, and as such, frequent-'

up the time, until I join Redmond in New.
port.”

Mr. Harold, senior, had been stricken down,
some weeks previously, by a slight attack of
something resembling incipient paralysis, and
this melancholy accident was detaining the
family in town beyond the customary time.
Fraser had resolved—his father now being able’
to sit up, and indeed, to hopple about his room
—that the other members of the household
Were sufficient to remain in waiting; and had
expected to start off ina day or two; new e
meekly resolved to attend dutiftu upon L‘s
parent, another week, and do what he con}
meantime, for the interest of his absent friem
Unselfish kindness! 

The only thing he could think of on the d5 ,.

4 following Mr. Rhodes’ departure, was to w k

Sons of rich fa- ‘

up and down in front of the house a few times:
“If she is a flirt,” he said to himself, “she

I will contrive to let me know that she observe

sometimes read a book or so, and could talk i
He had fastened himself, as it were, ‘

Whenever he was ennuied to death of his €

lady friends, his club, his horses, his yacht, his
pedestrianism, his cravats, he would mm in up-
on Redmond Rhodes, to talk about “pictures
and things.” In this way a sort of friendship
had grown up between the two men, arising
out of their very unlikeness.

Fraser admired the dignity and integrity of
his calm neighbor; who, in. return, half envied
him his airs of easy arrogance and his hundred

little graceful ways of appearing brilliant on ‘

small capital.

The Harold mansion joined that of Mr.
Rhodes—~was another one of those ample, lux-
urious twenty-five feet front houses, inside of
which goes on, in our magnificent metropolis,
such lavish, superb living. Fraser had two
sisters, both younger than himself, and both
married—one lived with her husband in her
father’s house along with Fraser and the
parents. This sister was always Selecting pret-
ty girls, out of the best society, for her brother
to marry, and he was always declaring that a
married life was no to his mind. ' When men
get to be thirty, wit the club habits and prin-
ciples of Fraser Harold, they, are not apt to ex-
change their brilliant freedom for the mono-
tony of wedlock—especially as their vanity is
generally satiated by the knowledge that they
camhave, their choice of the proudest, purest,
most accomplished girls, if they will only ask
for a wife out of the number.

Fraser went away from his farewell morning
call on his friend with a thought working more
actively than usual in his indolent brain. Red-
mond, foolishly sensitive as to what might be
inferred by the presence of a young and beau-
: tiful girl in his house, had indiscreetly con-
: fided to him, under his promise not to divulge
I the facts, the story of the little refugee, and
j that he had consented to allow her to remain
1 under his housekeeper’s protection during his
‘ absence. A dozen times during the day Fraser
.laughed to himself over the artless way in
, which Redmond had told him the story.

1 “But the child’s as safe with him as she
, would be with her mother. I never saw such
a fellow as Redmond is! The soul of honor—
7and as unsuspicious of others as he is himself
E immaculate. Ten to one that bright-eyed lit-
i tle beauty is an adventuress! He would never
,find' it out, if she were! I do think, as his
gfriend, I ought to look into the matter! 1
Lcould find out, in half an hour, whether she
iwere really a rural maiden in distress or an
‘ artful little humbug, Who knew all about Mr.
Redmond Rhodes before she fainted on his
door-step. I must contrive to have an inter-
Lview with her! Lucky for him that I don’t

 

smother sewed 911.9 HEW? WWW J 199.” the .9“? '95!  as amiss! .. sadness? 1

me.”

Poor Florence! time did pass wearily, mom
tonously enough, as- soon as the excite-
ment of Mr. Rhodes’ departure was over. She
spent the first evening in reading a novel; but
novels were not too plenty in the sclid library
of the house, nor was she found of any other
class of reading.

“ Oh, how shall I ever endure six weeks of
this!” she sighed to herself, as she walked aim-
lessly about, peeping out through the closed

blind, first of one window, then of another.

“ If I could even fling the shutters wideopen—‘Jv
or walk in that park—or go out shopping! But
no, I must even trust Mrs. Plimpton’s taste to
select the material for a dress or two! I dare
say I shall see a sky.blue muslin, or a do begs
in big plaids, when the package comes home.

‘ Oh, dear, dear, dear! who is that walking by

the house so often? What a handsome—what
an elegant creature! Oh, I recollect now! it is
the gentleman who came into the library as I
was going out of it, yesterday morning. He is

’ looking for me!” and she clapped her hands,

gleefully, while the color rushed over her tri-
umphant face. “ He need not deny it. He is
looking hard at he drawing-room windows! I
wonder if Mr. odes could have told him
anything about me? I suppose he did, and the
gentleman is naturally interested. Oh, dear!
what asplendid joke!
kind sir, she Said,’ ” trilled the slender maiden,
in a low voice, full of suppremd excitement,
and she whirled up to one of the sumptuous
mirrors lining the great room, and took anoth.
or long, fond look at the pretty, flying figure
and glowing face, which, dim as the light was,
laughed out at her like ‘a sunbeam.

All her wearinem was gone in a moment.
She had not the least thought of anything
wrong, for she was dangerously ignorant for
one so willful and so unprotected, but she im-
mediately determined that the gentleman
should not be entirely disappointed. .

-“ If he comes by again, he shall know‘that I , “

have noticed him,” thought the foolish chi]
happy to be admired. “I must have m e
quite an impression on him, in the half-a-min-
ute before I got out of the room. And he is so
splendid! Even Mr. Rhodes is not so perfect.
Poor Charlie Ward! I can afford to laugh at
you, since I have had the opportunity for com-
parison. Ah, here he comes again! I will
move the slats just a little—not enough for
himtoseeme, but to, lethim knowthatIam
here.” '

Fraser Harold, walking deliberately by for
the eighth time, had a glimpse of a tiny white
hand turning the slats of the shutters; instant-
ly his fine cambric handkerchief went to his
lips, he passed on, returning no more durin‘,
that day or evening.

The following morning, about ten o’clock,
the door-bell having rung, Mrs. Plimpton her'
self attended the summons—James had gone
with his master—only the chambermaid and
the cook's assistant were in the house, besides
herself, the cook having gone to Long Branch.
either to enjoy the sea-air, or to hire out at ex-

tra wages during the period of Mr. RhodeS’, ‘

absence. 0:; the door-step. stood Mr. Fraser-f 

 

‘ My face is my fortune, .

 

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at

I bility of ~it all summer—it might go astray.”

‘ Se; twenty minutes!
as

BLACK

1" I "|\ y-: " ‘ ~, g.

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,5,

‘18

 

. illeasant and polite as ever—a book in his

hand.

“ Mrs. Plimpton, if you willallow me, I will
Step into the library a moment and return
this volume — which I borrowed _of Mr.
Rhodes—to its place. He is particular about
1118 books; I don’t like to have the responsi-

“Cer‘tainly, Mr. Harold; very, true. But
l1:111 take it in myself, and save you the trou-

e.

“ Not the least trouble in the world!” brush-
mg by her and hurrying on into the library;
there was no one in it; but he was not dis-
? 'uraged by this. - .

Laying the book on the table, he dropped his

mdkerchief on it, and came out instantly,

)Wed slightly to the housekeeper, and ran
Lghtly down the steps. ‘

Hardly had the door closed before Florence
flew down from the ‘upper regions. -

.4; “I had such a fright!” she said, pressing
or hand to her heart. “ I thought Mr. Rho 3
.ad returned, andI would have to leave ygfi,
Plimpton.”
“ it was only a friend of his, next door, re
' g a book.”

" Oh!” and Florence, after watching the
dragon, dusting the drawing-room brie-ml)ch
with an old white—silk handkerchief, for a few
moments, slipped into the library, on the other
side of the hall. ‘

Her quick eye saw the handkerchief at once;
She took up the book and shook it-—a note
d“opp’ed out. This'she hid in her pocket, left
the book and handkerchief as they were, and

‘ made her way to her own room. The perfumed
b111et was Written in French, so that the dra-
gon, if she had fallen upon it, would not have
been any the wiser. Florence was a coquette
by nature; her eyes sparkled, as with a'little

" hesitation, she. made out the contents of the

note: -

“Mannnomunnu:—My friend Rhodes—one of the )’

nob‘est fellows who ever lived l—has to d me all
about you. I know that it would please him if I
could do anyth1ng,in his absence, to make your im-
Eiiggonment less tedious. I know, too, the difficul-

f‘ You must not be talked about; nor must Mrs.
Plimpton be offended. If I cou‘d coax her to allow
am to slip out and come to our house to see my sis-

r, your secret wou'd be safe with us, and my sis-
ter won (1 be very kind to you. At resent, perhaps
'We had best not venture so much. ' have thought Of
something. To—night Mrs. Plimpton will attend the
Weekly prayer-meetin of her church; E is like‘y
the servants will take he opportunity to do a little
visiting on their own account.

May I cal: on you? I know how you must suffer «

from your imprisonment, and I won (1 bring my sis-
Ltor: but she appens to have an engagement. If
you admit me, I promise to‘make a very brief call—-
For fear Mrs. P impton may
you to o to church, you might complain of
headache! f you knew ow much Mr. Rhodes
thinks of me, you won 'd have no hesitation in accept.
mg 11! offer of friendship, made half from com as-
31011 or your loneliness and half from the se sh
wish to do myself a p‘easure.
“ P Your neighbor and friend, F. H.
A ~ 8.——'1‘here are some red roses on the library

table. If I ma 0
the windowsmi’n ome, display one of those roses on

Alas, poor little foolish Florence! Nothing ‘

.' ad ever soflattered her vanity as that note.
er cheeks. burned and her heart beat all day;
she was quite happy, and went about humming
snatches of song, restless as some brilliant tro-
pical bird. Mrs: Plilnpton was coaxed to go

V. out and purchase for her a ready-made white

dress, on the plea that the Quaker silk was too
Warm, in that weather.

“ And bring me some fresh flowers, please,
Mrs. Plimpton. They are all I can have of the
summer weather, while I am so shut up.”

Florence came down to tea, in the white.

655 and the fresh blossoms; the housekeeper
thought she’might venture out to church, by
Wearing her Quaker ‘bonnet; but the young

3* feared to risk it. -

I shall not be at an lonely, Mrs. Plimpton,
thank you I will sit in the library with a
book I am. reading," ,

It was not until tea. was over, and the long
:umnier twrhght made the signal almost undis‘

mgmshable, that her tremng fingers got
>00ul‘age to hang the red rose on the sill of a
flIang-room window.

. lbs 219!“ housekeeper regret! t9 her praw-

\

 

b

er-meeting; the two girls stole out the base-
ment-door for a little visit to their friends;
Florence had the library well—lighted, and felt
quite satisfied with her own appearance; the
white, soft dress became her dark beauty more
than" any other; the carnations in her purple
hair and on her bosom were the very color of
her pink corals. She had not one idea that
what she was doing was dangerous Born and
bred with the belief that her beauty was to
bring her all the gifts of Cinderella's godmoth-
er—-a golden coach, and a prince, among them
—she looked on the advances of this brilliant
stranger as the natural, inevitable result of her
own supreme attractions.

Fraser Harold was too familiar with every
leaf of woman’s heart not to perceive this, as
the piquant little beauty received him with a
gracious, proud air, as if she were a princess
who had condescended to be amused by one of
her retinue. The dark, bewitching eyes were
fearless, clear and pure; the little girl was a
lady who would resent the iirst appearance of
a liberty. Ignorant she was, indeed, laughably
so, of some of the formalities of city life; co-
quettish, too—charmingly vain and coquettish
—-but innocent of evil intent or suapicions.
Her naivete was something delicious to the
wisest man of the club. Yet he could not di-
vest himself of a feeling of respect for the girl,
who was walking straight over a narrow and
rotten plank, as.if it was the gayest andlsafest
promenade in the world!

“Your twenty minutes are up,” said Flor-
ence, consulting her tiny watch with a grave
air that made her unutterably charming.
“You must go now, Mr Harold. I am,ever
so much obliged to you for taking so much
trouble to entertain me. I wish your sister

she is-—” here she came to a sudden stop,
blushing delighthllly.

” ‘ All 311 like her brOthery’ you were gOing to 1 revenge, hOWever natugrfihtis likIel to punish the in- a
y. o

1 wish I '

say—were you not? Thank you.
could make it seem right to Mrs. Plimpton for
me to call every evening; but I know she will
not allow it.”

“I call her the dragon,” responded Florence,
laughing.

“ Good! I shall have no other name for her
from this time forward.”

“But you must, go, Mr. Harold.”

“ I know it, I wish I was not so certain of
it. ‘ When shall we meet again. There is a.
key to the park gate in this house. I behave

- the dragon would let you walk in the park ev-

ery evening a half-hour for your health.” .

“She would offer to go with me. ”

“ She would get tired of it, after a trial—the
night-air will give her rheumatism—and after
that she will let you go alone.”

“I will see, Mr. Harold, what can be done. ,
You might bring your sister to the park.”

“Oh, of course 1” hastily. “I’ll arrange
that,” and he held ut his hand. ,.

Florence shook er head, and her girlie!)
laugh rippled through the room.

“ I don’t km. .57 you well enough to shake
hands with you yet." -

"‘ Then I can Only hope that our acquaintance
will improve,” and he bowed respectfully and
went cautiously away. ‘ .

But when Florence met him in the park, op-
posite the'house. two evenings later, his sister

EYESlAND‘BhUE.

 

still had engagements, and they walked about
together for a delicious hour under the kindling
stars and the murmurous, shadowy trees. ;
Fraser, was fascinated by his companion; she
was so unlike any other girl. But he was not
in love; he had none of those plans of *mar-
riage which the childish little thing who clung
to his arm had already begun to build in the
airy future; he had no conscienoeas to the con-
‘sequences to her of his sweet, flattering, sub
rosa attentions. What he sought—with the ‘

‘pitiless persitency of a Sybarite—was a passing

amusement; but for her—already her past life
was an idle dream, without meaning; she had
never lived till nowl How poor, pale and fad- ;
ed was her school-girl life in that dull New Eng— ;
land village! How different was this revela—
tion of what was possible~as soon turn back,
after one’s foot is set in, Faradise, to the‘dull, ,
. _ , ,

‘\

 

' plowed fields of earth. Even her vague re-

solves to be avenged on Violet, through Charlie,
were obliterated in the intense glow of her
present experience. And Fraser Harold knew
that he had secured her heart, and thatthe flut-

‘ tering captive was in his power.

 

CHAPTER X.
PERSONALS.

PALE as a statue of Despair sat Madame D'-
Eglantine on that sunny September morning
which should have witnessed her and her daugh-
ter's departure for New York. A few fleeting
weeks of more than mortal happiness had been
hers, after seventeen weary years of strife with
a world that seemed to league all its forces
against her; and now the battle was to‘be
fought over! Peace, the white dove, had flown
afar—all was doubt, distress, turmoil, while at
her mother’s heart tugged a heavy anguish
worse to feel than any trouble for herself had
ever been. 4

She sat in one of the deep windows of the
old-fashioned parlor, a. letter, which young
Ward had brought in from the post-office a.
few moments previously, lying in her lap, her
head drooped, her hands hanging idly, her eyes
on the floor.

Mr. Vernon was striding up and, down the
length of the room, evidently laboring under
intense excitement. He was pale, too; and a
dark frown made stern his usually placid coun-
tenance. Charlie stood by a table, his hat in
his hand, as if about to go; yet he lingered,
wistfully regarding the blanched face of the
lady by the window. ‘

The letter which had caused her‘ pallor was
in a handwriting familiar to all of them and

had come with you. I know I shall like her if i "m °n sometmng m this fasmom

‘Enrtm:
“ You. may be satisfied with your revenge upon
one who wronged you, but I am not. Unluckiiy,

nocent along with the not com lain of

anything you have done to me. Yet—I won er, will.

you sleep any the more soundly when I tell you that
my wife is dead—died one week a , and was bur-
ied. without my once having seen er—adied of the.
disgrace non inflicted, with pitilessjnstia'c... n 11;..-
and her childl—of grief for the step that chi d took.
in’ runnin
about to eseend. An innocent woman is dead—an
innocent woman revengedl I wish you joy.

“ But, madame, you ought to know me too well,
to rest as secure as on up ear to have rested, in
your work. When I ound t at the one creature on
earth I ever reall loved—my git
fled from me as if were a tiger, it i'd not im rove
the natural sweetness of my disposition. I a owed
you to have your own way—since I had no means of
preventing it. All the time I was arrangin the de-
tails of a counterplot, the execution of whio would

cause you some of the same kind of annoyance you ‘

have seen fit to inflict upon me. As my dearest
daughter has left me, I'inust console'myself with
the society of the other one—who never was a te—
vorite of mine.

“ Your lawyer, acute and learned as my friend
Vernon undoubtedly is, forgot to petition that you
should be decreed the care of our child! Very .Iike-
ly it new occurred to him that I would dis ute your
right: But I do dispute it. Until she is f age~or
for about seventeen months yet—I am her legal
owner. You will now petitipn, of course; but ion
before you can receive your decree I shall be out o
the country. In fact, our passage-tickets are pur-
chased, and we are, this moment, on our way to a.
certain steamer which will convey us beyond the
reach of any claims, made by the law upon my per-
son, or for the custody of our child.

“I shall leave an agent at No. 40, —-— Buildings,
New York, who will receive and forward any money
you may desire to contribute toward the support of
our daughter; ,

“And new, in conclusion, I have this proposition
to make to you. The day on which you give me no-

. tice~—whl0h you can do at any time throu '11 Mr.

Bank. the agent referred to~that you have iscov-
ered my daughter Florence and settled upon her

.the sum of one hundred thousand dollars I will

send your own puling brat back to your longing
arms. -

“ s I shall be obliged to live abroad hereafter, my
own means will be barely sufficient to my own com-
fort. You are richer than any one erson has a
right to be. I have no mind that my a '1d shall suf-
fer and norm enjoy ail‘iuence. Be wise and submis—

sive. Exert yourself to the utmost 101' the benefit

of Florence. Otherwise, you may suffer a liforlong
regret. You know that do not stop at half-way
measures. The fates of those two girls are in the
same boat. Take warning from these lines from
one who has yet the power to presecute-«o is still
, " Youn Mas-run."
“Ah, mon Dieu l” murmured madam '2, shiV~
ering as if with January cold, “he kno.vs well
how to wound and to turn the dagger into the

wound! Ishould have been on my small I.

t
I

from us to hide herself from the trouble ‘

F.0renoe—hed'

. ‘ _ q ‘ < I, V 4
Wi.m_._~._'flmju._u.___ .. in A; n. A :.._._:.__. .r‘ _ i “In- “All an Alumni.

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BLAoK EYES

 

never should have relaxed my vigilance while
he lived. Oh, my poor child! . He will inflict
a‘ million little, tortures upon hep—perhaps
drive her mad with his small persecutions.

_. Mr. Vernon, you should have warned me—have
prevented this thing happening.”

“ Madame, I did not know Ethan Goldsbor-
ough. I even felt for him great compassion.
I could not forget that wehad been friends and
neighbors. I did not even suspect that he
would try to give us further trouble. All we
can now do is to try to circumvent his plans to
get out of the country. Where was that let-
ter mailed?" .

“On the train, at midnight,” answered Char-
lie. “ This is Friday. There are no European
steamers leave New York on Friday. TWO or
three will leave on Saturday. We have plenty
of time for them. I will get a yesterday's Bos-
ton or New York paper and hunt out the ad-
vertisements of all the steamers, at all the
ports. We will telegraph, instantly, to all.”

What a torture is inaction under such cir-
cumstances! As soon as Charlie saw there was
somethingpositive to do he felt a certain re-
lief from the misery which prayed on his
young spirits.

He etched his hat and hurried off to find
a paper and to telegraph. Anxious inquiries
beset him at every step; and the news flew
swiftly about that the absconding banker had
kidnapped his own daughter and was trying
to get out of the country with her. Every-
thing was done which could be done by the
use of the telegraph to arrest Goldsborough's
flight. 2

Then Madame D’Eglantine and Mr. Vernon
took the noon train out of Lycurgus, desiring

to reach New York as soon as possible—.

before the 'sailing of the Saturday’s steamers,
While they were standing on the platform
awaiting the arrival of the train, already in
sight, Charlie canie running up, carrying his
duster and a small valise. ~
“ Do you go along?” asked Mr. Vernon, sur-
prised.
“Yes. I shall never cease my efforts, for a
, day or an hour, sir, until this tangle is straight-
ened. If Mr. Goldsborough gets off, I shall then
imake it my business to find Florence. Ifshe is
alive, I will trace her on .”
“How about your law studies?” asked his
. tutor, when they had taken their seats in the

car.

“ I shall be taking lessons in legal matters
that will be worth more to me than the books,”
answered Charlie with a sad smile.

“ I expected you to take charge of my house
and affairs,” added the lawyer.

“I made Mr. Lyman "(the minister)“ prom-
ise to attend to everything!’

“ Well, I am glad to have you with us,” said

" the elder gentleman, with a sigh; somehow he

felt more reliance on Ward’s young energy and
fire than on his own experience.

, ‘,‘ And I,” added Madame, with a grateful
look. “ Of course, I shall see that you go to
no expense, Mr. Ward. You must call on me

', for what money is wanted—and ah, do not

spare it! Do not spare bribes, rewards, any
thing that will be of service. You inspire me
with confidence, Mr. Ward; you seem so brim-
ming with zeal and resolution.” -

, “ My life and strength are at your service,”
said Charlie, flushing at this compliment from
one who had hitherto been studiously cold to

. him.

many secrets.”

“Use mine at your discretion,” responded
the madame. ‘

A warm feeling of hope crept about the young
man’s heart. The rainbow, for him, already
glimmered athwart the clouds; he would find
the naughty runaway Fierence, give her back
her ring—Violet would be returned to her
methen who, grateful to him as the means of
restoring her, would no longer frown down his
suit—-the ring given back to its owner, Violet
would not distrust him—and there, at the end
of the rainbow, if he could only come to it,
was a wedding-scene of blisSful beauty.

Then he dreamed in the swift-fiyin train.
But no things are further apart, in ' work-
arday world, than dreams audactualities.

I
I

“Plenty of money is a. good-thing, too, .

in 8' ca‘ée Of this kind‘ A 30mm key uDJOCkS  ure. From what heknew of Ethan Goldsborough .

l The‘party" arrived in New York on  day .

! morning, and had consultations With skill de-
;' tectives, who immediately—~rendered vigilant
! by splendid promises—boarded every steamer
; about to sail, and entered, also, into communi-
1 cation with their brother—oil‘lcers in neigboring
E cities. They tried penmasion, threats and
g bribes, on the quiet, little, shrewd-looking man
 whom they found at No. 40, ————- Buildings; but
‘, he was unyielding as the Sphinx. He smiled
j at the threats—which he knew were idle: the
‘ law could not compel himto betray the where-

doing what he had a legal right to do, claiming
the custody of his own daughter. ,
The rainbow was fading in Charlie’s sky
when he awoke the next morning, in his dull
sleeping—room in the hotel, and saw that it was
a rainy, raw, disagreeable day; realizing, at the
same time, that the city was “considerable of a

patiently fer so small a needle as little Flor-
ence Goldsborough.
He had not retired to rest the previous night

the following “.Personalfl’

“ F. G.—Charlie is in town and wishes for an in-
terview with the owner of the opal  He has
good news. of the greatest in ortance, o commu-
nicate. Will F. G. answer, t ough ‘Personals,’
when he can see her?"

With burning eagernem he devoured the per-
sonal column every day of the ensuing week.
No respOnse. Meantime madame had selected
a handsome suite of rooms in a private up-
town boarding-house and settled herself there-
in; while Mr. Vernon, seeing that nothing had
been gained so far, and the search likely to
prove a long one, had returned to Lycurgus to
arrange his affairs so that he could spend the
winter in New York as at first proposed. ’

0n the second Sunday Ward had another ad-
vertisement: ’ I, .

“ F. G.—Y our mother died three weeks ago. Her
relatives lives at No. — Lexington avenue, where
you can hear of her death, b inquiring. V. V. is
supposed to be in Europe. 0 is your father. I
have much to tell. Do respond. _ Gasman."

A fortnight more dragged slowly by. It
had some consequences. Madame D’Eglantine
had no sooner settled down in her elegant apart-
ments than ,a wild, feverish unrest took poss-
ession of her. '

“I can not remain here—in this country,”
she cried, in the first moment of greeting Mr.
Vernon on his return—“my darling is in Eu-

her whereabouts by going abroad and travel-

drawn thitherward by a power I have no wish
to resist. Come! We will sail“to-morrow—in
the Germania. ”

“But you have engaged these rooms for the
season!” . '

in my place. He shall stop here, and continue
the search for that willful girl who is making
us all so much trouble. I must go. I can not
sleep—eat —breathel I feel sufi‘ocated. The
suspense is killing me. It comes when I am no
longer able to bear it. Only travel—change of
scene—the constant expectation of finding my
darling, Will enable me to endure.” '

He was powerless before her impetuous will.
Indeed, as he had much business to transact for
1 her in France, and there was little doubt but
i that Violet had been taken to some foreign
country, his own judgment approved the meas-

 

g he inferred that he would seek retirement in

hay-stack ” in which he might search long and i , _ , ,
: whirling by quite close to the curb-stone, drawn

ing from place to place. My heart tells me‘

that I shall find her in Germany. Oh, I feel  “out o, sight now! Besides, I ain’t no busi
_ , _ -.

abouts of his client when the client was only "

l

until he had sent to each of the Sunday papers '

l
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life; the consciousness of work to do gave him
a certain dignity, very becoming to him. He
wore his curly lockslike a second Hesperion.
D0wn-town he was hustled in the bustling
crowd; but when he left the Sixth avenue car
which he “had taken, and walked along up to
Fifth Avenue, and on toward the house—where
a luxurious suite of rooms awaited him, which
would have inspired the envy of almost any of

the refined fops about him—many a bright eye ,

glanced boldly or shyly, as the case might be,
at the handsome msticus.

Perhaps some of these beauties felt flattered
at his earnest observation; but it wasonly a
habit into which Charlie had fallen, of looking
into every young and pretty face in his search
for Florence’s.

As he sauntered along, lonely and pre-occuo
pied—so sad that he almost felt sick of life—his
eyes fell, by the merefi chance, on the occu
pants of a small, open carriage which was.

by a pair of beautiful jet-black horses, whose
gol -plated harness flashed in the sun.

ere were only two people in the carriage,
the gentleman doing his own, driving. He was.
a man to compel a second look—perfectly
dressed, driving his spirited team with easy
skill, having an expression of refined dissipa-
tion on his pale, handsome features.

“I have seen that face at the windows of the
club house on the next block,” thought Charlie
and then his eye fell carelessly on the lady who
was the gentleman’s companion. He saw an.
exquisite little figure richly attired, a tiny
hand cased in a lavender glove; but her face
was quite concealed by a double vail pinned
carefully abouther hat as if in care of her com-
plexion. Yet, though the face was masked by
the grenadine vail, something in the turn of
the round, slender figure, the poise of the head,
struck Charlie as very familiar. The carriage
had not fairly passed, when he cried out, aloud,
so as quite to startle some of the people about
him: '

“It is Florence!” _ -

He turned. If it was Florence, she had seen
him and given the alarm, for the gentleman.
had already spoken to his mettlesome horses and.
they were flying along at the highest rate of
speed allowed. The carriage turned the first

' corner and dashed on. Charlie ran in pursuit,
' indifferent to the curious observers who paused.

rope—who knows but that we may discover 1

“Never mind. Mr. Wardshalloccupy them f

j some large city—Paris, London, Vienna, Berlin. f

! Charlie saw them on the Germania, and turn—

ing, as the ship got slowly out into the stream, -

. he walked away, muttering:

i “ And now, I must begin in good earnest. E

‘1 Inch by inch I must go over the ground ”——a
; laughable idea, when we reflect that that ground
4 was the great city and its suburbs which
{ stretched about him for
3 tion, except that toward the rear.

1 Stem resolution was stamped on the young E
l
I

features which had already gained in manli—

! ness, since his experience had been so suddenly
‘ enlarged. His boyishdiflldence was wearing '

an
‘ l
v’,

miles in every direc-l'

l

1 may wider til?  Wflwpolitw ‘

to find out What the matter was. ,
“Stop that carriage, will you?” he shouted
to a dignified M. P. on the south side of the.
block. -
“ Too late,” said the officer, shaking his head

ness stopping the carriage of a gent like Mr.
Barold."' ~ '

“ Harold!” gasped Charlie—“then you know '

him?” . '
“ Like a book,” said the M. P., ostentatiously.
“ His club is on my beat. See him every day.

B’longs to ourcfust families—regular high~fiyerf
Don’t care for his money—4’

“Any more than I do for mine,” said Char-
lie, quickly, slippingafifty dollar greenka in-
to the man’s hand. “ I don’t carefor Mr. Haro
old, but if you will find out where the lady

j lives, whom he had in the carriage this after-

noon, I .will premnt you with the twin of that
' n

bill.

“I’ll spend all my spare time. when I’m off
duty, till I do find out,” responded the police'
' ' “ Didn’t think that quiet chap,

man, grinmn . V
with a kind of Boston air about him, was up to

such tricks that are vain,” he commented to
himself, as Charlie went on and he pocketed
the greenback.

“If that Was Florence—and I believe it
was!" murmured Charlie, “I 'am afraid she
has fallen into a terrible Share. What is she
doing, out driving with that insolent fellow‘t
By heaven! I would like to wring his neck for
him! Ah, Florence! poor, motherless, willful,
vain Florence! I tremble for you! I pray that
I may find you speedily, if it be-not already

too late to find you the saine innocent little girl ‘

with whom I have played, when you wore
short drwsesand a white sun-bonnet -—not so

very long ago!” mused the honest young felv ~

~low,owith a‘sad smile.

, ,

l , /
“I’ve half a mindyto linger around‘the club» \

 

 

 

‘- V ' 1 BLACK EYES'AND'BLUE.

\

 

house and shake the truth out of the puppy
when he comes back there i”

' CHAPTER XI.
WHAT, WILL HE no ABOUT rr
To return upon our history‘ to Fraser Harxd
and Httlddark—eyed Florence whiling away e
moonlit J une evenings together—dangerous
amusement for one of the two! Scarcely a day

 

passed, for four brief, bewitching weeks, but that ”‘

Fraser contrived, in some way, to talk with,
write to, or walk with his new acquaintance.
Florence usually asked Mrs. Plimpton to walk
with her for an hour inthe, park, after dusk, and
usually her guardian-dragon declined, ,with the
advice that she should go, however, for the air,
as she must require it and the exercise to keep up
her health. To this the little prisoner would give
a meek assent, and stealing overto the shadows
of the great trees in the inclosed" grounds,
would soon be joined by an impatient lover,
whohad ntagood partofhis dayinwait-
ing for t hour-or, at least, so he always as-
sured the young creature who Welcomed him
with such a blush and smile as not even the
dusk and shadows could quite conceal. ,
Fraser’s father was not quite so well as he
had been; the family lingered in town on his
account; and so the very Fates seemed leagued
‘ against our run-away by detaining the young
Sybarite in her vicinity. Florence had betray-
ed how romantic and impracticable were her
views of life, in coming to New York as she
did. It cannot be expected that she should
have acted with prudence subsequently. She
lived in a dream-world——during those days—-—as
‘ different from the actual one as are the visions
0f the seventh heaven entertained by the luxu-
rious Moslem, from the true heaven.
) Hot wildest hopes, her most splendid pictures
of life, were to be swiftly realized. The most
eleganavnoble, fascinating man that ever trod
the streets of New York was to marry her. He
wasfabuleusly rich; and she was to be decked
in Silks and jewels and to step into the magic
circle of fashion and power. ‘

Her heart was set to run to that tune~—-“ pow-
er, Wealth, triumph, love -—-love, triumvh,
gealth, Power!”—and it beat to it most sweet—

For she was a selfish little thing. .Madly in'
love with Fraser Harold, she was to cal-
culate the advantages of marriage wi such a
man, and resolved that her beauty should be
the magic key tdmpen‘ to her the doors of plea—
sure and pride.

She would wear diamonds and dremes from
Paris; she would have everything on earth her
fancy craved; she would have all Fraser’s club
friends, of whom he talked, to her sometimes,
admit her beauty—ah! what a flowery path
was marked out for her elastic little foot!

And yet—if she had prudently stopped and
recalled that factlnFraser had never yet said
8 Word to her about marriage. He had made
low ‘30 her—recklessly enough—but he had
committed himself to no promises. In the aims
P!" “11389 Where she was reared, young men
dld no” make 1W9 to young women unless they
“Shed 17° marry them. She took everything
for granted 5110 only Wished that her admirer
would be more impulsive and urge her to wed
him before Mr. Rhodes’ return; as then she
Evaculd beShcgitZen from her present home and

vs no r proper to one of
“om. . her expecta-

Twoor three times she asked Mr. Harol in
her pretty, confiding way, what he thoughti’she
ought to do when Mr. Rhodes came back, and
he had laughed, with some light assurance that
She would be' provided for.

So our foolish little beautv lived on air. The
{3:933 mirrors which rose from flyor to ceiling

. “19 grand reoms, where she was free to
{Wm about, as proudly as if they were her
~;‘Vn“‘flattered her unceasingly as she flitted

my“? to another. They told her that Fra-
wr “mm on}? spoke the truth when he paint-
“ he“ in his gay and gallant phrases: .

“ As one made u
01 loveliness alone?‘

Although so small, Florence’was exquisitel
' '\ I I i y
'  \Qelul; the/excitement under which she now

’was at work, hard, many of those long, hot

 

continually lived, added new glory to the large,
deep—fringed eyes lighting up the small, dark
face, new bloom to the peachy cheeks, new
witcheries to voice and smile. She was, too,
one of those actual devotees at the shrine of the
Goddess of Fashion, who catches every murmur
of the oracle; and there was not a trick of
movement, drapery or manner of the haughty
and high-bred woman who flitted by her win-
dows but our rustic belle Caught it and made it
her own. 1

A busy month that was to Florence, as well
as the most important one of her short life.
She had no time for ennui. In the morning,
after breakfast, she haunted the windows, hov-
ering behind the half—turned slate of the blinds
like some houri behind the lattice-work of her
courts, until Fraser Harold had passed byon
his way down-town.

The one stolen glance which he directed to-
ward the windows was enough for her to live
upon until evening; though often, by some pre—
arrangement, he contrived that she should get
a little note or a flower in addition. We have
said that our heroine had plenty of energy; she

hours, after she became acquainted with Free
ser, cutting, fitting and making for herself half
a dozen beautiful dresses. This was work she

was not accustomed to; butMrs. Plimpton re- "

fused to bring a dressmaker to the house while
her master was away, and Florence would have
these rich garments prepared in anticipation of
the day when her lover would ask her to go to
church with him; and then, from church to his
family. She spent all but a hundred dollars on
finery—on a wedding trousseau before she had
been asked to become a bride. At first, Mrs.
Plimpton remonstrated with her on her extra-
vagance; but mademoiselle assured her, loftily,
that she was going where finer things than
those would be required; and as the housekeep—
er knew little about her mysterious guest and '
the girl appeared to have plenty of money, she
felt that she had no business to interfere, and
patiently fulfilled all orders.

When Florence had finished an elegant robe
she would put it on, and sweep about the dim
drawing—rooms like a fairy princess, smiling at

 

her own beauty and longing for the time to
come when she could Wear her pretty things I
openly for Fraser’s admiration, instead of being ‘
compelledtostealtohimin theshadowandiny
her plainest garb.

All of a sudden, on the fifth of July, just a
month after his de Mr. Rhodes returned
to his house on Gramercy Park. 

Without even a telegram to the housekeeper.
he arrived one evening about nine o’clock. He
asked for a cup of tea, and when she brought it
up to him in the library, and he had hurried
over a few questions about her health, the state .
of the house, and so forth, he added:

9 And how about your young visitor, Mrs.
lIl’liigz’i’ptoniuhave you had any trouble with

or ,
“None at all, sir. She’s a bit vain and ex—
travagant, I’m thinking, sir; but an innocent
thing, quiet as a lamb.” ,

, “Been contented, shut up here alone as it
were?"

“ She ain’t worried or complained a mite, sir.
Mover spoken to a soul but me, sir, all these
Weeks; yet she seems cheerful.”

“You think, then, she is all right—that her 3
story was not made up for the occasion, Mrs s
Plimpton?’ ?

“ Oh, she’s no bad one, Mr. Rhodes. I’m j
certain 0’ that. But what under the sun an’ ,
moon she’s going to do, beats me. She ain’t ;
nowise confidential, air; and she’s made herself 1
beautiful clothes, and says she’ll have need of i

em.” , ‘

“Perhaps she is going back to her father. I
have often regretted that I did not answer his
advertisement. She pleaded with me not to; ;
yet she is too young to judge for herself. I am
afraid I ought not to have listened to her.” ‘

“ And are you home for the rest of the sum- '
mer, sir?” inquired the housekeeper, with some
curiosity; she had been very impatient to learn r
:nhat had brought her master back so unexpect- i

Y- «' ‘

. ‘Oh, no; only

 

I

tired of Newport, and am on my way to Sara-
toga. Of course I would .not pass through the
city without stopping a day to see how you are
getting on. Miss Golden need not be frighten-
ed away from here just yet. I shall proceed
on my way Thursday. The thought of her has
worried me a good deal. Ithink Iwill urge
her to-morrow to tell me her true reasons for
fleeing from home, and perhaps advise her‘ what
course to pursue. I am glad to hear that you

15* .

have no great fault to find with her, Mrs. .

Plimpton. It would have been a mortiflcation
to me to have had it turn out that she was the
companion of some heart-smasher of a burglar.”

“She’s no character like that, Mr. Rhodes.
I never thought that of her. But I wouldn’t
have much to sayto her, for all that, if I
was you, sir,” added the shrewd housekeeper,
anxious to keep her master out of the fatal
range of the womanly artillery of eyes and
lips, which the “ natural-born flirt ”-—-as she so-
cretly dubbed Florence—would direct at him.

Mr. Rhodes sighed, leaned his head on his
hand as if weary, and forgot to drink his sec-
ond chp of tea.

“Where is she now?” he asked, suddenly
looking up. > I

“Bless me, sir, how you startled me! She’s
taking a. bit of air and exercise inside the park
railings, sir.” “ _

“ At this time of night!”

“ Why, sir, it’s not late, for a summer even-
ing. The poor child doesn’t put her foot out
0’ doors until after dark. She generally asks
me to go with her; but I don’t like the night-
damp; and it's quite safe in the park, as you
know.” 4”

“ I will just step over and escort her across
the street,” remarked Mr. Rhodes, rising, en-

tirely forgetful that he might be observed in

this ax:th kindness by some of his neighbors.
However, the most of the houses in the vicino
19y were closed for the season; he supposed the
dwelling of his friends, the Harolds, to have
been deserted some time ago; and as he did re-
call the fact, in going down the steps, that he
should not care to be seen escorting a young
lady—for whom he could not account—into his
mansion, it consoled him to remember that his
acquaintances were probably far away. ' ‘

He went lightly down the steps, across the ‘

street, and into the park. The moon was at
the full, and shining so brightly in a clear sky

that the lamps had notbeen lighted. The park ‘ ‘
was deserted, except for a solitary couple pac- ‘

ing slowly up and down a tree-shadowed walk
some distance away. Mr. Rhodes peered-sharp-
ly about at the seats under the trees, expecting
soon to discover a little figure nestled on some
one of them. He could not have answered had
he asked himself why he felt such a strange,

gentle pleasure in this guest—why such a warm '

thrill of benevolent impulse, of desire to cherish

and protect this wild,-foolish, imprudent, but .

innocent little creature, ran through his usually
cool veins, as he walked about in the light and
shadow looking for Miss Golden.

Her bright face, framed in its pur'ple hair,

and illumined with those glorious eyes, had
haunted him so much since he went away, that
actually, he would have felt love-sick and dis-

appointed, had he been told, on reaching his.

threshold, that the pretty stranger had taken
flight. Yet he was almost totally unaware of
his feelings. He knew now that he tooka cer-
tain pleasure in coming out to find the lost
bird, who, frightened and panting, had beaten

its wings against a new cage, seeking shelter,

and been admitted.

He made the entire circuit of the park. No
one-not a creature—~but the couple pacing up
and down that leafy avenue. Had Miss Golden

: seen him, and, alarmed, taken flight again? r

His spirits sunk; his feet lagged. He leaned

against the trunk of» a tree; for wantof some- ‘ ‘

thing else to do just then he watched the pair.
walking away down the arcade-a pair of, lov~

ere, evidently, for the lady clung tenderly to ,

the gentleman’s arm, with face lifted to catch the
low words he spoke as be bent his head to mur—
mur in her car. It was not until they had turned,
and wanting back, approached within a few

. s feet of him, that a sudden suspicion darted in-
for a day or two. Igrew ,‘ 4 ‘

I

,. Wham... .c, p... M.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

:

716

BLACK EYES/AND BLUE. ~‘ ' 

i ' l ,-

 

 

figure, with the haughty, graceful head bent

half-condescendinglyl—surely that slender lit« :
' tle form—Mr. Rhodes stepped quickly out into
the center of the path, just as the two emerged 
from black shadow and advanced under the full ‘

splendor of the moon, until, seeing and recog-
nizing him, they started and stopped.

It was not often that Fraser Harold was guil-
ty of the weakness of blushing; but now, as he
met the blazing eyes of his neighbor sternly
reading his face, a deep purple flush passed
over it. Rhodes looked at him until his eyes
sunk, and then his contemptuous gazeturned
on the girl, who, pale and shrinking, yet clung
to her companion’s arm, and whose eyes, al-
though frightened and expanding, did not low-
er, but met his own honestly.

“So! this is the way you abuse my confi-

’ deuce, is it?” he spoke, after a full minute’s si-

lence, addressing the girl.

“Is it very wrong, Mr. Rhodesi—I did not
mean it to be,” she replied, humbly, casting at
him a piteous look, brimming with tears. “ I

,should have told you all the moment I sat? you,

if you had given me the opportunity.”

“I found your little friend in the park, so
lonely and sad, that I took it upon me, for your
sake, Rhodes, to help her pass the time. No harm
done, I hope.” added Mr. Harold, with an at
tempt to laugn down the dark frown on his

‘ friend’s face.

“I am afraid there 1's harm done, Fraser;
this young girl is under my protection.” '

“ 0h!” sneered Harold, “if you had told me
that I should not have interfered.”

» “What do you mean, Mr. Harold?"

“What do‘ you mean, Mr. Rhodes?”

“I mean that if this young lady is innocent,
as she appears to me, I consider it my.duty to
protect her, as if she were my sister. ' Under-
stand! I will do it, by Heaven! If you have
deceived her, you shall answer to me for it, as
one gentleman answers to another. Now you

' have my meaning.”

Fraser was brave, to recklessness, but his de-
based moral nature quailed before the “right-
eous indignation” that flamed in the.face of the
man who confronted hun. Yet he had no idea
of giving up his prey. So infatuated had he

. become with the mingled art and artlessness,

. ', , the daring and simplicity, the ctmning and
I ~ childishuess combined, of the beautiful girl, that

~ it would now have been the blackest disappoint-

ment of his life to have her snatched from un-
der‘ his influence by another. ,

The two men glared at each other like tigers.
Fraser’s blush had given place to a marble pal—
lor; his lips were curled so as to show the line
of his white teeth—he no longer shrunk from
Rhodes’ regard, but answered it with a wicked
look of bold triumph.

Redmond Rhodes, older, colder, wiser, was
quite as fiercely excited. In that first sharp
pang which darted through his breast when he
recognized the pair in that loverly attitude, was
revealed. to him the truth. He, too, was in
love with the little adventuressl

His rage was prompted by his jealousy; his
indignation by his knowledge of his rival's
character. A sweet memory of the sweet face
from which he had wiped the false wrinkles
had haunted  in his journeyings and brought
him home, to find those bright eyes shining,

v those curved lashes drooping under the love~

look of another. And that other, his friend—-
but a friend who could not be trusted in his af-
fairs with women. V
If Redmond had made up his mind to become
the wooer of the unprotected beauty, he would
have approached her with all the more delica-
cy and reverence on account of her position;
but he knew that this was not the style of
Fraser Harold.
; He was terribly jealous. Having been calm
and restrained all these years, itwas as if a
long-extinct volcano had suddenly flamed forth

’ a in fire and molten torrents. He had gone away,

and in his absence, Fraser, the insolent, the
graceful, the selfish, the all-conquering, had
stolen into’the company of the simple little girl,

_  wiled her very heart out at her melting

to Redmond Rhodes’ mind. They were in deep I
' shadow; but surely he knew that tall, elegant

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“ IIdo not know what has ed between
you and this gentleman; but I do know that he
is a dangerous friend for you; and I warn you
never to speak, to him again. I want you to
promise me that you will break off the ac-
quaintance here and forever.”

“0h. Mr. Rhodes, I cannot do that. I love
him, and he loves me—he has told me so a
thousand timesi—and I believe him!” and she
darted a. trusting smile and glance at her avow-
ed lover.

‘snonm; mm epetu qqfinoqq qu, ‘ 'selfe
pass

introduced you to his parents and sisters?”

“ You have asked me to marry you, have
you not, Fraser?” she asked, turning and laying
her tiny ‘hand on his. “Or, if you have not——
in so many words—" she stammered, as she
suddenly recalled the fact that never in all his
passionate love-talk had he once mentioned the
subject of marriage—“it is understood, is it
not? Of course I expect to marry him,
soon,” she said, with the air of a princess.
am making my wedding-clothes, now—for I
know Fraser would not—wish me to be depen-
dent—oh, Fraser, why do you not speak, and
tell Mr. Rhodes how you love me,‘ and intend
me to be your dear little wife, right away?” she
suddenly broke forth, looking up with an ex-
pression of mingled reproach and confidence
that would have melted a very selfish heart in-
to an honest resolution. ‘

The man of pleasure hesitated. He had
gr0wn wonderfully fond of this silly little
country girl—but it was opposed to every habit
and idea of his, the thought of tying himself to
a wife, even were she the daughter of all the
ancient Knickerbockers. So he stammered, as
he looked down into her loving eyes:

“You know, Florrie, my sweet, that I would
never harm you. I would be just as careful of
you and your good name as this man, who is

' g to make trouble between us.”

“ Oh!” moaned Florence, wringing her hands,

“I wish it were not so late—or that I knew

away this minute from you two men, and nei-
ther of you should ever see me again. Fraser,
you swore to’me that you loved me.”

“I do, my girl—I love you to distraction.”

“Very well,” interrupted Rhodes, struggling
to speak calmly—“ and you love him?”

“ As my life!" '

“Then, allow me to make a. suggestion to
you, sir. It is not too late to find our mutual
friend, the Rev. Mr. Brown, inhis parlors. He
will unite you to this. lady without delay. I
will accompany you to the rectory and give the
bride away. Situated as she is, if you have a
spark of manliness, Fraser Harold, you will
marry her to-night.”

The white fingers of the moonlight painted
the three faces even more pallid than they had
become through emotiOn. That of the last
speaker glowed with ,the dignity of his feel-
ings; in that moment of manly defense of
helpless beauty he looked so grand, so more
than any merely young and handsome man
can look, that Florence, panting, distressed as
she was, even in the very instant of suspense,
stole at him a look of admiration and grati—
tude. '

Fraser, as if ashamed to have the pure moon
read his face, shrunk a little into the shadow,
and when t girl to whom he had been
making passionate‘love for a month, turned

 

again,_timidly stretching out her little hands

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“Has he asked you to marry him? Has he ,

and?
“I:

one soul in this great city beside—I would go ;

Itoward him ‘with a touching gesture of faith,
he half averted it from the eager glance of the
great, soft eyes. The two others waited so
long for his answer it seemed to them he had
determined not to give it.

CHAPTER XII.
a. NEW DANGER.

AMONG the frequenters of the gambling ta.-
.ble ata certain German Spa, in the season of
1870, none attracted such universal attention
as a certain American gentleman known there
; as Mr. Goldenough. It was not that he
‘ played with a dare-devil recklessness—nor even
, that he had a marvelous run of luck which
continued week after week and made him the
f envy of the old play-eaters who lived on the
feverish drug of a. morbid excitement—but
 that he was generally accompanied by his
J daughter—~a young creature, scarcely seven—
’flteen, whose rare and delicate beauty, of a type
to set raving the coldest critics of woman’s
i loveliness, was enhanced by her evident utter
indifference to it, and the sweetly—sad expres-’
sion of a pair of blue eyes whose purity was
like that of the deep Alpine lakes which mirror
I nothing but the heaven above them. .

i Tall and slender; with hair, like the ripple

of sun~burnished waves, coming low and thick

5 over a smooth white forehead, there was a

‘ freshness perfectly exquisite in the pure pink
and white of her complexion—a charm, of it-
self, seldom 'seen except in her own land; while
the short upper lip and the full under one, gave
just enough promise of tenderness and warmth

, to soften the cold beauty of her other features.

She was always dressed with plain elegance—

no more coquetry in her attire than in her

‘ manner; always accompanied the pompous,

j handsome father who spent hours of every af-

1 ternoon and evening at the magic tables; al-
ways waited with the same air of pensive in-

, difference. Counts and dukes, barons and gay

' young bloods might stare at her by the hour;

; the only sign of consciousness of their observa-

3 tion she ever gave was to draw down her vail

‘ if any one’s stare became insolcnt. So afraid

; of this loss to their feasting eyes did the lovers

L of beauty become, that they were extremely
careful not to appear. to be studying that
fair countenance; and if some conceited fop,
by too rude or prolonged a gaze, was the cause
of the vail’s coming down, he was frowned at
as a common nuisance by the others. Young

- German artists, with wild, lon hair and un-
kempt beards, would conce their sketch-

, books behind the players, and steal the likeness
of that loveliest face to reproduce it a thousand

1 times afterward in their pictures. It came to

 be a question addressed to all new-comers—

' “ Have you seen la belle Amen‘caine?”

Men, high in the world of. power and fashion,
sought the acquaintance of the American bank-
er and made themselves agreeable to him. He
, was genial and reciprocative; but he seldom
‘ introduced his daughter.

To Violet, this life she was leading with this
new—found father of hers was strangeras any
" page out of a book of fiction. She never could
fully realize that it was herself who went
through the quiet part, day after day, marked
out for her by.her manager; still less could
she realize that this manager was her father,
or that either was the sober deacon of the lit.
tle Lycurgus church, the great man of the
small New England village, toward whom, all

 

her young life, she had felt a certain awe tem— '

pered by vague distrust. ,
On that afternoon when she had been accost-
ed by Mr. Goldsborough on the road, near the
bridge, and he begged her, importunately, to
ride with him a little way while he could give
her some messages for her mother, which he
did not care tb deliver personally, it was not
until several miles had been passed over and
her companion began to urge his horse to his
Eutmost speed, that she realized his plan of
! abduction. She entreated him not to, visit
I ,upon ‘her his anger at others? but he’ re-

proached her as bitterly, as unjustly of being
. the cause of his dear Floy’s being driven to the
' rash step she had taken, and swore a terrible

L oath that her friends should never hear of her

rs

 

 

use“ I ~

BLACK EYES AND BLUE. " ~

3:

1’7

 

v to the knees he will begin to retreat.

 

‘ until his own darling was found. He explained

"to her his rights, as her father; made her be-
lieve that no complaints of hers would be lis-
tened to by strangers or oiilcials, when told
that he was her legal guardian; painted to her‘
timid mind the uselessness and unpleasantness
of public “ scenes,” and had her so intimidated
by the time they reached a» distant town at
nine that evening, that she never made a word
of complaint to the people about her, but drank
the cup of tea he procured for her at the rail-
road station, and entered the car, a little later,
as he ordered her to do. It is probable that he
got some person, by paying him, to mail his
letter—which he had prepared beforehand—40

Madame D’Eglantine, on a train going in the '

opposite direction and at some point south of
Lycurgus. Certain it is, he and his unwilling
companion went aboard a northern-bound train,

and in due time reached Portland, where, after,

making a few necessary purchases for his
daughter, he hurried her on board a Vessel
about to sail for Nova Scotia, and only delay-
ing to weigh anchor until their arrival on
board. Poor Violet’s heart shrunk with dread
from this man, who seemed capable of any-
thing, now that the sheepskin, in which he had
so long masqueraded, had fallen from his
shoulders.

She resolved, when they reached the port
where they were to disembark and take the
first New York steamer calling on its way to
Liverpool, to run away and throw herself on
the protection of strangers. But she had no
money and no courage to place herself inso
forlorn a condition, and, as Mr. Goldsborough
had assured her he should return her t her
mother as soon as certain negotiations pe ding
between them were ended, she concluded to
submit silently to his plans.

He compelled her to assume the dress of an
English {servant-girl, and himself was clothed
like a rough farmer—they took second-cabin
tickets, and her father told her, on the second
day out, that there was not a person on the
steamer who knew him.

Arrived in London rooms were taken in a re-
tired inn in an old-fashioned part of the city;
and here she was told to resume suitable attire,
and was takento a ladies’ furnishing shop where
liberal orders were giVen for a complete outfit
suitable for a young lady about to travel on
the continent. '

They hadthen crossed the channel and gone
immediately to this German Spa, where letters
were already awaiting Mr. Goldenough, as
he now gave his name. Here 'he took very
handsome rooms in a private hotel, and told
Violet, curtly, that she had nothing to do but see
the world and enjoy herself. They had not,
been settled in their new quarters twenty-four
hours before Mr. Goldenough began to haunt
the roulette tables. He had nothing else to do.
All the associations of his life were broken up—
he was devoured with corrodng anxieties and
W113; and he could not await in idleness the
result ofthe daring move he had last made. The
game Of chance offered itself as a temporary
relief to his craVing restlessness; he began to
Play, had unusual good fortune, and became in-
fatuated. It was just the medicine to a mind
diseased as was his. For two or three how
each afternoon, and from eight to eleven each
evening he was at his post, choosing his mun.
hers and waiting the turn of the devilish little
instrument with utter apparent coolness, no
matter how larg'h the risks. By one of those
curious beaks of chance, such as sometimes
gives the thirteen trumps to a whist-player,‘ he
was almost invariably a winner-until the pro-
Prietor of the establishment began to enter-
imin secret thoughts of having him quietly ass-r
‘assinated, to prevent the breaking of the house.

Of course he felt, and knew, that his extra-
ordinary luck must turn sometime to disaster.
Within his own mind be resolved that at the

' flrsbsigns of a change, he would quit, not only

the tables, but the town. A resolve about as
Wise as when one ventures into a quickSand
With the resolution that when he is drawn in up

Measleur Goldenou h never left his hotel to
than. 8

M ' gambling hallskor drive. or FLOEQFQQ

 

kept the key of her sleeping-room, which open~

 

without compelling his daughter to attend him.
He was constantly fearful that she might make
the attempt to leave him. Even at night he

ed on the corridors. " Yet he might have allow-
ed her more liberty—might have spared her, at
least, the, to her, terribly disagreeable task of
haunting the hells of Baden. For he never al-
lowed her any money, although, dressing her
beautifully and giving her fine apartments——
and Violet was too shrinking to attempt to dis-
pose of her jewelry, or to venture a flight
through a foreign country and over the Atlan-
tic, had she thus procured the means of 
her way.

No wonder the melancholy which settled down
upon her young spirits cast a cloud over her
fair, pure, delicate face. The cause of that melan-
choly was the subject of much earnest discussion
among the young snobs who made it a pious du-
ty to devote a part of each day to worship at
her shrine. La belle Americaine wah rich and
an only child, apparently—very devoted to her
father, for was she not constantly with him?
Such an instance of affection between parent
and child was as rare as it was admirable!

Had she really lost her mother? No, for she
was not in mofirning. Was it then, an afiao‘r
de caeur? Had the adorable young divinity
fallen fndiscreetly in love with some youth,
whose purse, or whose genealogical record was
not long enough, and had her father brought her
across the water to allow the tender impression
to become obliterated by newer ones? So they
chatted about our modest Violet—stared at her
—fell in love with her, each after his way.

It was a situation which Florence would
have keenly enjoyed; but to Violet it was tor-
ture as keen. More than once, in those public
places, the tears rushed into her eyes, and hung
glittering on the long, down—bent lashes until
they dried of themselves, far she dared not lift
a hand to Wipe them away.

If, by chance, M. Goldenough, pointing with
his little stick to the numbers he considered
lucky, and awaiting the turn of the wheel, raised
his eyes to his daughter’s patient face and saw
it pale, or the mist gathering in her large blue
eyes, a fiendish joy swelled in his heart. For
he hated her! Hated her, because she had lived,
in spite of him, and been the unconscious means
of thwarting his plans for the only human be-
ing he had ever really loved—his other, favor-
its daughter.

The only real pleasure he had, away from
the gaming—table, was in thoughts of the agony
he had inflicted on the woman whom in youth
he had so cruelly wronged; and in watching
the “sadness and longing ” creep over the face
of the young creature whom he had chained to
him

To some natures, to wrong another is also to
excite hatred of the one injured. It was so
with this man. The trusting girl whom hehad
made his wife, only to heartlessly disown and
desert when he found her claims to enormous
wealth denied, had fought her way to triumph
and success—for her child’s sake—over a path
of fire which would have blasted and killed any
but a most heroic woman; and now be burned
to be revenged on her that she had dared to live
and struggle. He had formed a dastardly plan
to strike so that the wound would hurt the most
surely. She had said that at last she was inde—
pendent of him, and in return he had robbed her
of her child.

Beyond this brutal revenge he had also the '
purpose to benefit his own daughter. He could
not endure to think that Violet would be heir-
ess to estates that would rank with those of the
richest nobles of France, and his Florence live 5
on the fag-ends of the small fortune not any
teo great for his own uses. He considered it a ‘
good joke to compel Madame D’Eglantine to
contribute to the aggrandizement of his pet.
If he could wring from her a noble sum for
Florence to enjoy, there would be a spice of de-
light about the spendlng of that money which
only an epicure in wickedness could fully relish.

He‘had letters from his agent, Blank, from
time to tune, giving reports of the progress of
affairs in New York. On the day after the

 

sellingoftheatrmaniahemeivedacabledis-i

patch, in cipher, informing him of the twoipas.
sengers who had so quickly made up their
minds to depart on that steamer.

Well! the season at the Spa was about clos-
ing. He had thirty thousand dollars in gold
more than when he set his foot on foreign soil;
and had lived well all the time. He was quite
ready for a move. He made his preparations
for a trip up the Nile.

“Give me a week the start, and madame
will have a fine time pursuing.- usl” he laughed
to himself. “ And if she overtakes us—what
then? I shall demand my daughter before I
give up hers! The game is in my own hands.
I will have some amusement at madame’s ex~
pause, and receive twenty thousand pounds
from her as a gift to my pet!

“I need not leave Baden-Baden for. six days
yet,” he continued to muse. “In that time I
must make the magic wheel turn a few times
more for my benefit. And, by George, it will
be a joke worth playing to marry this lily-faced
daughter of mine to that old scamp of an En-
glish Jew baronet who asked me yesterday if
he might pay his addresses to herl' I’ll invite
him to join us on our excursion to Egypt;
’twill make it so pleasant .for Miss Violet—ha!
ha! ha!” , ‘

It would seem as if, the lid of hypocrisy
which had so long covered the seething caldron
of Goldsborough’s mind having been removed,
all the hell-broth of the witches of the heath
was steaming up out of it.

It is not strange that Violet, inexperienced in
reading human nature, but quick-witted and
observant, shrunk more and more into herself,
and continually suffered from a shuddering
dread and distrust bf this companion—this un-
loved father, the very echo of whose voice
shook her soul with intangible terrors to which
she could give no shape.

Those terrors Were fated to take shape quick-
ly enough. I

On the evening after reading the cable dis-
patch Mr. Goldsborough did not have his usual
luck—he ventured more and more, losing every .
time, much to the amusement and excitement .
of the spectators who had so long been interest- _
ed in his wonderful good fortune. The news
that the American was losing drew a crowd to
watch his movements. -

At length, when M. Goldenough had lost
a twentiefh part of his previous winnings, Sir
Israel Benjamin laid his hand on his arm, in
trepidation at seeing so much of the gold, which
he already_counted as his own, disappear out
of his future. ‘

“ Come away, my friend,” he whispered, oer
gerly. \
“ It is early," responded the player, indiffer-
ently. V

“ You have forgotten your engagement with
me,” persisted the baronet, aloud.

“ Oh! if I have an engagement, that is a dif-
ferent thing!” said Mr. Goldenough, reluctantly
rising; and be, his daughter, and the English
baron walked away, followed by dozens of pairs
of eyes and plenteous comments, among the
latter the most frequent being: ‘

“ He will marry la belle Americaine to that
old was I"

 

CHAPTER XIII.
A VERY BRIGHT BUBBLE.

“ I WOULD like to know your intentions,” re-
peated Redmond Rhodes, in a voice which
sounded greatly like a threat. “ If you love
and intend tomarry this young lady, I am your
friend, and will go with you at once, as I said,
to the rectory.”

“I cannot obtain a license at this late hour,
Mr. Rhodes,” was the answer, in ahoarse voice.

“ It will not be necessary. A. ' be-
fore witnesses, in this State, is a legal marriage.
I will see you safely through the affair.”

Thinking that Harold was about to yield to
his demand, Redmond’s stern tones grew gen- '
tler; there thrilled through them a Vibration of
sadness caught by the quick can of the girl. V
Even in that supreme moment of love, fear,
suspense, agitation, she shot a velvety glance at
the man who was so nobly caring for her best ’

\ 
' Ltt '

.I‘Ir'

. V

“i 8
welfare, and’ thought, with triumph, that he,
too, had been chained to her chariot wheels.
‘ Yes, even at that moment, deep as was her in.
fatuation with Fraser Harold—perfect, beyond
all imagined perfection, as he was in her eyes——

I there darted through the busy brain of the

beautiful coquette the idea that, if she lost him
whomshe preferred to all others, she would not
be without the chance of a husband, and a
splendid one! 7 ,

Perhaps it was this consciousness which pre-
vented her fainting from the excess of her emo-
tions; for, to a vain we

I man’s love, even though she be entirely indif-

t

s

" his half-angry response.

. old.

’wife’s charms!

A exact a'promise that our marriage shall be kept .

.ferent to him, is incense so exhilarating as to
enable her to endure much.

Finally Harold reached out and took one of ‘
the little hands extended to him, saying in that 5

soft, low, passion-fraught voice which he knew
so well how to usc:

of my intentions! If you do not trust me fully,

unreservedly, then your love for me is not what i
I thought it was. My friend Rhodes means ,

well. But he is hurrying us in rather a per~
emptory manner.
that I ought to be hastened—without any pre-
paration, or even consulting my parents—Pinto
a marriage? I leave it to you. You shall de-
cide for both of us.”

A deep flush passed over the“ dark, spirited

face of the girl. It was cruel of Fraser-cirw‘

cumstanced as she was—to force the decision as
to how he should act in a. dilemma of this kind,
upon her!

She knew that he wanted her to refuse for '

Mr. Rhodes’ settlement of their difficulties
—and yet, what, what could she do? Go back
under the roof of this strange gentleman, who
had not even a. sister to give her countenance?

~——while Fraser had sisters and a mother to
whom he could take her if he 'would! A look
of desperation passed over her beautiful face.

“ Kill me,’ Fraser,” she murmured, drooping
piteously before him. “If you do not want

me, nobody wants mel—I am out of place in j

the world. ” '

“Scoundrel!” muttered Rhodes, in his neigh- 1
‘ bor’s ear.

“You will have to answer to me
for your conduct. I am this young lady’s bro-
that from this hour forward. So, look out!
You wed her to—night, or you part from her
foi'ever. I will see that she is placed with
friends. Now, look at her, and take your
choice.”

‘As he spoke the bells of the city peeled ten
dclock.

“Oh, Fraser, do not forsake me!” pleaded
Florence. ~

“,I cannot give you up, the devil knows,” was
“ You have twisted
your threads about me until you have me a
prisoner. Well, what will you have? You are
internally pretty and taking; but not just the
lady I would have chosen for the wife of a Har-
.Never mind that, now. The michief is
done. My friend here is a man of honor. and
he tells me I ought to marry you. It may be
so. 1 yield to his superior wisdom ~and my
In return—my Lady Harold,
and you, Mr. Rhodes!--will.-it be too much if I

, a secret between us three and the clergyman

/

for a few weeksi—only a few Wm You will
consider, friend Rhodes, that my father is in a
critical condition and that any sudden shock——
’ ' y if an unpleasant one—may finish

him. On that account, and some others im- l

portant only to myself, I would exact a prom-
ise that this wild and hurried marriage be kept
secret for the present. Do you agree?”

“ I agree. to anything, deal: Fraser,” mur.

, mused Florence.

 

Redmond Rhodes did not yield his answer so
readily; but, after some reflection, he replied:

“I will promise tc keep the secret until, in
my judgment, your father is in fit condition to
be informed of it——no longer. Should he die, I
shall beat liberty to promulgate it as soon after
his death as I think proper. And I trust you
will not be ashamed of this little girl, friend
Fraser; and that you will treat her as she de-
serves. to be treated, and as a good husband

I

9

. l

the flitting of a ‘

“My love, surely I do not ‘need to assure you 

Do you think, my darling, '

l l

,. A BLACK-  E3 #139,- BLUE, 

1 ought to treat his honored and beloved We,”  down ovsr the stairs and glided into the room

“ Y m are a preacher born, Redmond Rhodes!
I only wonder yo; never took to the re ”
cried Harold, gayly, and he offered his arm to
the trembling girl with all his customary grace-
; ful empressem ant—the decision having been
, reached, his spirits rose—no more doubt or em-
I‘ barrassment now! If the little one wasdeter-
‘, mined to marry him, and his best friend deter-
‘ mined that she should, why! they must take the
; consequences! He did not intend to be respon-
: sible for anybody’s sufferings or pleasure but
: his own. It would be heavenly, for a time, to
g live with and love this glorious, fairy creature,
1' whose eyes were made of dark and dew, with
; molten diamonds flashing through; whose lips
; were sweeter than the sweets of flower-buds in
J une’s languorous heats.
! “What shall we do!
I

Where, shall we go!
' Lead on, Macdufl!”

“Perhaps, since you enjoin secrecy "—Red-
: mond’s grave tones were in strong contrast to
the gayety of his neighbor’s—“ it will  best
for you to come over into my house. I can
1 send a note to Dr. Brown; he will come at my
request, and the ceremony can be performed—-
with closed doors—in my library.”

“ Good!” assented Fraser, “ the arrangement
could not be improved upon.”

“ Then, come at once, or the note Will find
the rector in his bed.”

Mr. Rhodes led the way, and the three cross-
ed over and entered his door, the maiden now
clinging silently and timidly to her lover’s arm.
No one, except James, who had accompanied
his master home, saw the fittle party enter the
house; they slipped into the library, clom‘ng and
locking the dew. .

“I will give you a letter to take to the rec-
tory for me, in a moment, James,” said Mr.
Rhodes. “If Mrs. Plimpton wants to know if

 

I have any orders, tell her no—that she can re-
tire at once.” _

Very soon the important note was written
and dispatched; and, then the writer stole a
covert look at the lovers. Both seemed a little
3 pale and distrait, but Fraser was the most so.

“Mr'. Rhodes,” asked the bride-to—be, “how
long will it be before the arrival of——of——the -
clergyman?” .

“ Twenty minutes, perhaps. 3

“Then, may I run upstairs and change my
dress? This is a black one, and I Would not like
‘ to be married in black. ” M
‘ “Quite right. But do not keep us walt-

mg”
 In just twenty minutes Florence came dbwn,
i The housekeeper was in her room—Florence
,_ heard her there—and James had not returned;
so she reached the library without an eye ob-
, serving her.

Both gentlemen started when the lovely,
poetic vision floated into the room. In all the
: haste of her dressing Florence had had time to
think over the situation—-—and to approve of it.
Her superb eyes shone with unwonted light;
her dark cheeks glowed like the sunny side of
velvetiest peaches; a smile, or a light that was
scarcely a smile, but much more luminous, ir-
radia d the vivid face, making the delicate,
perfec features fairly startling in their beauty.

A long-trailing robe of some airiest white 
texturefloated about her petite figure; there 1
were white roses in her purple-black hair and
on her bosom, where glittered the only orna- :
j ment she wore—a diamond locket which Frasu'

I had given her.

She was going to be Fraser’s wife—Fraser,

5 so proud, so careless,» the prince of men! Fra-
ser, whom she adored‘as the child adores the
moon for which it cries! She was going to be
his wife—the sharer of his glory, his wealth;
othe future intimate of his haughty sisters. . ,

All was well with her. How soon the pic-

tures of her imagination had become splendid
realities! Ah! what a fairy-world this was!
now full of delight !-—nothing to, do biit enjoy
cne’s self beyond her wildest dreams! And oh
--oh—~oh! how she loved her prince! How.
happy, how happy they would be, all their ,

 

days; in each other’s society. 

 

, lug mirror, she had floated] like a‘white thistle, f

 I
,'| '~’ I

And so, with a last fond look at her flattler- ! .

1,‘
.’A

where her lover awaited her, cheeks glowing,
eyes shining, feet hardly touching the floor.
“By Jove! my beautiful! you are worth I
making some sacrifice for!” whispered Fraser,
who had been biting his mustache in ill-con—
cealed vexation and trepidation, and had not
once spoken to his host during her absence; and
be folded the charming vision to his heart,
quite satisfied, under the stimulus of her lovely
smile and blush, he had been hurried into a
wedding against his will.
A mist came over Redmond Rhodes’ eyes;
0 turned abruptly, affecting to look for a pray-
r-book on the shelves; the hall-door opened
and closed, and Mr. Rhodes hurried out to meet
the clergyman ahd assure him that all was
right between the parties, and that it was be.
cause of the father’s critical condition that the
son wished his marriage to remain a secret be-

tween the four, at present.

The assurance of Redmond Rhodes was suf—
ficient to do away with all,S scruples on the part
of the Rev. Dr. Brown, who had not a parish-
ioner in whose word he placed more implicit
credence—or on whose judgment he would be
so willing to rely. And if the rector had won-
dared to hear that the incorrigible, the con-
scienceless Mr. Fraser Harold, was caught at
last, and in the way of being toned down into
a quiet married man, he wondered no longer
after he had seen the bride.

In all the ultrarfashionable weddings at which
he had figured for so many years, not once had
such a perfect embodiment of girlish beauty
appeared before him as in the little lady who
took her place by her lover’s side—a creature
so b ht, so glad, so enchantingly pretty that
the so r clergyman Could not sufficiently ad~
mire her.

In a magically brief time little Florence Golds-
borough found herself Mrs Fraser Harold!

“Ah, if the stupid people of Lycurgus could
know it !” she thought, in her triumph; but
this last drop in the sweet wine of her success
was not to be added just theh; and she signed
a record with a trembling little hand, and had
her marriage certificate given to her by the
clergyman, who charged her, smilingly, to take
good care of it, accepted the gold which Fraser
pressed upon him, wished them joy, and van—
ished from the scene.

“And now, friend Redmond, since you have
done so much, you will not refuse to my wife
the shelter of Mrs. Plimpton’s wing for another
night?” asked Harold, rising to go, as soon as
the rector had departed. “ As you allowed me
short time for preparation you will not com-
plain if she trespasses on your hospitalitya few
hours more. To—morrow, bright and early, I
will set about seeking a home for you, little
wife; at twelve o’clock a carriage will come
for you; I will join you somewhere, within a
block or two of this house, and we will at once
go to housekeeping. Does the programme
please?”

“ Anything you wish, Fraser,” murmured
the bride; he kissed her‘, shook hands with
Rhodes, and walked out of the house.

Then Mr. Rhodes said good-night in his most
stately manner, and the little bride went slow-
ly up the stairs to her room, where she sat un—
til the moon went down, in her wedding-dress,

t at the window, looking over at the dark trees

in the park, shedding a. few tears, but in the
main very hopeful and happy; very full of
foolish anticipations; quite forgetful that those
who build their houses on the sand! must expect
them to fall when the winds come and the
rains beat. 7

The vision of that joyous, beautiful bride
haunted Redmond Rhodes many wakeful hours

. of that night; he was conscious that he could

have loved her—~that he had come home for
nothing in the world but to try his fate with ‘
her—and he sighed drearilv and often not only
for his own disappointment but .for the ill
choice she had made. ‘

“ Still, it may be that his marriage to a lov-
able young wife will reform Fraser,” he mused;
and so he prayed it might be.

When the carria came, at, noon of the fol-‘
lowing day, for orenee,  Pinupton the ' v

I

 

 

 

‘ \

,BLACK

 

v

EYES.AND‘BLUE.

 

 

1

lieved that, as the little refugee said, expected
friends at last had claimed her. A trunk con’
taining the few dresses and lingerie which had
been prepared was taken up beside the driver;
Florencegwith sudden tears in her bright eyes,
wrung the housekeeper’s hard hand, leaving in
it a considerable portion of the money she had
remaining, and. then—all alone, poor thing!
with not one to wish her joy, to fling after her
even an old shoe, to give her seasonable advice,
or to take heed what became of her—for Mr.
Bhodes had departed in the morning, as abrupt-
ly as he came—she fled down the stately stone
steps, where a few weeks previously she had
sunk in her weariness, and hid herself in the
carriage which whirled her away to the new,
strange, longed-for, yet uncertain life which
awaited the unacknowledged bride.

Searcer had her tears began to fall, before
her husband was in the carriage, kissing them
away, and they disappeared in smiles. Re
grets, fears, haunting memories of home and
mother, were swallowed up in the great flood
of happiness which swept through her being.

Given plenty of money and a large metropo-
lis, and marvels can be wrought which sober
country people would deem impossible. Young
Harold had worked one of these miracles. In
the few morning hours which he had devoted
to the business he had found a home where he
could place his bride, while none of his world
should dream that in this other world—this
double life—he kept a sweet little wife impris-
oned in a golden cage. ’

Resolved to remain a gay bachelor in the
eyes of his friends, he had proceeded with as
much caution as if engaged in some criminal
enterprise. Far over on the west side, and a
good way up-town——as remote from his father’s
house, his club, or any acquaintance of his as
he could get it—in a handsome private house,
occupied by a French lady to whom money
was an object, he had engaged a. very fine suite
of rooms comprising the whole of the second,
or parlor, floor. The lady was pledged to re—
ceive no other boarders; her own family con-
sisted of her husband and two little children, a
girl and boy, six and eight years of age.

To this woman our little bride was intro-
duced by Fraser as “My wife, Mrs. Fraser.”
Florence blushed deeply, not only because this
was her first introduction to any one by her
husband, but also because he had chosen to deny
her the full use of the title to which she had a
right—yet she had no thought of rebelling;
Fraser had assured her that it was only pru—
dent to conceal a portion of their name—other-
wise the story of his marriage might come un-
expectedly upon his father at any hour, prov.
ing most disastrous. '

“Among other ill consequences, my sweet,
he will cut me off in [his will. Neither of us
are fitted for poverty, as you know. Only be
patient a little while, and all these unpleasant
hindrances to our full happiness shall be re-
_ moved.”

So Florence went willingly into this house as
Mrs. Fraser; nor did she dream that the black-
eyed Frenchwoman construed her wifer blush
into a blush for something worse.

“ I hope you like these apartments, darling,”
said Fraser, with his arm about her waist,
“ for you will spend so much time in them that
you will have the Chance of becoming tired of
them.” .

“ They are delightful, Fraser; and I could
never weary 0f any P1805 With 110%”

“ But I shah not always be with you, my
meet. You understand why we must be very

cireum spect?” ‘ ’

- “Yes,” with a-little sigh, followed by a con-
flding glance of the soft dark eyes, stolen at
him so shyly from under the ambush of the
drooping lashes that he could not regret what
he was doing. “ It is very good of you to get
such magnificent moms, to please me. I'tmst
you are quite able "to afford them?”

“ You must not fret your pl‘fbml brow abou“
money matters, my pet. I am glad you like
the place. Madame Florian has promised to be
very kind to you, in‘ my absence. See! this is
your wedding-bouquet. I chose it‘ at the flor-
ist’s an hour ago.” - V ‘

 

On a little table of rare woods, inlaid with nothing to do with the loss of her usual bloom. "'

rich designs in ebony and gold, standing be—
tween the front windows of the drawing-room,
was a large pyramid of fragrant, snowy flowj
ers——-tube-roses, white violets, white carnations
and roses, Which filled the place with subtle
perfumes. .

‘ And here is a ring to guard the wedding-
ring,” continued the bridegroom, taking from
his vest—pocket a. splendid solitaire diamond
ring and placing it on the tiny, dimpled finger,

i
I
I
E
l

where a band of plain gold already glittered— 
a ring Florence had worn for some time and 
2 him fifty, others vowed he was seventy, if a

hastily adopted, the previous evening, to meet
the emergency. The dimpled finger seemed al-
most too frail for the magnificent gem with
which the husband encircled it. ‘

“ Your wardrobe is limited,” continued the
lavish lover. “ You must amuse yourself, days
when I cannot come to you, buying new dresses,
bonnets and shawls,” and he playfully urged in-
to her hand a well—filled wallet.

Florence’s eyes shone more brightly than her
diamonds. She would have been wild with
bliss anywhere with Fraser; but she dearly
loved finery, too; luxury, idleness, were crav-
ings of her temperament; to adorn her beauty,
and have it admired, her fondest duty.

The center room of the suite of three was to
be used as their private dining—room; and here,
in a couple of hours, a small table was laid for
two, adorned with a profusion of flowers, and
waited upon by two silent attendants, while a‘
dinner, fit for the bridal banquet, comprising the
costliest delicacies within the power of a Del-
monioo to furnish, was served a la Russe.

And thus in a fairy world, where all was
different from the life she had led as a girl in a
dull country village—in a fairy world of lux-
ury, of careless ease, of youthful passion and
bliss, with no thought for the morrow, but 'Only
the expectation of a long reign of idle pleasure,
the honeymoon rose splendidly for Florence.

Alas! before the term of that magic honey-
moon was over she had shed many bitter tears
-—1earned many bitter truths.
waned into darkness she had longed, with acn-
ing heart, more than cute, for the dull pearl:l
and safety of. her village home.

 

CHAPTER XIV.
STRUGGLING TO 'BREAK THE TOILS.

THE pretense of an engagement was only a
ruse of the baronet’s to get M. Goldenough
away from the gaming-table. The three walk:
ed out, and over into the pleasure-grounds,
where crowds of idlers were sitting under the
trees, at little tables where refreshments were
served, or pacing up and down avenues lighted
with colored lamps. The music of an excel-
lent band, playing the delicious Strauss waltzes,
floated airily over all, between the gay earth
and the far, pure, steady stars. Violet looked
up to those pure stars, shining unswervingly in
the dark-blue ether, wishing, with a wild,

» wordless spasm of pain, that she was up there

among their bright company, or somewhere out
of this strange, foreign atmosphere of smoke
and beer, of a mockery of gayety, of fictitious
glare like that of the stained lights.

Homesickness, deep and deadly, was upon
her. Fear, dread, terror of she knew not
what, hung about her like the formless shadow
of some huge approaching, but as yet unseen,
ill. The baronet had offered her his arm, with
a smile that made her turn cold with aversion;
and to escape the necessity of taking it, she had
quickly slipped her hand over her father’s arm;
but this was nearly as disagreeable to her. Sir
Israel had only smiled the more uncomfortably;
and so they had walked on, without speaking,
until, reaching a table under the trees in a
more quiet part of the park, the baronet asked
them if they would rest here a. little while, and
have an 'ce.

chair on one side of the small round table; Sir %

Israel sat opposite, with the father between
them. An order was given for the ices;
“How very pale ,mademoiselle is tonight,”
remarked the nobleman. “I trust, M. Gold-
enough, thatwhat I said to you yesterday has

,.

 

Before it had. 

 

“ I am not well; I do not think the air of the
place agrees with .me,” Violet forced herself to»

say. . . 

Sir Israel leaned his folded arms on the table,
and kept his small, black, heady eyes fixed up-
on her, with a smile, that was most like a leer,
intended to express his unbounded admiration
--perhaps something more tender than admire»
tion. Violet shuddered inwardly, sitting thr
like a marble image, never raising her eye'

The baronet was a person of “uncertain
age, " as they say of _spinsters; some thought

day. He was very rich, and very mean, and-
very ugly—ugly in features and temper. He
lived on the continent a. good part of the year,

because he could live more cheaply than on his.
estates. He had a passion for watching others
play, but never himself ran any risks. He had
black eyes which revealed little of his thoughts,
a. Jewish nose, an ugly under—lip, a small, lean, .
bent figure, quick motions, dyed his hair and

beard, was dreaded in financial operations as.
one equally unscrupulous and successful, and.
had as little about him of the better part of hu»

man nature as it was possible to have, and not '

be actually guilty of atrdcious crimes. He was-
too cunning to do things forbidden by law; but.
anything which could be twisted to be within
legal limits, which avarice or inborn wicked-
ness prompted, he would do._ Ever since they,
came he had had those sinister eyes on the‘
pompous American and his beautiful daughter.

He could have told, as accurately as‘ the player,

what his gains had been in that time. He made
up his mind that' M. Goldenough was much
richer than he was. For once his shrewedness-
was at fault— the overpowering, patronizing
manners of the banker had given generally the

impression that he wasa person of immense "

wealth and importance.

Also, after remaining eighteen years a. wid~ ,
ower, he had resolved to marry la belle Ameri— ‘

caine, if such anvachievement were possible. It.
was not love; nor even the passion of men for
women; but another phase of his avarice that
urged him to the resolve—the avarice which
craved the best and mdst beautiful for his own.
As one man will love the finest picture, not for
love of art, but to haVe it said that he owns it
—or another, the horse which has made his
mile in half a second less than any other of his;
race ever made it—so the baronet, seeing how
:he city was going wild over the delicate bloom,
the reserved charms, the fair perfection of the
American banker's peerless child, coveted her
[or his own.

“ I have not spoken to my daughter of your
flattering proposition,” remarked M. Gold»
enough, suavely. “ I can reveal it to her now
as well as any time. Violet, ’my dear, Sir
Israel Benjamin does you the great honor to
ofler you his heart and hand."

Violet cast a startled look from onevto'the
other of the two men. A

“You do not understand me!” repeated M.
Goldenough, with a cruel smile. “Sir Israel,
our noble friend here, does you the very great.
and unexpected honor to ofler you his hand in

marriage. .

“It is my daughter’s first offer,” he con- ‘

tinned, a moment later, turm'ng blandly to the.
baronet; “it surprises her, and she has not the.
self-possession to meet it as she would like to.

You must pardon much to her youth and inex~ ,

perience.”

“Divine fault of modesty and innocence? '

How can I but admire and forgive a hesitation.
so angelic?” murmured Sir Israel, rolling up his

eyes and clasping his hands, as if Paying his ‘10“, 4'?

votions to a saint. ‘ ‘
All this time the large blue eyes of the girl
were dilating, and her sweet, pure face grow.

_ ing whiter; aversion, horror and fear were“
. . ,  painted on it, as shadows of distorted demons
M' Go denough Placed his daughter m a ‘, are thrown from a magic-lantern on the

blank surface of the screen. To have saved her-7'

life she could not have uttered a word. But.

as she glanced from one face to the other of v I

those two heartless men, and realized how com-

pletely she was. in their power—as she saw the: . ‘

wicked exultation in the smile of the father
. I ‘ , ' _

~ _. v’v

“l9

 

 

 

 

 

 

l‘ A

v _ do nothing for her.

20

whom, she felt, hated her, and saw the pleasure
he took in her misery—she turned cold, from
head to foot, with a deep, sickening fear of she
hardly knew what. Then, involuntarily, she cast
an appealing look at the stolid waiter who was
placing the ices on the table, and around upon

he strange foreign people who would and could

 

 

Oh, for her own dear,
kind father’s—as she called Mr. Vernon—arms
about her! Oh, to be safe under, the old roof-
tree! But, alas! everything here was alien,

I and she was like a poor little mouse under the

spell of the cat that tortures it. M. Goldenough’s

stealthy paw reached out to give her another.

Whine pat

“I will answer for her, Sir Israel, that she
deeply feels the honor you have done her, grate-
fully accepts your odor; and consents to a ra-
ther unseemly hastenihg of the marriage solely
on ascount of our proposed departure from Ba-
den.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, '- ‘

said the old baronet, trying to take one of the
little cold hands in his own, but which recoiled
from his touchwith a gesture which brought a
malicious gleam into the small black eyes,
“ than .to go with mademoiselle before the
mayor, to-morrow. .Can we not so ariange
it!" '

“Not to-morrow, Sir Israel. We will not
,hurry the poor child so much as that. These

‘ young ladies must be humored. This is Friday.

;

 

On Tuesday I leave for Italy and Egypt. On
Monday, then, let us say, the civil and religious“
ceremonies may both be performed. Did I un-
derstand you, Sir Israel, that you will, with
your bride, accompany me on my projected
tour?” ‘

“That will be as mademoiselle decides. I
am her slave. She has but to express a pre-
ference, for me to obey her wishes.” '

“Very well——” suddenly Violet had found

" her voice; driven to desperation, the gentle

‘ girl turned like a wild

reature at bay——“ obey
'me in this, then, Sir Israel Benjamin—never
speak to me again! My father hnows that I

‘ ‘will not marry you—that Iwill kill myself,
I. first!” . -'

Both gentlemen laughed softly. M. Gold-

‘ V enough took a few spoonfuls of his Roman ice,

 

ll ,1  ,_'xmay escape the more certainly.”

 

 

. have not tested it.

, ahers’elf

 )émy fair lady?”

' glancing slyly at his friend, meantime; but

making no other reply than that mocking
laugh to the wild declaration of the daughter
whom he delighted to torture.
said: .

“My dear, your ice has melted, and you
Come, we will go home to
our apartments. You will need to rest and
reflect. Sir Israel, will you walk with us?” '

' “No further to-night, thank you, M. Gold
enough. I will see you in the morning, at

v eleven.”

“Very well. We will arrange all the pre-
 to-morrow. Of course you under~

" stand, the affair is settled.”

Violet arose “as they did. It was with a

.‘violeut effort that she prevented herself from ‘

ng—from darting away and flinging
into the first danger that appeared—
anywhere, to got away from her companions
She restrained herself, for she said to herself,
“III am 'quiet, and try to think, perhaps I

’She was terribly frightened; yet conscious
of a steely resolution to defy andthwart. For
the first time in her innocent life she e
'ficrafty and cunning, under the pressure of a.
tearful need. When Sir Israel again attempt-
ed to take her hand,'she gave it to him, but
-with" her eyes cast down lest he should read

“their expression.

“Good!” he said, lifting the passive fingers

‘to his lips; “you do not hate me so much as i
 .7011 pretend, mademoisello.

Good-night, and

fine dreams. Cannot you wish me the same,

“ I wish you a good night’s sleep, Sir Israel,"

 the forced herself to answer.

, " Ten thousand thanks, my boautiful bride-
be.”
, “ Violet,” said M. Goldenough, as he conduct-

‘ . as her alongthe' cool, dimly-lighted street, at-
 crgwds in the park, “Iwish

/

,.

. in addressing him.

Presently he‘ '

you would reconcile yourself at once to the
marriage I have arranged for you. There is

.no use in resistance or rebellion. ‘I have de-
termined upon it—that is enough. Make any
clamorous outcry or troublesome refusal, and I
will clap you into the cell of a mad—house, from
which you will never emerge until, you are old
and gray, if ever at all. Your friends will
never have a hint of your place of concealment.
You will be far worse than buried alive. You
know that money can do anything. I shall use
mine freely to secure a place for you in an in-
stitution, not far from here, on which I have
my eye. I know that Sir lsrael Benjamin is
not exactly prepossessing; but I have chosen
that you shall marry him; and you have noth-
ing to do but submit.” I

“Have mercy upon me, father!” begged Vio-
let, for the first time using the name “father”

“Why do you seek to ruin

my life?” ,,

. “Because your mother has ruined mine,” was
the answer, from between set teeth. “ I took
you from her to punish her—I hate you, as I
hate her, and you shall not prosper if I can
help it. Do not speak to me—be still! Not a
word! No mercy is in my heart toward either
of you. Let me warn you of one thing,” he
continued, pausing as they were about to enter
their hotel—“to avoid all appearance of ex-
citement—all strange actions, wild protesta—

, (done. and mmsense generally. Each word and

movement may be taken as proof, in case .7 en-
ter complaint against you as a lunatic, of mad-
ness inherent in you You cannot be too can-
tious.” ‘

It was true. She felt it, with sinking heart
and icy veins. With no friend near~not one
person who knew her antecedents—and with
her own father to bring the complaint, she was
powerless in his hands She must make no ap-
peal to the pity or mercy of others! She must
not beg for help out of the hideous danger
which encompassed her! An imprudent, word
mightbe the means of consigning her to a Worse
than living death! She went up the steps and
through the Wide passage, up the broad stair-
case and on into their rooms, without ventur-
ing to make any answer to the heartless threat
of this unnatural parent.

Her blood ran cold at thought of being shut
up with d creatures in a strange country,
far from o , housed with despair—yet even
that were preferable to marriage with that griz.
zly horror!

Her thoughts turned to Mr. Vernon and Char-
lie. Where was Charlie? ,Why had he not come
to her rescue before’thisi He could not love her
as she loved him or he would have found some
way to trace her and watch over her welfare.

bowed, and turned the key on her.

by the servants or others, would be received as
corroboration of the accusation of insanity,

 

should he choose to make it!
All night Violet tossed on a couch of thorns.
f All night her persecutor tossed and sigh-

enAcK EYES AND BLUE,

 

M. Goldenough conducted her to her room, f
Why! even
this habit of locking her up, had it been noticed .

fed, as wakeful as she. Ethan Goldsborough ;
2 an avenue of the gardens, looking for the most

5' did not like the manner of life he was living.
It was foreign to his habits and distasteful to
I him in many ways. Yet he was in a frame 'of
:mind which demanded strong excitement to
render life endurable. He could settle down
ito nothing. His wife was dead; he was sev-
‘ ered from old friends; his pet, his Florence,

took a half-fiendish pleasure in driving Violet
to despair; yet his conscience would not give
, him any peace for his conduct to her. He was
,likea dismantled ship, driven hither and you
I by conflicting winds.

In consequence, he arcse late the following
morning, feverish, restless, eager to fly to the
gaming-table. Ordering Violet to dress for
‘ the day as usual, they 'breakfasted in their site
, ting-room, and started for their haunt directly

afterward. Eleven o’clock came and found
‘M. ,Goldenough with the same run of bad
luck which had ,commenced the previous
evening. The more he lost, the larger the
sums he staked on the next turn of the wheel.

into the hall and lingered, in an interested
group, about the banker and his beautiful,
vailed daughter.

The baronet came, spoke to hiin, tried to draw
him away to talk over their arrangements for
the marriage and tour; but M. Goldenough
shook him ofl’, impatiently, telling him he must
wait. Hours rolled on. One set of loungers
was replaced by another. Sir Israel fretted,
fidgeted, and grew yellow with anger and ner-
vousness, as he saw the gold raked in by the
croupier which should have been his.

At last, even Violet, who had sat behind him,
indifl‘erent as a stone, only so that Sir Israel
was kept from approaching hei‘ too closely, be— .
came uneasy at the flushed face, sparkling eyes
and reckless manner of her father; her little
white hand, soft as a petal from a.lily, rested
on his arm, and a dozen infatuated youths bent
to catch the low murmur of her voice, as she
asked him, in trembling tones, to come away.

“Yes, yes, presently,” he responded, inaloud,
bullying voice; “I hope, by heaven, you don’t
think I’m afraid to lose a little money. Let me
alone. We Americans never back down! no,
by George! I will sit here until my last dollar
is gone, if I choose. Who is going to inter-
ferel Do you suppose I am scared at the loss
of a thousand or two pounds? This is what I
call jolly. Don’t interfere with me, my girl.”

Violet shrunk back in silence. Presently,
however, she began to glance about her, through
the folds of her thick vail, with more interest.

Sir Israel Benjamin had become either hun-
gry or angry, and had, at last, gone oflf. M.
Goldenougn was so absorbed in play that she
might leave the hall, and he remain unconscious
of her absence foran hour.

Her heart began to throb wildly. What if
she should attempt, this moment, to free her
self? Was there the least hope of successi 4
five-franc piece was all the money in her purse.
She had a few rings on her fingers; one of them
was set with a diamond which her mother had
given her. The stone was not large; but it

' might be worth two hundred francs. Then

she had with her a pair of plain gold bracelets
and ear-rings.

Her father had threatened, in case she made
an attempt to leave him, to have her arrested
and immured as a person of unsound mind.
She ran a terrible risk in venturing flight,
through an unfamiliar countryr—a friendless
girl, exposed to a thousand perils. .

Something of the heroism which had support-
ed Madame D Eglantine through years of
trouble, was inherent in her daughter’s nature.
Violet, after a minute’s hesitation, resolved to
do what she could to escape the snare spread
for her. She arose very quietly, glided out
of the hall and into the pleasure-grounds,"
lying hot and still under the afternoon sun.
She was followed, at once, by half a dozen im.
pertinent young bloods, eager to watch the
movements of la belle Americaine. She was
going, perhaps, to a meeting in the park, with
the gay but ancient baronet. A young English
marquis even went so far as to speak to her—
overtaking her by an effort—as she flew along

umrequented paths; Affecting not to hear him
she walked on more rapidly.  few minutes

‘ brought her out on to a'street. full of small

shops, at some distance from the one f requent-
ed by the baronet and other' fashionable loung-

i are. In the window of one of these shops she
was angry with him and hiding from him. He ‘

saw a sign, in French, that money was loaned
on jewels and personal property; she went in

‘ and effected a. bargain, by which the shopkeep-

er obtained articles worth about five hundred
francs for half that. sum; but she was more

3 than satisfied, and in great haste.

l
|
l
i
i

Out she hurried, pursuing her flight with
only one conscious plan—to take the meanest
streets, where she would be least 1ike1y_to be
looked for. It was only because the autumn
wind flaunted the garments in her very face,
that she was ledto enter another shop, in a Jew
quarter, where second—hand clothing Was kept
for sale. She had not thought of disguise until
the garments flapped in her face- A large wo-
man advanced out of another room to meet

1411 the “119' young men 01‘ the Spa dropped  her. Violet addressed her in French, and the x

0

l

 

 

BLACK EYES AND BLUE.

V

‘21

 

 

 

 

 

woman answered in a sort of patois of French
and German; but they managed to understand
each other pretty well. '

The eyes of the dealer glistened when the
young lady offered to exchange her rich clo-
thing for the garments of a peasant-girl, with
a basket holding a few pieces of lace, that she
might pass for one of the lace-workers of the
country. .

“Come in here, my dear mademoiselle; you
will be quite'safe in this place until I make you
one very good disguise,” she said, eagerly, fur-
tively feeling the thickness of Violet’s black
silk dress and counting up the price of her hat
and costly mantle.

If any one saw the elegant demoiselle enter
the poor shop they did not see her come out;
but in about twenty 'r utes there emerged a
young peasant-woman, in short pettieoats, a
lacedboddice, wooden shoes, ahigh, broad hat,
and with a lace-maker’s basket on her arm.

The mistress of the shop had directed her
how to find the railroad station, which was not
far away, and toward it the wooden shoes
went softly clattering.

As a train moved out of that station with
the t lace-maker in a third—class car, Mr.
Goldenough, at the sporting salon arose, with
an oath and a laugh, from the table on
which he had placed the last gold piece of
all he had won in the month of his suc-
“We are just even,” he said to the

eess:
croupte’r. “Well! tonight we will take
a new start. 1 never give up—it isn’t

in the blood,” and then he looked about for the
patient daughter who usually sat at his elbow
——looked about, stared, grew as pale as he had
been flushed, and went; quickly off. Sir Israel
Benjamin met him on the steps, they exchanged
a few words, and walked into the gardens.

 

CHAPTER XV.
mrme TEE wnmenm.

CHARLIE WARD went the third time to see
the policeman whom he had bribed before he
received any information in return for his men-
ey; but on this third visit be was rewarded by
the name and address of the lady whom he had
seen riding out with the gentleman called by
b‘ officer Mr. Harold.

“I reckon there’s something uncommon in-
teresting about'the affair, anyhow,” remarked
the man as he gave Charlie a card on which
hehad scrawled “Mrs. Fraser, No. 124 West
st.” ‘-‘ I’m afraid Mr. Harold’s been and
gone an’ got himself into another scrape. He’s
always in trouble with the fair sect. I’ve
found out that the lady lives very quietly at
this house, No. 124, as his wife. The lady who
lets them the rooms only knows ’em by the
name of Frasernthat’s his given name, you
see !—and she don’t behave they’re really mar-
ried. As to that I can’t say—I only know Mr.
Harold ain’t reckoned a marrying man, and
$33" k°°ps very still about it, if he is mar-

 

“ What is the name of the person who keeps
the house?” '

“Madame Florian. She’s as tight as if she
belonged to the detective force. I don’t be—
lieve you’ll get anything out of her. I’ve had
a regular time finding out the little I tell you. ”

“ I hope I am mistaken in the identity of the
lady—that this Mrs. Fraser may prove to be
quite another person. But I am greatly obliged
to ydu; and here is the additional fifty dollars
you have earned.”

“ Thank you, sir; and if I can serve you any

further let me know." ‘
‘ Charlie turned away from the officer with a
heavy heart, which was so evident upon his
frank features that the man, as be carefully
disposcd the greenback in his wallet, said to
himself:

“Pretty bad case 0’ broken heart, that!
Harold has cut him out with the girl. '1. hat
Earold’sa gay one, now, ain‘t he? I wouldn’t
want him to get in’my way if I was one 0’
them young swells.”

_ .It‘was dusk when young Ward received the
address from the policeman, and going to his
boarding-house fbr his dinner, he had an hour
tor deliberation as to what steps he should now

y.‘ ."" ,,.'

~restlessly about, had fallen more than once on

. clear, elevated tones meant for the ear above.

 

take. He felt almost absolutely certain that
this Mrs. Fraser was Florence. The fear that
she had already made shipwreck of her young
life pained him almost as keenly as if she had
been his own sister. In his mind she had al-
ways been associated with Violet; and both
were near and dear and sacred to him. But,
whatever had befallen Florence, it remained im-
portant for him to find her: poor Violet's restora-
tion to her mother appeared to depend on Ethan
Goldsborough’s obtaining information of his ‘;
daughter, and her receiving a gift from Mad-
ame D’Eglantine of one hundred thousand dol-
lars. Charlie’s feelings were of a most coan
ing kind. He both hoped and feared the lady
would prove to be Florence—hoped it, on Vio-
let’s account—feared it, on her own.

As soon as he concluded his nearly untested
dinner he went over to Sixth avenue, and took
an up—town car to the street named on the
card. His pulse throbbed unpleasantly in his
temples as he rung the bell. A servant—a
keen-looking mulatto—girl—came to the door.
He asked for Mrs. Fraser.

“Not at home, sah.”

“ Can 1 see Madame Florian!”

“ Not at home, sah.”

Charlie knew the girl was lying—for he
walked up and down on the opposite side of the
street for ten minutes and had seen the apart-
ments on the second floor brilliantly lighted,
while the shadow of a slender figure, walln‘ng

 

the curtains. He stepped into the hall, having
almost to thrust the servant before him, as she ‘
kept the door in her hand, purposely barring :
hisentrance. Charlie cast a quick glance up 3
the stairway; he was certain ‘he saw a little
form leaning over the railing in the dusk of the
upper hall where the gas was turned down. i

“I wish to see Mrs. Fraser very much. I '
have important news for her,” he said, in

“ It is Charlie!” cried a. silvery voice which
thrilled through him. “ Oh, Charlie! Charlie! ,
How glad I am! Natalie, show Mr. Ward up
this minute. He is an old friend of mine, and
I must see him.”

“ Please to walk up,” said the mulatto, with
a wicked smile. “If missus counterdemand
my orders it’sall right,” and the visitor sprung
up the velvet-covered stairs with the same boy-
ish‘eagerness with which he used to bound up
the steps of Mr. Vernon’s piazza to meet the
two girls who so often walked together there.

A little figure stood in the open doorway
of the brightly-lighted drawing-r00 ——a little
figure well~known to the eager eyes of the call-
er; and a little hand grasped his own warmly,
a. well-known voice murmured words' of wel-
come, and Florence—the pretty little Florence
of his student dreams—drew him into the mag-
nificent apartment and closed the door between
themselves and the over-curious servant.

Charlie could not speak for more than a min-
ute. It was Florence, grown strangely beauti-
ful, and robed in all the splendor of some fairy
prince The room was luxurious with costly
furniture and perfumed with the breath of lav-
ish quantities of flowers. She stood in the
midst of her superb surroundings, under the
blaze of the branching chandelier, smiling at
him with tears in her eyes. Her ruby—colored
dressflowed away behind her in a long train;
her lovely neck and arms—not fair, but smooth
as satin, and of the rich tint of the true bru-
nette—sparkled with jewels; a cluster of red
blossoms nestled in her dusky, silken hair. Her
great eyes glowed with the excitement of meet~
ipg an old friend; but they filled quickly with
tears, too, as she said: '

“ Oh, Charlie, how delightful it is to see some‘
one that I know-4m old friend—and from Ly-
curgus—dear old Lycurgus! But I thought,
when I heard the bell ring, it was Fraser~my
husband—and I sprung out into the hall. If
you had come upstairs then, you would have
had my arms about your neck by mistake,” she
added, forcing a laugh.

“ Your husband?” asked Ward, gravely.

“Yes, Charlie, I don’t wonder you are aston-
ished. I have been married six weeks today!
Perhaps Fraser 'will come, in while you 
here; I hope hewill, though he does notlike 1119*]

 

 

, l
I

v ed away two great tears about to fall.

to have company. He wants me all to him-
self, I suppose, ”. she said, smiling, as she brush-
“ Sit
down, and tell me everything ” ,

She gave him a comfortable arm-chair, draw-
ing a smaller one close in front of him where
she might watch his lips as Well as hear his
words. Poor, homesick child! Fraser had not
been near her for three days, and her heart was,
breaking under its silk and jewels; the sight of
Charlie brought back, in a torrent, 8. thousand ‘
memories of the old life, the old home.

“Tell me first,” she said, leaning toward him
like an eager child, “have you heard anything
of papa and mammal I am very angry with
papa, as you know; but I would give the world
to see my mother. Is she in Lycurgus‘still?”

“Did you not see the advertisements I pub—
lished'a week or two ago?”

“No, no! If I had, I would have answered
them. Iam no longer hiding—exceptto please
Fraser. You see, Charlie,” blushing and hesi-
tating, “ our marriage is a profound secret,

and mustbe kept so for the present—on Fra- .
ser’s account. But tell me about my mother. ' ‘-
Sometimes I wish I never had left her as I did. ' '

But oh, Charlie, the blow was so sudden and,
cruel, and I was so proud! How did poor mail»
ma bear it?” '

A lump rose in the throat of foolish, boyish
Charlie. It was hard to tell the eager question-
er that her mother was lyingrin the grave to

. which trouble had driven her—harder to listen

to the daughter’s sobs, and cries of self-reproach, ‘

a after he had broken as gently as possible the

news to her.
“Wipe your eyes, dear Florence—do not

,' sob so—listen to what I have to say. I 'came
, here to tell you of many things,” he said, after _
she had given way to a. wild burst of grief, last.

ing half an hour.

“ Alas!” she replied, with a. more tempestu-
ous outburst of feeling, “ I am all alone, Char- ,

1ie~miserable, desperate! Fraser has not been
near me for three  and my mother is

l dead!” ~

Florence had no intention of betraying her

husband’s neglect—pride would have sealed her. 

lips before Charlie—but in the agony of this

new sorrow, it was wrung from her without he: , '

Ward sprung from his chair, walking up and

down the room in great excitement. At last . ‘

he paused before the weeping girl.
“Florence, excuse so dreadful a question.
As your friend—your protector, if need be,

ask it. I heard things before I came here which . V

your confession of his neglect seems to corrobo-'
rate. Are you sure that this Mr. Harold has

not deceived youi—that your marriage is valid ‘

in the eye of the law?” '
Florence went to a little ebony casket on one

of the tables, unlocked it and took from it her , .

marriage certificate. She showed this to Chm”
lie, and told him the whole. story of her stay in

Mr. Rhodes’ house, her acquaintance with his .1
friend Harold, and the wedding which follow— ‘

ed. She did not even conceal—although she
softened—the fact that to Mr. Rhodes’ inter!»
once in her behalf she owed it that she was
Harold’s wife. “The clergyman,” she said,’
“ was one of eminent respectability, and 'so is

Mr. Rhodes one of the most esteemed gentle- 

men in the city. It is all right—only Fraser
feels that his father will be angry, and the old
gentleman being very ill, he does not care to

vex him. ,« "

“ I am afraid,” she continued, presently, with

an air of the deepest melancholy, “ that Fraser

never really loved me—it was a passing fancy ' ~

on his part, and he has already repented of his
infatuation. He belongs to a very rich, very
exclusive, very haughty family, which, he
knows, Will scorn me for my poverty and in:
significance. But I do not care for his friends!

I would curl my lip at them as haughtin as . ' ‘

they at me, if Fraser only loved me. Oh,

Charlie, what shall I do to keep the love which '

is slipping away from me? I would

study, practice my music, make a gospel of the!
decrees of fashions, an art ,of dress—I would-
make any effort, perform any work, if thereby .

  

I might hold his aflections. For I love him—I;  ” ,

love him! Iadore him! Iwould be dorms.“ 

V
v.

., -' .« ,v 5 ,XM.‘
_ _ r . i. .

 

22

 

. a
‘.1
u I,

o"

 

 

 

«devoted little wife the world ever saw if he
would only allow it. I would fit myself for
the company of his proud relatives. It is hard
to be situated as I am! Charlie,
est, pure, loving wife; yet the very servants
sneer at me. They do not believe I am that
gentleman’s wife; and he allows them ‘to re-
gard me as not his wife! When I watch for

 him, and he does not come, and I grow pale,

and my eyes. red with weeping, they smile at

- any misery, as much as to say, ‘You should

have‘expected this; you must reap what you
sow.’ They bring up elegant dinners; but
' when I have to sit down to them alone I cannot
eat; and they take them away with an air of
amusement. It is true, as he says, that he can-
'not come so often as he would like, without be-
traying his marriage .to those from whom he
wishes to conceal it. But I am sure he could

. visit me more frequently if the wish were as

strong as it once was. 1 wonder have 1 grown
ugly in these six weeks! He used to rave about
my beauty. Charlie, tell me the truth !—--have
I grown plain, homely, deformed, since you

' saw me last? Am I no longer beautifull—no

longer fit to be loved?”

. She stood before him with her hands clasped,
‘a look of piteous appeal in the lovely eyes
whose dark lashes were beaded with tears, a
picture of girlish charms as vivid as ever fired
the soul of a. painter. The color rushed into

, Charlie’s face as he spoke, impetuously:

'[ 

“ You are twenty times more beautiful than
This man, who dares to ne-

ever, Florence!
I would like to

glect you so, is a scoundrel.

' killhim."

‘f No—for then you would kill me, too. Good
,orbad Ilovehimasheis. IfIcouldbut make
him love me !”

“I'have other things to tell you, Florence.
Sit again, and let us have our talk out. We
may not meet again for some time.”

They resumed their seats, and her visitor
narrated all that happened to the Vernons and
Madame D’Eglantine, including, of course, the

ry of Violet’s abduction by her father, his
threats and the conditions upon which she was

1 .. to be restored to her mother.

"‘80 you see, Florence, that it is necessary I

"shall immediately inform Mr. Blank of your

address, that he may confer with Mr. Golds-
"borough. Also, you will not be such a penni-
less bride, after all! Your portion will be a
handsome one to bring, even to 9. Harold. You
need have no .doubt'that Madame D’Eglantine

I am an hon- 1

I
a
!
i

 

will pay it, for she is quite willing—more than ,

willing. Indeed, now that your own mother is 1
dead, I dare say, had you not married, she would i
3 closed the door and p
“ You shall listen to my explanation of what

at once have adopted you as Violet’s sister, and
made you share in everything equally with her.
I cannot but regret your rash marriage. But
it is done, and cannot be undone. I only hope

,.that .Mr. Harold will be more willing to ac-

knowledge you when he learns that you are to
have a; large sum of money, and that some, at

, least, of yours friends and relatives are more

than a. match for his own in heritage and
wealth.

“Your marriage must now be proclaimed,

V whether or not it suits Mr. Harold, senior. Ser-

 

 

 _again-,-—which

 ,U’ ‘_" «r . V ,
 1  I, r . ,I'H",_ L:

vents shall no longer sneer at you. You have

- friends who will compel some attention to your

interests. I only wish Mr. Vernon were here

‘ xin the city now.”
_ " ' Much more was said. A marvelous clock on r
‘ the carVed mantelpiece struck ten, with a sound

almost as soft as that of a summer breeze run-

ning through a branch of lilies of the valley.
“I had no idea I had been here almost three

hours,” exclaimed young Ward, rising quickly.

‘ “ Good-by, dear Florence, for the present. You

shall not be neglected, rest assured of thati
And now, to attend to a. small matter of inter-
est only to myself. You remember the prom-
ise into which you bewitched me, when you
got me to promise to wear your ring? We have
met again, and I am no longer under bonds to
wear a jewel which'has made me a good deal
of 'troiible, for it has kept Violet from promis-
‘ing to some day be my little wife. She was,

‘ alusofm " httomakeloveto, _
naturally, je 0 y mg 2 no longerk—to-morrow morning I go to your

her and yet wear your ring. When I see her
I fervently, hepe will now be

I .«u
,1

._ BLesK EYES  BLUE-3   ,. H

soon—I shall show her the absurdity of her! lieve it,” he still sneered. “I came here, to—

doubts. So now, Florrie dear, take back your
naughty ring.”

As she reached out her hand for it, Charlie
took the dimpled member in his own, playful-
ly, and placed the ring on her finger. He had
only the most brotherly feeling for the little
lady with whom he had jested, and associated
since since they were children; and now, it was
more out of pity for her, and a kind desire to
leave her in lighter spirits than he had found

her, that he himself placed the ring on her 1
hand, and smiling, touched his lips lightly to it 3
' into the adjoining one, out into the hall from

as he said “good-night, and good-by till we
meet again.”

Turning to go, he, for the first time, per-
ceived, in the door, a person who had been si-
lently standing there for some three or four
minutes; a person he immediately knew to be
Fraser Harold, and Whom he would have been
glad to succeed in meeting, had it not been

for an expression on the handsome face which ‘

startled and disconcerted him.
The sneer of a Mephistopheles was on the pol-

ished, courtly features; but the eyes were red 1

and lurid with jealous rage.

“Really, madam, if I had known how you '

amused yourself in my absence, I need not
have put myself so much out of the way to
come up here to prevent your becoming quite
desolate.
aged to .visit you this evening; but I have been
so well entertained during the last five min-
utes, I will now depart, leaving you to the re-
sources of a new lover. Farewell, Madame
Cora Pearl.” '

It was at some inconvenience I man- {

“Fraser!” shrieked (his wife, darting to him f

and flinging her arms about his neck.
shall not speak to me so! You shall not go
away! Listen!
-—let me tell you "—but he cast her from him

with so much rudeness that she staggered half- f'

across the room.

“I might have known that a girl who would
meet me as you did, in Gramercy park, was not
a girl to trust,” he said, coldly. “ I have had
enough of you. I have been thinking so for
some time; and now I am infinitely obliged to

“ You :
This is an old friend of mine '

you for giving me a palpable and sufficient rea- ,

son for putting an end to our acquaintance.
You are even more fickle than I deemed
you.” \ .

He turned to leave the room, but again she
rushed and flung herself upon him, dragging
him, by the, might of her passion and anguish
rather than by her physical strength, back
against his will. while Charles Ward, brave and
generous, if young and inexperienced, quickly
placed his back to it.

you have seen—for your wife’s‘ sake,” said
Charlie, sternly.
“Do not bore me with explanations; they

are my pet aversions,” answered Harold, keep- ‘

ing the struggling girl at arm’s length and ad-
vancing calmly to the door. “ Open that, and

let me pass, or I shall take great pleasure in ‘

blowing out your brains.”

“ Blow them out, if you will, you infernal
sneak and coward!” cried Charlie. “ It is what
one might expect from a gentleman too mean
to protect his own wife from the insults of the
servants who wait upon her. To assassinate an

, unarmed man were not so base as to murder

1

.1,

  

the reputation of 'a woman!——‘—abOVe all things
of the woman you have vowed before Heaven
to love and protect.”

‘ Gentleman Harold quailed perceptiny under ‘
this true charge; the hand which toyed with

his revolver did not bring it to view; but he
sneered still, as he asked, with forced quiet-
11688: ' ‘z

“ o asserts this lady to be my wife? She
will have some trouble to prove her claims to
the title.” A

“ Fraser! Fraser! Fraser! You pierce my
very soul with your cruel words. How can
you talk so to your oWn, own fond little wife?
Mr. Rhodes will tell Charlie my words are true
—so will the clergyman. I have the certificate.
Fraser Harold, I Will endure this false position

parents, your sisters, and tell them the truth.” t

p

.‘x‘ You will find it difiicult to   ’

 

!

night, my girl, because I was still very fond of
you; and who knows what your power over
me might have won me to do? Thatis all over
now. The sight, 1 saw when I came in the door
decided my corirse. Redmond Rhodes sailed
for Europe a week ago, to be gone two years;
the reverend gentleman you refer to fell dead ‘
on the street, today, of apoplexy; my family
is at our country house; and I am off, to-mor«
row, with a lot of English swells, for a hunt
over the plains—so good-by, forever.”

He turned quickly, walked down the room

thence and down the stairs before Charlie could
intercept him. »

As she heard the hall door clang, Florence
fell headlong to the floor, with the low cry:

“ Oh, merciful Heaven, DnsnR’rED!”

CHAPTER XVI.
THE LACE-MAKER AND THE TOURIST.

Rnnmorm Rnomns felt a strange weariness
of life after he had seen the little refugee safely
married to her too gay lover. He could not
account for the ennui which pursued him at
Newport—traveled with him to Saratoga—A
stuck by him closer than a brother at Lake
George, and made with him the whole tour of
the White Mountains, arriving simultaneously
with him in Newport again. He was not usu—
ally ’the victim of blue devils to any great ex-
tent, having within his own mind resources
which even the deadly lethargy of luxury could
not wholl repress. But now he was listless,
restless, tired of everything, unable to content
himself anywhere. He came home again in
four weeks. . For the first time he seriously re—
gretted having choséh a bachelor’s life. His
house was insufferany lonesome. His ‘books
had lost their charm. The pictured beauties
who smiled down at him from the gallery were
stiff, unnatural, faded shadows on canvas as
compared with the lovely, ,vivid, piquant face
that had once flashed back a"sta.rtled blush and
smile at him, as he opened his chamber door.
Ah, mysterious witchery of woman’s eyes!
pair of them—“ sweetest eyes ’twere ever seen "
-_-—had entered the haughty bachelor’s halls,
cast the glamour of their brightness overvevcry-
thing, and disappeared, leaving dullness, gloom,
homesickness.

 

A .

Redmond Rhodes didinot say all this to him- v

self—would not have acknowledged it to his
own dreams; yet in the was the secret of the
sudden resolution to bi farewell, to New York '
for the winter, and to seek in Paris, or the sun-
ny cities of Italy, the pleasure which had for—
saken his hearth-stone. His house was closed; his
housekeeper pensioned off, with no duties except
to see to an occasional airing of the rooms; his
wild friend, Harold, was delicately lectured
cn—“ now youare married, you must be good;”
and Mr. Rhodes, with no particular feeling of
elation, but ;Mth rather the inward reflection
that “the world was hollow and his doll stuffed
with sawdust,” found himself outward bound
on the Germanic, for Bremenhaven; having re-
solved on an autumn tour through Germany
and Switzerland before settling down in Paris
for two or three months of the winter. , ‘
Too reserved in temperament to‘ make any
of those intimacies common to steamer jour-
neys—where the passengers are forced into a
closer companionship than in other modes of
traveling—Mr. Rhodes yet became very much
interested in a certain Madame D’Eglantine,'a
French lady of exquisite beauty and refine-
ment, reported to be rich almost beyond figures
to compute. Her wealth and beauty made her
an universal object of interest; but it was for
neither of these very objective qualities that
Mr. Rhodes fancied her; he saw, in her'shrink—
ing from the homage paid her, in the pallor of
her fair face, the shadows under her melancholy
eyes, and the pathetic tones of her low voice,
that she was a woman who had suffered. Some‘
thing in her looks and manners attracted his
sympathy. -

As he was a gentleman whose air proclaimed -
his right to be respected andtrusted, Madame ‘

D’Eglantine did not repel the few 'quietrceura
tesies he found it in his power to extend to her.

Sometimes they'chatted pleasantly togethei'flir' b 
. / g I ,. .

,
4 i . .. ,. '

 
  
 

 

 
 

v

I

 

 

an hour on deck, on fair mornings or calm eva-
nings. Mr. Rhodes also liked madame’s business
agent, Mr. Vernon—an honest. sensible. modes.
gentleman, well—read in the classics, and a

. shrewd observer of men and things ~though he

wondered a little at her trusting such immense
interests to a man of so limited an experience.
Mr. Rhodes did not know the reasons—aside
from business ones—which the fair French
madame had for trusting the American lawyer
with her affairsal '

Mr. Rhodes was the only one on board the
ship, aside from the agent, to whom Madame
D’Eglantine spoke of her daughter; not even to
him did she confide any of the particulars of
her story; but he gathered from her the im-
pressions that she had been very unfortunate
in her marriage, contracted in secrecy when
she was scarcely more than a child, and that
the man who had been her husband h 1d still
the power to torture her, by keeping, or having
at present, possession of their child—that she

was now on her way to claim this daughter, a'

young lady, and was in some doubt as to where
she' should find her. So much, Redmond in-
ferred, from what was told‘ him; but the real
and terrible tragedy of our story, the danger
which threatened her innocent daughter, were
not dreamed of by the gentleman who so sympa-
thized with the pale-faced, lovely mother. And
so the brief acquaintance terminated with a
few pleasant wishes that they might meet
again, when the steamer reached her dock at
'Bremenhaven, for the ways of the travelers
separated there; Madame D’Eglantine was go-
ing directly to Baden, led by some strange,
motherly yearning which drew her as a my»
terious, magnetic force. Ah! if she had been
a week earlier on her way, and could have
come unannounced by the tell—tale cable, how
easily she would have at least found her child,
and been able to keep near her, even if not to
buy her from the malignant hate which kept
possession of her only to torment!

Before madame reached Baden those of whom
she came in search had flown. But she learned

how a Monsieur Goldenough had been there for '

a few weeks—at what house he stopped—how
he spenthis days—and hoWhis beautiful daugh-
ter, la belle Amem'caine, had been the marvel
of the city, followed about by a host of idle
young bloods, who considered themselves re-
paid for hours of patient waiting, if, perchance,
she flung back her vail for a few moments, as
she sat near her father at his play, while her
soft, pure eye's roved over the habitat of fash-
ion, pleasure, dissipation, like the glance of an
angel brooding sadly over some entrance to the
Inferno. .

She heard, too, vague rumors, flying reports,
of something which sent the blood back On her
brain in curdling waves, which threatened to
kill—a scandalous story which had been the
delight of the halls and gardens for the last
three or four days: how M. Goldenough had
fOund a suitor for his daughter‘s hand—the
well-known English baronet, Sir Israel Benja-
min, famous for his meanness, badness and ug-

liness—old, repulsive, rich, sensual, miserly;

how the young lady had objected, and the papa
had insisted; how la belle Americaine, driven
to desperation, had run away; how the or
and the baronet had soon found the trail, and
were off, silent, keen, cunning, rather enjoying
the novelty of the excitement, and certain to
run down the' game very soon.

“What more?" gasped the agonized lady, of
the one who had enlightened her thus far,
striving in vain to conceal the tumult of sus-
pense and pain which whirled through her
brain'

“Ah, madame, they do say mademoiselle
was' married to Sir Israel, day before yester-
day. ’Tisa pity, for the baronet is a despicable
person, though rich enough, the good God
knows. Any one of a hundred handsome and
amiable young men, of good families, would
have been glad to la belle Americaine,
since her father was so fast to get rid of her.
Some of the young Englishmen went about with

crepe on their arms yesterday—it was only half '

in jest they were, either—and a poor jest I call
iglmndsme, do not you?" , _ '

 

"BLACK EYES Am: BLiisg?

 

 

“ How do they know about the marriage?” ’ stockings, trying to hide themselves in the rude

“Oh, it is but a rumor; yet it is generally
believed. They say they found her in a. little
country inn about five miles from —. Mon-
sieur Goldenough seems to have had great au-
thority over his daughter, for she gave up,
when once caught, and became most obedient,

going to the mayor and the church, the next ,
: and isnow reduced to the pittance of a lace-
: maker, poor young thingl” and Redmond, with

morning, as meek as a mouse.”

“You speak as if well-informed.” ‘

“ I only cho the rumors which are in every
one’s mouth, madame. It may be so, or may
not be."

And this was the- weldome which awaited
Madame D’Eglantine in Baden!

Mr. Vernon was equally distressed. His
love for Violet was that of the fondest of pa-
rents; he had long indulged a favorite dream
that she and Charles Ward would join hands

declining years. Even after her mother had
come, with dazzling prospects which made the

first plans for her happiness, believing that
some time Madame D’Eglantine would be won
to think as well of Charlie as he did. The idea
of his shrinking Violet forced into a marriage
with a blase, mean, unprincipled old baronet
was terrible; far rather would he have heard
that the earth had closed over her sweet eyes
forever.

Meantime, their whilom traveling compan-
ion, Redmond Rhodes, pursued his leisurely
way up the river on One of the little steamers,
which go loaded down with passengers, in no
hurry for anything, and with no object in view

ekcept to get rid of the time comfortably, and l

to see as much of the country as was conve-
nient. He had been over the ground 'more

,« than once before, so that nothing had the charm ‘

of novelty. He had purchased a pocket edition

_ of Goethe in the German, and enjoyed the read-

ing of o'ne of his favorite poets as he glided
gently up the Rhine. Toward evening he left
the boat, allowing his baggage to go on, except
a small traveling-bag which he had sent up to
the quaint old inn of the quaint old town where
he proposed to spend the night. He had a
pleasafrit sunset hour in which to examine the
cathedral, and another more dusky one in which
to rove about the place looking at everything
different from the customs of his own country,
with keen eyes; his long walk gave him a good
appetite; he ate a solitary supper with a zeal
which would have astonished James at home;
slept well under the quilts of down which heap-
ed the high bed in the comfortable but old-
fashioned’ chamber of the inn, and awoke the
next morning, rather dazed as to his where-
abouts, out of a dizzy dream of a pair of velvety
black eyes opening softly inside a Quaker bon-

- net.

The hours began to drag in the dull old town
before it was time to expect the steamer in
which he Was to resume his trip up the river;
he hauntered down to the little stone quay to
see the arrival of the boat from above going
down. He had his bag'in his hand; for he had
settled his bill at the inn and was ready for a
start.

The passengers coming‘ of! were a common-
place lot of Germans; but, on the deck, Red-
mond observed, as the steamer lay at the dock
a few minutes, were some picturesque tourists,
as well as some terribly stupid-looking ones.

Quite by herself, on one of the benches on the ,

deck, in a timid attitude, as if she shrunk from f mg up and down the deck, with a hideous leer,

her own shadow, sat a peasant girl, young and
pretty. The sparkle of a. tear in the sunlight,
as it fell from her eyes to her hand, first drew
the attention of our idle traveler to her. She
wore the costume of a Belgian peasant, except
that her hat had a broad brim which so shad-

pattens which were far too heavy for the feet.

“Hereis some more foolish masquerading!" ‘-

he thought, memory flying back to the little
Quakeress, with the false front and the painted
wrinkles, who had once upon a time fainted on
his door-step. “This little girl is crying, too.
Perhaps she has been in good circumstances

the aid of a ready imagination, went on to con-
struct a story to suit the fancied circum-
stances.

Just before the boat proceeded on her way,
a belated traveler was driven in a cab down to

‘ the dock, at a furious rate of speed; the cab—

man jumped down, but not soon enough to

‘ open the door for the gentleman who sprung
; out, flunghis fare in the man’s face and hur-
and hearts and together be the comfort of his ‘

ried onto the steamer. Redmond had turned

. to watch‘ the little scene, as one will who has
2 nothing better to do: when he again looked
fair girl the peer of nobles, he still clung to his ;

 

 

backatthepeasantginLhenofioedthattheht‘

tle rosy mouth was pale, and the slender figure
seemed to wish to sink into the deck and es-
cape all human sight; the fingers folded lightly
over the handle of the basket had broken it in
the sudden, convulsive movement which passed
over them. For a moment, as the arri

gentleman disappeared under the gaugway, she
arose and looked about with an air of such dis-
traction, such terror, that the observer on the
dock expectedto seeherrushtothe sideof the
boat and cast herself headlong into the water.
As the head of the new arrival emerged above
the floor of the deck, on his way up, she sunk
back again despairingly, drew her hat still fur-

ther over her face, opened the lid of the bus- ‘

ket. and took out a cushion and bobbins over
which she bent as if deeply engrossed in work.

The bell of the steamer sounded the signal to *-

draw in the plank.
One would have to be in lust such a frame
of mind as Redmond Rhodes to appreciate the

impulse which came over him at that critical!

moment—he was tired of everything, longing
for something to arouse his interest, time was

of no consequence, he had no settled. plans— -‘
and so, as the bell jangled, he set his foot on ‘
the plank and sprung into the gangway. To

do him full justice we must also admit that the
chivalry of a most generous nann‘e had been
touched by the sight of the evident terror of
the young lace-maker.

“ If she needs a friend, why not I, as well as
any onel—I am bound to see this little by-play
through.” ,

And there was our haughty aristocrat, who,
at home, hel'd himself “too good for human na~
ture’s daily food, ” going back down the glr-ri-

ous, romantic Rhine on the same track he had‘

yesterdhy passed over, just to see what was the
trouble With a foolish peasant girl, who had
dropped a tear, and broken her basket-handle
in a spasm of sudden fright! Redmond would
not have done such a thing had there been any
who knew him to observe it; but, being quite
free to act out his natural impulses, he was not
abashed at the nobility of his intentions nor
ashamed to do a good act.

Going on deck, he placed himself at some dis-
tance from the peasant girl, took out his copy
of Goethe, and began to read and watch.

In a few minutes he heard a suppressed ex-
clamation; the gentleman whose appearance on
the dock had so startled the girl had been walk-

, on his countenance, looking narrowly at the
j peasant every time he passed; she had not once

owed her face that Redmond could only make :

out a delicate chin, a mouth like a rose, and the
tip of a dainty nose.

“above all things, not the swarthy face of a
Belgian girl,”‘and then his eyes roved to the
small white hands clasped over the handle of
the basket which held her lace-work; and from
thence to the fairy feet in the wooden shoes:—

soft, an, dimpled, 'rqsefleaf little has, without

.c»

. / .* /\
1 .‘
.4 -

looked up, but held her head bent low over her
work. Seldom had Mr. Rhodes seen a face so
utterly repulsive to him as that of this man; it
was old, without any of the benignity of age,

a wrinkled page covered over with the inelfa- V

f cable records of a mean and sensual life; the

 loose under lip was significant of the character
“That is no peasant‘s face,” he idly mused;

Lremarked. in an undertone:

6f the man, as well as the small, crafty eyes.
His dress was that of a seedy exquisite; his
figure bent and low. While the American
mutely wondered as to his name and standing,

he heard two English tourists sitting near him ,

begin a. discussion of the very subject, which
enlightened him considerably. One of them

'2
9

\Y,

"VJ  .. ‘ 'i

 

I ~. ‘

 

 

\

24

 

,-
~ I
/?

 

Es AND BLUE. '

 

“ There’s our old friend, Sir Israel, again. I
wonder what he is after now. Something of
importance, or he never would have jumped
out of that cab in such haste.”

“Ten to one it’s that pretty Belgian peasant!
Do you see how he eyes her? When Sir Israel

Benjamin is in a hurry you may know that he ;

is either after a pretty woman or a rich fool.
There! I told you so!
'a piece of lace -—for apocket—handkerchief,” and
the tourists laughed.

It was just at this point that Mr. Rhodes had
heard the girl’s smothered cry; and now he
noticed that her hands trembled as she remov-
ed the lid from her basket and allowed Sir Isa
reel to inspect its contents. The baronet said

something to her—made quite a long speech, in 3

a voice too low for 'Redmond to. catch a word
—-added, in a louder tone, that he would buy a
cruvat of her presently—and passed on, evi-
dently desirous of avoiding the suspicions of
those on the boat who might know him.

The girl sat for sometime after the baronet
left her as if in a stupor. Then she pushed her
hat a little up from over her eyes and looked
about on the people. It seemed as if she look—
ed for some one who might befriend her.
When her glance at last rested on Redmond, a

. slight flush came into her pale face; her eyes

passed on, but they came back to him, question—
ingly, again and again. ,
His curiosity and interestfincreased. This
was no peasant girL Two hours passed on
, without any incident, except the occasional call

__ of the little steamer at some village dock; the

passengers were called to dinner in the cabin;
Sir Israel, the tourists, the commercial travel-
ers, all went—except the common people who
ate their bread and cheese on deck, the peasant,
and Redmond Rhodes. Redmond remained
where he was—he had breakfasted late, and he
longed for an opportunity to speak alone with
the girl. She did not wait for him to: address
her; no sooner had Sir Israel disappeared than
she arose and came over to the bench where he
was sitting, holding her basket open as an ex-
cuse for addressing him.

A“ You are an American, sir?” she asked, in a
trembling voice.
' “I am—and you?”

“Oh, yes! and in trouble. I am not—not
I am running away in this disguise, sir; but.
indeed, I am not to blame for it. If my mo-
ther could know howl am situatedl—oh, sir,
as an American and a gentleman I appeal to
you I” .

“ Be calm, my dear young lady, and tell me
what you wish, as if I were your brother. Con-
dder me as such; ask my assistancein any way;
I shall be Only too happy to serve you.”

“ Oh, if I could tell you alll I trust you, sir,

‘ for your face tells me that it is safe to do so. I

hoped to reach the steamer and sail for New
York, before my pursuers discovered me; but,
 one of them is on this boat with me, and
I am sufléring all the horrors——-"

“Hush,” interrupted Redmond, in a whis-

‘ per, “‘he is coming. No, my girl, I do not care

to buy. I am no judge of lace ”
The girl looked over her shoulder, at this

‘ hint, and there stood the grinning baronet, so

close that his breath touched her cheek—~80

close that she shivered with terror as she saw '

the cold triumph, the gleam of malice, in his
crafty black eyes. I

CHAPTER XVII.
THE SNARE HOLDS AND TIGHTENS.
WHEN M. Goldenough turned away from the

 

"gaming-table where he had lost in twenty-four

hours all that he had gained in four weeks of
extraordinary good luck, and encountered Sir
lsrael at the'.door, with a question as to wheth-
er he knew where his daughter had gone, he

I found the baronet in an ill humor.
“Curse you and your daughter,“ too, mon- ‘

sieur; if you’re going to play in this reckless
manner, I’d better keep out of the family. You

~ will ruin yourself, sooner or later, and then

what will I get with my lady, but her good

, looks? She’s danced handsome; but one must
. look out ,for his interests, you know,,for he

can’t expect another-to look out for him“ I’m
tonfathoms deep in  with mademoiselle:

v "!
\

 

He is about to purchase .

 

E but soft words butter no parsnips; what is her
.5 dot and how secured?”

j M. Goldenough took Sir Israel’s arm and
i hurried him away to a quiet spot on the promo-
' nade; then he faced his friend, and with a sul~
, len smile, asked him, curtly:

f “Did you ever chance to hear anything of the
T estates of the D’Eglantines, in Caen?”

“An immensely wealthy family,” answered
the baronet, smacking his lips at the very
thought of estates far exceeding his own.

“Well, now, I will confide a fact to you.
‘ You can act on the knowledge of the fact as

you think best. My daughter Violet has no
; expectations whatever from me: but. on her
,' mother’s side, she is the sole prospective heir to
'- every acre of those estates, every dollar of
§ their income. Her mother is a D’Eglantine,
; and now sole owner of all the property. Vio—
l let is her only child, and indisputable successor.
’ Judge for yourself whether it be worth some
trouble to secure for a wife a young lady with
such prospects.”

Sir Israel’s eyes twinkled like sparks that
have been stirred.

“ Has mademoiselle returned to your hotel?"
he asked, with sudden interest.

“That is what I am anxious to ascertain.
Will you come along?”

The reader knows they did not find the vio-
tim of their schemes there.

In the pursuit which followed the baronet
proved himself a perfect ferret.

The business seemed perfectly congenial to
his peculiar talents. -

ing an heiress, the very prospect of whose
better than a dozen hired detectives. The

from such pursuit.

Before dark they were in the ascend-hand
; clothing-store, where the woman at first lied ob-
stinater from fear of losing the beautiful gar-
ments over which she had been gloating; but

ed by the law, and was offered a handful of
silver besides, she soon described the cestume
which the young lady had adopted, and told
how she had directed her to the railway sta-
tiou.

M. Goldenough felt so sure of soon overtak-
ing the fugitive that he would make no use of
the telegraph or ofi‘icers of the law, preferring
to conduct his family affairs less publicly. The
, two men had given chase; but the timid crea-
j ture they pursued had some wit to elude them;
? she had doubled on her track, and finally taken

to the steamer, after actually seeing her father
_ and the baronet on the train in a car of which
, she was sitting.
3 They had discovered their mistake too late
' to rectify it immediately; and had then re,

solved that M. Goldenough had better proceed

to Bremerhaven and remain there on the look—
z' out, as they had decided that she was making
her way there, to sail for America. Meantime,
the baronet, who had grown very uneasy over
their mistake, undertook to overhaul the steam-
er at some landing-point of her passage, and
keep his eye on mademoiselle until her father
claimed her.

We have seen how well he succeeded.
, When first addressing the pretpnded lace-ma-
; ker about her work, he was informing her of
i how delighted he was to have the opportunity
; of once more paying his respectsto his fiancee
! and of the pleasure it would be to M. Golden-
i ough to greet his daughter when she stepped

from the boat. '
E - “Monsieur Goldenough is not at all angry
with your playful masquerading, mademoiselle;
but it confirms him in his opinion that you will be
safer with a. husband than with a father; and
he has promised to hand you over to my keep-
] ing before twelve o’clock to-morrow.”

 

I And Violet, feeling the toils tightening about .

 her, was still conscious of one supreme resolu-

tion of her heart and soul—to die before per-
: mitting that creature to touch her hand. But
% how? She knew that it was not so easy to die
? on a. wish. She must have the means at hand.
 Wistfully she looked at the blue water. .' If she

I V ' 4

',;_.‘__J._h,  ' ,. . A:

Then, urged on as he was by the fear of los- '
riches made him half delirious with joy, he was ,

poor child had smallchance of hiding herself ‘

when assured that she would remain unmolest- .

should attempt to drown herself and be rescued,
she knew very well that a marriage or a mad~
house we (1 be her puishment. While think—
ing over e whole ground her desperate eyes,
had roved about in search of one kindly hu—
man being to whom it would seem tolerably
safe to appeal. She saw Mr. Rhodes and rec--
ognized him as a fellow—countryman. Some-
how, he seemed to inspire her with courage.
Did some subtle, inexp icable influence from
the mother who had so lately associated with
him on board the Germania still linger about him,
that Violet should so trust him at first glance
and feel as if she had found a defender, who-
would believe her story and not swa110w the.
fiction that she was mad, as soon as a wicked
man chose to accuse her of it?

She would have told the stranger all; but
the ever—watchful baronet, fearing that she
might do something so rash as to throw herself
over the side of the boat, had concluded to go

dinnerless and returned in time to thwart her ‘

‘ attempt at confidence. Stealing softly on the
pair he overheard enough to convince him that
mademoiselle was about to appeal to this gene-
tleman, who was also an American, and he re-

f, solved that an opportunity should not again oc-~
cur.

! The hours of the afternoon wore slowly

‘ away, and the boat approached the end of her
journey.

In vain Redmond Rhodes nought to interest

3 himself in his favorite poet. The young lady

‘ in the peasant garb had taken a seat as near to

him as she could. The baronet had joined the

group; he tried to open a conversation with
the American, as an excuse for remaining near,
but got brief replies, and finally settled into
silence, amusing himself with watching, with
malignant pertinacity, every look and move-
 ment of the embarrassed and suffering girl. It

. was with difficulty Mr. Rhodes controlled him-

,1 self, so strong was the impulse of the gentle-

; man to chastise the bully who could thus stare

out of countenance a lady.

The lovely dark-blue eyes finally fixed them-
seives on Redmond’s with an anxious, strain
terrified appeal inythem,‘which he felt that he
must respond to.

, “ What is it. my child?” he asked, in his kind-
manner, feeling that he must wait no longer
for the baronet to get out of the way. “If
you need a friend, I will be one to you—you
are a countrywoman of mine, and I cannot
submit to see you persecuted.”

“ I do not see what you can do for her,” in.
terposed .Sir Israel, drawing a card from his
breast—pocket and handing it, with a polite
bow, to the stranger. “Allow me to assure
you, sir, whoever you are, that it will be dan-
gerous for you to interfere betWeen a father
and his child—or a young lady and her afii—
anced husban .” .

“ I am not adianced to him,” spoke up Vio- \
let, quickly-“ I hate, abhor, dread him, be-
yond any man on the face of the earth! My
father is determined that I shall marry him-—
I put on this disguise and ran away, because
my father is cruel to me, and wishes to make
me wretched for life by forcing me toaccept
this 1mm, ‘ whom I detest. If..l could reach my
home and friendsl—but, oh, sir, I fear I am
quite in my father’s power; and he was cruel
to my mother, and has no love for me.”

There were no passengers then in that vicin-
ity who undo stood English, and the three
couldtalk without exciting any especial notice.
Sir Israel tapped his forehead significantly, and
smiled.

“Her father is a gentleman against whom
no one will venture a word. He is kindness
itself to his daughter, who is one of the sweet-
est of her sex, except that, occasionally—when
not so Well as usualwshe has, let us say, exag-

gerated fancies about things which render her

m_:: K

“ He means you to understand that I am
more or less insane; that is a part of my fath-
er’s avowed, plan to compel me—iu this foreign
country, away from all who know me—to
marry this man. Oh, do not believe them!
do not allow that suspicion to‘ poison your
mind toward me! Do you. sir, blame me for

, shrinking with horror from [this old man, who  "

A . r

".k ..\".,'

l.

 

. rm-

!

r

 

s.

 

Y

has not one virtue to compensate for his burden
of years? Would I not be insane to consent to
such a union? Yet my father wants to hold me
a prisoner, 'to force me into the arms of this
withered row! I am so mad, that I will die
by the first death that offers before I will
yield. If to be eager tokill myself to escape
Sir Israel Benjamin, be madness, then I am
mad, indeed!”

; Sir Israel waved hishand deprecatingly, with
'a pitying smile. '

“ Will you not save me from them?” she ask-
ed, turning to Redmond, with clasped hands;
“ surely you can do something I”

“ I wish I knew what, I could do,” answered Mr.
Rhodes, thoughtfully; he was too experienced
in the difiiculties of the law, to feel willing tc
make the attempt to interfere between a parent.
and child, even had he possessed the least pow-
er to do so. I

“'Do something-something for me, if you
have any humanity?” she pleaded. “I would
leap into the water, but I know they would
save me, and I shall be worse ofif than before.
Sir, will you give me a scrap of paper out of
your note—book, and a pencil, for one moment?”

Redmond tore a leaf out of his diary and
handed it to her, with the pencil she had asked
for. She immediately wrote a few words and
handed paper and pencil back to him. The
face of Sir Israel turned a sickly purple with
rage and jealousy; he shook his long forefinger
at the American, saying, savagely:

“ Sir, this interference on your part has gone
as far as I shall permit. When we reach our
stopping-place, I shall hand you over to the
police.”

“On what complaint!” asked Redmond,
coolly. '

“No matter about that; I will invent one.
I will swear to whatever is necessary to get

‘ rid of you, sir.”

“What a fine sense of honor! But let me
beg of you not to perjure yourself on my ac-
count. Rather than drive you into such a sin,
I will abandon the young lady to her fate.
We Americans are ridiculous cowards.”

.The old dandy could not decide whether the
stalwart gentleman, whose broad shoulders
loomed a foot higher, than his own, was mak~
ing fun .of him, or not. Redmond arose and
went to another part of». the deck, where he
read the few lines the girl had written, twist-
ed the torn leaf carelessly and tossed it over
board. From that moment until the time the y
landed he did not once look toward her; and

the baronet sager concluded that his threat ‘

had really frightened the puppy of an Ameri

‘ can. .
Under this belief he recovered hisequanimi-

ty, making himself so agreeable to_the pretty
lace—maker in the wooden shoes that every one
on deck was smiling at the spectacle.
‘ When the boat finally came alongside the
dock which was the terminus of her day’s
journey, therich purple of twilight had robed
the distant mountains, and night was settling
slowly over the strange town. Mr. Rhodes
was in 1'10 hurry to disembark. Hestood where
he could Watch. the others do so, waiting for
the first pressure to be over. Looking down
upon the dOCk, where two lamps already glim-
mél‘ed, he saw a handsome, portly, eminently-
l‘espectable appearing Parsonage, of his, own
nationalitY, eagerly scanning the passengers.
Then he saw the old baronet signal this person.
age, who immediately made his way on board
and up to the spot Where the young lady, dis.
guised as a lace- maker, sat trembling.

What passed between the two he did not at-
tempt to overhear; but now made his own way

' quickly down upon the quay, Where he purpose-

ly concealed himself behind a. small mountain
of freight,,waiting and watching until the gen-
tleman retm'ned, with the pretended peasant
girl on his arm. They entered a carriage, the
baronet'went in another, and both were driven
‘06 at a rapid rate. Rapid as it was a 
carriage followed as swiftly—for gold Will
work wonders, and Mr. Rhodes had triple-feed
the cabman. ' , ~ .

The father did not take his beautiful daugh-
ter, dressed in her peasant clothes, to any ho-

, tel: but into the oldest, oddest  of the town,

.-I
I

 

close down by the shipping, where the carriage
drove under the ancient porte-cochere of a tall,
tumble—down building, and disappeared in the
court—yard; an old building, standing forlorn
in a sort of decayedgrandeur, in the midst
of .a crowd of very different buildings, ware-
houses, tenement—houses, steamboat~ofiices, and
the tag-end of a market.

Mr. Rhodes summoned his own driver to
stop at a safe distance from the other two ve-
hicles. ‘7

“What house is that whose courtyard they
entered?”

“ A lodging-house, monsieur-in apoor part,
but clean and respectable. It was once very
fashionable; but these latter years it is occu-
pied chiefly by the clerks in the warehouses
’round about.”

“ Do you suppose I can obtain a room there
for a. day or two?”

“Oh, undoubtedly, monsieur. I am told the
bedding is clean and the place quiet. But Mon-
sieur la Amer-iodine should go to a finer
place.”

“Give me the street and number, please.”

The cabman gave it, and Redmond wrote it
down.

“ Now drive me to some office from which I
can dispatch a telegram.”

A drive of some length brought them to a
handsome quarter of the town, where Mr.
Rhodes sent his message, took his supper ata
restaurant, and was driven back to the vicinity

’of the house where his acquaintances of the

boat had taken refuge.

It was by this time quite late in the evening.

Dimissing the cab, he proceeded on foot, and
rung the bell at the court-yard gate. The per-
tie’re made his appearance. !

“Can I have an apartment here for a day
or two?”

“ Undoubtedly. Will monsieur walk in?
Como this way—I will introduce you to the
proprietress. ”

He was led across the court into the parlor
of the little widow who had the letting of the
apartments. She could give him his choice of
several beautiful, charming suites; and she
took up a candle and led the way up a neatly-
kept, but somber and ancient stairway.

“Give me rooms as near as possible to those

' of the other Americans who arrived this even-

 ;    BLACKBEYES AND-BLUE]

 

ing,” said Redmond, as he followed after her “

up the foot-worn stone stairs, dimly lighted by
the one flaring candle which preceded him.

“Ah! monsieur,” rejoined the widow, paus-
ing at the first landing, and sighing heavily,
“those people disappointed me cruelly. They
looked at my rooms, but they were not suited,
and went away, after 1 almosp felt the price of
them in my palm. I hope monsieur will not
treat me so badly.”

Foole'd!

Redmond Rhodes drew a long breath but
checked the inclinatidn to swear, as this certain-
ty was borne in upon him. Those two men
had been more cunning than he. Foreseelng
that he would track them, they had led him off
on a false trail. ‘

“ Do you. know where they went to find
apartments?” ‘

“I have no more idea than I haveof heaven,
monsieur. But you will not disappoint me
about the rooms?”

"If they suit, ‘I will remain here for the

rasth as piteously, could not be hers for the

asking. By her own vanity and folly—-though ‘

not by any crime—she had opened the door to
a long train of evils likely to pursue her
through the whole of a. life as yet so fresh and
young. , She had done wrong in coming to New

York as she did—done wrong in, meeting Frar‘
‘ser Harold surreptitiously, as she had done—

done wrong in marrying him when she saw how
he hesitated about making her his wife. The
last fault was the most forgivable, because
“ she loved much ”—-—that she did love her hus-
band truly and with the .whole of her ill-gov-

erned, passionate nature, was her redeeming,
virtue.

“I hope mademoiselle will make an effort to
control herself; as, if she feels well enough to
attempt it, I must insist on her leaving my
house to—night. ‘She knows that, had I not
been imposed on, I should never have allowed
her to take apartments here.”

“ Why do you call a married lady mademoi.
selle? And why‘do you speak to her in that
insolent manner?” demanded young Ward, an-
grily: he had waited, in anxiety and distress,
for Florence’s recovery from her swoon.

“ She can answer that question better than I
can. When her protector leaves her, because
of the visits of another gentleman, I think I
am justified in giving the lady warning.” .

“ That man, who should have'been her pro
tector, and is not, is her husband, madame; and
I am an old friend of ,her family who have
known her since she was a child in frocks. I
came to her to bring her word of her mother’s
death. Beware! there are courts whére foul-
mouthed slander is punished; as I, a lawyer,
chance to know. That her husband should
have gone off in a fit of jealous rage, because
he saw me here, Without waiting for, an ex-
planation of my visit, shows him to be—what
he is. But it does not make it safe for you to
insult this lady.”

“ Very well, sir; I have no wish to insult
Her, as you call it. You will not deny my
right to ask her to vacate my apartments, after
the gentleman who engaged them for her has

told me that he will no longer be responsible,

for the price of them?” _

“Certainly not. But,” after a minute’s re-
flection, “they are paid for in advance; you
cannot turn her out to—night; and I do not pro-
pose to seek another place for her at an un-
seasonable, suspicious hour.” v r

“They are paid for by the week; there are
yet two days remaining. I did not think of
that; I thought only of the reputation of my,
house,” quickly rejoined the wily madame,
afraid that this gentleman might find out the
truth, viz : that Mr. Fraser, as he met her in

the lower hall, had tossed a handful of bills to ’_

her, saying: “Here is a month’s pay in advance;
allow Mrs. Fraser to remain here that, length
of time ;” for Harold—who had all the baseness
of his class—had also their scorn. of meanness,
in money matters. ‘

“ Oh, Charlie, Charlie!” moaned the deserted
wife, againstriving to lift her head from the

1 cushions where she lay, like some splendid

Scanbear!

present,” a resolution on which Redmond after- i

ward congratulated himself!

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
AU anom.
Dusunrun!
Terrible word for the wife of six Weeks!
When Florence came out of that deadly swoon,

she saw, through the blackness which still par- ,

tially obscured her 'vision, the cold, heafiless
glance of Madame Florian fixed upon her, and

shrunk from it as from the sting of a reptile, i

reclosing her eyes and sinking back on the satin
cushions of the sofa where she had been placed,
with the one wish that she might never again
have to open them and face a weary, wicked
world. i ,.

But the boon of death. so often prayed for

\

, ready after ten o’clock.

flower which has been gathered, admired, and
tossed aside towilt and die, “this is horrible!
Do not let that woman look at me—speak to
me! Oh, to think that Fraser can subject me
to such treatment! Charlie, it is more than I
It makes me hate him! As it made
me hate my father, to find out what he. was
and how he had treated my mother, it makes
me hate Fraser.
here tonight. I will go in the Quaker dress
and bonnet in wnich I came to.this wicked
city. I will not wear a thing he has given me
-——I will not eat another mouthful of food for
which he has paid! Never! I will not! I will
not !” She had staggered to the floor, and
stood there, in one of her old, characteristic at»
titudes, stamping her tiny foot, while the dark
eyes blazed in the white face.

“I don’t wonder you feel so, dear Florrie,”
said Charlie, soothingly, gently forcing her to
sit down, “and you‘shall go away from here as
quickly‘as possible; but not to;night. It is al~
lf Madame D’Eglan—

tine had not gone abroad, I should have a mo- »
‘, therly friend to whom I could take you.”

I

‘ \

Come! I will go away from i ' “

x., v
‘ .

 an. mall-iimgleMM

.,‘

‘1‘".

' ' those eyes.

,1 a

26

\

BLACK EYES" AND BLUE.

 

 

" Oh, not to her, either!” cried Florence,
shuddering.

“ Yes, to her. I know that she would gladly
be a mother to you—and. Violet a sister. I
only wish they were here.”

‘ Florence turned her face to the wall: she had
cherished a. feeling of resentment, dislike, envy,
toward those two; to accept favors from them
would be intolerable! Her own mother was
dead—she felt herself utterly friendless on the
face of the earth, exoept for Charlie Ward,
whom she half despised. Her situation, in her
own eyes, was even more terrible than it was
in reality, though unhappy enough at the best.
To die—to die!—-that was all she wanted, in
the first bitter hour of her mocked love, her in-
jured pride, her desolation. She ’turned her
face to the w lin silence, rejecting the very
idea that Vio et, or Violet’s mother, could be
any help to her. ,

“Well, I will say good-night, Mrs. Fraser,"

added Charlie, after waiting in vain for her to
speak. “I will call at nine in the morning,
and tomorrow I hope to find some safe and
pleasant home for you—even if you have to re-
turn to Lycurgus to obtain it,” and he went
away.
. “ might, Mrs. Fraser; I hope you feel
better; and if you are ill, or need anything,
call me, and I will be ready to serve you,” and
Madame Florian, thinking she might have been
unwiselyin haste to get rid of her patron, went
out with a less insolent air than she had worn
on entering. ‘

And so the deserted bride was left to bear,
as she might, her sorrows.

“Return to Lycurgus! accept aid from Ma-
dame D’Eglantine! friendship from my half~
sister! a dower forced from Madame D’Eglan-
tine by the machinations of my father! poor,
foolish Charlie !-——you do not know the one you
thus seek to comfortwcomfort, by heaping
coals of fire on my head and heart! No one
understands me!” muttered Florence, and then
—whether it was merely from habit, or wheth—
er she thus came into closer communion with

her best friend, herself— she arose, staggered to ,

one of the tall mirrors and stood looking at her
own“ pale face—into her own great, burning,
sleepless eyes.

“No one understands me,” she‘repeated, to
“ I cannot act like others. I can-
not be tame, self-repressed, patient, prudent.
I must do all, dare all, risk all, feel all, Wheth-
er I sufler or am happy—live or die. I mar-
ried Fraser Harold at my own risk. I knew
the perils that awaited me—perils of weari-
noes, loathing, desertion—but I loved him and
Ichosetotakethe chances. I trusted to my
beauty to hold him; the brittle chain of flowers
has mapped; and we are parted. '

“Am I to sit down in a corner and weep out
my days! Not I. It was a mad game, from
the first—a mad, reckless game; and it shall

be played to the end in the same way it was
' n

A bottle of wine. which she had ordered in
anticipation of a visit from her husband, was
sitting on a small stand close at hand. She
poured a little into the slender glass beside it,

and drank it, for a deadly faintness was again "

coming over her. Then she threw herself into
an arm-chair to think. She had not set there
five minutes before she sprung up, went quickly
>- into her bedchamber, from which in a short
time she emerged, wearing the Quaker garb in
which she had first left home. At hislast visit

" Fraser had forgotten his latch-key, and it was

‘ now in her possession. She glanced at the
' clock—it was nearly eleven. Slipping noise-

lessly down-stairs, she let herself out at the '

hall door and walked rapidly on until she

' reached a car which would take her to thé vi- V

cinity of Fraser’s club house.

As she drew near the building];3 a party of

‘temen were cqpnng' down t e ste ;tha
a: she looked for was among them, aged she
withdrew around the corner until they had
paged, when she walked softly after them, so
near as to overhear their conversation.

“ Then it is arranged that we take the seven
r. n. lightning express, tomorrow evening?”
asked her husband’s voice.

a
‘ .

to" If,youcan be ready, that will be agreeable
us.

“Oh, Ican get ready. IfIfallshcrt,in my
Louis. You say we shall be gone two months?”

“At least—perhaps ten weeks. We have a
famous guide engaged to meet us at St. Louis.
We ought to press on, at once, so as to have
the whole of October and November for our
sport.” '

see you through the day. I made the most of
my purchases te-day; but have still a few
things more to look after. Good-night,” and
the group broke up, going its various ways.
So! he had planned to leave her, even before
he came and got up that scene because Charlie
was giving her back her ring! He had “ made
most of his purchases ” already! If any one
could have seen the little face under the Qua-
ker bonnet then, its expression would have
startled him. Such flashing orbs, such vicious
little teeth pressed into ruby lips, were seldom
seen under the prim shadow of that emblem of

peace.

In half an hour Florence Harold was safe in
the shelter of her apartments again. The first
thing she did when she had thrown 03 her bon-
net and drab shawl, was to take from her
dressing bureau the little box in which she kept
her money and jewels, and to carefully count
her loose cash. Then she walked up and down,
up and down, with a velvety tread, like some
beautiful panther in its tiresome cage, until she
had worn herself so completely out that when
she did fling herself on her silken-draped bed,
sleep came/and gave her rest.

Charlie Ward. meanwhile had gone on his
way with mingled feelings of sorrow and joy.
Deeply sympathizing with the injured wife;
indignant with the rich scoundrel who had sac-
rificed her to his caprices; sorry that she had
so wrecked her bright and promising life, Char-
1 he could not but have, also, a feeling of glad—
; ness that he had discovered Florence, and could
so telegraph to Mr. Vernon on the morrow. It

 

!
I
E
i was his intention to also notify Mr. Goldsbor-
; ough’s agent; so the prospect was most prom-
. ising that he should, very soon, have tidings of
i Violet, as Mr. Goldsborough had assured her

friends they should have when Florence was .

found and the sum secured which he had de-
manded.

How much delight this prospect gave Char-
lie would hardly be inferred from the patience
with which he had worked and waited. But
I love like his, unselfish, deep and enduring, is
g the love on which it is safe for a girl to build
' her enchanted castles of future happiness. The
' thought that, in a few weeks, Violet would re-
! turn in her mother’s company, and he could
f show her his hand without the ring, and make
9 to her a full explanation'of how he was tricked

: into wearing it, made his spirits light as thistle-

down, despite his sympathy for Florence.

He was back atMadame Florian’s at the ap-

? pointed time. Early as it was, Mrs. Harold
was dressed and ready to receive him. She

': was elegantly attired, in carriage toilet, hat

and gloves already donned. She looked a little

pale and heaVy-eyed, but more beautiful than

. ever. Charlie mutely wondered, as he feasted
his eyes on her, how any man could be indif-
ferent, much less cruel, to this lovely little lady.

“Charlie,” she said, as soon as he entered,

“you can do nothing for me until I have seen
what I can do fer myself. I am going—as
soon as the carriage arrives for which I have
sent-etc call on‘ Mr. Harold’s family. I know
where they reside. I she'll tell them I am Fra-

ser’s wife. If they receive me kindly and
honorably, offer me a home with them, and

v' promise to use their influence tohave Fraser do
right by me, I shall remain with them until his
return from the West. If they do not behave
my story, or treat me with indignity, then—I
have another plan. Will you excuse me, now,
and call again at five o’clock this afternoon?”

‘ “Ithink you do well to assert yourself to
his family,” answered Charlie. “They must
be made to admit your rights. I was about to

,propose that you should so to them, first.”

arrangements, I'can complete my outfit 'in St. 1

“Well, you may count on me. I shallmeet ,
you at the train, to-morrow evening, if I do not ’

l ' The clatterlng of the carriage on the stones
below warned them of its arrival, and he led
her down and placed her in it.

“ Au revoir,” she said, with a sudden smile
on her pale face. i
“ Shall I not go with youi” he asked anxiously.

J “ No, no. I prefer to be alone. Farewell,

‘ till five o’clock," and he shut the door, and

‘ gave the sign to the driver toproceed.

! The day seemed a long one to Charlie Ward;

5 he went to see Mr. Blank. sent off his cable

tch to Mr. Vernon, following it by a long
letter; and still there were hours to dispose of
beforethetime forcallingagainon Mrs. Han
old. He admired the courage which had on
abled her to go alone, with only her youth and
beauty to support her important claims, to the
haughty family of her husband; and he won-
dared, with vivid interest, what the result of
the interview would be.

At five o’clock, to the minute, he was at Ma-
dame Florian’s door. A servant met him, and
in answer to his request, told him that Mrs.
Fraser had gone away from the house, two
hours previously, with all her baggage.

“ But she left a note for you, if you are Mr.
Ward.”

Charlie took the missive which the serth
handed him and went down the steps in a sort
of stupor. It was some minutes before he
broke the seal, and, standing out on the inhos-
pitable pavement, read this brief note:

“ DEAR Cmnm:—-—The Harolds treated me as an
im ostor. There is but one thing for me to do—
to ow my husband. I can not aeglefit charity from
Madame D‘Eglantine; but, if it ' do Violet an

06, you can inciose this note to my father, wit

earnest request that he will cease to trouble her,

and my assurance. that, being the happy bride of a

wealthy gentleman, I do not need the dower he is so
00d as to try to secure for me! God bless you,
harlie—you have been a true friend. d me. He

bless papa, too. Tell him I forgive and ope
we shall meet in Heaven if not here. 0 not fret
about me. I am only going to Fraser.
our friend
“FLORENCE GOLDSBOEOUGE macho."

CHAPTER XIX.
TOO LATE!

Ms. Rnnnorm Rnonns-a man eminently
cautious, reserved, exclusive and haughty—be—
gen to feel that he had made a goose of him-
self at the very least, as he found himself alone
in one of the two gloomy rooms he had been
1 so rash as to take, more out of compassion for
‘ the little proprietress than because he any
I longer expected anything to come of it to the
} advantage of the unfortunate young lady who
i had appealed to him for assistance.

Hehadorderedaflretobe made inthe
1 ancient fireplace, and an extra wax taper or
i, two to be placed on the shelf above it; so that
ihewasnot as drearyas he might have been;
' still the old place contrasted unfavorany with
the gayly-furnished rooms of the grand hotel
, where he should have been.
i “ It is not often I get betrayed into an ad-
’ venture so thoroughly Quixotic as this,” he
murmured, more than half-vexed, as he sat in
a great chair, covered with moldy leather, be-
fore the small but cheerful fire. “If I am mis-
taken in my Burmise I shall have‘made a most
egregious fool of myself in telegraphing to Ma-
dame ’D’Eglantine. Why did I not ask the
girl’s name? Then I should‘not have been act-
. ing on an uncertainty.

“Poor thing! She asked me, in that note,
for poison! Would I contrive to get her
some? A most piteous appeal! No wonder,
after all, that I felt bound to follow and inter-
fere in her behalf.

“What a face is hers !——so pure, so delicate,
young and sweet. The most wonderfully
lovely, seraphic face I ever sawl—not dark,
vivid, glowing, enchanting like hers whom Fra—
ser Harold married only to neglect, I fear—
not a face like that, to dazzle and infatuate a
man, to wile him out of his cooler judgment
and win him on to all sorts of rashness—not a
face like little Florence’s——but so sweet, spirit-
uolle. It would appeal to any man who was
truly a man of honor and chivalry. So why
: should I be ashamed of the impulse which

 

 

E

, urged me to follow and try to help her?
 Heaven knows I would tramp the streets of this

 

131.503: EYES AND ABLUEI

’ v

 

 

‘ city all night if 1 had the faintest hope of ob- .

taining a clue to her whereabouts.”

, He stared into the fire, seeing pictured there
the appealing eyes which had turned to him
that day—seeing the delicately-rounded chin,
the rosy, trembling mouth, the peasant’s dress,
the little feet in the big shoes—thinking of the
despairing request of the poor maiden, for poi-
son to put an end to her innocent life, before it
should be soiled by contact with that miserable
old row into whose arms an unnatural father
was forcing her.

“ I cannot sleep. I wish I knew what to do
in her behalf,” he muttered, rising to his feet,
and walking up and down in front of the hearth
in great agitation. If it. were my own sister
I could hardly feel more concerned.”

He pulled out his watch—the hands marked
eleven.

At that moment a knock sounded at his door.
He hastened to open it. The proprietress stood
there, fidgeting, embarrassed.

“ There is a. lady wishes to see monsieur. I
know not if it be proper—” the speaker was
thrust aside and the peasant-girl of the boat
stood before him, transformed into an elegant
young lady, dressed in light silk, but hatless,
gloveless, with a traveling-shawl only thrown
on over her rich dress—a. young lady pale asshe
Would be in her coffin, panting, wild-eyed, but
struggling to keep up an appearance of calm-
ness, lest this woman should say, with others,
that she was mad.

“ Sir!” she cried, addressing Redmond, quick-
ly, “did you do what I asked of you? Have
you the poison ready to give me? Ah, if you
have it not,” shrinking and trembling, “go
now, this moment—before it is too late—and
bring it to me. You must not refuse me! I
got away from them. But they will discover
my absence in a few minutes and will overtake
me.”

“My dear child,” answered Redmond, tak-
ing . her two cold hands, “ I dare not do
what you ask of me. I should be particeps
crimines to a murder. Impossible! But I
will protect you, with my life if need be.”

“You have no pewer. My own mother
could not prevent my father from taking pos-
session ‘of me. How then can you? He will
be here in a few minutes, and then I have the
choice of marriage, in the morning, with that
odious baronet, or of a life passed in some mad-
house to which my mother will never be able
to trace me. Death, surely, were preferable to
either of these—why keep it from me? You
are cruel—cruel!” and she burst into tears.

“No, I am not cruel. But I am not as ex-
cited as you are. Give me your name, address,
something of your history; so that I can find
your mother. Refuse to the baron.
Your father will find it impossible to hide you
in a. mad-house in a. country so well—regulated
as this. I will put your friends on the track——
only give me their names—” he took out his
tablets and waited for her to speak.

“My adolllied father is Mr. Vernon of Ly-
curgusl New Hampshire; but he is now some-
where with my mother, who has a divorce
from my father and goes by her own family
name of D’Eglanfine—4he two are searching for
me, I have no doubt—” ‘

“Nor I!” exclaimed Mr. Rhodes, cheerfully,
“they came over, with me, in the Ger-mania,
landing three days ago. They are looking for
you. I sent a telegram to. Baden this evening
to Madame D’Eglantine, Saying that I behaved
you to be the daughter of whom she was in
search, and to come on as quickly as possible,
Still, she may not be in Baden; the message
may not reach her. Yet it will cemfort you
to know that it cannot be many days before
she overtakes you; and you have my assurance
that you shall be immured in no asylum, or
other dark ‘place, without my knowledge. If
I cannot prevent your father doing as he pleases
I can put detectives on his movements, so that
hiS‘steps will be all known to your mother.
so, now, my dear girl, be of good cheer; defy

the hideous ol‘d baron; let your father P9139"

onto you as he may for it; he will be watched
and not allowed to do you serious harm.”
All this time the proprietress stood, glaring

I

 

uneasily at the couple, unable to understand
their language, but certain that something
startling was transpiring, and afraid for the

reputation of her old tumble-down house. Mr. ,

Rhodes comprehended her trepidation. He
realized, too, that this was no place for the
young lady to remain over night, should it be
that her father failed to look for her.

“ Madame,” said he to the woman, in French,
“ have you no quiet, respectable female friend
with Wham this young lady can take refuge for
the night, without being compromised! I will
answer for it that you are well paid for your
trouble; and your friend, also. Money is no
object. Mademoiselle desires to escape a suitor
whom her father favors; you saw him—the
ugly old baron!”

“ Yes,” said the proprietress, with a laugh,
“ ’tis no wonder mademoiselle flies from such a
lover——ah, bah l” shrugging her shoulders. “I
can provide her with lodging where she will be
secure—but. monsicur must know it is not my
business to get myself into trouble!” with an-
other shrug. '

“ Tell her my mother will make her rich for
life,” murmured Violet, hastily, “if she will
only promise— Oh, what is that?” and she
began to scream and to run to the further and
of the room.

Up the dim staircase, with a great flaring of
lights, came the father, the ancient lover and
two gens~ d’armes—enough, in all conscience, to
secure one poor, trembling girl. The flame of
the candles they bore flashed out over the wea-
pons of the tall police-soldiers—over the suave,
malicious smile on the parent’s face, and the
anxious little grin and frown on that of the
old milord, whose whole wicked soul was stir-
red by the fear of losing a young, beautiful
wife whose estates stretched far and broad un-
der the sunny skies of France.

“ This is‘the abductor of my daughter—ar-
rest him,” commanded Ethan Goldsborough in
his broken German, pointing to Mr. Rhodes
and the gens-d’amnes immediately laid a strong
clasp on both of Redmond’s arms. ‘

In vain the prisoner expostulated and ex-
plained; the fellows had their orders from the
chief, and dare not disobey them. ‘A stranger,
like Redmond, was at a terrible disadvantage
with an enemy like Sir Israel, who had lived
years in the country, who was known every-
where as a rich milord, and was familiar with
all the processes of the law. He had managed
the affair, and stood by, grinning like the an-
cient Lucifer he was, while Mr. Rhodes strove
to convince the men that they were all wrong
—-would be punished—that the consul of the
port should know, ay, the United State minis-
ter. These soldiers were but machines who did
the bidding of others; they shook their heads
gravely, said nothing, pulled and pushed their
prisoner along; while the proprietress, all her
sympathies reversed by the sight of the gene-
d‘armes, wrung her hands, volubly urging her
ledger to go peaceably, and not ruin a. poor
widow by quarreling in her house with the sol-
diers.

And so our fastidious Redmond Rhodes, who
avoided everything sensational as he would
avoid the small-pox, passed the remainder of
the night in a dreary room of the city-prison.

He was angry and mortified.

“ This pays me for meddling in other peo-
ple’s affairs!” '

But . his feeling of humiliation for himself
was nothing compared with the anxiety, the
positive wretchedness he felt in being hinder-
ed from doing anything for Miss D’Eglantine.
Every moment of the night he saw the look of
terror in her eyes when he was dragged away.
He counted the hours, the minutes, until his
miserable breakfast was brought to him. He
had an appeal ready—scrawled on an old let-
ter—to the United States consul, asking him
to come immediately and interfere in his be-
half; and this he gave to the attendant Who
brought his meal, accompanied by a gold piece
which made the fellOw’s eyes glisten, and an
order to have the message sent without de~
lay. ‘

He expected a visit from the consul within an
hour—~or two, at the furthest—«for the refer-
ences he had given as to his position at home

‘ 1 \

were such as that personage would not
to slight; but the whole morning crawled on at
a snail’s pace; noon came, with its dinner of
bread and cabbage soup; but no consuL The
jailer swore that the letter had been delivered;
that the consul had promised to come imme-
diately; that he had no idea why he had not
kept his promise. The truth was that bribery
had been at work outside, and the energetic ap—
peal of the prisoner still reposed in the jailer’s
pocket.

“When shall I have my call to appear before
the court, then?”

“Some time today; it cannot be long now.”

The whole day passed, darkness fell, and the
prisoner had not been summoned before the
civil authorities. Cool and well-governed as»
was the temper of Mr. Rhodes, he was in a te-
ver of anger and despair by bedtime’—-anger for
himself, despair for the lovely girl whom he-
had failed to help. How powerless she must'be
to  the will of those two men, since he had:
so easily been tra pedl His tortured imagina-
tion pictured her 11 two scenes, oonstantly~in
one, she was the doomed bride of the grinning
‘: baronst—in the other, a corpse, slain by her
1 own hand to escape that doom. The thought of
l Madame D’Eglantine added to his uneasiness.
3 And so the second sleepless nightwore itself
; slowly away.
g ' About ten o’clock of the second day his pris-
g on door opened, the gens-d’arme waited to con-
; duct him before the magistrate, where, as the-
 complainants did not appear, there was no case
' against him, and he was soon dismissed. Mr.'
3, Rhodes knew his accusers would fail to appear;
; doubtless they were many miles from there be--
 fore this—and their unhappy victim with them;
; as soon as he was free, he hurried to the con-
i sul’s office to demand, indignantly, the reason
" for his letter having been neglected. He had
just learned that it had never been received,
when a lady Walked into the office, and threw-
ing her vail from her face, revealed the deli~
cate, high-bred features of Madame D'Eglan.
tine.

 

suppressed cry, rushed to him and wnmg his
han ’

d. ~
“ Where is Violet—where is my child?” she
eagerly demand
“Alas! I would that I could inform you,
Madame D’Englantine! I am horribly afraid
those villains have succeeded in making you and
your daughter miserable for life.
near this lady’s story, and give us what aid you
can,” continued Redmond, turning to the con»
sul, who very willingly listened to what they

ford any under the circumstances.

While the three were anxiously consulting
together,_a messenger came into the room, in-
quired for Monsieur Rhodes, and handed him a
sealed envelope. ‘ ' . \

Redmond hastily tore it open; a slip of paper
fell out. He picked it up, and read, written in

be that of the baronet’s:

“ If Monsieur Rhodes wishes to ease his mind let.
him consult the register in the church of St.
Joseph’s.“ . ,

“ They are married! That is what he meansl’
shrieked the unhappymother. “ Where is this
church? Let us fly to it at once and put an
end to this terrible use.”

but did not say it. i

The consul hunted in the directory for the
address of the church, while Mr. Rhodes called
a. carriage.
g In five minutes he, with Madame D’Eglantine,
? pale as a. corpse, silent as a. corpse/beside him,

 

l was being driven rapidly in the direction of St.

. Joseph’s.
5 It was a Protestant church; but the sexton
was in the vestibule.

“Was there a marriage—or a funeral—in
‘ this church yesterday?” hastily inquired Redo
Q mend. '
i “ There were two‘marriages and three fune-
l

:rals,”answered the man, lookingat himas if
1 he doubted his sanity. '
I __ “ May we look at the records?” was the next.

\

27

be apt ‘

When she saw Mr. Rhodes she uttered a half~ .

You must ’

had to say, promising all the assistance'in his , '
power; but very dubious as to his power to af--

a cramped, trembling hand, which he took to‘

“Perhaps she is dead!” thought Redmond, '

‘28

v w

in

~__..

 

question, accompanied by a thrust into the sex
ton’s hand of that key which unlocks most doors
-—the key of gold. ‘

“Follow me,” said the man, leading the way
through the solemn aisles of the dim cathedral,
and on into a small room to the right of the
grand altar, where he opened a large book which
lay on a high desk, and pointed to the last page
of writing.

Redmond made way for the lady he conduct-
ed, who bent a moment, with white cheeks and
strained eyes over the volume, then pointed
with her finger, looked up into the kind face
bending above her, with a glance of hopeless,
dim misery, tried to murmur the words which

, her lips refused to form, and slid down to his
feet, fainting under the shock.

He raised her on his arm, and looked at the ‘

page, where she had pointed—_-there Was the
register of the marriage of Violet Goldsborough,

daughter of Ethan Goldsborough, of the Unit-ed ,
States, to Sir Israel Benjamin, baronet, of Eh- 
gland. The signatures were appended—were ;,
authentic, beyond a doubt; he recognized both ,
the cramped hand of the baronet, and the deli- ‘

cats, tremulous chirography of the girl who had
written him the note on board the steamer.

‘ CHAPTER XX.

 

‘nnm, LIVED AND oven, IN HALF A YEAR”;

“BY Narcissus, Apollo, and all the other

' lovely youths of fable, that’s a gloriously hand— 3
' some boy who has attached himself to your ser- '

vice, Harold!” exclaimed one of the Englishmen
of Fraser Harold’s company, as they one day
jogged along, under the red November sun of
the misty and amethystine Indian summer,
over an endless prairie, covered with the short,
coarse buffalo-grass which gave food to the

huge creatures of whom they were in pursuit. I

“ A gloriously handsome boy! He reminds me
of the pages who followed the knights in the
old, romantic days of chivalry.”

“Yes,” answered Fraser, throwing a back
ward glance at the lad who rode behind him on
a stout little mustang, whose proportions seem-
ed in keeping with his small, slender rider, “he
is an uncommonly pretty little chap. Not of
much use, however. He begged so hard to be
allowed to accompany us that I did not think it
worth while to deny him. How such a floWer
' of a boy happened to grow up in Kansas is a
mystery. I did not believe he could keep up
with us, riding all day as we do. I hope to
', take him safe back to his mother in Leaven-
worth.” .

“ Melted diamonds could be no brighter than
his eyes! Wouldn’t he be a heart-smasher
among your Eastern girls?” 4

“His eyes remind me of my—of a young
lady’s in whom I was interested not long ago,”

.said Fraser, and then he added: “ Heigho!” and
' looked sentimental for a full minute.
_ “ Perhaps that is the reason of your allowing
him to follow you.”

“ Perhaps—yet, hardly. That little affair
with the lady is off, you know; and once we let
them go the more completely the better.”

“ Aw, certainly,” responded the English
well; “it is cruel kindness to keep them dan-
gling, you know—better cut the golden cord at
one fell stroke. I’ve served too many that
way," and he stroked his mutton-chops with
one hand, the other being engaged with the
rain.

Every word of this edifying conversation
fell on the acute ears of the boy who rode a
few paces behind. The speakers would have
been astonished had they observed how it af-

‘ , footed him.

At first a deep flush had mounted into his
vswarthy cheeks; this was followed by a. livid
paleness as Harold spoke lightly of the “affair

v. being, 063;” a glow, like that of a dagger in the
\ sun, leaped into his black eyes at the remaining
sentences. '

“ He was, indeed, a handsome boy, looking!
about fifteen, but small for his age—slight!
graceful; with crisp little black curls all over;
his head, small features, fine, dark, expressive
eyes, and a smooth skin almost as copper-color-

 ed as an Indiau’s. " ‘

He had. silver spurs on his boots, were blue
“  fringed and embroidered; a blue wani-

mus bound about the waist with a long milita-.
ry sash wound two or three times around; and
a hat with a broad band about it, and a wide,
slouching brim to keep off sun and rain. There
was a knife in his belt, but no pistols; nor did
he carry the rifle like every other member of
the party. "

He had avowed his ignorance of the plains
and of hunting when asking to be taken along;
declaring that he had a passion for a Wild life,
and wanted to take his first lesson.

“ It’ll be as good as an eddication to go ’long
with you fellows, when you’ve got such a man

at yer head ”—for the party had secured, as‘

guide and leader, one of the hero-hunters of the
plains. “I’ll pay fur my own fodder, an’ help
cook yours besides;” and so far, Floss—that
was the lad’s name—had kept his part of the
bargain; he was always ready to hold a horse

BLACK EYES AND‘BLUEV.’ ' ' “ ‘ '

ity, and asked the question whether the hunt
was to be abandoned or whether they were to‘
proceed. I,

The retreat could doubtless be safely made,
for nearly the whole day was before them, and
an attack would hardly be made on the open
plain in broad daylight. The blood of the de-
scendants of the heroes of ancient chivalry was
up, and they positively refused to ride back

g without a shot either at the game they came to
F seek or the foe who hindered their pursuit of

for Mr. Harold, black his boots, wash his dish- '

es, make his bed, pack his traps, although he
asked no pay for such services.

The hired guides and servants found that he
surpassed them all in making coffee or broiling
a buffalo steak. Everybody liked him, despite
a certain reserve and sadness not apt to be ap-
preciated by the rough hunters who accompa-
nied the amateurs.

With that dagger—gleam still darting from his
bright eyes, Flo'ss touched a silver spur to the
tough side of his shaggy mustang, and the
horse bounded forward, the boy touching his
slouched hat respectfully as he passed the gen
tlemen, and pressing on until he had overtaken
the leader, who was riding two or three hun-
dred yards in advance. ,

g ‘ “ Hullo, my little chap!” said the hunter,
looking kindly at the boy as he rode up.

“Want anything?”

, “Yes,” said the boy, his large eyes glowing

? like fire under his hat-brim; “I want to know,

§ Bill, if there’s going to be any real danger dur-

i ing this excursion?”

«Why?» ~

“ ’Coz if there is, I want to 'be in the thick
i of it.”

“ Oh, you do! What fur, I wonder?’

“ ’Coz I’m tired of life, Bill. Ij’ined in hope.
, that suthin’ would take me off.” and here the
: fire was quenched in sudden tears which rolled
! over onto the swarthy cheeks. ‘

“She! jist you h’ist that, my boy——-’twon’t
do,” and the brave hunter, who had killed his
5 forty men, to say nothing of red-skins! reached

out a slender, supple hand, not much larger
, than a lady’s, and laid it gently on Floss’ shoul-
 der. “ But, as to the danger you ask about——
4 hum! that moughtn’t be so fur away. The
l tracks 0’ them pesky red-skins is about as thick,
f this morning, as the houses 0’ them prairie-
; dogs. They’re over thar, somewhat, waitin’
1 fer us,” and he pointed toward a range of low
lhills, lying against the horison, and shrouded
E in a purple haze, so that one who did not know
g could not tell whether they were ten or fifty
’ miles away. “I reckon I ought to tell my
‘ friends, an’ give ’em their choice ’twixt losing
; the bison altogether or having a bout with
I them red devils.”
i “Indeed, they should be told at once,” said
Floss, decidedly.
1 And then he fell to thinking. It would not
be a pleasant death to be scalped or tortured
, by Indians—the bare idea made his very soul
{ shrink with terror—yet he wanted to die. Ay!
, he even fancied that he wanted some others of
 that gay company to die, too—say the two gal-
l, lant gentlemen who h’ad avowed the sentiment
’ that when they were “ofl” with a love—affair,
the more completely they were off the better!
1 At times he thought he could himself murder

E that Mr. Harold, who carried himself so finely
: and so jovially, from day to day. Then again,
, his heart turned traitor to his purpose. Floss
j rode on, with drooping head, thinking very fast

and hard indeed, for a few minutes. Whether
or not he wished to die, or desired the death of
others, the issue was not, at present, in his own

I The guide had stopped his horse, waiting un-

til the whole company of fifteen gentlemen“,
, three other guides emf helpers, and the boy,
made a gro ’ about him. He then’ diselOSed
l the fact that ndians were lurking in the vicin-

 

.  I . 3’ ’
. , r . r:
I ‘ . f . .
' ' ' ...' .3 u.‘

 

it. The check of many an English beauty
would have paled, that day, could she have
heard, from afar, the discussion held on that
sea—like plain and the resolution which ended
it. ‘

It was decided to advance; for if there were
tracks of Indians, there were tracks of bison,
too. The Indians might be only peaceable
hunters like themselves; though their leader
scouted this theory. By a craft learned only
by long experience he made himself certain
that the party .was at least double their own
number—that they were warring red-skins—
and their object murder and pillage. 7

The little party of eighteen hunters and one
boy rode on, under the mild, hazy sunlight,
keeping well together, their weapons in fault-
less order, their keen eyes glancing about them,
and their spirits more exuberant than ever
from that consciousness of possible danger
which excites just enough to exhilarate. Floss
fell back to his place behind Fraser Harold.
Hisblack eyes no longer glinted like daggers,
but were filled with a yearning, troubled ex-

pression which would have puzzled the gay -

cavalier had he unwittingly surprised it.

Not an hour had passed when leisurely mount-
ing a slight, billowy incline they saw before
them a small herd of bison, leisurely grazing.

The temptation was irresistible

The hunters were to the windward. They
widened their belt and advanced with all pos-
sible caution in a half-circle, coming within al-
most shooting distance before the leader of the
herd perceivod his danger and gave the alarm.
The instant that the troop signaled danger, and
broke, bellowing, into their lumbering gallop
which made the earth tremble and shake, the

, hunters dug their spurs into their animals’ sides

_ ternoon. Ever and

and dashed after them, swinging their rifles
into range as they galloped. Their guide would
not fire a shot. If the game was to be killed
the amateurs should have all the glory.

In another half—hour three slain buffaloes
cumbered the plain; the rest of the herd had
disappeared in the purple ,mist of the Indian-
summer day, which was now gone past high
noon; the successful hunters, in good spirits and
with fearful appetites, gathered about the
youngest of the three slain monsters from
whose carcass one of the guides was cutting
tempting steaks which another thrust on to
pointed sticks and tossed over the coals of a
fire kindled from the ruins of a cottonwood.
The aroma of Coffee mingled with the odor of
trampled grass and the pungent fragrance of
wood-smoke. The tired horses were plunging
their noses into the coarse but green grass
which showed a little brighter along the edge
of a brackish stream. The chief guide threw
himself down on the highest point of land, keep-
ing a sharp look-out that never entirely relax-
edits vigilance, he having seen to it, at first,
before anything was done toward dinner, that
the rifles were all reloaded, and - that each man
held his Weapons close at hand. .’

“I don’t like this smoky weather,”grumbled
the chief; “ a red—skin can creep Within a bun-
dred yards and we not see him. A hull cloud
of ’em mought be hanging over thar, an’ we none
the wiser.”

He kept his uneasiness, however, pretty well
to himself, and the half-famished hunters made
a jolly meal. Floss ate his bit of meat, his
cracker, and drank his tin cup of coffee in si-
lence, near his master. He had two ship’s bis-
cuits handed to him, which he did not need

just then, and so thrust them into the pocket , '

of his wammus; for he knew, by experience,
that it might be late before they found a suit-
able place to sup. ' ‘ '

He rode very close to
anon be cast apprehe

* .

Fraser Harold that at!
ive ,

'.' . t... ' ' . 4'. 

 

 

‘.  ~ BLACK“ EYES A‘NDlBLUE. {

r

29

 

 

glances toward the long, low range of hills
which" seemed as far away as ever. He had
wanted to die, and he had desired the death of
his master—but, ah, not that way—by those
hands !--—and he shuddered.

The sun lay low on the bosom of the west
like a copper shield—the hills were entirely hid—
den from view by a purple curtain; the gal-
lant hunters had begun to cast longing eyes
about for some sign of a. stream beside which
to encamp.

“Boys!” suddenly yelled Bill, the leader,

‘ try fer yonder gully—it will partially shel-
e ter us~——the red—skins are swoopingdown on us,
' not a hundred rods away.”
1 In fifteen minutes the whole brief, thrilling
V episode was over—the young English snobs had
' been in a genuine skirmish with the Indians—-
. an experience as novel as it was undesirable.
Not one had showd the white feather.

Their New York friends—the dandies of
the clubs—had borne themselves with equal
courage. Oh, that the delicate-faced beauties
peeping from behind the lace and silk of Fifth
Avenue windows at certain elegant dawdlers
Sauntering by could have seen those same lisping
dandies behind cover of the gully, taking aim
at the yelling savages with the same coolness
that they took aim at a new singer with their
opera-glasses-their teeth a little set, their
cheeks a. little pale, but their eyes flashing
dauntless fire, their fingers steady on the trig-

r. /
geThat providential gully alone saved them
from destruction. This gave them an advan—
tage so great that the attacking party, four
times their number. soon drew off, taking with
them fifteen dead comrades. Of our gallant
band “not one was injured,” thought Bill, look-
ing about himin triumph.

He was mistaken. ‘

A moment after he had made his count some
one reeled on his horse and fell to the ground.

lt was Fraser Harold.

A cry of dismay went up from his friends,
mingled with the wild, ringing, frantic shriek
of the boy, who flung himself from his mus-
tang, darted to the side of the fallen man, cast
himself down and raised the drooping head—-
the beautiful, proud head, now falling from
aide to side like sonic- broken fiower——on his

so.

“ Fraser! Fraser! oh, God! he is dying.
Fraser!" ‘

At the sound of his name called in that pierc-
ing, passionate, ag‘bnized voice, the wounded
man opened his darkening eyes.

“manor, I am here. It is your little girl-—

your poor little girl. Do not die—look at me
——spea.k to me—my darling!” '

“Florence, is this you?” the words came
with dimculty.

“Yes, yes. Do not be angry with me, my
husband. Did you think I could keep away
1mm you! let you go off. here, into danger—
Ah, heaven! he will die, in spite of all. Help!
can none of you help him?" she piteously ask--
ed, turning her great dark eyes, full of misery,
I.“ )011 those Who stood about, listening in won-
der and agitation to the words of the tv 0.

r “ Stand aside; let me see the wound," spoke
the authoritative voice of the guide, kneeling
on the ground beside the dying man and be-
ginning to tear away the clothing from over
his breast.

Harold feebly shook his head and made a
motion with his hand to indicate the flask in
the hunter’s belt.

Bill understood, and poured a few drops of
brandy between the whitening lips. All of a
sudden Harold raised himself to a sitting pos-
ture, speaking quite distinctly:

“ Good-by, friends. I have just a word to
say. This lady is my wife. She is entitled to
Your consideration. Tell my parents to—take
care—of her. I leave her all my effects—tell
them so. My dear wife, I am sorry for you. Dy-
ing is not very hard ”—he sunk back into Flor-

, ence’s arms, turned his glazing eyes upward to
the broad heavens and expired, with a faint
struggle; no more than the shivering of a leaf
in the wind, and a human life was at an end.

Poor, poor, passionate, vain, undisciplined
little Florence! ~ _‘ ‘ V~ .v ,

\
l .

 

Six months before she had dreamed her idle,
girlish dreams of life, as she hung over therus-
tic bridge of her native village.

Here she sat now, far, far from home or
friends or any familiar thing, in the midst of a
band of strange men—a widow.

Life, lived and over, in half a year!

Oh, the red rose she had placed, with trem-
bling hand, on the window-sill! Oh, the sum-
mer moonlight among the trees of the park—
the voice that whispered—the lips that kissed!
Oh, the bliss of wifehood, too brief, too min-
gled with shame, suspense and anguish. Oh,
the whispers of vanity, tellmg her she was fair
—the stings of desertion hissing that her power
was over! And now—this was the end of all
-—this dead face smiling on her knee, and she
-—a widow.

 

CHAPTER XXI.
A MEETING UNDER am ems.

CHARLIE WARD passed several tiresome, dull,
unhappy days after the flight of Florence. He
had nothing to do but wait—the hardest of all
work. He felt uneasy about Florence and rest-
less to hear from Violet.- Every pulse of his
heart tingled with impatience toonce more see‘,
or hear a word from the fair girl to whom he
had given his affections. In his worst imag-
inings of the persecutions to which Ethan
Goldsborough might subject her, he had never
conceived of anythingmalf so bad as the reality.
But he lmew that she must be lonely and .ill at
ease torn from those she loved, and he longed
to hear from her. His joy was great, then,
when, a week after his own dispatches had been
sent, he received abrief message: “ Come over,
if possible, by first steamer. Will meet youin
Paris,” and signed by his tutor, Mr. Vernon.

The dispatch reached him on Friday; the
following day he sailed on a‘ French steamer

Jr Havre. During the voyage, which was
rapid and prosperous, his moods were about
equally divided between eXaltation and de-
spondency. He might have been sent for be-
cause of misfortunes—he might have been sent
for to share in their good fortune: Thus the
scale 'ran up and down, while the days passed,
until that memorable one on which he present-
ed himself at the landing~office in Paris most
frequented by Americans, and was just inquir-
ing for the address of his friends, when Mr.
Vernon came up to him and silently seized and
pressed his hand.

Mr. Vernon, pale, worn, with an expression
of the deepest dejection—the very sight of
whose smileless face made Charlie’s bounding
heart quiver and stand still with a sudden,
sharp certainty that something horrible had
come to pass. '

“What is it?" he asked, turning white, poor
boy! .

“Come out on the street. Let us find a
bench in this garden. I cannot tell you inthe
presence ,of others.” ‘

Charlie followed silently by his side; his
tongue was tied by a dreadful suspense—for
the world, he”could not have asked another
question. They sat down on a rustic seat un-
der 9. tree, with joyful children and coquettish

bounce only in their vicinity; the lawyer took !

the young man’s hand again in his own, and
burstinginto tears, sobbed out: ’

“Our darling girl is dead, Charles. She had
nothing but trouble over there, and she killed
herself.”

“ Killed herself!” mechanically.

“Yes.
making her miserable. Finally, to spite her,
her mother, all of us, he forced her into 8. mar-

? dismal December afternoon.

tinge with an old Jew baronet—‘the most de— 1

testable creature that ever coveted a pure
Young girl for his wife—she could not escape
the two—-"’

too, Mr. Vernon, with this story. Oh, I can-
not bear it.”

trouble as the sparks are to fly upwardfi ” cen-
tinued Mr. Vernon. “Try to be a. man,
Charles, my dear boy.  Her mother has had to
endure‘it—and I. They dragged her to the al-

.!\
v\

tar, in a strange city, and forced her to sign
the marriage register; then hurried her on
board the Dover steamer, to take her to En—
gland, where the old baronet proposed passing
the honeymoon. Knowing her to be desper-
ate, and apprehensive that she might attempt
to destroy herself, they would not leave her
alone an instant. They had taken the evening
boat, the day of the marriage, and about nine
o’clock, as they sat, at her request, on deck,
she, appearing very resigned and docile, with
a lightning movement, leaped over the guards-
into the turbid waters of the Channel.”

Charlie moaned and hid his face in his hands.
It was several minutes before Mr. Vernon could
proceed.

“ They stopped the steamer and sent out all
the boats at command; but the night was dark,
the sea rough—they did not find her.”

“ Charlie,” asked his companion, after a.
time, “would it be any comfort to you to hear
that the bad man- who had leagued with her fa-_
ther against our poor Violet was drowned in
the effort to rescue her?”

“ Oh, I don’t know,” was the shuddering re»
ply. “I have no right to feel in that way ”-

“True: ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay,
saith the Lord.’ We dare not, be glad of his
punishment; but he was punished—fearfullyl
He insisted on getting into one of the boats,
with three sailors, capsized it by his akaard-
ness,,was carried under the ship, and could not
be found. Their comrades had a time to save
the sailors, as it was.” '

“How is Madame D’Eglantine?” Charlie in-
quired, after another long pause.

“She is ill in bed; but she will not refuse to
see you, my boy.” '

They arose and walked slowly out into the
gay boulevard. The sun still shone; the chil-
dren still laughed and romped, the bright
leaves fluttered down from the trees, the sky
was blue, the world moved one—but _ to Charles
Ward night was ever everything. The passing
of the crowd was but a funeral march; he
walked on beside his friend, drearily, caring:
for nothing. , ‘ .

The meeting between him and Madame, D’Eg—
lantine was mournful. ' V

“Ah!” she sighed, pressing his hand, "how
gladly would I give my girl to you, were she
here now. Once I thought her too, fair, too
good, for any one short of a fairy prince.
How happy would I be, to see her sitting by
you now, your promised wife.” .

It- was more than a day before Charlie could'
bear to ask all the particulars of their loss, or-
to hear them, Gradually he learned, in addi—
tion to the main fact, that they had first re-~
ceived the tidings from Mr. Goldsborough him»
self, who had sent a telegram from Dover to-
Madame D Eglantine, whom he knew to be in
the port they had left, in close pursuit of them.
He had followed the telegram by a printed ac-

 

; count of the disaster; and she had also had a
long letter from h1m,’ giving particulars, 

asking about Florence.

“ Where is he?” asked Charlie.

“We believe him to be in London.”

,“I am going to try and find him, and have
a personal interview. I must tell him all I
know about Florence, and garner every scrap
of information about this—this accident.”

“I wish you would, Mr. Ward,” sighed Ma-
dame D’Eglantine; and Charlie left, that night,
for London. ,

“ What a comfortmwhat a help—such a son
would be!” . exclaimed the bereaved mother

 

, . I with a fresh burst of tears. after he left her.
Her (unnatural father took delight in .

Charlie arrived in London on a wet, dark,
The lamps were
lighted at three o‘clock, and burned dimly in
me thick atmosphere. Where to go——-What to
d0~he had not decided. He only felt pushed
on by the hand of an irresistible fate to find

g  Ethan Goldsborough. The only thing which
“Oh,” moaned Charlie, “you are killing me, ‘

presented itself to his mind to do was to con. ,
sult the registers of the leading hotels, and to

 visit the American banking and exchange office.
“ ‘Man, that is born of woman, is prone to

As he stumbled out of the railway carriage on-
to the platform, in the mist and drizzle, and;
stood an instant debating what hotel he should.
try his chances with, a tall, broad-shouldered,
. pprtly, handsome American gentleman of mid»

o

‘r. \.,-,

t

‘30

 

 

usage walked quicklypasthim, with a‘lady
on his arm.

If Charlie had inadvertently come in con‘
tact with an electric battery he could scarcely
have been more shocked.

“ Ethan Goldsboroughl” he cried, but not in
an audible Voice, for he had no wish to alarm
that person, before he could speak to him.

Who was that with him?

Despite of the waterproof cloak veiling the

,tall, slight figure, there was something about it

familiar to Charlie. His heart leaped into his
throat. He could have sworn, afterward, that
the clouds parted, suddenly flooding the De-
cember world with June sunshine; though no
such phenonomen occurred. He did not pause
to think, to hope, to fear—to observe proprie-
ty—to avoid a scene—«to do anything wise,
cautious, safe. He just sprung forward after
the hurrying pair, came up with them on the
lady’s side, reached out a quivering hand, and
tore the thick vail from the features it muf-
fled. '

“ How dare you, rufliani”

‘f Oh, I dare anything, Ethan Goldsborough!
How dare you P”

For Violet, with a scream of joy, had flung
herself upon her lover’s breast, and was cling-
ingtohiminthe very street. ' I

“Ay, how dare you lie to us, by telling us
she was dead?”

Mr. 'Goldsborough replied to this passionate
question of Charlie’s with a diabolical smile,
which revealed his malicious intent more fully
than words could have done; though he added,

resently: ‘ V

“It was always a pleasure to mate do any-
thing for her mother’s happiness.”

“ Heartl scoundrel! But tell me, Violet,
were you really married?”

, “Yes,” she answered, blushing, and turning
half away from him.

“ You may like to draw a crowd—I do not,”
interposed the father. “I prOpose to escape
into a carriage. Come, Violet.”

He hailed a coachman and the three entered
the close carriage; for Violet had clung to
Charlie’s hand, and nothing less than death
emfid have made him lose sight of her.

“Did he tellmamma I was dead?” the girl

stones.
“Yes—you, and—and—the other one: the
man you married.”

“Sir Israel Benjamin is dead,” spoke Violet, '

solemnly.

“Thank God, Violet. ‘ I cannot be sorry to 5-

hear it.”

“No, Charlie, he deserved it—yet it was
terrible! And he died in the attempt to rescue
me.”

“Then you did throw yourself overboard
from the steamer?”

“Yes—to escape Sir Israel. He came after
me. The men picked me up, as by a miracle.
It was thought I was dead for more than an
hour; but a physician finally revived me. I was
saved—and he-'-was swept under the vesse ”

She shuddered, and grew silent. Charlie
could see, even in that faint light, how wan,
how almost ghastly, the sweet face had grown.
Her father smiled grimly, as he sat by her
side. To the young man he appeared like an
inquisitor, torturing his victim to death, by
slow degrees, and enjoying the process. His
heart almost burst with indignation; he could
hardly refrain from laying his hands on the
large white throat of the man and squeezing
some of the badness out of him.

The carriage drew up before a fine hotel.

“Do you propose to inflict your company

upon us?” asked Mr. Goldsborough, insolently.

“Yes, sir, for a little while. I talked with
your daughter Florence less than three weeks
ago. She is a wife, now; and sent a message
to you.”

The smooth face of the scoundrel changed.
He loved his daughter—there was no mistake
about that!

“Married! my little girl a wife!” he said,
huskily. “ Come up to our parlor, Mr. Ward,
and tell me about it.” v '

Charlie entered the hotel with them, accpmo
pany‘ing them to their private parlor on an up-

i

 BLUE:

Iper floor. Mr. Goldsborough ordered dinner
to be served in the room, immediately; and,
while the meal progressed, listened to what his
guest had to tell him about his child. Charlie
saw fit to tell only the favorable part of the
story.

“Demme, I might have known her bright
eyes would catch her a rich husband in no
time,” commented the father, drinking glass
after glass of champagne. Finally, coffee was
placed, at the host’s request, on the table; the

gelder man turned and stooped to pick up his .
1 napkin—the waiter had been dismissed with the 3
appearance of the cofl'ee—-and Charlie seized ;

g the opportunity to drop a powder into his cup,
, which he had for some time been holding ready,
v in the hollow of his hand.

I It was not half an hour after this before the
; wine, and the powerful but not dangerous opi-
1 ate thus deftly administered, closed the eyes of
the scheming banker in a profound sleep.

“ Come, Violet, this is our opportunity.
Your mother is in Paris. I will take you di-
rectly to her. We can gain the night train to
Dover, if we leave here immediately. Will
yo ,trust yourself to me? ’

“ ill I trust an angel of light, Charlie, to
save me from a demon?”

Burdened with very little baggage, light of
heart, bright of countenance, with a delicious
consciousness of coming bliss for which they
were quite willing to hide a proper time,

“ These lovers fled away into the storm,"
leaving the wicked father to labor with his
opium-dreams. ,

“ I was given that powder, for the toothache,
months ago,” explained Charlie, laughing, when
the train was once in motion and the young
pair felt comparatively safe. “ I would not
take it, but placed it carefully in my wallet for
future emergencies—and lo! ‘ there is a time for
everything under the sun.’ ”

A railway train is swift, but a telegraphic
,1 message is more swift, and twenty minutes be-
: fore the London night express arrived at its
1 station in Dover, the chief of pdlice at that
[point had received an order by the wires, read-
ing thus: “Arrest a young couple, sloping,

 

3; the lady about seventeen, fair complexion, blue ‘

asked, as the vehicle rattled on over the muddy i eyes’ an American; the young gentleman’ brown E

Eeyes, hair ditto and curling, an American,
3 name Ward. Detain the lady at least, on or-
. der of her father, who will go on for her by
3 next train; she is not ofage, consequently sub-
ject to his control. The young man can be
allowed tb proceed;" and signed by the :head
of the London detective force.

Ethan Goldsborough had aroused from his un-
timely slumbers in season to strike his veno-
mous fangs once more, with a last desperate
. effort, into his innocent victims.

 

CHAPTER XXII.
nxntmr oms.

AN old chateau by the sea.

It is one of those sunny, slumbrous days
that love to brood over France in summer ——a
day that would be oppressive in its languorous
heat in some vicinities; yet here, by the sea,
the air is. as crisp as it is blue and bright.

A delightful, romantic, magnificent old place!

The chateau is large, rambling, picturesque,
‘ bearing traces of having been erected during
the splendors of the reign of Louis XIV., with
many modern additions.

The red-tiled roofs, quaint towers and chim-
. neys, and quainter windows perched in every

 

% imaginable spot, appear as solid as they are ,
,venerable—the whole tone of the gray and g
f dark-red mass of buildings, standing on their a
l green terraces, is warm and pleasant to the :

T eye. There is a lovely flower—gardén—a little
too artificial, perhaps, after the French style,
;‘ but still very lovply, on the south side; lawns,
: groves of limes, mulberry and orange to the
’ north; vineyards and sunny fields teeming with
grain stretching away on all sides, but the
iwest-there the glittering, softly-rolling, deep-
1 blue sea.
I Onto the stone terrace that overlooks the
; ocean—the long, gray terrace with its heavy,
carved balustrade,‘ against which shines the
ldykmvflcxeepiss 15313219 and the wind-

. - c
f ‘ ,, . . . ‘ ‘ V ,-
eic A _y,

,1

Wan cheeks of a few straggling roses—as the
sun ~melts rosin into the far waters and the
light breeze rushes in from the gold-tipped
waves with a gayer freedom—comes a lady,
and walks slowly up and down, looking wist-
fully—with great, solemn, luminous, beautiful
eyes—over the sliding, shimmering seas.

She is a little lady, dressed in black, without
an ornament about her except the large gold
cross which g‘..eams on her bosom. Her slen~
der, almost childlike figure, gains a womanly

' dignity from the length of her sweeping train
, and the grace and ease of her movements.
' Her hair and eyes seem to have gone into
; mourning, with her dress, they are so purple
2 black and the eyes so sad and wistful. But
1 youth has refused to join in the sacrifice, and
’ hung his crimson banner on the dark cheeks
and lovewmirved lips.

Youth and health have conspired against
grief; so, that if the lovely eyes are soft with
a vague melancholy, the red blood kindles in
the vivid face and on the little scarlet mouth.

There is to be a wedding in the old chateau
on the morrow.

It is full of retainers, going busily about, ar—
ranging garlands and vases of flowers, hun-
dreds of wax tapers; and cakes, confections
and viands of the most superb quality and va-
riety.

Every one of the hundred paneled, gilded,
carved rooms wears a festal In the
grand dining-hall the table is laid for dinner
for but a few persons this evening; but a band
of musicians from the city wait in the great
window to discourse enchanting melodies dur-
ing the repeat. -

In the window of an upper room a gold-hair-
ed girl of nineteen—tall, elegant, of the most
refined and spirituelle beauty—dressed in soft
robes of flowing white, with rosebuds in her
hair and bosom—stands and watches with
blushing eagerness the white line of dusty road
that winds among the fields and vineyards—-
i watches the approach of. the carriage-and—four
; which she already sees thundering along at

breakneck speed in the distance. .

Now the carriage whirls nearer and enters
, the chateau gates, a quarter of a mile away.
She leans from the open window; at a break
, in the avenue of trees she sees a handkerchief
] waving as the vehicle comes nigh, and she
} kisses. her dainty finger-tips, and then suddenly
 darts back from the window, blushing furious-
: ly, and pressing her hand to her heart to still
its throbs of shame, joy, happy love. .

In a few minutes more a servant knocks at
the chamber-er and'tells the panting beauty
what she already knows—that her young men-
sieur has arrived. She goes out, tardily; slips
slowly, with lingering steps, down the broad
staircase, and enters the immense drawing-
room to the left. Here a happy—looking, hand-
some young fellow, who has been gnawing his
lips with impatience, darts forward and catch-
es the sweet, palpitating ghost to his breast.

“ Violeti” ,

“ Charlie!”

A young couple who are expecting to be mar-
ried in the morning do not care for inquisitive
reporters at their meeting ;‘ so we will cross the
great hall to a smaller room—-a sort of ladies’

 

I

 

'r hostess of the chateau are welcoming an unex-
pected guest.

“Mr. Rhodes, we are perfectly delighted!
Your presence gives the last pleasure we could
have craved. How good it was of you to come
all the way from New York with our dear
' boy, to keep him company and be present at
his wedding!”

9 “Ah, Mrs. Vernon, I must hasten to own

 

thatIamnotsounselflsh asI appear. Ihad '1
i an object—an object of the greatest possible im-
 portance to mel—in coming here with Char-
! lie.”

i Murderwill out. Redmond Rhodes has call-
! ed our old friend, Madame D’Eglantine, Mrs.
3' Vernon, and that is who she is and has been
I for the last six months. It is Violet’s adopted
i father—at last with the right to be called her 
I father—who stands beside the fair owner of 
l the old chateau, her cententedhusband. ,
Two years have passed since the foggy night

'.

: boudoir, on the other side-4—where the host and , 

 

I. .7_ .. . __,_____V.

\

31.49st ANPMBeUE-

‘81

 

in England when the detective waited to arrest
our lovers ere they should flee across-the Chan—
nel. Ethan Goldsborough had a double object
in bringing his daughter back to London—first,
to further torment her long-suffering) mother;
and second, and most important, to ring for-
ward her claims against the great estates of
Sir Israel Benjamin, deceased. As the lawful
Wife of the baronet, her share of his possessions
would be large; she, not being of age, would
be controlled by her father, and he would reap
a rich harvest out of his devilish plotting and
scheming which had resulted int e baronet’s
death. iolet was dragged back to London
and restored to Mr. Goldsborough by the of-
ficers. Charlie went on to Paris with his won-
derful good news, which was; with due cau-
thn, imparted to Madame D’Eglantine, and
had the magic effect to restore her to health——
for “joy seldom kills.”

Violet persistently, obstinately refused to
have or touch a pound or a. penny of Sir Israel’s
money. Her father, finding that the baronet’s
relatives Were determined to make a desperate
fight—to ferret out all the circumstances of
the marriage, and even to accuse him of foul
Pla —-threatenin to make him prove before
an nglish jury amt he did not connive at Sir
Israel’s death—concluded that it would be wiser
to compromise with them. '

They, on their part, were glad to have the
Wife and her father sign off from all future
claim, for the sum of ten thousand pounds.
With this in his pocket, Ethan Goldsboroug'n
sent Violet back to her mother, with an insult-
ing message, and the declaration—which they
were only too happy to hear—that “ be washed
his hands of them orever.”

The desperate man made no attempt to re-
turn to America to look after his daughter
Florence. I’erhaps he intended it—for he still
loved her with a passionate, blind, animal fi-
delity—but he attempted to reach the United
States by way of the gambling-hells of the
Continent.

“ Demme, I’ll double my snug little fortune
for Florence’s sake l” he resolved—and attempted
zealously to do it.

In other words, he became a confirmed gam-
bler—105mg and gaining—losing and gaining—
but always averaging more loss than gain; and
unable to tear himself away from the perilous
tascmation; until, not more than atwelvemonth
from the time of his return to the various Spas
where becould indulge his ion—play being
then forbidden in Baden-Ba en, where he began
Ill-th found himself . enniless, friendless
stricken with disease of mind and bod , gnaWed
by memor , deserted by hOpe—and b ew out his
brains in t 9 presence of the stolid croupier who
had raked in his last kreutzer. I

Long before this catastrophe, Madame D’-
Eglantine had gone to America, at Violet’s ear-
nest request to look after Florence; for Charlie
had confided to them her poor prospects of bag-
piness with the man of pleasure she hadso ras -
1y married.

Mr. Rhodes chanced again to be their com-
pa du voyage on the way to New York.

he reader may infer how it still further in-
creased the warmth of their friendshi to find
that he had befriended Florence, as we] as spent
Wm nlghts in prison on Violet’s account. His
dlscovel‘y that the beautiful, imprudent girl he
had Sheltered and protected was the very one
Whom they were in search of came about very
Simply when they were all talkin together. or
course he gave t 9m Fraser Haro d’s addresS—
or tha of his family—and to their house Violet
and her mother went at once, after resting one
ni ht from the fati ues of the voyage.

hey found the amil in deep mourning...
heard, with a fresh shop , the news of Fraser’s
death and the manner of it; scarcely recog-
nizing, at first glance, the pale, quiet, broken-
hearted little lady, in mdow’s weeds, as Flor-
ence.

. “Oh, take me with you, Madame D’Eglan-

Ema,” she pleaded, her pride all broken down,

1‘. Vernon and Violet, Charlie and even
you. seem so much nearer to me than these
$19. They are kind, but they are cold as
“3101933 I know from their manner they feel
that I am m some way to blame for their son’s
day}; I “filed  be jealous of you, Violet,” she
f, ° ’ “0ka iteously at her fair half-sister,
T1 was hatefu to you, willful, vain, spoiled.
1‘0" I am only a poor, broken-hearted woman,
Whosf’ faults. I hope, are buried in her hus-
bands grave,” and the tears stole, down her
Wan cheeks.

“35011 are my sister. by blood and by affec-
tion, answered Violet, weeping with her.

.We Will love you and cherish you, as never

 

sister was loved and cared for. Mamma, shall
not Florence go home with us—be your child
as much as I am?”

“ Yes,” said Madame D’Eglantine—and so it
was.

The passed the remainder of the winter in
New ork, having delightful apartments their
business cared for by Mr. Vernon, and Charlie
being scarcely a more constant visitor than
Redmond Rhodes.

In June they went to France to remain, Mad-
ame’s vast estates there requiring her and her
a ent’s personal supervision. Violet and Charlie

ard were engaged before they parted, with
the understanding that Violet was to spend a
year at a Celebrated pension, in Paris, while
her mother was refitting and refurnishing the
old family chateau by the sea.

It could not really be a regret to the family
when they heard of the miserable end of their
persecutor; though Florence did mourn for a
father who had never shown her any but his
good qualities.

The esteem and confidence which had rown
up between Mr. Vernon and his client, nally
culminated in marriage; which deli hted Violet
and made her, as she declared, “ e happiest
girl in the world.” -

And now her own weddingday is but a few
hours 011’!

She sits by her lover’s side, while the golden
rays of the setting sun pierce the quaint dia-
mond panes, leaden—framed, of the drawing-
room windows, and her eyes falling before the
fire of Charlie’s gaze, dreamily follow the trac-
ing of the fading, but ex uisxte needlework of
the silken tapestries upon e wall.

All are happy except poor, desolate Flor-
ence.

She paces the stone terrace, locking of! wist-
fully over the blue sea, where the sun has dis-
appeared. The flowers, the tapers, the music,
the feasting, the sight of the bride-elect in her
fairness, vex the cor little soul of one who is
not yet made per set through suffering—though
her character is vastly improved. '

She thinks of her own rief courtship under
the June moonlight—of her rash marriage—her
brief joy—her bitter, overwhelming sorrow.
Of the monotony of her life here, where she is
loved, potted, cared for by kind friends, but
where all is—to her—so monotonous, so little
like the life of active joy and triumph her na-
ture craves. '

It seems to her as if she could never go back
into the house and wish them happiness, while
she is so sad and lonely. She sto s in her slow

‘walk, turns her face to the illim table sea, and

cries out, with‘a passionate sob:

“Oh, how forlorn! how forlorn l”

“ Mrs. Harold—Florence!” speaks a deep, ten-
der trembling voice, “my darling! you shall
be orlorn no more, unless it be from your own
choice.”

She turns, and by her side stands Redmond
Rhodes. In all the stateliness of his middle
age, and his natural reserve, he stands there,
so tall that her head only reaches to his heart;
but his eyes shine down upon hers with a will
that she has no power to resist; she allows him
to take and keep her trembling hand, and to
bkfsnd and press on her purple hair a lover’s

s. '

“ I have loved you, little one,” he said, “ ever
since the night when I washed the wrinkles
from your child-forehead. I came back from
Newport, that night in the long ago, to tell you
so. I found Fraser Harold before me, and I
gavo you up. I have waited patiently a good
while, and now I want you to answor me at
once if I may have you?”

“ With all my faults?” sobbed Florence,
humbly.

“ Yes, darling, with all your faults. I would
not wish you to be perfect.”

“ You are very good and wise, Mr. Rhodes. I
dare say you will make a better girl of me.”

“ When may I begin my attempts to reform
3’00. Sweet? To—morrow? Remember, I am not
a boy, and I have waitedtwo years.”

There was much demurring and much argu-
ment, as they walked up and down the gray
terrace, in sight of the twilit sea, quite oblivious
of the banquet which was waiting; but the mas-
ter carried his point at last, and on the morrow
there was a double wedding.-

THE END.

‘-

 

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Library.

'American Copyright Novels and the Cream of Foreign Novelists, Unabridged, FOR FIVE CENTS!
The Cheapest Library Ever Published!

 

 

,1 The Masked B ide' or, Will She Ma
Him? By Mrs. Mary Reed Cro well. ‘ my
2 “Ins It Lov’c’! or, Collegians and Sweet—
hearts. By Wm. Mason Tlll'ilel‘, M. D.
3 The Girl “’ife ; or, The True and the False.
4 ABylfnrzl’eiy fiCampbell.
ra e. cart: or, Startlin 1 Str .
By Arabella Southworth. g y ange
5 Bessie Baynor, the it’ork Girl ' or
'lhe Quicksands of Life. By William M’ason
Turner, M. D.
6 The Secret Marriage; or, A Duchess in
7 AS rte of Eemelf. Ii Sara Claxton.
aujg ; er of «WV or, Blinded 'b Love.
8 gy Mia. Marleeexl Crodell. y
ear to cart.‘ or, Fair Ph 1115’ v .
9  Araibellfi‘Sowwhlr‘tih. y Lo 6
one n't e or ' or The Youn Man’s
Ward. 'By the author ’0: Z‘Clifton,"g“Pride
1.0 Aanld, Pitssio ’aatc. E
V a r o ray yes' or The Emerald
n ENetcklactle. dBy RoseAKeBmedy. ’ r
n ang e ° or, a erous Game. B
‘ Henrietta Th’ackeray. ng y
12 His Latvi‘ul . Wife; or, Myra, the Child of
Adoption. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
l3 Madca , the Little uakeress or, The
Naval adet’s Wooin . y Corinne
l-i “’hy I Married im; or, The Woman in
E 5 Amity! ByFSara Claxtog.
a r ace' or, ut in the World. B
Bartley T. Camp’bell. y
16 Trust Her Not; or, A True Knight. By
Margaret Leicester. ..
17 »A Loyal Lover‘; or, The Last of the Grima-
18 itheidB Arab'ei‘lllia Slot-ghwonhj‘ ‘
s o'er; e tarred arri .B
Mrs. Mary  Crowell. age y
19 The Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus
20 oHatfi. BykMfl'yHalpine. I ,
rp an e e ran eGrl' or The
Lost Heir. By’Agile Penne.g ’ ’
\ 21 Now_and Forever; or, Why Did She Mar-
Trfi Him? By Henrietta Thackeray.
22 e Bride oi'uu Actor; or. Driven from
Home. By the author of “ Alone in the World,”
“ Clifton, ‘ etc.
23 Leap Year; or, Why She Proposed. By Sara
Claxton

24 Her Face Was Her Fortune. By Elea-
nor Blaine. ~

25 Only a Schoolmistrcss; or, Her Untold
Secret. By Arabella Southworth.

26 Without a Heart; or, Walking on the

, ‘ Brink. . By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham.

27 Was She a Coquette '9 or, A Strange
Courtship. By Henrietta Thackeray.

28 Sflgl Chase; or, The Gambler’s Wife. By

. Ann S. Stephens.

:29 For Her Dear Sake; or, Saved From Him-
self. By Sara C n.

30 The Ben net G l; or, A Million of Money.

BhAglle .enne.

3-1 A ad Marriage; or, The Iron Will. By

. ' Mary A. Denison.

., 32 Mar Inn, the Prima Donna' or, Roses
and Lute By Arabella Southworgh.

38 The Three Sister; or. The Mystery of.

’ Lord ,Chaliont. By Alice Fleming.

34 A. Marni e of Convenience; or, Was
Be 9.. Count By Sara Claxton. '

35 All Against Her; or, The Winthrop Pride.
By Clara Augusta.

36 Sir Archer’s Bride; or, The Queen oins

i Heart. By Arabella Southworth.
7 The Country Cousin; or, All is not Gold

thathlitters. B Rose Kennedy.

38 His Own A a n' or, Trust Her Not. By

‘ Arabella Sou worth

39 Flirtation; or, A You Girl’s Good Name.
By Jacob Abarbanell, (E ph 12%)

40 Plugged to Marry; or, «In as Bonds.

1 B rs. n.
41 .Bilnd Devotion; 0r, Love Against the
’ World. By Alice Fleming.
42 Beatrice, the Beautiml; or, His Second
’ Love. By Arabella Southworth.
43 The Baronet’s Secret; or, The Rival Hali-
l isters. By Sara Claxton. . '
44 The On] Dau%iter; or, Brother against
. Lover. y Alice. eming.
45 Her Hidden Foe; or, Love At All Odds.
. By Arabella Southworth.
46 The Little Heiress; or, Under a Cloud.
‘ By Mrs. Mar A. Denis n.
47 Because S to Love. Him; or, How Will
It End? By Alice Fleming.
48 1,8 Spite of Herself; or, Jeannette‘s Repa-
. ’ tion. By S. R. Sherwood.
49 ms Heart’s Mistress; or Love at First
‘ Sight. By*Arabella Southworth.
50 The Cuban Heiress' or. The Prisoner of
j La Vintresse. By Mrs. ary A. Denison,
51 Two Young Girls; or. The Bride of an
Earl. By Alice Fleming.
52 The Win ed Messenger; or, Risking All
for a Bear: By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowsll.

58 Agnes Hope, the Actress‘ or. The Be
mance of a Ruby Ring. By illiam Mason
Turner. M. D. l

‘ I .

ushman. -

 

54 One ‘Vornan’s Ileart; or. Saved from the
Street. By George S. Kaime. -

55 She Did Not Love Hint; or, Stooping to
Conquer. By Arabella Southworth.

5‘6 Love-Rind; or Betrothed Married, Divorced
and . By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D

57 A Brave Girl; or, Sunshine at Last. By
Alice Fleming.

58 The Ebon lVIask; or, The Mysterious
Guardian. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.

59 A “ridow’s \Viles; or, A Bitter Vengeance.
By Rachel Bernhardt.

60 Cecil’s Deceit; or, The Diamond Legacy.
By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton.

61 A “'ickcd Heart; or, The False and the
True. By Sara Claxton.

62 The Maniac Bride; or, The Dead Secret
of Hollow Ash Hall. By Margaret Blount

63 The Creole Sisters; or The Mystery or the
Perrys. By Mrs. Anna E. orter.

64 What Jealousy Did; or, The Heir of
Worsle Gran By Alice Fleming.

65 The ife’s ecret; or, ’Twixt Cup and
Lip. By Col. Juan Lewis.

66 A Brother’s Sin' or,- Flora‘s Forgiveness.

y Rachel Bernhardt.

67 Forbidden Bans; or, Alma’s Disguised
 By Arabella Southworth. ’7

68.Weavers and “felt; or “Love That Hath
Us His Net.” By Miss M’. n. Braddon.

69 Cam lie; or, The Fate of a Coquette. By
Alexandre Dumas.

70 The Two 0r hans.

71 M; Young ire.

usband.

7 2 The Two ‘Vidows. By Annie Thomas.

73 Rose Michel; or The Trials of a Factory
Girl. By Maud Hil n. i.

74 Cecil Castleinainem Gave‘ or, The Story
oi a Broidered Shield. 313; (finds.

75 The Black Lady of By J. 8. Le

Farm.
76 Charlotte Tem 1e. B Mrs. Rowson.
77-Christian Oak e ’s intake. By the
author of “ John H ' ax, Gentleman,” etc.
78 My Young Husband; or, AConfusionin
the Family. By Myself.
79 A ueen Amongst Women. By the
By Florence

 

By D’Enery.
By My Young Wife’s

una.

aut or of “Dora Thorne," etc, etc
80 Bier Land and Master.
a a .
81 Lucy Temple, Sister of Charlotte.
82 A Long Time Ago. By Meta Orred.

83 Playing for High Stakes. By Annie
Thomas.
84 The Laurel Bush. 13y the author of

“John Halifax, Gentleman.

85 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet.

86 Janet’s Repentance. By George Eliot.

87 The Romance ofa Poor Young Man.
By Octave Feulllet.

88 A Terrible Deed; or, All for Gold. By
Emma Garrison Jones.

89 A Gilded Sin. By theauthor oi “ Dora
Thorn,” etc.

90 The . Author’s Daughter. By Mary

Hotht.

91 The Jilt. By Charles Reade. ‘

92 Eileen Alanna; or, the Dawning of the Day.
By Dennis O’Sullivan. I ‘

93 Love’s Victory. ByB. L. Fameon.

94 The Quiet Heart. By Mrs. thhant.

95 Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh.

96 Haunted Hearts. . ‘

97 Hugh IVIelton. By Katharine King.

98 Alice Learmont. By Miss Mulock. .

99 Marjorie Bruce’s Lovers. By Mary
Patrick.

100 Through Fire and Water. ByFred-
erick Talbot. _ _

10] Hannah. By Mss Mullock.

102 Peg’Womngton. B Charles Reade.

103 A Desperate Deed. y Erskine B0 (1.

104 Shadow's on the Snow. By B. .Far-

neon.

105 The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By
W. M. Thackeray.

106 From Dreams to Waking. By E.
LynnLihton. > '

107 Poor Zeph! By F. W. Robinson.

108 The Sad Fortunes orthe Rev. Amos
Barton. By George Eliot.

109 Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. By
B. L. Farjeon. ,
110 The ' Wandering _Heir. By Charles

~ Reade.

1 1 1 The Brother’s Bet; or Within Six
Weeks. By Emilie Flygare Car en.

112 A Hero. By Miss Mulock.

1 13 Paul and Viral nia. From the French of
Bernardin De St. Pia'rc. .

11.4 ’Ttvas In Trafalgar’s Bay. By Wal-
ter Besant and James Rice. ' . '

115 The Maid of Killeena. By William

Black.

116 Hett . B Henry Kingsley.

117 The ayyside (hour or, The Raid of
Gomez. By Captain E. A. an.

118 The Vicar of “’akeiield. By Oliver
Goldsmith A ‘ '

4‘

By Rachel Bernhardt.

 

l l 9 ‘Maud Mohan. By Annie Thomas.

120 ghuddcus of “’arsaw. By Miss Jane
orter.

121 The King of No-Land. By B. L. Far-

Jeon.
122' Lovel, the ‘Vidower. By W. M. Thack-

eray.- -

123 An Island Pearl. By B. L. Farjeon.

124 Cousin Phillis.

125 Leila; or, The Siege of Grenada. By Ed-
ward Bulwer (Lord Lytton).

126 “’hen the Shi Comes Home. By
WulterBesant and ames Rice.

127 One of the Family. By James Payn.

The Birthright. B Mrs. Gor .

lilotherlcss; or, The anner’s‘Sweetheart.

By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. I

Honieless' or, Two Orphan Girls in New

York. By hert W. Aiken. .

Sister ainst Sister; or The Rivalry of

Hearts. y Mrs. Mary Reed rowell.

Sold for Gold. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.

Lord Roth’s Sin. By Georgiana Dickens.

Did Be Love Her? By Bartley T. Camp-

bell.
ainst. By Lillian Lovejoy.

Sinned A
“fan She is “life 1 By Mrs. Mary Reed
By Miso’

Crowell.
137 The Village on the Cliii'.
The Broken Troth.

.Thackera .

138 Poor Waleria!
By Margaret Blount.

139 Margaret Graham. . By G. P. B. James. ,

140 W ithout Mercy. By BartleyTCampbell.

141 Honor Bound. By Lillian Lovejoy.

1'42 Fleeing from Love. By Mrs. Harriet
Irving.

143 Abducted; or, A Wicked Woman‘s Work.
By Bett Winwood.

144 A Stran e Marriage; or. John Foster‘s
Heiress. y Lillian Lovejoy.

145 Two Girl’s Lives. By Mrs. Mary Reed
Crowell.

or,

146 A De crate Venture' or For Love‘s
Own 8:133. .By Arabella Southwo'rth.

147 The “far of Hearts. By Corinne Cush—

148 Which “fan the ‘Voxnnn ’l or, Strangely
Misjudged. By Sara Claxton.

149 An Ambitious Girl i or, She Would Be
An Actress. By Frances elen Davenport.

150 Love Lord of All; or, In Her Own at
Last. By Alice May Fleming.

151 A Wild Girl. By Corinne Cushman.

152 A Man‘s Sacrifice. By Harriet lrving.

153 Did She Sin. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.

154 He Loves Me Not. By Lillian Lovejoy.

l 55 Winning Ways. By Margaret Blount.

156 \Vhat She Cost Him; or. Crooked Paths.
By Arabella Southworth. ,

157 A Girl’s Heart. By Bett Winwood.

158 A Bitter Mistake' or, A Young Girl‘s
Folly. By Agnes Mary elton. .

159 Lad Helen’s. Vow‘. or, The Mother‘s
Secre By the Late Mrs. E. Elliot.

160 Buying a Heart. By Lillian Lovejoy.

161 Pearl of Pearls. By A. P. Morris, Jr.

1 62 A Fatvi‘ui Game; 01'. Wedded and Parted.
By Sara Claxton. -

163 The Creole Cousins; or, Falseas Fair.
By Philip S. Warne, ‘

184 A Scathing Ordeal; or, May langley’s
Mad Marriage. By Mrs. Georgiana Dickens.

165 A Strange Girl. By Albert W. Aiken.

166 A Man’s Sin. By RettWinwood.

8 Th Hand of Fate or The Wreck of
l 7 TwoeLives. By Arabella Slanth’worth.

168 Two Fair \‘t’omen. By Wm. M. Turner.

169 Tom ted Throu it Love; or, One
Woma‘h’s Error. By an Lovejoy.

170 Blind Barbara’s Secret. By Mary

Grace Halpine. h
oman-‘s Witcher ' or, Throug

l 7 1. Muchyl‘ribuiations. By Sara giaxton.

172 Black Eyes and Blue. By Corinne
Cushman.

173 The (lost 01‘ a Folly. By Georgiana
Dickens.

174 The Pretty Puritan. By A Parson‘s
Daughter.

A new issue every week.

Tun WAVERLEY LIBRARY is for sale by all News
dealers flve cents per copy, or sent by mail on re-
ceipt of six cents each. ‘ I

BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers,
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