N.SRK-Co.

 

Copyrighted 1877, by BEADLE.AND ADAMS.

 

 

 

Single
Number.

Vol. IIL.

BEADLE. AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,

No. 98 Winti4m Strent, New Yorn.

 

Black Eyes and Blue.

BY CORINNE CUSHMAN.

CHAPTER I.
HIGH WORDS AND HARD.

Two girls formed the center of a group, all
standing on the bridge which crossed Silver
Creek at the entrance to the little village of
Lycurgus, nestled among hills in a rural and
pt age portion of the State of New Hamp-
shire.

This was Saturday and these were the “‘Acad-

PRICE
10 CENTS.

No. 37.

 

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 if
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
crisp waves. er figure was slight and pecu-
liarly graceful, even at that ‘‘ unformed” age;
her complexion was a smooth, dazzling olive,
with little threads of scarlet bay in the
cheeks; her eyes were deep, dark and lustrous,

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 deepened; but she
had none of the angry, wicked fire in her eyes
which flashed from Florence Goldsborough’s.

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

“And do not I?” Violet rejoined, hastily.
Hf My father may not he quite as rich as yours,
but he is as much respected. . As to my poor
mamma—she died when I was born—and it is
shameful of you to refer to the dead.”

thick braid, leaving the ends to burst out below
|
|

“T MEAN,” SHE SAID, WITH THE INTENSE DISTINCTIVENESS OF SCORN, ‘‘THAT NO ONE EVER KNEW WHO YOUR PARENTS ARE.”

emy girls,” who had taken advantage of the
lovely, warm holiday, to improvise a straw-
berry-party. They had been ranging the hills
and meadows all the long, sunny afternoon,
and were now on their way home. Loitering
on the bridge, some unpleasant words had been
exchanged between Florence Goldsborough and
Violet Vernon, for which Florence, as usual,
was to blame.

At 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
1 petty jealousy that was painful to its object.

erhaps the two looked all the handsomer for

and could be as soft and bewitching as ever a
girl’s eyes were; though, at this moment of her
introduction to the reader, they flashed fire.
Her father being the richest man in the village,
and she the only daughter, Florence was ‘a
spoiled child,” too used to having her own way.

Violet was a little taller than Florence; her
skin was cool and fair, with a color in the cheeks
and lips like that of the wild May rose which
she held 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 asa field of ripe
wheat, was so burdensome in length and quan-
tity that she had braided it half-way down ina

“Wait till I know she is dead?” was the scorn-
ful rejoinder.

“What do you mean?” asked Violet, opening
her eyes very wide, her lip trembling as if she
would 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.

““T mean,” she said, deliberately, with the in-
tense distinctiveness of scorn, that no one ever
| knew who your parents are. Mr. Vernon

 
  

    

2

THE.-ETRESIDE LIBRARY,

 

 

& 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, about six 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
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 done 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 a hor-
rified look.

“Ts this true?” Violet asked, with a pitiable
tremble of the mouth, 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 Violet.” “It wasa burning
shame of Florence to tell you.” ‘You know
it makes no difference to us!” were some of the
exclamations which followed her, and two or
three of the girls ran after her, and would
have walked by her side, but Violet fled like a
fawn who has heard 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 had but just gotten out of sight of the
others, and was still flying along as if pursued,
when she was met by a young man, with a fish-
ing-rod on his shouldér, and a string of trout in
one hand.

“Why, Miss Violet, what is the matter?” he
asked, putting out his disongaged right hand to
arrest her flight, and darting a keen look for-
ward, as if he expected to see a mad dog, at

- the least, in pursuit. i

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

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

Violet burst into tears. :

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

“No, no; oh, no! It-is something Florence
Goldsborough said to me, Charlie. I am fool-
ish to cry about it,” and the girl sobbed more
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
@ moss-grown log near the path. ¢

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

“T can not, I never can tell you! Oh, it
was something dreadful, Charlie!” and the
pink lips quivered, and the dark-blue eyes
flashed for an instant through their showers of
tears.

The young man immediately guessed what it
was, for 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 by his side that he
was aware of what had so wounded her; he |
patted her little hand gently, and, after a fow
minutes, drew out his white cambric 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 off
her own tears this time, and finally looked, very
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
sidelong glance of admiration at the beautiful
face which, despite the stain of tears on the
flushed cheeks, looked all the more lovable for
the 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. Iam afraid we shall be too late
for that—but they will keep for his break-
fast.”

Violet rose instantly.

“Yes, itis 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
ask me about it, and I could not tell him. Oh,
Charlie, I shall never be the happy, careless
girl [ 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
hat a little lower over her charming face;
while Charlie picked up the string of ‘‘speck-
led beauties” and the fishing-rod, and the two
set off ata quick pace on their return to the
bridge, from whence they took the road leading
into the village and were soon passing along a
pretty street, with elms on either side, and
neat, vine-decked houses, standing back a little,
with grass-plots and flower-beds in front,

Charles Clarence Ward was a law-student in
Mr. Vernon’s office—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 speedily
rich, but Lycurgus, like so many New
England towns, first came to a stand-still
in its growth and then receded; so that
to-day, and in the very “prime of his pow-
ers, the lawyer found himself with far less
to do than in the beginning of his career,
He had a lovely home, and enjoyed every 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
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, é

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—
which was pretty often—that she did not feel
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 two go by together, she pressed. her little
white teeth into her scarlet under lip, and was
no longer sorry. ;

“{ wonder what he can seo 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.

“T hate blondes!” she muttered to herself.

| “Jam twice as handsome as she is, any day!

Charlie Ward ¥. ould not care for her if she was
not forever harging around him. He has an
errand to the h use every day, and is there ev-
ery Sunday—of course, sho makes the most of
her opportunities! Never mind, Miss Violet!
you wont have your own way altogether, if

 

you do have the advantage of me! 1’li 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 indulgert 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 sonie-
times surprised at herself when she found how
impetuous, how even dangerous some of her
fits of impulse and feeling were. If any one
Lad a dress, or a jewel, surpassing her own, she
was unhappy; if any one of her young com-
panions was admired, or addressed with defor-
ence, she was jealous and invidious; all her feel-
ings were proportionately strong and unreason-
ing; so that it would not take a prophet to fore-
tell that much wretchedness, for herself and for
others, lay close in the future

 

CHAPTER IL
‘THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER.

WHEN Violet reached home, after that unfor-
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 pre occupied. Tea was
waiting, and the trout was deferred to break-
fast; for, as aunt Chloe said, ‘“‘Ef dar wus one
t’ing wuss’n anudder to keep arter it wus ready
to come out de oven, dat ting wus Sally Lunn.”

“You mus’ walk right in de dinin’ room,
honey, an’ you, Massa Ward, an’ done set right
down, an’ I'll bring in de Sally Lunn dis in-
stum. Massa Vernon he in dar, now, a-readin’
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 towel from a
dresser-drawer, and ‘‘ de children,” as she called
them, pumped water on each other’s hands, and
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 evenmg; 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, Whenwith 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-
ed 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 good degree of family pride. To-night he
pitied and loved Violet; who, poor child, wor-
shiped the ground he trod upon, without in the
least understanding her own feelings, or ever
having questioned them.

Mr. Vernon was pleasant, during tea, but
seemed pre-occupied. When the meal was over
the young people went into the parlor for some
music, while he returned to the library to read
his magazine. Charlie stayed only about an
hour longer—just for a few songs—returning
to the office for a little more reading of the
law, 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-
brary, which lay on the other side of the hall,
opposite the parlor. She stood in the door,
hesitating. Her father had laid aside his book,
and was reading and re-reading a letter. He —
sighed deeply, more than once; and after he
had finally folded and returned it to a safe
place in hs pocket note-book, he leaned his
head on his hand, and appeared lost in thought.

Violet supposed it must be about the new
boarders.

“Poor papa!” she thought to herself, ‘‘he
does not like the idea of these intruders any
more than I do. ! wonder why he takes them?
I thought his income was quite suflicient for
our modest needs,”

 
BLACK EYES AND BLUE, 3

 

 

 

Again Mr. Vernon sighed, while his head
sunk lower.

“Papa is in sore trouble to-night. 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
embarrassment she stumbled over a foot-stool,
causing Mr, Vernon to start, and look around,

In an instant, acting upon impulse, she sunk
down on the carpet at his feet, caught one of
his hands, and resting her soft cheek on his
knee, looked up piteously into his face.

‘Father, is it true, this thing the girls tell
me—that I am not your child?”

“ Who has told you this?” was the stern in-
quiry.

“Oh, papa, is it true? Only answer me
that.”

Mr. Vernon leaned back in his chair with
the air of one to whom a crisis, long dreaded,
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 caressingly the lovely pale-gold hair.

“Supposing my little daughter was only an
adopte:. daughter, would she be any the less
my child on that account? Would she be any
the less contented and happy? Have I failed
in anything, little Violet, that a father should
do or be, to make you discontented, now that
some meddler has informed you of my misfor-
tune in not being really your father?) Remem-
ber, if it is a 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!”

“Ah, how good you are, dear, dear papa!”
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 affec-
tion. Do not think that I am discontented—or
will be—dear tather; only—only—the girls
said such cruel, hateful things! Oh, you can-
not think how it wounded met They even
said, dear papa, that it was believed my own
true mother was a »urderess!” Violet pressed
her hand to 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
herself?—be it good or bad, remember!—the
iain truth, whavever it may prove to be, and
whatever the consequences of the knowledge
may be to me and to her?”

q 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?”

t was now Violet’s turn to take time for re-
flection.

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 ina certain light. Yes! I am certain
I would prefer to hear the truth—however bad

‘—than to be always brooding over possibilities,

The worst—the very wors(—can be no more
bad than they make it out to be. Now, tell me,
papa, have you .earnea 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 re; ed 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! Forget
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 by seeret suspense, by
hope and fear—shadowed 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 he 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
my little Violet’s history! But, pshaw! how
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.
WHAT AN EAVESDROPPER OVERHEARS,

VIOLET 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, had no rival in the choir. On
Monday Florence actually humbied herself to
write and send an apology—partly because she
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 adittle coldly. There was
no one on the bridge, however, when she reach-
ed it. 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 as they
were swept away, while she vaguely wished
that Charlie Ward, at least, would chance that
way. '

Presently it grew quite dark, 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—doubtiless some one
would soon happen along—and so she lingered
on the bridge. She was standing quite in the
shadow of a huge old chestnut that grew at one
extremity of the bridge. A thousand times,
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
out over the stream.

Now, as she idled there, herself in Shadow,
but the road silvered by the increasing moon-
light, whom should she see slowly approaching
but her own oe with him a lady—a
strange lady—*whose presence, dress, manner,
all aroused her strongest curiosity. Why should
her father be walking at evening with this 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 hérold 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 sparkling on the diamonds which encircled
it—and said, in a low, slow, cold, but exceed-
ingly sweet voice:

“Tt is eight o’clock. I expected Mr. Vernon
to meet us here at this hour.”

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

*

 

“Yes, Heis my lawyer. He must hear all
that passes between us two.”

“Emilie, must I 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
would gladly have gotten out of it; but it was
too late! She was more afraid to betray her
presence than to remain concealed.

The lady untied the ribbons of her hat and
remoyed it from her head as if the strings
choked her; but she looked as calm as marble,
Florence could see every feature of her val-
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 same
foreign air. Florence was fascinated; she could
not remove her eager gaze from the stranger.
Who was thi®@lovely lady, who seemed to her
girlish imagination like one of those fair, proud
countesses or duchesses of whom she had read
in novels?}—whose small fingers flashed 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,”

“T 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-
DER 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

group.

“Sir,” said the lady to him, “I told you a
part of my story this morning. I want you to
hear what I have to say to this man—my hus-
band, who has come to meet me at my request.
Ethan Goldsborough”—turning to him and
speaking in those slow, low, solemn tones that
carried an icy conviction in their every accent
—“it not unfrequently happens, in this world,
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
“leading citizen,’a 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 features and allow your fellow-citizens to
see you as you are. - You cannot escape the ex-
posure 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
main story.” _ Z

“Spare me, Emilie, spare me!” groaned the
banker, abjectly. ‘‘Let this matter rest be-
tween us three, as it does now. What satisfac-
tion can it be to you to ruin me—now, at my
time of life?—a man in his forties—with a
grown-up daughter! Spare me, for her sake—
my child’s sake! I used to think you loved me
once, dear Emilie!—you are too fne a woman
to betray such a low spirit of revenge! You
are rich, comfortable, contented—far richer
and more prosperous than I am. Oh, let me
alone! Everything conspires to bless you.
Your child is living—has grown up into a
sweet, good, ladylike girl. Take her away
with you—and leave me as I am. [I have
worked hard for my place here. Indeei, =.
deed, I have bitterly repented the injury I did

°
    

4

 

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

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
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!” she cried, as if to herself,
“and I once loved this man! Adored the
ground his foot spurned! hung upon his words!
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,
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,
as I, fond fool, believed. Well, I was very,
very happy with you—despite the gnawing un-
easiness of feeling that my uncle should know all
—for almost a year, Ethan! Why, what a child
I was! Only a little over sixteen at last, when
the cruel blow fell! The cruel, cruel blow that
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 assured me that the marriage be-
tween us was not a legal one, and you would
not hold me to it.

“ Ah, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! What did I not
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
—ame, 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.
I could not prove the story I told my uncle, for
Tecould 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
months old I escaped from the convent. 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 determination 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.

“TJ 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-
bility! :

 

“Here he hoped to enjoy his well-earned —
peace; put the meek, quiet, timid little wife, —

afraid of her own shadow, was unaccountably
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 recallit all. Look at |

him, Mr. Vernon! Do you see his hand trem-
bie, nis lips turn white? No wonder! It is un-
Pleasant to force his memory back to that time.

I ought to spare him. God knows, as far as I
alone am concerned, I would freely do it. But
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. Butit must not be. As a
wife and a mother I must assert my rights.

“JT 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
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, | still loved
Etban Goldsborough, and craved a reconcilia-
tion,

‘¢ 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 dnd it dropped into the water of the
pond. Then the cry which arose to my lips
was choked in my throat—and I knew no more
—for some tithe. I know, by the gleam in
your eyes and the working of your lips, Ethan,
that you are only wishing that 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 hid-
eous deed, creeping back to town by devious
ways, to resume your part of ‘leading citizen.’

“The swiftness of the current swept me
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—l 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. Jt was sunset when
I reached the solid earth. I fainted, and when
L again became conscious,it was dark.

“T 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 allowing myself to be
seen, arfd living on the berries 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, several 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
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
first rightly to me, but I visited every church
in Paris, I made the acquaintance of every
priost—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

¢

 

crown 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 convulsively to the
limb on which she was seated, but she shiv:
ered 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. Thesud-
den 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!” 3

“T think only of my own child,” was the
cold response. ‘My first duty is to her.”

“Tt does come hard upon poor little Flor-
ence,” said the kind voice of Mr. Vernon: “TI
have always liked the child—a merry, bright
little maiden, as ever was. Madam, I wish
there was some way to spare her feelings.”

“T 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 a
man her father is. But my daughter’s legiti-

-macy must be established. I shall see that it

is left with no shadow of a doubt upon it.

“T am willing to make this compromise. I
would like to spend a few weeks in this village
for my health. I will remain quietly at the
hotel. Meantime, Mr. Goldsborough, if he de-
sires, can close up his business and seek a new
residence, and the denowement need not come
until his family are removed and provided for.
I take it for granted that the lady will desire
to leave here, and that her daughter will go
with the mother. Mr. Goldsborough must make:
liberal provision for them, which you must see,
Mr. Vernon, is so secured to them that he can-
not afterward trick them out of it.

- “T further propose to very quietly seek a di-
voree from the husband who so many years
ago deserted me; and then, of course, if Mr.

Goldsborough desires to make the amende lijm-

orable, he will at once re-marry the lady who
now deems herself his wife. :

“Indeed, I might so arrange the divorce that
the public need not know the truth, until this
man was free to ratify his present marriage.
When does the court of this county sit, Mr.
Vernon?”

“Tn August, madam.” ;

“Very well. I promise to say nothing, in
public, until about that time; but T shall ac-
quaint some one other party with the facts,
so that my daughter will be protected, in
case you and I should die suddenly, Mr.
Vernon,” and the lady shot a meaning glance
at the banker, who bit his lips but said noth-
ing in defense of himself. ‘Also, I must
make my sweet girl’s acquaintance. Every
hour is an age that keeps me from her, now
that Iam 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-
ly—the 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, nol we will loosen the roots

 

 

 

~

 
aie

i;
|
i
[

 

 

 

BLACK EYES AND BLUE, 5

 

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? Ido 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 wearily home like a bird
with a broken wing.

CHAPTER IV.
A VANISHING FIGURE.

Tue sun shines as brightly on the stream
that flows oyer 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 wibhiod 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! lt must
not—shall not be!” and she sprung up from her
chair and.stamped onthe floor. ‘I will pay
her off yet! I will—I will! I will wring her
heart as mine is wrung! And she my father’s
child—my own half-sister! Oh, how strange,
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, Violet 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 the two girls
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—known to be, in business,
cold and calculating—a man whose inner life
was quite different from its outword pretense—
yet to his daughter Florence Mr. Goldsboroush
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 Bot ont 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 a princess in
disguise, and all, consequently, were deeply im-
pressed by the merits of the beautiful foreigner.
One of the hotel waiters, with a most deferen-
tial air, showed the callers to madame’s private
parlor.

Violet could not be otherwise than graceful,
and she was most shyly and charmingly so,
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 agi-
tation which she so soon controlled.

Madame D’Eglantine spoke English easily,
with only a delicious little foreign accent that
softened it and added a grace. She made the
young lady sit by her, on a sofa, and chatted
on so pleasantly that Violet felt at her ease al-
most immediately; and as madame insisted on
a prolonged call, Mr. Vernon excused himself
for a half-hour, going to look after the affairs
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. Iam-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 bea 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 sweet 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, Terese?—my own, own a
My dear daughter! Was she not sweet,
charming? Ah, Terese, it is for this * ene
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,
and be glad to have found me. Terese,-do I
look as happy as I feel? Why, I seem to my-
self to be the careless girl again that I was
when he came to me, and turned the sunshine
black for me! Everything is bright once more
—give me joy, Terese!”

“JT 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
be in 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 tohim! 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
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 ene T
ment of the morning, and that will quiet me}

-sooner than anything else.”

The Frenchwoman smiled to herself as she
went after the brush.

“Madame looks almost as young and quite
as pretty as the child,” 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-
smiling reverie.

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. 3

“ As if that would be any additional induce-
ment to me!” answered Charlie, in a low voice
—not intended for Mr. Vernon’s ear—and with
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!” 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 affirmed that he did not admire Florence
Goldsborough—his whole manner would have
contradicted sucha 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-
lessness. 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 dream it
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 asd for-
give all my sins, won’t you, little saint? Dow't
6 THE Pixel De “LIBRARY.

 

 

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-
a face to make it more lovely and _irresist-
ible,

“She does not care for him—she is only 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 td 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?”

“Tf 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 putting it on the
little finger of Charlie’s left hand; ‘‘and now
that it is on, I want you to promise me—on
your word of honor asa gentleman—to wear
it until I see you again.”

“By which you mean until to-morrow,”
laughed Charlie.

“Do you promise to wear my ring until the
next time we meet?”

“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
and she gave him a thrilling look as she an-
swered in a solemn voice, as if entering into a
compact:

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

“Then I promise to wear your ring until 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 coaxingly up
at him from under drooping lashes, What a
beautiful girl she was! and how full 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—until 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
goin 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.

“Tt is avery conspicuous jewel,” he thought,

“T hope the little witch will reclaim it before

,”
- 2

 

|

®,

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 run away from home; that
she had left the house 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.
Only her father had a suspicion of the real
causes which had Jed 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 tor her speedy return.

Not soher wretched father. He felt that his
child had made a desperate move in a desper-
ate mood; he knew that he had lost her!

Nevertheless, he had telegrams sent to Port-
land, Boston 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 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 killed herself?”
asked the unhappy mother.

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

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

 

CHAPTER V.
THE SPELL WROUGHT BY THE RING.

CHARLIE WARD felt a little ashamed of the
ring which he wore whe nhe found,as he did be-
fore the day was over, how many people rec-
ognized it as Florence Goldsborough’s, and ral-
lied him on having a knowledge of her where-
abouts. Every one who sdw the ring took it
for granted that an engagement existed between
him and the runaway girl. Long before night
he would 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
the ring until he saw her again, and wear it he
must. His embarrassment increased, when,
late in the afternoon, Mr. Goldsborough called
at the office, having heard some rumor of the
jewel.

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

“No, sir; I did not even | suspect such a
thing.”

“Mr, Ward—you will exes 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. Itisafamily jewel which
I do not care to have in the possession of a
stranger.”

. 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.” j

“Say what you please, sir; | am under a

promise and I shall keep it. 1 only wish thatI
coul + honorably be rid of wearing the ring,” ho
added, indignantly.

And the father went away with the very
natural impression that young Ward, in spite
of his denial, was or had been engaged to his
daughter; but, since the step she had taken,
wished to be free from the engagemeng.

“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. Golds-
borough had been sufficiently embarrassing, yet
there was another which he dreaded more.

What would Violet think when her eyes fell
on the detested ring? For Charlie had been
having some very serious thoughts during the
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 time he said to his own heart: “T love Vi-
olet, and Violet only, There is none like her,
none! How could I ever have thought of
Florence in the same breath with her?”

The summer dusk was full of sweetness as he
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-
azza, where she was pacing back and forth
alone—waiting for him, Charlie thought, 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
him, “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, ten times more
beautiful than it had ever been before.

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

“ 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
wild girl had repented of her freak and re-
turned.

“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 you
so?”

“‘ Ah, I knew you would find out! Charlie, I
don’t care to goin, 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! Ihave seen her—kissed her
—she has held me in her arms this very day.
Oh, Charlie, I am the happiest girl in the whole
wide world!” :

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

“Yes, yes! She is everything adorabf&, Char-
lie. Oh, the loveliest, sweetest mother! Why,
if 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-morow. Sheis atthe hotel. Madame
D’Eglantine, they call her—for 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 I
have heard so much in the last few days? Mad-
ame D’Eglantine you wether, Violet! Well,

 

now, I shall look for the end of the world to
| come.noxt!”
“You think «he is Ho good for me?” asked

 

 

 
 

 

BLACK EYES AND BLUE. 7

 

 

the girl, with a pout of the rosy lip that was
ravishingly 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.
He says I shall know everything in a very few
weeks. Meantime I am at liberty to share our
secret with you; but you must breathe not a
word of it until papa gives you permission,
Oh, my beautiful mamma! I wanted to go and
sleep in her arms to-night, but papa said that
would make people talk; so I am obliged to
deny myself hercompany, Have youseen her,
Charlie? Isshe not lovely? And now I must tell
you all the little I 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.

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 piazze, and more and more every
moment, as he watched the kindling eyes and
heard the silver tones, and saw whata luster
happiness added to that pure face.

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 almost 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 be his own; she would never suspect hima
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 confiding 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 ae it, in fact, for some not evident
purpose.
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 ring!”

“ 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 af-
, fected carelessness. When she spoke again her
‘voice was so changed that it startled him—low,
cold, 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? 1 know she did, for 1 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 away. 1 know
no more about her than you do, Violet, it was
foolish of me to take her ring—you know how
young pevple ‘are always jesting—and neither
of us meant anything serious by it,”

 

T suppose you will send it to her parents,
then?”

“No,” answered Charlie, desperately, feel-
ing that he was being sacrificed to an unlucky
promise, “I told Florence, upon my word and
honor, I would wear it until I saw her again—
and I must. When [said it, | 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. And I have no
reason to doubt yours, Charlie. Florence al-
ways favored you above all others,” and then
she began to talk of other matters—not 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
ifshe too had grown cold; he was forced 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 be suffered as the love and despair which for
the first time fevered her gentle nature.

“Hither Charlie is a heartless triflér, 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 ri
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 tite lovers on that
evening.

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
rash as to flee from the only safe refuge of girl-
hood, her mother’s arms?

CHAPTER VI.
MASQUERADING—WITH A VENGEANCE.

A vVeERY 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 he being passionately fond
of music—and was passing up the brown-stone
steps—guarded by stately lions-—of his statelier
house, when he stumbled over a prostrate fig-

 

‘ure lying half on the upper step 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-
clamation of mingled surprise and impatience
—for Mr. Rhodes took it for granted that the
prostrate woman was either intoxicated, or
worse—he stooped, and drew her partially into
a sitting posture, turning her face toward the
moon, which shone down from over the trees
in the park with a light like that of a softer
day.

At the same time he rang the door-bell
rather sharply, with the intention of telling
James, his man, tos to the officer and have
the vagabond taken off 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
: Ae See bonnet, so that the moon-

 

beams fell uponit, 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
whatever she was, unconscious. He had no-
ticed that her dress was that of a neat old lady
from the rural regions; probably, from the bon-
net, and the prudish shawl pinned about the
shoulders, a Quaker; but he had also observed
a certain incongruity which had aroused his
curiosity: a pair of spectacles had fallen from
the closed eyes and a ‘‘front” of gray hair had
become sadly disarranged, being quite pushed
to one side 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-
ed the door and remained stupidly staring at
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 L-best
just call a’ officer, sir?”

“She is no common tramp, J: ames; I can see
that. No, 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- 2?

“Sure enough, sir, ’ere’s her pocket-book a-
dropped out o’ ’er pocket; an’ it seems stuffed
full enough,” cried the man, picking up a full
wallet, as he 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 wiil 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
and close and lock the hall-door, James; and
then bring me a spoon and a bottle of brandy
or wine from the pantry. Quick! And wet
a napkin in. cold water, James, to lay on her
foreh

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
suspended pulse, and vaguely wondered at the
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. ;

His vague wonder increased and grew posi-
tive when James brought the wet napkin, and
his master, wiping the wrinkled brow with it,
wiped every 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-
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 ho was. working also.
He administered brandy in doses of a few
drops, rubbed the slendei wrists, bathed the
smooth forehead; and, beiag 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 inquiringly on
his face, Redmond: Rhodes thought to joes
not without displeasure:

“Here is a first-cluss adventure! I am afraid
T have been rash; I am certain that'this.is an
embarrassing situation! What is to follow, 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—she will hasten
to fly to them—and I shall be out of this awk-
ward predicament,”

Easier planned than axacnted, Mr. Redmond
Rhodes!

Among all the staid and jocqgepockatagale:
spectable citizens of the metropolis, there was
none—not one|—who stood more calmly iseciut
    

8

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

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
the lounge, bathing that fair forehéad 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
tourmured:

“Father!”

“T am not your father, child,” said Mr.
Rhodes, a little hoarsely.

The great black eyes opened a little wider,
the curved lips parted—for 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
two little hands together.

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

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.”

“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! ‘‘Itis fortunate for you that I dis-
covered you before the policeman came around,
or you would be brought up in court for this
indiscretion. Now, give me the addregs of your

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

“TJ 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 run 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!—and I came to this great city because
I thought I could 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,
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 to-night. And here it is, one o’-
cloc! ”

“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 re-
main.”

“But, my child, I have no wife. There’s the

. difficulty. I-would not think of permitting you

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 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!
Mrs. Plimpton,” answered the man, who ha
listened to every word, and had also been much
affected by the sight of beauty in tears at his
master’s feet. c

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.”

“T 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
quick kiss of gratitude.

“You are too impulsive,” said the wise man
of forty, moving his chair to a safe distance
from the demonstrative stranger. ‘‘Hven our
feelings of gratitude or kindness should be duly
restrained. I can easily see how such a quick
nature as yours, my child, may have gotten you
into 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 ofa
severe person, tall, angular, and sharp-visaged.

“Mrs. Plimpton,” said the master of the
house, rising, “you will oblige me by giving
this young lady something to eat, and a room
near your 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, with no one in the city to whom she can
go. You are a good Christian woman and
member of the church, Mrs. Plimpton, and I
am not afraid to leave her in your hands. I
am going to retire, confident that you will see
to her, as a sister woman. Perhaps she will
tell you her story, and you can advise her in
her difficulties. 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
unknown little girl he had found on his door-
step.

Mrs. Plimpton dared not disobey the letter
of her master’s instructions, but she did the
spirit. Ungraciously as possible she brought
some cold chicken, a biscuit and glass of wine
to the “little impostor,” as in her own mind
she dubbed one whom we know to be innocent
of any guilt, if passionate and rash. The
stranger choked down a few mouthfuls of food,
drank the wine—for she still felt dizzy and sick
—and followed with faltering steps where the
housekeeper led, to a bedroom on the third
floor.

“You can sleep here,” said Mrs. Plimpton.
“T’m across 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.
There seems to be some money in it; bolt your
door; there may be burglars.”

“Yes, ma’am, I will,” said a meek voice.
“Pm so sorry you had to be aroused to attend
tome. If I dared, ma’am—if you would not
be offended—I would offer you some of this
money, in return for the trouble I have made
‘you,”.

“We, in this house, never take no presents,”
said the housekeeper, loftily. ‘‘But if you’ve
got 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 little stranger drew out a five-dollar bill
and thrust it eagerly into her hand, and Mrs.
Plimpton went to bed a trifle mollified, though
still amazed at her master’s folly.

CHAPTER VIL.
THE TABLES TURNED.

ConsHOTURE 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 placo
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 dollars, and leav-
ing his residence in the hands of an agent, to
dispose of at the first opportunity, he bade a

sic,

 

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-
nons 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 correct taste in dress,
possessed of such rare jewels and reported to
be the owner of old esiates in her native
country half as large as a small province,
would naturally make a sensation in almost
any community. In Lycurgus 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 madam—or
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

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-
tion which would allow him to do justice to the
deceived woman who, for so many years, had
regarded herself as his legal and only wife.
All the details of the scandalous history, as they
were revealed and proven in court, were seized
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
fate of “‘old Floyd Oirson” would have been
his—

“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, petted child!
She could not bear to show her innocent face
among those who would so soon learn her fath-
er’s infamy! Ah, where had she fled, ‘poor
young thing? Pray Heaven to keep her in the
right path, and that her father’s sins might not
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-
plained! And so! Violet, the flower of the vil-
lage, the favorite of young and old, was des-
tined to be a great lady and a great heiress!
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
interesting! And every light and shade, every
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-
|.rusted link was legally broken, and madame
had received the right to assume her own
family name, under which she was already
known. And Violet Vernon was Violet D’-
Eglantine, by special permission —for she would
not claim or bear 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

Time fairly flew. To poor, weary, life-worn
his wings seemed made of  thistle-

down, glittering whitely and silently in the
blue air, leaving no sign, making no noise,

 

there the story came, breaking over Lycurgus;®

 

 

 
 

BLACK EYES AND BLUE. 9

 

 

 

 

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 svith 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. .The offer had not
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;
lhe knew that he should like the gain of a
larger experience after the first effort 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 akeen 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, asthe years. wore on—bit al-
ways with a sweet charm of her own, like that
of the moss in which the richest: rose Half-vails
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.” pairited:on it, his
doubts vanished in one sudden résolve,

“T shall, join you in New York before the |

first of October,” he said, when he camé into
the dinner-table. ‘That is settled!” i
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

enough time to close’ up my affairs here. I

must find a tenant for the house—the books |

must be boxed—including those at the office --”

“Oh, papa, what will beeonie of Charlie?”
eried Violet, interrupting.

“ He will have to place himself in some other
sawyer’s office, I suppose. Poor Charlie! he’s
very blue about our desertion of him. I told
him yesterday I was afraid I should yiéld to
the temptation, and resign law in Lycurgus,
with the brilliant prospect of a judgeship just
before me!”

“Yet he has not béen 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 low-spirited it is
about her—not about me!” 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 wasnot only
that Charlie had kept away so much, recentiy;
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, to the banks

 

of Silver Creek, a short distance below the
bridge, and on the edge of the woods. Far off

the blue hills stood dimly against 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
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 w»-
manhood, and the, sweetest. 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
could ask to see!...The fair, fair face, half-
drooped in reyerie, 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 trouble darkening his frank face, nervously
clutching his. hat, which he had removed, the
wayward 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 ery:

“Charlie! Charlie!”

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

What did he care then for the mother’s
haughty smile of patronage, for the ring burn-
ing so wickedly on his hand?

“Violet,” he answered, to her inmost
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
purple clusters had kissed her golden. head,
came coyly forward and gave him her own.
He drew, her to him, and for the first time
their hearts each felt the throbbing of the oth-
er, while the happiest moment possible to any
human life—the first moment of knowing and
feeling for the first time that we are beloyved—
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 cheeks colored like
carnations, and a little sweet, shy laugh to hide
her confusion, drew away from the arms ar
ing her too tenderly,

*¢You will let me take Florence’s ring ‘60h
your finger now, Charlie?” and she made a play-
ful move to do se.

“ That is the only thing you could have ask-
ed me which | would not do joyfully for you,
Violet. Why did you think of that? There is
a reason, which I am not at liberty to tell any
one, why I must wear the ring until I see Flor-
ence. But it is not—Violet, I swear to you it
is not because | have any interest in her, or

 

that there ever was any understanding between
us.”

“You expect me to be satisfied with that,
Charlie--and..yet allow. you, to wear her ring
and to havea secret about it?’

They were walkiag along the path now, to-
ward the village. Violet was not suspicious by
nature; but just in proportion to her love for
the one by her side was her intense Pee
about the ring.

“T 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.

“Tf you cannot trust me in so little a matter,
Violet, how can you. confide your whole life
and happiness to my keeping?”

“Thave 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
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.”

“Very well,, Violet. Let the subject. be
dropped between us, then. If you have no
confidence in me, you can have no real love for
me. Imay as well bid you good- -by here as
anywhere. You leave in the morning, I be-
lieve. Good-by, and—and—a pleasant winter
to you, Miss D’Eglantine.”

The fiery pride which struggled with his.loye
could not quite prevent the choking of his
voice over the last words.

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 Gharliel yan aboue:
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 basely, 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 seo
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-
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 ever asked of her—grant me a few
minutes’ interview?”

She wheeled about and stood face to faco
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 look ill and
worn, ‘I amin trouble, and I want )only to
talk with you a little while, I did not care to
venture in sight of those who know me. It
would make scandal and excitement for noth-
ing. Walk along the path with me a little
way, while I give you the message which {
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
o'clock that evening, and the news flew from
mouth to mouth that Violet D’Eglanane 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
40 THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

with anxiety—searched the grove, the pond,
the stream, but found nothing.

 

CHAPTER VIII.
THE BELLE PETITE AND THE DRAGON.

Tus 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
had at least two hours for meditation before
Mrs. Plimpton knocked at her door with word
that it was time to rise.

Jn those: two hours Florence Goldsborough
did ages of hard thinking. She had a clear
head, like her father, and something of his lack
of moral principle. As yet sbe had never done
anything really bad; she shrunk from wicked
things with the sensitiveness 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
right which would prevent her from commit-
ting a thousand small deceptions and shams for
the sake of accomplishing her wishes.

That she had plenty of energy and executive
ability was proven by the success with which
she had planned and carried out her flight from
home.

Now, as she lay on her acd leumed 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.

“<“T must stay here!” she said, over and over
again; ‘‘I will stay here! He said he had no
wife, What a proud man he is!—not hand-
some, but better than handsome—a perfoct
king! It’s a revelation to poor, ignorant little
me! I did not dream there were any such
men! Yes, Iam going to stay! Twill stay!

“Mrs. Plimpton don’t like me. She will
want to hurry me off—but I am not to go.
Did not Josephine foresee that she was to be an
empress 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 yet!”

La belle 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. ‘‘ 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—
it shall conquer the world for me.

“ Ah, yes, la belle petite, you are very beat
tiful—there’s no denying that!” and she con-
tinued to gaze at her image lovingly, caressing-
ly. ‘“*My face is my fortune, kind sir, she
said.’ No pale, expressionless blonde, like Vio-
let, 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 a
color I have! I wonder if this Mr. Rhodes—
forty years old. if he is a day!—ever saw eye-
lashes with such a curl to them as mine: have?
Eight o’clock!” looking at her tiny gold watch,
which she drew from under her pillow, “and

no-signs of life in this house yet. They keep |

luxurious hours here. Hark! there is my
friend, the housekeeper, now—coming to call
me up. Yes, ma’am, I’m awake, and quite
well, thank you. T’ll be dressed in a few mo-
ments.”

“Tl 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-
ship. I seem to be regarded quite in the light
of a beggar here. Suppose I should be dismiss-
ed, after the charity of the morning meal, and
not see him again, at all? But I will-see him!”
added Miss Beauty, setting her little foot down,
decidedly. ‘I must fight my own Destiewesd
must help myself.

“ What a shame that I have no other dross
to put on,” she sighed, as she regarded with dis-
favor the drab-silk garment which lay across a

 

chair. Florence had optaimed her disguises out
of a chest of ancient costumes in the garret at
home. ‘Lucky for me that I thought to put
rose-colored ribbons in the pocket—they will
go very well with the gray, after all.”

She brushed out the purple-black hair into a
thousand rippling tresses, pinned a little rose-
colored bow in their midst; donned the Quaker
dress—which fitted her trim little figure exact-
ly, for she had once altered it to wear to a
masquerade—placed another bow at the throat,
assumed her watch and chain; the costly pink-
coral earrings and necklace which had been her
father’s last gift, and which she had secreted in
her 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 his door-step last night.”

When Mrs. Plimpton came for the stranger,
a lovely little lady, modest as a rose and self-
possessed as a princess, opened the door of her
chamber and flashed out upon her, she was fair-
ly surprised out of her severe expression of
righteous condemnation.

“Well, I declare, Miss, you do look reviv
she stammered.

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

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

“ Oh, I 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—as, in her mind, she had already dub-
bed Mrs. Plimpton—her interest in Mr. Rhodes
she would excite her suspicions and shut off all
further communications.

So 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 resorts!

“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, appealing
look out of her long-fringed eyes at the woman
sitting grimly regarding her—clasped her pret-
ty hands together, and said, sadly:

“Ah, Mrs. Plimpton, you advise me. I
know s0 little of the world!”

“Tf 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 o’ lions.”

“ But—supposing I cannot go home? And
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, I—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, Iam spoiled, I know!—a
poor, petted, vain, spoiled darling good for
nothing practical. My father isa rich man—
not rich like Mr. Rhodes—but a respectable
banker. He did something wrong; I could not

' bear the disgrace; Iran away. [ will never—

neyer—never go back —not if I die. I cannot
work; but I have money to pay my board for
a long time. Mrs. Plimpton I have just
thought of something!”

“What is it, Miss?”

“Tf Mr. Rhodes i is oni going away this af-

 

ternoon, why cannot I remain here with you
until his return, or just before his return? I
need not see him again at all—I ean stay in my
room all day. You might ask his permission.
If he is so good and kind as he appeared last
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 Iam to you. I shall feel so safe with
you—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 some acquaintance of yours—or—”

“Let us hope, before that, you will be among
your own friends,” interrupted Mrs. Plimpton.
“T 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.”

“T shall be lonely wherever J} 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.”

“T know that, dear Mrs; Plimpton. And
now I will go to my room and remain there un-
til Mr. Rhodes has breakfasted, and you tell me
my fate. Is that the material for a cap, in
your sewing-basket?—then, let me take it with
me, and make it up for you. Iwill not spoil
it; and I shall be so restless, with nothing to
aos ”»

She carried the basket off with her. Fate
must have smiled on 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 on some 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-graceful little
thing she was! And how young!—and how
exceedingly pretty!

“Tt 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
Jown to breakfast, He ate his meal like one
aalf-asleep. Hardly had he passed’ into the li-
brary, afterward, when Mrs, Plimpton knock-
paced wanted to know if she could speak to

“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, sir.
And thank you, sir.”

“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.”

“Tl be very embarrassing for her to meet
you, sir,” said the wise dragon. ‘She'd
rather not, | know;. for she told me so.”

“Tf she has a clear conscience she ought not
to dread any one,” said Mr. Redmond Rhodes.
“Tf she shrinks from me it makes it the more
imperative I should see her.”

“That’s only her modesty, as a young girl,
sir. : 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 his 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-
ly raised to his face, he said:

i
BLACK EYES AND BLUE.

i

 

“Miss Goldsborough, if Iam not mistaken?”

Florence sprung from her chair, turning pale
and red and pale again.

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

“$500 Rewarb, for any information as to the
whereabouts of my daughter Florence, aged six-
teen, small of stature, dark eyes and hair, who lett
home on the night of the second of June, and is
supposed to have gone to New York. Address

“ErHAN GOLDSBOROUVGH, Banker,
‘‘Lycurgus, New Hampshire.”

“See! how easily I can earn five hundred
dollars this morning! I have but to lock you
in your room and step around to the telegraph-
office,” 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 toin-
form on me, sir. It is true that I am not yet
of age——a child, in the eyes of the law, subject.
to my parents—but I am nota child, really. I
have judgment beyond my years; my father
has forfeited all claims on my respect or obedi-
ence; Imade up my mind to leave home on
good grounds—ah, Mr. Rhodes, have mercy on
me!—have a little confidence in me, as one able
to judge for herself what she ought todo! You
never had a sister, ['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 action she dashed
them from her peachy cheeks 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 { am not to telegraph to your fa-
ther?” :

“Oh, thank you, sir! You are an angel of
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, and her whole expressive little figure
and vivid, splendid little face breathed the
gratitude and relief she felt!

“T 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.”

“T shall not go out or come in—speak, smile,
move—except as Mrs. Plimpton advises me.
Pm 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
hopes of the rewards Don’t. you think this
house, sir, is the very safest refuge for me in
the whole city?”

“T do,” was the answer, after some reflec-
ti n—‘“‘that is, provided you remain inside of
it, denying yourself all promenades,”

“T 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 so?—you see, I do not
wish her to think I presume,”

““T 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
deuer did you get in?—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
about thirty entered the library unannounced,
and looked keenly from its master to the lovely
little lady who bitshed and fled from the room,
not without throwing back a girlish, sparkling
glance at the new-comer.

“James admitted mé by the usual means,
Redmond. But Imust beg twenty pardons for
walking in here without warning. You see, £

 

never —I did not know—yow of all
men! Ha! ha! ha! But I'donot blame you.
£ shall never. forget those eyes!—melted dia-
monds—night and fire—how they flashed!”

“You oblige me to explain,” said Rhodes,
stiffly.

 

CHAPTER IX.
RED ROSES AND STOLEN SWEETS,

In every large city there are a few men like
Fraser Harold: imperfect products of over-
civilization, one might say. Sons of rich fa-
thers, indulged from the drawing 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-
hood in their make-up. Pleasure is their pur-
suit, not their recreation, and as such, frequent-
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

sometimes read a book or so, and could talk |

about it. He had fastened himself, as it were,
on his neighbor, Mr. Rhodes, as a vine fastens
on a pillar.

Whenever. he was ennuied to death of his
lady friends, his club, his horses, his yacht, his
pedestrianism, his cravats, he would run 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 not to his mind.. When men
get to be thirty, with 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
can have 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
the facts, the story of the little refugee, and
that he had consented to allow her to remain
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.

“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—
and as unsuspicious of others as he is himself
immaculate. Ten to one that bright-eyed lit-
tle beauty is an adventuress! He would never
find it out, if she were! I do think, as his
friend, I ought to look into the matter! J
could find out, in half an hour, whether she
were 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. { must contrive to have an inter-
view with her! Lucky for him that I don’t
leave the city as soon as he does! And lucky
for me that this little episode will help to fill
up the time, until | join Redmond in New-
port.” i

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 in a day or two; now he
meekly resolved to attend dutifully upon his
parent, another week, and do what he could,
meantime, for the interest of his absent friend!
Unselfish kindness!

 

The only thing he could think of on the day
following Mr. Rhodes’ departure, was to walk
up and down in front of the house a few times:

“Tf she is a flirt,” he said to himself, “she
will contrive to let me know that she observes
me.”

Poor Florence! time did pass wearily, mono-
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 solid 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.
“Tf I-could even fling the shutters wide open—
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 L shall see a sky-blue muslin, or a de bege

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! itis
the gentleman who came into the library as I
was going out of it, yesterday morning. Heis
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 the drawing-room windows! I
wonder if Mr. Rhodes could have told him
anything about me? I suppose he did, and the
gentleman is naturally interested. Oh, dear!
what.asplendid joke! ‘My face ismy fortune,
kind sir, she said,’” trilled the slender maiden,
in a low voice, full of suppressed excitement,
and she whirled up to one of the sumptuous
mirrors lining the great room, arid took anoth-
er 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 weariness 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.

“Tf he comes by again, he shall know that I
have noticed him,” thought the foolish child,
happy to be admired. ‘“‘I must’ have made
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
him to see me, but to let him know that Iam
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 t6 his
lips, he passed on, returning no more during
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 bis 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. On the door-step stood Mr. Fraser,
pleasant and polite as ever—a book in his
nand. { :
“Mrs. Plimpton, if you will allow 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
his books; I don’t like to have the responsi-
bility of it all summer—it might go astray.”

“Certainly, Mr. Harold; very true. But
Pll take it in myself, and save you the trou-
ble.” zens

“Not the least trouble in the world!” brush-
ing by her and hurrying on into the library;
there was no one in it; but he was not dis-
couraged by this. 3

Laying the book on the table, he dropped his
handkerchief on it, and came out instantly,
bowed slightly to the housekeeper, and ran
lightly down the steps.

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

“T had such a fright!” she said, pressing
her hand to her heart. “I thought Mr. Rhodes
had returned, and I would have to leave you,
Mrs. Plimpton.” :

“It was only a friend of his, next door, re-
turning a book.” .
42 THE FIRESIDE.

 

 

“Oh!” and Florence, after watching the

dragon, dusting the drawing-room bric-a-brac |

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
dropped 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
billet 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: :
‘* MADEMOISELLE:—My friend Rhodes—one of the
nobiest fellows who ever !ived!—has told me all
about you. I know that it would please him if I
could do anything, in his absence, to make your im-
eens jess tedious. I know, too, the difficul-
es,
“You must not be talked about; nor must Mrs,
Plimpton be offended. If I cou d coax her to allow

‘ou to slip out and come to our house to see my sis-

er, your secret wou d be safe with us, and my sis-
ter wou d be very kind to you. At present, perhaps
we had best not venturesomuch. Ihave thought of
something. To-night Mrs. Plimpton wil! attend the
weekly prayer-meeting of her church; it is jikely
the servants will take the SEP OREBUEY, to do a little
visiting on their own account.

“May I cali on you? I know how you must suffer
from your impaisoument, and I wou d bring my sis-
ter; but she happens to have an engagement. If
you admit me, I promise to make a very brief call—
bo twenty minutes! For fear Mrs. Piimpton may
ask you to ge to church, pon might complain of
headache! If you knew how much Mr. Rhodes
thinks of me, you wou d have no hesitation in accept-
ing my offer of friendship, made half from compas-
sion for your lone iness and haif from the selfish
wish to do myself a weeeire,

“Your neighbor and friend, rs dh.

“Pp, §.—There are some red roses on the library
table. If I may come, display one of those roses on
the window-sill.”’

Alas, poor little foolish Florence! Nothing
had ever so flattered her vanity as that note.
Her 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. Plimpton was coaxed to go
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
dress and the fresh blossoms; the housekeeper
thought she might venture out to church, by
wearing her Quaker bonnet; but the young
lady feared to risk it.

“T shall not be at all 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
summer twilight made the signal almost undis-
tinguishable, that her trembling fingers got
courage to hang the red rose on the sill of a
drawing-room window.

The pious housekeeper went off to her pray-
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,
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 tirst 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 su:picions.
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 and safest |

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

eed
| so much obliged to you for taking so much
trouble to entertain me. I wish your ‘sister
had come with you. I know I shall like her if

blushing delightfully.

‘¢ ¢ At all like her brother,’ you-were going to
say—were you not? Thank you. I wish I
could make it seem right to Mrs. Plimpton for
me to call every evening; but I know she will
not allow it.”

“T 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.”

“T 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 believe
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.”

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

‘Oh, of course!” hastily. ‘Tl arrange
that,” and he held out his hand.

Florence shook her head, and her girlish
laugh rippled through the room.

“T don’t know 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
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 eonscience as 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 now! How poor, pale and fad-
ed was her school-gir] 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 Paradise, 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 that the 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.

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
ran on something in this fashion:

 

 

‘EMILIE:

“ You may be satisfied with your oe -upon
one who wronged you, but / am not. Unluckiiy,
revenge, however natural, is likely to punish the in-
nocent along with the tty. Ido not complain of
anything you have done to me. Yet—I wonder, will
yousleep any the more soundly when I tell you that
my wife is dead—died one week ago, and was bur-
ied, without my once having seen her—died of the

%

ABR O AS

she is—” here she came to a sudden stop,

 

 

 

disgrace y/ou inflicted, with pitiless jsticr, spon h:-+
and her child!—of grief for the step that child took
in running from us to hide herselt from the trouble
about to descend. An innocent woman is dead—an
innocent woman revenged! I wish you joy.

“But, madame, you ought to know me too well,
to rest as secure as you appear to have rested, in
your work, When I found that the one creature on
earth I ever really joved—my girl, F.orence—had
fled from me as if I were a tiger, it did not improve
the natural sweetness of my disposition. I allowed
you to have your own way—sincelI had no means of
preventing it. All the time I was arranging the de-
tails of a counterplot, the execution of which would
cause you some of the same kind of annoyance you
have seen fit to inflict upon me. As my dea:
daughter has left me,I must console my:<.! with
the society of the other one—who never was a fa-
yorite 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 !ike-
ly it now occurred to him that I would dispute your
right. But I do dispute it. Until she is of age—or
for about seventeen months yet—I am her legal
owner, You will now petition, of course; but ‘on
before you can receive your decree I shall be out o:
the country. Infact, our passage-tiokets 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-
gon, or for the custody of our child.

“T 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. f

‘And now, in conclusion, I haye this proposition
to make to you. The day on which you give me no-
tice—which you can do at any time through Mr.
Blank, the agent referred to—that you have discoy-
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,

‘*As 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 person has a
right to be. I have no mind that 1, child shall suf-
fer and ,ours enjoy affluence. Be wise and submis-
sive. Exert yourself to the utmost or the benefit
of Florence. Otherwise, 1 may. suffer a life-long
regret, You know that Ido 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 prosecute—one still

“Your Ma:srur.”

“Ah, mon Diew !” murmured madame, shiv-
ering as if with January cold, ‘“‘he knows well
how to wound and to turn the dagger into the
wound! Ishould have been on my guard! [
never should have relaxed my vigilance while
he lived. Oh, my poor child! He will inflict
a million little tortures upon her—perhaps
drive her mad with his small persecutions.
Mr. Vernon, youshould have warned me—have
prevented this thing happening.”

“Madame, I did not know Ethan Goldsbor-
ough. lIeven felt for him great compassion.
I could not forget that we had 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 cireumvent his plans to
get out of the country. Where was that let-
ter mailed?”

‘On the train, at midnight,” answered Char-
lie. ‘‘Thisis 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
something positive to do he felt a certain re-
lief from the misery which preyed on his
young spirits,

He snatched 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.

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 came running up, carrying his.

daster and a small valise.
“Do you go along?” asked Mr. Vernon, sur-
iad .

“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
make it my business to find Florence. Ifshe is
alive, I will trace her out.”

“How about your law studies?’ asked his
tutor, when they had taken their seats in the
car,
“T shall be taking lessons in legal matters
that will be worth more*to me than the books,”
answered Charlie, with a sad smile.
BLACK |EYES AND BLUE. 4138

 

 

“T 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, Iam 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 thanon 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. “Plenty of money is a. good thing, too,
in-a case of this kind. A golden key unlocks,
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 Florence, give her back
her ring—Violet would be returned to her
mother, 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-flying, train.
But no things are further apart, in this work-
a-day world, than dreams and actualities..

The party arrived in New York on Saturday
morning, and had consultations with skilled de-
tectives, who immediately—rendered vigilant
by splendid promises—boarded every steamer
about to sail, and entered, also, into communi-
cation with their brother-officers in neigboring
cities. They tried. persuasion, threats and
bribes, on the quiet, little, shrewd-looking man
whom they found at No. 40, —— Buildings; but:
he was unyielding as the Sphinx. He smiled
at the threats—which he knew were idle: the
law could not compel him to betray the where-
abouts of his client when the client was only
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
hay-stack » in which he might search long and
patiently for so small a needle as little Flor-
ence Goldsborough.

He had not retired to rest the previous night
until he had sent to each of the Sunday papers
the following ‘ Personal:”

“F. G.—Charlie is in town and wishes for‘an. in-
terview with the owner of the opal a He has
good news, of the greatiest i aes commu-
nicate. Will F. G. answer, ‘ough ‘ Personals,’
when he can see her?”

With burning eagerness he devoured thd '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.

On the second Sunday Ward had another ad-
vertisement:

“#. G.—Your mother died three weeks ago. Hoer
relatives lives at No. — Lexington avenue, where
you can hear of her death, by inquiring.. V. V. is

supposed to be in Europe. So is your father, I
have much to tell. ‘Dorespond, CHARLIE.”

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.

“T can not remain here—in this country,”
she cried, in the first moment of greeting Mr.
Vernon on his return—‘‘my darling is in Hu-
rope—who knows but that we may discover
her whereabouts by going abroad and travel-
ing from place to place. My heart tells’ me
that I shall find her in Germany. Oh, I feel
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!”
“Never mind. Mr. Ward shall occupy them
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,--breathe! I feel. suffocated. 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
her in "France, and there was little doubt but
that. Violet had. been taken to some foreign

country, his own judgment approved the meas- |

ure. From what he knew of Ethan Goldsborough
he inferred that he would seek retirement in
some large city—Paris, London, Vienna, Berlin.

Charlie saw them,on the Germania, and turn-
ing, as the ship got slowly out into the stream,
he walked. away, muttering:

“ And now, I. must begin in good earnest.
Inch. by inch I must go over the ground ”—a
laughable idea, when we reflect that that ground
was the great, city and its suburbs which
stretched about him for miles in every direc-
tion, except that toward the rear.

Stern resolution was stamped.on the young
features which had already gained in manli-
ness, since his experience had been so suddenly
enlarged. His boyish diffidence was wearing
away under the smoothing hand of metropolitan
life; the consciousness of work to do gave him
a certain dignity, very becoming to him... He
wore his curly lockslike a second Hesperion.

Down-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, andon toward the house—where
a luxurious suite of rooms awaited him, which
would have inspired the envy of almcst any of
the refined fops about him—many a bright eye
glanced boldly or shyly, as the case might be,
at the handsome rusticus.

Perhaps some of these beauties felt flattered
at his earnest observation; but it was only 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-occu-
pied—so sad that he almost felt sick of life—his
eyes fell, by the merest chance, on the occu
pants of a small, open carriage which was
‘whirling by quite close to the curb-stone, drawn.

~by.a pair of beautiful jet-black horses, whose

gold-plated harness flashed in the sun.

There were only two people inthe 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.

“T 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 ina lavender glove; but her face
was quite concealed by a double vail pinned

carefully about her hat as if in care of hercom- |.

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, whenhe cried out, aloud,
so as quite to startle some of the people about

“‘Té 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
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

—outo’ sight, now! Besides, I ain’t no busi-
ness stopping the carriage of a gent like Mr.
Harold.”

“ 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 our fust families—regular high-flyer!
Don’t care for his money—”

“Any more than I do for mine,” said Char-
lie, quickly, slipping a fifty dollar greenback in-
to the man’shand. “TI don’t carefor Mr. Har-
old, but if you will find out where the lady
lives, whom he had in the carriage this after-
noon, I will present you with the twin of that

bill.” t

 

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

“Tf that was Florence—and I ‘believe “it
was!? murmured Charlie, ““I am afraid she
has fallen into a terrible snare. What is she
doing, out driving with that: insolent fellow?
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 same innocent little girl
with whom I have played, when you. wore
short dresses and a white sun-bonnet—not so
very long ago!” mused the honest young fel-
low, with a sad smile.

“ve half a mind to linger around the club-
house and shake the truth out of the puppy
when he comes back there!”

 

CHAPTER XI.
WHAT WILL HE DO ABOUT IT

To return upon our history to Fraser Harold
and little dark-eyed Florence whiling away ¢he
moonlit June 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 in the 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 over to the shadows
of the great trees in the inclosed grounds,
would soon be joined by an impatient lover,
who had spent a good part of his day in wait-
ing for this 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
of the seventh heaven entertained by the luxu-
rious Moslem, from the true heaven.’

Her wildest hopes, her most splendid pictures
of life, were to be swiftly realized. The most
elegant, noble, fascinating man that ever trod
the streets of New York was to marry her. He
was fabulously 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, triumph,
wealth, power!”—and it beat to it most: sweet-
ly.

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

She would wear diamonds and dresses 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 fact!—Fraser had never yet said
a word to her about marriage. He had made
love to her—recklessly enough—but he had
committed himself to no promises. In the sim-
ple village where she was reared, young men
did not make love to young women unless they
wished to marry them. She took everything
for granted. She only wished that her admirer
would be more impulsive and urge her to wed
him before Mr. Rhodes’ return; as then she
would be driven from her present home and
have no shelter proper to one of her expecta-
tions.

Two or three times she asked Mr. Harold, in

_her pretty, confiding way, what he thought 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 beauty lived on air. The

?

 
  

14

 

THE FIRESIDEY LIBRARY.

 

 

great mirrors which rose from floor to ceiling
in the grand’ rooms, where she was free to
roam about, as proudly as if they were her
own—flattered her unceasingly as she flittéd
from ‘one to’ another. They told her that Fra-
ser Harold only spoke the truth when he paint-
ed her. in his gay and gallant phrases:

: “As one made uj

Of loveliness alone.”

Although so small, Florence was exquisitely
graceful; the excitement under which she now
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.

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 slats of the blinds
like some houri behind the lattice-work of her
courts, until Fraser Harold had passed by ou
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
was at work, hard, many of those long, hot
hours, after she became acquainted with Fra-
ser, cutting, fitting and making for herself half
a dozen beautiful dresses. This was work she
was not accustomed to; but Mrs. 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
openly for Fraser’s admiration, instead of being
compelled to steal to him in the shadow and in
her plainest garb.

All of a sudden, on the fifth of July, just.a
month after his departure, 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:

“And how about your young visitor, Mrs.
em ac you had any trouble with

er’

“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,
Never spoken to a soul but me, sir, all these
weeks; yet she seems cheerful.” *

“You think, then, she is all right—that her
story was not made uP for the occasion, Mrs.
Plimpton?”

“Oh, she’s no bad one, Mr. Rhodes. I’m
certain 0’ that, But what under the sun an’

. moon she’s going to do, beats me. She ain’t
nowise confidential, sir; and she’s made herself
beautiful clothes, and says she’ll have need of
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. Iam
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

*

 

what had brought ‘ner master back so unexpect-
edly.

“Ob, no; only ‘for a day or two. I grew
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. I think I will urge
her to-morrow to tell me her true reasons for
fleeing from home, and perhaps advise her what
course to pursue. Iam glad to hear that“you
have no great fault to find with her, Mrs.
Plimpton. It would have been. a mortification
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.
Inever thought that of her. But I wouldn't
have much to say to 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 se-
cretly dubbed Florence—would direct ‘at him,

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

“Where is she now?” he asked, saddenty

looking up,

“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
o’ 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. by

“J will just step over and éscort her across
the street,” remarked Mr, Rhodes, rising, en-
tirely forgetful that he might be observed in
this act of kindness by some of his neighbors. .

However, the most of the houses in the vicin-
ify 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 not been 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
goon 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 purple Bi,

; ‘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 ho took a 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?
His spirits sunk; his feot lagged. Ho leaned
against the trunk of a tree; for want of some-
thing else to do just then he watched the pair
walking away down the arcade—a pair of lov-
ers, evidently, for the lady clung tenderly to
the gentleman’s arm, with face lifted to catch the

low words he spoke as he bent his head to mur-

murinherear. It was not until they had turned,
and walking back, approached within a few
feet of him, that a sudden suspicion darted in-
to Redmond Rhodes’ mind. They were in deep
shadow; but surely he knew that tall, elegant
figure, with the haughty, graceful head bent
half-condescendingly!—surely that slender lit-
tle form—Mr. stepped quickly out into
the center of the path, just as the two emerged
from black shadow and advanced under the full

Wentcasc eiaas B

 

spléndor of the moon, until, seemg and récog-
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 gaze turned
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.

* 80! this is the way you abuse my confi-
dence, is it?’ he spoke, after a full minute’s si-
lence, addressing the girl.-

“Ts it very wrong, Mr. Rhodes?—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 saw you,
if you had given me the opportunity.”

“T 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 laugh down the dark frown on his
friend’s face.

“T am afraid there is harm done, Fraser;
this young girl is under my protection.”

“Oh!” 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?”

“T 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 him. ‘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 cunning and

-childishness 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 wioked
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 adventuress!

His rage was prompted by his jealousy; his
indignation. by his knowledge of his vials
character. A sweet memory of the sweet face
‘from which he had wiped the false wrinkles
had haunted him in his journeyings and brought
him, home, to find those bright eyes shining,
those curved lashes drooping under the lovye-

look of another. And that other, his friend—

but a friend. who could not be trusted in his af-
fairs with women,

Tf Redmond had made up his mind to become
the wooer of the unprotected beauty, he would
have approached her with all the more delica-
ey 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, it was as if a
long-extinct voleano had suddenly flamed forth
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,
and wiled her very heart out at her melting
eyes. The thought made him furious. It was
with difficulty he refrained from drawing his
revolver and shooting the traitor before her
eyes.

Quick to read the signs of men’s favor, Flor-
ence divined instantly that Mr. Rhodes was
more interested in her, than in defending wo-
man on principle, and she would have thrilled
with delight at this new evidence of her power,
had she not also thrilled with fear at the dan-
ger to her lover—for she read as quickly the
danger in waiting. So Rhodes, frowning dark-
ly, eyed Harold, who sneered finely. ;

Presently Mr. Rhodes turned to the pale,
wide-eyed little thing—the bone of contention
between two enraged natures—and said, with a
strong effort to appear composed: -

 

 
a

4

BLAC

 

“T do not know what has passed 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. ° want you to
promise me that you will break off the ac-
quaintance here and forever.?’

“Oh. Ur. Rhodes, I cannot do that. I love
him, and he loves me—he has told me so a
thousand times!—and I believe him!” and she
darted a trusting smile and glance at her avow-
ed lover.

“Has he asked you to marry him? Has he
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, and
soon,” she said, with the air of a princess. ‘TI
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 haye melted a very selfish heart in-
to an honest resolution.

The man of pleasure hesitated. He had
grown 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

ing to make trouble between us.”

“Oh!” moaned Florence, wringing her hands,
“T wish it were not so late—or that I knew
one soul in this great city beside-—I would go
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,”

“J 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 rhe to make a suggestion to
you, sir. It is not'toolate to find our mutual
friend, the Rey. 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 defenso 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 the girl to whom he had been

_making passionate love for a month, turned

again, timidly stretching out her little hands
toward 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. cae

CHAPTER XII.
og |. & NEW DANGER,

Amone. 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 witha dare-devil recklessness—nor even
that he had a marvelous run_ of luck which
continued week after week and made him the
envy of the old .play-eaters who. lived on the
feverish drug of a morbid excitement—but
that he was generally accompanied by his
daughter—a young creature, scarcely seven-
teen, whose rare and delicate beauty, of a type
to set.. raving the coldest critics of woman’s
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 Jakes which mirror
nothing but the heaven above them,

 

K EYES AND BLUE.

15

 

Tall and slendér; with hair, like the ripple
of sun-burnished waves, coming low and thick
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,
handsome father who spent hours of every af-
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-
tion she ever gave was to draw down her vail
if any one’s stare became insolent. So afraid
of this loss to their feasting eyes did the lovers
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, long hair and un-
kempt beards, would conceal their sketch-
books behind the players, and steal the likeness
of that loveliest face to reproduce it a thousand
times afterward in their pictures. It came to
be a question addressed to all new-comers—
“ Have youseen la belle Americaine?”

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 strange as 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 atcost-
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 to deliver personally, it was not
until several miles had been passed over and
her companion began to urge his horse to his
utmost speed, that she realized his plan of
abduction, She entreated him not to visit
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
oath that her friends should never hear of her
until his own darling wasfound. 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 officials,, 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.
got some person, by, paying him, to mail his

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. . . ia ¢

Ske 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 in so
forlorn a condition, and, as Mr. Goldsborough

 

 

It is probable that he |

 

mother as soon as certain negotiations pending
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 taken to 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 hggl then 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 butsee
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 corroding anxieties and
passions; and he could not await in idleness the
result of the 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 hours
each afternoon, and from eight to eleven each
evening he was at his post, choosing his num-
bers and waiting the turn of the devilish little
instrument with utter apparent coolness, no
matter how large the risks." By one of those
curious freaks 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-
tain secret thoughts of having him quietly ass-
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 he resolved that at the
first signs 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
to the knees he will begin to retreat.

Monsieur Goldenough never left his hotel to
visit the gambling halls, or drive, or promenade,
without compelling his daughter to attend ‘him.
He was constantly fearful that she might make
the attempt to leave him. Even at night he
kept the key of her sleeping-room, which open-
edon 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 paying

_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 was rich and
an only child, apparently—very devoted to her

| father, for was she not constantly with him?
letter—which he had prepared beforehand—to |

 

had assured her he should return her to her -

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 mourning. Was it then, an affair
de ceur? Had the adorable young divinity
fallen indiscreetly in love with some youth,
whose purse, or whose genealogical record «as
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 wipethem away. alt

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

 
  

    

ae

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-
ite 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 he had
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 he 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. Sho 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
on the fag-ends of the small fortune not any
too great for his own uses. He considered it a
good joke to compel Madame D’Hglantine to
contribute to the aggrandizement of his pet.
If he could wring from her a noble sum for
Florence to enjoy, there would bea spice of de-
light about the spending of that money which
only an epicure in wickedness could fully relish.

He had letters from his agent, Blank, from
time to time, giving reports of the progress of
affairs in New York. On the day after the
sailing of the Germania he received a cable dis-
patch, in cipher, informing him of the two pas-
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 fora move. He made his preparations
for a trip up the Nile.

“Give me a week the start, and madame
wilt have a fine time pursuing us!” he laughed
to himself. ‘‘ Andif 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-
pense, and receive twenty thousand pounds
from her as a gift to my pet!

“T 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 her! I'll invite

 

him to join us on our excursion to Hgypt;
*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 of 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.

On the evening after reading the cable dis-
patch Mr. Goldsborough did not have his usual
Juck—he ventured more and more, losing every |
time, much to the amusement and excitement
of the spectators who had so long been interest-
edin 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,

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

“Come away, my friend,” he whispered, ea-
gerly.

“Tt is early,” responded the player, indiffer-
ently.

** You haye 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 he, 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 roue !”

 

CHAPTER XIil.
A VERY BRIGHT BUBBLE.

“T wounp like to know your intentions,” re-
peated Redmond Rhodes, in a voice which
sounded greatly like a threat. ‘If you love
and intend to marry this young lady, I am your
friend, and will go with you at once, as I said,
to the rectory.”

“T cannot obtain a license at this late hour,
Mr. Rhodes,” was the answer, in a hoarse voice.

“Tt will not be necessary. A marriage, 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 ears of the girl.
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
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—
there darted through the busy brain of the
beautiful coquette the idea that, if she lost him
whom she preferred to all others, she would not
be without the chance of a husband, and a
splendid one!

Perhaps it was this consciousness which pre-
vented her fainting from the excess of her emo-
tions; for, to a vain woman, the flitting of a
man’s love, even though she be entirely indif-
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
soft, low, passion-fraught voice which he knew
so well how to use: ;

“My love, surely I do not need to assure you
of my intentions! If you do not trust me fully,
unreservedly, then your love for me is not what
I thought it was. My friend Rhodes means
well. But he is hurrying us in rather a per-
emptory manner. Do you think, my darling,
that I ought to be hastened—without any pre-
paration, or even consulting my parents—into
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—cir-

| 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
him 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,” sho murmured, drooping
piteously before him. ‘If you do not want

| me, nobody wants me!—I am out of place in

the world.”

“Scoundrel!” muttered Rhodes, in his neigh-
bor’s ear. ‘‘ You will have to answer to me
for your conduct. I am this young lady’s bro-
ther from this hour forward. So, look out!

. You wed her to-night, or you part from her
| forever. 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 pealed ten
o'clock.

“Oh, Fraser, do not forsake me!” pleaded
Florence.

“T cannot give you up, the devil knows,” was
his half-angry response. ‘‘ You have twisted
your threads about me until you have me a
prisoner. Well, what will you have? You are
infernally pretty and taking; but not just the
lady I would have chosen for the wife of a Har-
old. Never mind that, now. The mischief is
done. My friend here is a man of honor, and

 

 

he tells me I ought to marry you. It may be
so, * yield to his superior wisdom—and my
wife’s charms! In return—my Lady Harold,
and you, Mr. Rhodes!—will it be too much if I
exact a promise that our marriage shall be kept
a secret between us three and the clergyman
for a few weeks?—only a few weeks. You will
consider, friend Rhodes, that my father is in a
critical condition and that any sudden shock—
especially if an unpleasant one—may finish
him. On that account, and some others im-
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?”

“T agree to anything, dear Fraser,” mur-
mured Florence.

Redmond Rhodes did not yield his answer so
readily; but, after some reflection, he replied:

“TJ will promise to 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 be at 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
ought to treat his honored and beloved wife.”

“Y¥ yaare a preacher born, Redmond Rhodes!
I only wonder yo. never took to the ro
cried Harold, gayly, and he offered his arm to
thetrembling girl with all his customary grace-
ful empressement—the decision having been
reached, his spirits rose—no more doubt or em-
barrassment now! If the little one was deter-
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
live with and love this glorious, fairy creature,
whose eyes were made of dark and dew, with
molten diamonds flashing through; whose lips
were sweeter than the sweets of flower-buds in
June’s languorous heats.

“What shall we do? Where shall we go?
Lead on, Macduff!”

“Perhaps, since you enjoin secrecy ”—Red-
mond’s grave tones were in strong contrast to
the gayety of his neighbor’s—‘“‘ it will be best
for you to come over into my house. I can
send a note to Dr. Brown; he will come at my
request, and the ceremony can be performed—
with closed doors—in my liprary.”

“ 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 little party enter the
house; they slipped into the library, closing and
locking the door.

“T 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
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, -

“Then, may I run up-stairs and change my
dress? This is a black one, and I would not like
to be married in black.” :

“Quite right. But do not keep us wait-
ing.”

In just twenty minutes Florence came down.
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-
radiated the vivid face, making the delicate,
perfect features fairly startling in their beauty.

A long-trailing robe of some airiest white
texture floated about her petite figure; there
were white roses in her purple-black hair and
on her bosom, where glittered the only orna-
ment she wore—a diamond locket which Fraser
had given her.

 

=

 

 

 
 

i

fab

 

 

BLACK EYES AND B

 

 

She was going to be Fraser’s wife—Fraser,
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;
.ne future intimate of his haughty sisters.

All was well with her. How soon the pic-
sures of her imagination had become splendid
realities! Ah! what a fairy-world this was!
Wow full of delight!—nothing to do but enjoy
one’s self beyond her wildest dreams! And oh
—oh - oh! how she loved her prince! How
sappy, how happy they would be, all their
days, in each other’s society.

And so, with a last fond look at her flatter-
ing mirror, she had floated like a white thistle-
down over the stairs and glided into the room
where her lover awaited her, cheeks glowing,
eyes shining, feet hardly touching the floor.

“By Jove! my beautifulh you are worth
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
he folded, the charming vision to his heart,
quite satisfied, under the stimulus of her lovely
smile and blush, he had been hurried into a

redding against his will.

A mist came over Redmond Rhodes’ eyes;

e 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 and 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 scruples on the part
of the Rey. 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-
dered 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 ultra-fashionable 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 bright, so glad, so enchantingly pretty that
the sober clergyman could not sufficiently ad-
mire her.

Ina 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 then; and she signed
arecord 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 hospitality a 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,
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.

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 drearily 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 carriage came, at: noon of the fol-
lowing day, for Florence, Mrs. Plimpton be-
lieved that, as the little refugee said, expected
friends at last had claimed her. A trunk con-
taining the few dresses and /ingerje which had
been prepared was taken up beside the driver;
Florence, with 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.

Scarcely 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, proy-
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 wifely blush
into a blush for something worse,

‘“‘T 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 of any place with you.”

“But I shal not always be with you, my
sweet. You understand why we must be very
circumspect?”

“Yes,” with a little sigh, followed by a con-
fiding 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. ‘‘Itis very good of you to get
such magnificent rooms, to please me. I trust
you are quite able to afford them?”

“You must not fret your pretty brow about
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.”

On a little table of/ rare woods, inlaid with
rich designs in ebony and gold, standing be-

 

 

EVE Eas

 

| tween the front windows.of the drawing-room,

was a large pyramid of fragrant, snowy flow-
ers—tube-roses, white violets, white carnations
and roses, which filled the place with subtle
perfumes,

‘And here isa 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,

where a band of plain gold already glittered—
a ring Florence had worn for some time and
hastily adopted, the previous evening, to meet
the emergency. The dimpled finger seemed ai-
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 wit
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-
monico 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 girlina
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
—learned many bitter truths. Before it had
waned into darkness she had longed, with ach~
ing heart, more than once, for the dull peace
and safety of her village home.

 

CHAPTER XIV.
STRUGGLING TO BREAK THE TOILS.

Tue pretense of an engagement was only 4
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, 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
Tsrael 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 ice.

M. Goldenough placed his daughter in a
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 to-night,”
remarked the nobleman. “I trust, M. Gold-
enough, that what I said to you yesterday has
nothing to do with the loss of her usual bloom.”

“T am not well; I donot think the air of the
place agrees with me,” Violet forced herself to

say. ‘

Bir Israel leaned his folded arms on the table,
and kept his small, black, beady 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 admira-
tion. Viclet shuddered inwardly, sitting thers
like a marble image, never raising her eyes. .,

 
  

2

 

 

48

THE FIRESIDE ‘LIBRARY.

 

 

The baronet was a person of ‘uncertain
age,” as they say of spinsters; some thought
him fifty, others vowed he was seventy, if a
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 rah any risks. He had
black eyes which revealed little of his thoughts,
a, Jewish nose, an ugly under-lip, a small, lean,
vent ficure, quick motions, dyed his hair and
neard, 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 atrocious crimes. He was
too cunning to de 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 was a 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 an achievement were possible. It
was not love; nor evén the passion of men for
women; but ‘another phase of his avarice that
urged him to the resolve—the avarice whieh
craved the best and most beautiful for his ow.
As one man will love the finest picture, not for
love of art, but to have it said that he owns tt
—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
rhe city was going wild over the delicate bloom,
tne reserved charms, the fair perfection of the
American banker's peerless child, coveted her
Luc his own.

“T 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
offer you his heart and hand.”

Violet cast a startled look from one to the
other of the two men.

“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 offer you his hand in
marriage.

“Tt is my daughter’s first offer,” he con-
tinued, a moment later, turning 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

 

| reflect.

“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 touch with 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 arrange
it?”

“Not to-morrow, Sir Israel. We will not
hurry the poor child so muchas 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 creature 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 I will kill myself,
first!”

Both gentlemen laughed softly. M. Gold-
enough took a few spoonfuls of his Roman ice,
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. Presently he
said:

“My dear, your ice has melted, and you
have not tasted it. Come, we will go home to
our apartments. You will need to rest and
Sir Israel, will you walk with us?”
“No further tonight, thank you, M. Gold

enough. I will see you in the morning, at
eleven.”
“Very well. We will arrange all the pre-

liminaries to-morrow. Of course you under-
stand, the affair is settled.”

Violet arose as they did. It was with a
violent effort that she prevented herself from
screaming—from darting away and flinging
herself into the first danger that appeared—
anywhere, to get away from her companions
She restrained herself, for she said to herself,
“Tf I am quiet, and try to think, perhaps I
may escape the more certainly.”

She was terribly frightened; yet conscious
of a steely resolution to defy and thwart. For
the first tims in her innocent life she became
crafty and cunning, under the pressure of a

| fearful need. When Sir Israel again attempt-
| ed to take her hand, she gave it to him, but

| to his lips;
| you pretend, mademoiselle.

_ with her eyes cast down lest he should read

their expression.

“Good!” he said, lifting the passive fingers
“cc

you "do not hate me so much as
Good-night, and

fine dreams. Cannot you wish me the same,

| my fair lady?” *

“T wish you a good night’s sleep, Sir Israel,”

| she forced herself to answer.

so angelic?’ murmured Sir /srael, rolling up his |
eyes and clasping his hands, as if paying his de-

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

are thrown from a magic-lantern on the

blank surface of the screen.
life she could not have uttered a word. But
as she glanced from one face to the other of
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
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
the strange foreign people who would and could
do nothing for her. 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,
and she was like a poor little mouse under the
spell of the cat that tortures it. M, Goldenough’s

Tohave saved her |

“Ten thousand thanks, my beautiful bride-
to-be.”

“ Violet,” said M, Goldenough, as he conduct-
ed her along the cool, dimly-lighted street, af-
ter escaping the crowds in the park, *‘‘I wish
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. Ishall use
mine freoly to secure a place for you in an in-
stitution, not far from here, on which I have
my eye. I know that Sir Israel Benjamin, is
not exactly prepossessing; but I have chosen
that you shall marry him; and you have noth-
ing to do but submit.”

“Have mercy upon me, father!” begged Vio-
let, for the first time using the name ‘father ”
in addressing him. ‘‘ Why do you seek to ruin

_ my life?”

stealthy paw reached out to give her another _

parylizing pat.

“T will answer for her, Sir Israel, that she

deeply feels the honor you have done her, grate-

_ word!

fully accepts your offer; and consents to a ra- |
ther unseemly hastening “of the marriage solely .

on account of our proposed departure from Ba- .

  

den.”

“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
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-

 

tions, and nonsense generally. Each word and
movement may be taken as proof, in case % en-
ter complaint against you as a lunatic, of ad-
ness inherent in you. You cannot be tog nau-
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
might be 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-
ease and on into their rooms, without ventur-
ingto make any answer to the heartless threat
of this unnatural parent.

Her blood ran cold at thought of being shut
up with mad creatures in a strange country,
far from hope, housed with despair—yet even
that were preferable to marriage with that griz-
aly horror!

Her thoughts turned to Mr, Vernon'‘and Char-
lie. Where was Charlie? Why had he not come
to her rescue before this? He could not love her
as she loved him or he would have found some
way to trace her and watch over her welfare.
M. Goldenough conducted her to her room,
bowed, and turned the key onher. Why! even
this habit of locking her up, had it been noticed
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.
All night her persecutor tossed and sigh-
ed, as wakeful as she. Ethan Goldsborough
did not like the manner of life he was living.

It was foreign to his habits and distasteful to ~

him inmany ways. ‘Yet he was in a frame of
mind which demanded strong excitement to
render life endurable. He could settle down
tonothing. His wife was dead; he was sey-
ered from old friends; his pet, “his Florence,
was angry with him and hiding from him. He
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
like a dismantled ship, driven hither and yon
by conflicting winds.

In consequence, he arose 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 sit-
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 nex« turn of the wheel.
All the idle young men of the Spa dropped
into the hall and lingered, in an interested
group, about the banker and his beautiful,
vailed daughter,

The baronet came, spoke to him, tried to draw
him away to talk over their arrangements for
the marriage and tour; but. M. Goldenough
shook him off, 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 behixd him,
indifferent as a stone, only so that Sir Israel
was kept from approaching her too closel 7, 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, in a loud,
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- -

fere? Do you suppose Iam 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 off. M.
Goldenough was so absorbed in play that she
might leave the hall, and he remain unconscious
of her absence for an hour.

Her heart began to throb wildly. What if
she should attempt, this moment, to free her
self? Was there the least hope of success? &

 

aa

 

 

 

 

 

 
Cl

 

 ecroupier,

 

 

 

five-frane piece was all the money m_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
m ght 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 country—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
an avenue of the gardens, looking for the most
unfrequented paths. Affecting not to hear him
she walked on more rapidly. A few minutes
brought her out on to a street full of small
shops, at some distance from the one jrequent-
ed by the baronet and other fashionable loung-
ers. In the window of one of these shops she
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
than satisfied, and in great haste.

Out she hurried, pursuing her flight with
only one conscious plan—to take the meanest
streets, where she would be least likely to be
looked for. It was only because the autumn
wind flaunted the garments in her very face,
that she was led to 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
her. Violet addressed her in French, and the
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 minutes there emerged a
young peasant-woman, in short petticoats, a
laced boddice, wooden shoes, a high, 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 peasant 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-
cess: “We are just even,” he said to the
“Well! tonight we will take
a new start. I 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.
REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.

CHARLIE Warp went the third time to see
the policeman whom he had bribed before he
received any information in return for his mon-
ey; but on this third visit he was rewarded by.
the name and address of the lady whom he had
seen riding out with the gentleman called by
@e officer Mr. Harold.

 

 

“T reckon there’s something uncommon in-

teresting about the affair, anyhow,” remarked |
the man as he. gave Charlie a card on which |

he had scrawled ‘‘Mrs. Fraser, No. 124 West

—st.” ‘Tm 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 Fraser—that’s his given name, you
see!—and she don’t believe they’re really mar-
ried. As to that I can’t say—tI only know Mr.

Harold ain’t reckoned a marrying man, and

that he keeps very still about it, if he is mar-
ried.”

‘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.
lieve you’ll get anything out of her. I’ve had
a regular time finding out the little I tell you.”

“Thope Lam mistaken in the identity of the
lady—that this Mrs. Fraser may prove to be
quite another person. ButIam greatly obliged
to you; and here is the additional fifty dollars
you have earned.”

“Thank you, sir; and if I canserve 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 he carefully
disposed. the greenback in his wallet, said to
himself: :

“Pretty bad case o’ broken heart, that!
Harold has cut him out with the girl That
Harold’s a gay one, now, aint he? J wouldn’t
want him to get in my way if I was one o’
them young swells,” y

It was dusk when young Ward received the
address from the policeman, and going to his
boarding-house for his dinner, he had an hour
for deliberation as to what steps he should now
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 confiict-
ing kind. Heboth 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 untasted
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 [ 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, walking
restlessly about, had fallen more than. once on
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 |

his entrance. Charlie cast a quick glance up

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.

“T wish to see Mrs. Fraser very much, I
have important news for her,” he’ said, in
clear, elevated tones meant for the ear above.

“Tt is Charlie!” cried a silvery voice which
thrilled through him. ‘‘ Oh, Charlie! Charlie!
How glad Iam! 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.
my orders it’s all 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 nieet the
two girls who so often walked together there.

A little figure stood in the open doorway

of the brightly-lighted drawing-room—a little

figure well-known tothe eager eyes of the call-

er; and a little hand grasped his own warmly,

a well-known voice murmured words of wel-
: a

1 don’t be- |

“Tf missus counterdemand |

BLACK EYES AND BLUE. =

 

 

| come, ead 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
princess. The room was luxurious with costly
| furniture and perfumed with the breath of lav-f
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
dress flowed 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-
ing 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—an 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 up-stairs 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 to-day!
Perhaps Fraser will come in while you are
here; I hope he will, though he does not like me
to have company. He wants me all to him-
self, I suppose,” she said, smiling, as she brush-
ed away two great tears about to fall. “Sit
down, and tell me everything.”

She gave hima 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, a thousand
memories of the old life, the old home.

“Tell me first,” she said, leaning toward bim:
like an eager child, “have you heard anything
of papa and mamma? | 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! IfT had, I would have answered
| them. Iam no longer hiding—except to please
| Fraser. You see, Charlie,” blushing and hesi-
| tating, “our marriage is a profound secret,
| and must be 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 1 did.
| But oh, Charlie, the blow was so sudden and
| cruel, and T was so proud! How did poor mam-
| 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 lying in the grave to
which trouble had driven her—harder to listen
to the daughter’s sobs, and cries of self-reproach,
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-
lie—miserable, desperate! Fraser has not been
near me for three days, and my mother is
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.
| hew sorrow, it was wrung from her without aer
| will.
| | 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, I
| ask it. I heard things before I came here which
| your confession of his neglect seems to corrobo-
rate. Are you sure that this Mr. Harold has
not deceived you?—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 Char-

lie, and told him the whole story of her stay in

Mr. Rhodes’ house, her acquaintance with his -

friend Harold, and the wedding which follow-

ed, She did not even conceal—although she
' softened—the fast that to Mr. Rhodes’ interfer~

 
  

 

20

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

 

ence 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. Itis 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.

“T 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 haughtily 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 read,
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 affections.
love him! IT adore him! Iwould be the most
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 Tam! Charlie, I am an’ hon-
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 |

my 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.
visit me more frequently if the wish were as
strong as it once was. 1 wonaer have | grown
ugly in thesesix weeks! He used to rave about
my beauty. Charlie, tell me the truth!—have
I grown plain, homely, deformed, since you
saw me last? AmIno longer beautiful?—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
ever, Florence! This man, who dares to ne-
glect you so, is a scoundrel.
kill him.”

“ No—for then you would kill me, too. Good

or bad I love him as he is. If I could but make |

him love me!”

“T 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
story of Violet’s abduction by her father, his
threats and the conditions wpon which she was
to be restored to her mother.

“So 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 toa Harold. You
need have no doubt that Madame D’EKglantine
will pay it, for she is quite willing—more than
willing. Indeed, now that your own mother is
dead, I dare say, had you not married, she would
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,
whether or not it suits Mr. Harold, senior. Ser-
vants shall no longer sneer at you. You have

friends who will compel some attention to your —

interests. I only wish Mr. Vernon were here
in the city now.”

Much more was said. A marvelous clock on
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.

For [love him—I |

But I am sure he could |

 

I would like to |
a girl to trust,” he said, coldly.

“J had no idea I had been here almost three
hours,” exclaimed young Ward, rising quickly.
“@ood-by, dear Florence, forthe present. You
shall not be neglected, rest assured of that!
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 Iam no longer under bonds to
wear a jewel which has made me a good deal
of trouble, for it has kept Violet from promtis-
ing to some day be my little wife. She was,
naturally, jealous of my right to make love to
her and yet wear your ring. When I seo her
again—which I fervently hope will now be
soon—I shall show her the absurdity of her
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 litile
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
hand, and smiling, touched his lips lightly to it
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
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. It was at some inconvenience I man-
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.”

“ Fraser!” shrieked his wife, darting to him
and flinging her arms about his neck. ‘You
shall not speak to me so! You shall not go
away! Listen! This is an old friend of mine
—let me tell you”—but he cast her from him
with so much rudeness that she staggered half-
across the room.

“TJ might have known that a girl who would
meet me as you did, in Gramercy park, was not
“T have had
enough of you. I have been thinking so for
some time; and now I am infinitely obliged to
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
closed the door and placed his back to it.

“You shall listen to my explanation of what
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 uponher. To assassinate an
unarmed man were not so base as to murder
the reputation of a woman!—above all things
of the woman you have vowed re Heaven
to love and protect.”

Gentleman Harold quailed perceptibly 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 quict-
ness: ¢ { ;

“Who asserts this lady to be my wife? She
will have some trouble to prove her claims to
the title.”

‘“ 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
no longer!—to-morrow morning I go to your
parents, your sisters, and tell them the truth.”

‘You will find it difficult to make them be-
lieve it,” he still sneered. ‘‘I came here, 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 course. Redmond Rhodes sailed
for Europe a week.ago, to be gone two years;
the reverend gentleman you refer to fell dead
on the street, to-day, 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
into the adjoining one, out into the hall from
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, DESERTED!”

 

a
CHAPTER XVI.
THE LACE-MAKER AND THE TOURIST.
RepMoND Ruopes felt a strange weariness
of life after he had seen the little refugee safely
married to her too gay lover. He could not
accouut for the ennui which pursued him at
Newport—traveled with him to Saratoga—
stuck by him eloser 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 wholly 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 chosen a bachelor’s life. His
house was insufferably 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 startled blush and
smile at him, as he opened his chamber door.
Ah, mysterious witchery of woman’s eyes! A
pair of them—‘‘ sweetest eyes ’twere ever seen”
—had entered the haughty bachelor’s halls,
cast the glamour of their brightness over every-
thing, and disappeared, leaving dullness, gloom,
homesickness.

Redmond Rhodes did not say all this to him-
self—would not have acknowledged it to his
own dreams; yet in this was the secret of the
sudden resolution, to bid farewell to New York
for the winter, and to seek in Paris, or te 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
on—‘‘ now you are married, you must be good;”
and Mr. Rhodes, with no particular feeling of
elation, but with rather the inward reflection
that ‘‘the world was hollow and his doll stuffed
with sawdust,” found himself outward bound
on the Germania, 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 and trusted, Madame
D’Eglantine did not repel the few quiet cour-
tesies he found it in his power to extend to her.
Sometimes they chatted pleasantly together for

| an hour on deck, on fair mornings or calm eve

nings. Mr. Rhodes also liked madame’s busin#s
agent, Mr. Vernon—an honest, sensible, mottes.

 

 
 

 

BLACK EYES AND BLUE, 24

 

 

 

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 affairs.

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
shé was scarcely more than a child, and that
the man who had been her husband hi1d 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
Bremenhayen, 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 mys-
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 cante 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 spent his days—and. how his beautiful daugh- '

ter, la belle Americaine, 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 eyes roved over the habitat of fash-
ion, pleasure, dissipation, like the glance of an
angel brooding sadly over some entrance to the
Inferno. S

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
deiight of the halls and gardens for the last
three or four days: how M. Goldenongh 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 banker
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. marry 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
it, madame, do not you?” : ;

“How do they know about the marriage?”

“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
morning, as meek as a mouse,”

“You speak as it well-informed.”

“T only cho the rumors which are in every
one’s mouth, madame. It may be so, or may

“not be.”

4

 

And this was:the welcome 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
and hearts and together be the comfort of his
declining years. Even after her mother had
come, with dazzling prospects which made the
fair girl the peer of nobles, he still clung to his
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
except to get rid of the time comfortably, and
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 one 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
pleasant 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 sauntered 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 off 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
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-
owed her face that Redmond could only make
out a delicate chin, a mouth like a rose, and the
tip of a dainty nose.

“That is no peasant’s face,” he idly mused;
“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, fair; dimpled, rose-leaf little feet, without
stockings, trying to hide themselves in the rude
pattens which were far too heavy for the feet.

“Here is 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
and is now reduced to the pittance of a lace-_
maker, poor young thing!” and Redmond, with
the aid of a ready imagination, went on to con-
struct a story to suit the fancied circum-

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, flung his fare in the man’s face and hur-
ried on to the steamer. Redmond had turned
to watch the little scene, as one will who has
nothing better to do: when he again looked
back at the peasant gir 1, he noticed that the lit- |

 

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 arriving
gentleman disappeared under the gangway, she:
arose and looked about with an airof such dis-
traction, such terror, that the observer on thef
dock expected to see her rush to the side of 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 bas-
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 just such a frame
of mindas 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 nature had been
touched by the sight of the evident terror’ of
the young lace-maker.

“Tf she needs a friend, why not I, as well as
any one?—I am bound to see this little by-play
through.” ;

And there was our haughty aristocrat, who,
at home, held himself ‘too good for human na-
ture’s daily food,” going back down the glcri-
ous, romantic Rhine on the same track he had
yesterday 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-
ing up and down the deck, with a hideous leer
on his countenance, looking narrowly at the
peasant every time he passed; she had not once
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 ineffa- _
cable records of a mean and sensual life; the
loose under lip was significant of the character
of 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
remarked, in an undertone:

“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! He is about to purchase
a piece of lace—for a pocket-handkerchief,” and
the tourists laughed.

It was just at this point that Mr. Rhodes had
heard the girl’s smothered ery; and now he
noticed that her hands trembled as she remov-
ed the lid from her basket and allowed Sir Is-
rael to inspect its contents. The baronet said

_ something to her—made quite a long speech, in

a voice too low for Redmond to catch a word

_ —added, in a louder tone, that he would buy a

cravat 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 some time 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 interest increased. Thie

.
 
 

=

 

 

 

was no peasant girl.
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

|
‘lwo ,hours passed on_|

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.

“You are an American, sir?’ she asked, in a
trembling voice.

“T am—and you?”

“Oh, yes! and in trouble. I am not—not-
Tam running away in this disguise, sir; ’ but.
indeed, I am not to blame for it. If my mo-
ther could know how | am situated!—oh, sir,
as an American and a gentleman I appeal to
you!”

“Boe calm, my dear young lady, and tell me
what you wish, asif I were your brother. Con-
sider me as such; ask my assistance in any way;
I shall be only too happy to serve you.”

‘Oh, if I could tell you all! I trust you, sir,
for your face tells me that it is safetodo so. I
hoped to reach the steamer and sail for New
York, before my pursuers discovered me; but,
alas one of them is on this boat with me, and
I am suffering all the horrors—” :

“Hush,” interrupted Redmond, in a whis-
per, ‘‘he iscoming. No, my girl, I do not care
to buy. Iam 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—so
close that she shivered with terror as she saw
the cold triumph, the gleam of malice, in his
crafty black eyes.

 

CHAPTER XVII.
THE SNARE HOLDS AND TIGHTENS.

Wuen 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
israel at the door, with a question as to wheth-
er he knew where his daughter had gone, he

found the baronet in an ill humor.
“Curse you and your daughter, too, mon-

Before dark they were in the second-hand
clothing-store, where the woman at first lied ob-
stinately from fear of losing the beautiful gar-
ments over which she had been gloating; but
when assured that she would remain u molest-
ed by the law, and was offered a handful of
silver besides, she soon described the costume
which the young lady had adopted, and told
how she had directed her to the railway sta-
tion.

M. Goldenough felt so sure of soon overtak-
ing the fugitive that he would make no use of

_ the telegraph or officers of the law, preferring

 

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 deuced handsome; but one must
look out for his interests, you know, for he
can’t expect another to look out for him. [I’m
ten fathoms deep in love with mademoiselle;
but soft words butter no parsnips; what is her
dot and how secured?” , ‘

M. Goldenough took Sir Israel’s arm and
hurried him away to a quiet spot on the prome-
nade; then he faced his friend, and with a sul-
len smile, asked him, curtly:

“Did you ever chance to hear anything of the
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-
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 Iam anxious to ascertain.
Will you come along?”

The reader knows they did not find the vic-
tim of their chemes there.

in the pursuit which followed the baronet
proved himself a perfect ferret.

The business seemed perfectly congenial to
his peculiar talents. : ;

Then, urged on as he was by the fear of los-
ing an heiress, the very prospect’ of whose
riches made him half delirious with joy, he was
better than a dozen hired detectives. The

child bad imal shane ot Siting Hargett:

Pccw eackepuretit

to conduct his family affairs less publicly. The
two men had given chase; but the timid crea-
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.

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-
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
glaimed her.

We have seen how well he succeeded.
When first addressing the pretended lace-ma-
ker about ber work, he was informing her of
how delighted he was to have the opportunity
of once more paying his respects to his fiancee
and of the pleasure it would be to M. Golden-
ough to greet his daughter when she stepped
from the boat. :

“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.” .

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
should attempt to drown herself and be rescued,
she knew very well that a marriage or a mad-
house would be her puishment. While think-
ing over the 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, inexpicable 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 swallow 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 gen-
tleman, who was also an American, and he re-
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 sought to interest
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 moye-
ment of the embarrassed and suffering girl. It
was with difficulty Mr. Rhodes controlled him
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, strained,
terrified appeal in them, which he felt that he
must respond to.

“ What is it, my child?’ he asked, in his kind

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

i.

 

 

 

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.”

“1 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 husband.”

“JT am not affianced 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 to accept
this man, whom I detest. If . could reach my
home and friends!—but, oh, sir, I fear I ami
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 unde stood Euglish, and the three
could talk 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 usual—she has, let us say, exag-
gerated fancies about things which render her
trie

‘He means you to understand that T am
more or less insane; that is a part of my fath-
er’s avowed plan to compel me—in 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, blarie me for
shrinking with horror from this old man, who
has not one virtue to compensate for his burden
of years? Would I not /+ 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 rove’ I am so mad, that I will die
by the first death that offers before I will
yield. If to be eager to kill myself to escape
Sir Israel Benjamin, be madness, then | am
mad, indeed!”

Sir Israel waved his hand deprecatingly, with
a pitying smile. e

“Will you not save me from them?” she ask-
ed, turning to Redmond, with clasped hands;
“ surely you can do something!”

“T wish | knew what I could do,” answered Mr.
Rhodes, thoughtfully; he was too experienced
in the difficulties of the law, to feel willing to
make the attempt to interfere between a parent
and child, even had he possessed the least pow-
er to do so, :

“Do something—something for mo, if you
have any humanity?” she pleaded. “TI would
leap into the water, but I know they would
save me, and 1 shall be worse off than’ before.
Sir, will you give mea 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: Z

“Sir, this interference on your part has gone
as far as 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 they
landed he did not once look toward her; and
the baronet sagely concluded that his threat
had really frightened the puppy of an Ameri,
can, :

@

 

 

 

 
—

Sean nEEEniaeeeeemeee

 

ane

e

 

“handsome quarter of the town, where Mr.

BLACK EYES AND BLUE.

23

 

Under this belief he recovered his equanimi- |
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, the rich purple ef twilight had robed
the distant mountains, and night was settling |
slowly over the strange town. Mr. Rhodes
was in no 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-
mered, he saw a handsome, portly, eminently-
respectakle appearing personage, 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 untii the gen-
tleman returned, with the pretended peasant
girl on hisarm. They entered a carriage, the
baronet went in another, and both were driven
off atarapid rate. Rapid as it was a third
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 part of the town,
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 decayed grandeur, in the midst
of a crowd of very different buildings, ware-
houses, tenement-houses, steamboat-offices, 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.

“What house is s that whose court-yard they
entered?”

“A lodging-house, monsieur—in a poor 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. Iam told the
bedding is clean and the place quiet. But Mon-
seur le Americaine 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 toa

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 por-
tierv made his appearance.

“Can I have an apartment here for a day
or two?’

“ Undoubtedly. Will monsieur walk in?
Come this way—I will introduce you to the
proprietress.”

He was led across the Ri 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 sofber and ancient stairway.

“Give me rooms as near as possible to those
of the other Americans who arrived this even-
ing,” said Redmond, as he followed after her
up the foot-worn stone stairs, dimly lighted by
the one flaring candle which preceded him.

“Ahl monsieur,” rejoined the widow, paus-
ing at the first landing, and sighing heavily,
“those pe ple disappointed me cruelly. They
Jooked at my rooms, but they were not suited,
and went away, after 1 J/most felt the price of
them in my palm. I hope monsieur will not
treat me so badly.”

Fooled!

Redmond Rhodes drew a long breath, but
checked the inclination to swear, as this certain-

we was borne in upon him. Those two men

 

had been more cunning than he. Foresecing

 

 

that he would track ali, eles had led him off
on a false trail.

“Do you know where they went to find
apartments?”

“T have no more idea than I have of heaven,
monsieur. But you will not disappoint me
about the rooms?”

‘If they suit, [ will remain here for the
present,” a resolution on which Redmond after-
ward congratulated himself!

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
AU REVOIR.

DESERTED!

Terrible word for the wife of six weekst
When Florence came out of that deadly swoon,
she saw, through the blackness which stiil par-
tially obscured her vision, the cold, heartless
glance of Madame Florian fixed upon her, and
shrunk from it as from the sting of a reptile,
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.

But the boon of death, so often prayed for as
rashly 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 Fra-
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.

“T hope mademoiselle will make an effort to
control herself; as, if she feels well enough to
attempt it, I must insis. 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 oid 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 where foul-
mouthed slander is punished; as I, a lawyer,
chance to know. That her husband should
have gone off ina 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, aseyou 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 atan un- —
' my days? NotI.

seasonable, suspicious hour.” |

“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 le
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
wite, again striving to lift her head from the
cushions where she lay, like some splendid
flower which has been gathered, admired, and
tossed aside to wilt 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 {
can bear! It makes mehuwe him! As it made
me hate my father, to find out what. he was
and how he had os my mother, it makes

 

me hate Fraser. Come! I will go away from
here to-night. I will go in the Quaker dress
and bonnet in which I came to this wicked
city. I will not wear a thing he has given me
—I will not eat another niduthful 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.

*“‘T 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-
ready after ten o’clock. If Madame D’Eglan-
tine had not gone abroad, I should have a mo-
therly friend to whom I could take you.”

“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, except 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 wall in silence, rejecting the very
idea that Violet, or Violet’s mother, ‘¢ould 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 to-morrow I hope to find some safe and
pleasant home for you—evenif you have to re-
turn to Lycurgus to obtain it,” and he went
away.

“‘Good-night, 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
unwisely in 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’Kglantine! 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 comfort—comfort, 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

those eyes. ‘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 suffer or am happy—live or die. I mar-
sied Fraser Harold at my own risk. I knew
the perils that awaited me—perils of weari-
ness, loathing, desertion—but I loved him and
} chose to take the chances. [ trusted to my
beauty to hold him; the brittle chain of flowers
has snapped; and we are parted.
“Am I to sit down in a corner and weep out
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
begun.”

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, ior a deadly faintness was again
coming over ‘her. Then she threw herself into
an arm-chair to think. She had not sat 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 his last visit
Fraser had forgotten his latch-key, and it was
now in her possession. She glanced at the

clock—it was nearly eleven. Slipping n¢ ise-
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 the vi-
cinity of Fraser’s club- house.

As she drew near the building a party of
gentlemen were coming down the steps; the

 
 

  

24 __ THE FIRESIDE, LIBRARY.

 

-one'she looked for was among them, and she

withdrew around the corner until they had |

passed, when she walked softly after them, so
near as to overhear their conversation.

“Then it is arranged that we take the seven
Pp. M. lightning express, to-morrow evening?”
asked her husband’s voice.

“Tf you can be ready, that will be agreeable
ito us.””

“Oh, I can get ready. Jf I fall short, in my
arrangements, I can complete my outfit in St.
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.”

“Well, you may count on me. I shall meet
you at the train, to-morrow evening, if I do not
see you through the day. I made the most of
my. purchases to-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

Tn half an hour Florence Harold was safe in
the shelter of her apartments again. The first
thing she did when she had thrown off her bun-
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-
lie 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
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

_ 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
love like his, unselfish, deep and enduring, is

the love on which itis 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
show her his hand without the ring, and make
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 at Madame 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 for myself. I am going—as

soon as the carriage arrives for which I have

sent—to call on‘ Mr. Harold’s family. I know

where they reside.

, ser’s wife. If they receive me kindly and
‘honorably, offer me a.home with: them, and
promise to use their influence to have Fraser do

right by mo, I shall remain with them until his

return from the West. If they do not believe |

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?”
“T think 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 go to them, first.”

The clattering of the carriage on the stones —

» below- warned them of its arrival, and he led
her down and placed her in it,

I shall tell them I am Fra-—

“ Au revoir,” she said, with a sudden smile
on her pale face.

“Shall I not go with you?” he asked anxiously.

“No, no. I prefer to be alone. Farewell,
till five o’clock,” and he shut the door, and
| gave the sign to the driver to proceed,
| The day seemed a long one to Charlie Ward;

he went to see Mr. Blank, sent off his cable
| dispatch to Mr. Vernon, following it by a long
| letter; and still there were hours to dispose of
| before the time for calling again on Mrs. Har-
old. He admired the courage which had en
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-
dered, with vivid interest, what the resultof
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, tola 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 servant
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:

““DesR CHARLIE:—The Harolds treated me as an
papostor. There is but one thing for me to do—
follow my husband. I can not accept charity from
Madame D Eglantine; but, if it will do Violet an

‘ood, you can inclose this note to my father, wit
fhe earnest request that he will cease to trouble her,
and my assurance, that, being the happy bride of a
wealthy gentlemun, I do not need the dower he is so

ood as to try to secure for me! God bless you,
Dearie sor have been a true friend. And may He
bless papa, too. Tell him I forgive him, and hope
we shall meet in Heaven, if not here. Do not fret
about me, Iam only, omg to Fraser.
our friend
“FLORENCE GoLDSBOROUGH HAROLD,”

CHAPTER XIX.
TOO LATE!

Mr. RepMonp RaopEs—a man eminently
cautious, reserved, exclusive and haughty—be-
gan 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
so rash as to take, more out of compassion for
the little proprietress than because he any
longer expected anything to come ‘of it to the
advantage of the unfortunate young lady who
had appealed to him for assistance.

He had ordered a fire to be made in the
ancient fireplace, and an extra wax taper or
two to be placed on the shelf above it; so that
he was not as dreary as he might have been;
still the old place contrasted unfavorably with
the gayly-furnished rooms of the grand hotel
where he should have been.

“Tt 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 surmise I shall have made a most
egregious fool of myself in telegraphing to Ma-
dame D’EKglantine. 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 saw!—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-
_uelle. Tt would appeal to any man who was
| truly aman of honor and chivalry. So why
_ Should I be ashamed of the impulse which
' urged me to follow and try to help her?
Heaven knows I would tramp the streets of this
city all night if I 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 roue into whose arms an unnatural father
was forcing her.
| “T 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 fee] 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 snould 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 tome, 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 power. My own mother
cowla 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 em not as ex-,

cited as youare. Give me your name, address,
something of your history; ‘so that I can find
your mother. Refuse to marry the baron.
Your father will find it impossible to hide you
in a mad-house in a country so well-regulated
as this. 1 will put your friends on the track—
only give me their names—” he took out his
tablets and waited for her to speak.

“My adopted father is Mr. Vernon of Ly-
eurgus, 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’Eglantine—the two are searching for
me, I have no doubt—” s

“Nor I!” exclaimed Mr. Rhodes, cheerfully,
“they came over, with me, in the Germania,
landing three days ago. They are looking for
you. Isent a telegram to Baden this evening
to Madame D’Eglantine, saying that I believed
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 comfort 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 old baron; let your father perse-
cute you as he may for it; he will be watched
and not allowed todo you serious harm.”

All this time the proprietress stood, glaring
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. Hoe
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 whom 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—tho
ugly old baron!”

“Yes,” said the proprietress, with a laugh,
‘tig no wonder mademoiselle flies from such a
lover—ah, bah!” shrugging her shoulders, “I
can provide her with lodging where she will be
secure—but, monsieur must know it is not my

 

 

 

 
 

onic ze

 

 

BLACK EYES AND BLUE.

20

 

 

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 end
of the room.

Up the dim staircase, with a great flaring of
lights, came the’ father, the ancient lover and
two gens @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-Warmes immediately laid a strong
clasp on both of Redmond’s arms.

In vain the prisoner expostilated and ex-
plained; the fellows had their orders from the
chief, and dare not disobey them. A stranger,
like Redmond, was ata 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 gens-
d'armes, wrung her hands, volubly urging her
lodger 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
were such as that personage would not be apt
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 to-day; 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 fe-
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 resist the will of those two men, since he had
so easily been trapped! His tortured imagina-
tion pictured her in two scenes, constantly—in
one, she was the doomed bride of the grinning
baronet—in the other, a corpse, slain by her
own hand to escape that doom. The thought of
Madame D’Eglantine added to his uneasiness.

And so the second sleepless night wore itself
slowly away.

About ten o’clock of the second day his pris-

*

 

 

 

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.
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-
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 throw-
ing her vail from her face, revealed the deli-
cate, high-bred' features of Madame D’Eglan-
tine.

When she saw Mr. Rhodes she uttered a half-
suppressed ery, rushed to him and wrung his
hand.

“Where is Violet—where is my ae she
eagerly demanded.

“ Alas! I would that I could inform you,
Madame D’Englantine! Iam horribly afraid
those villains have succeeded in making you and
your daughter miserable for life. “You must
near this lady’s story, and give us what aid you
ean,” continued Redmond, turning to the con-
sul, who very willingly listened to what they
had to say, promising all the assistance in his
power; but very dubious.as to his power to af-
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
a@ cramped, trembling hand, which he took to
be that of the baronet’s:

‘Tf 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 means?’
shrieked the unhappy moth2r. ‘‘ Where is this
church? Let us fly to it at once and put an
end to this terrible suspense.”

“Perhaps she is dead!” thought Redmond,
but did not say it.

The consul hunted in the directory for the
address of the church, while Mr. Rhodes called
a carriage.

In five minutes he, with Madame D’Eglantine,
pale as a corpse, silent as a corpse, beside him,
‘was being daiven rapidly in the direction of St.
Joseph’s,

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 Red-
mond.

“There were two marriages and three fune-
rals,” answered the man, pea at him as if
he doubted his sanity.

“May we look at the records?” was the next
question, accompanied by a thrust into the sex-
ton’s hand of that key which: auplobkes most doors
—the key of gold.

“ Follow me,” said the man, leading the way
through the solemn aisles of the dim cathedral,
and oninto 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 United
States, to Sir Israel Benjamin, baronet, of En-

gland. The signatures were appended—were
authentic, beyond a doubt; he recognized both
the cramped hand of the baronet, and the deli-
cate, tremulous chirography of the girl who had
written him the note on board the steamer.

CHAPTER XX.
‘LIFE, LIVED AND OVER, IN HALF A “year,”
“BY Narcissus, Apollo, and all the other

 

lovely youths of fable, that’s a gloriously hand- |

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 surnmer,
over an endless prairie, covered with the short,
coarse buffalo-grass which gave food to the
huge creatures of whom they were in. pursuit.

 

‘‘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 paces
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. Idid not believe he could keep up
with us, riding all day as we do, 1 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?’

“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
nim 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
swell; ‘‘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
rein.

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-
fected him.

At first.a deep flush had mounted into his
swarthy cheeks; this was followed by a. livid
paleness as Harold spoke lightly of the ‘‘ affair
being off;” a glow, like that of a dagger. in the
sun, leaped into his black eyes at the remaining
sentences. 4

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 Indian’s.

He had silver spurs on his boots, wore blue
leggings, fringed and embroidered; a blue wam-
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.

‘* Tl 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. ‘‘T’ll pay fur my own fodder, an’ help
cook yours besides;” and so far, .Floss—that
was the lad’s name—had keps his part of the
bargain; he was always ready to hold a horse
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, Floss 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.

“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 anaer dur-
ing ‘this excursion?”

“Why ?”

“Con if there is, I want td be in the thick
of it.”

“Qh, youde! What fur, I wonder?”

“Coz I’m tired of life, Bill. Ij’ined in hopes
that suthin’ would take me off,” and here the

 
26

 

THE! FIRESIDE' “LIBRARY,

 

 

fire was quenched in «udden tears which rolled

over onto the swarthy cheeks.
“Sho! jist you hist wat, my boy—‘twon’t

do,” and the brave hunter, who had killed his |
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- |
“But, as to the danger you ask about— |

der.
bum! that moughtn’t be so fur away. The
tracks o them pesky red-skins is about as thick,

this morning, as the houses o’ them prairie- |
They’re over thar, somewhar, waitin’ |

dogs.
fer us,” and he pointed toward a range of low
hills, lying against the horizon, and shrouded
in a purple haze, so that one who lid not know
gould 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
them red devils.”

“Indeed, they should be told at once,” said
Floss, decidedly.

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-
lant gentlemen who had avowed the sentiment
that when they were ‘off’ with a love-affair,
the more completely they were off the better!
At times he thought he could himself murder
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
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
hands. 3

The guide had stopped his horse, waiting un-
til the whole company of fifteen gentlemen,
three other guides and helpers, and the boy,
made a group about him. He then disclosed
the fact that Indians were lurking in the vicin-
ity, and asked the question whether the hunt
was to be abandoned or whether they were to
proceed,

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
without a shot either at the game they came to
seek or the foe who hindered their pursuit of
It. The cheek 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.

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.
His black 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 os

The temptation was iriesistible.

The hunters were to the windward. They
widened their belt and ad. anced with all pos-
sible caution in a half-circle, coming within al-
most shooting distance before the leader of the
herd perceived 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
and dashed after them, swinging their rifles
into range asthey 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
disappenred 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
ef a brackish stream. The chief guide threw
himself down on the highest point of land, keep-
ing a sharp look-out that neyer entirely ‘relax-
ed its 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.

“T don’t like this smoky weather,” grumbled
the chief; ‘‘a red-skin can creep within a hun-
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
eracker, 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 Fraser Harold that af-
ternoon. Ever and anon he cast apprehensive
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 envamp.

“Boys!” suddenly yelled Bill, the leader,
‘ try fer yonder gully—it will partially shel-
ter us- -the red-skins are swooping down on us,
not a hundred rods away.”

In fifteen minutes the whole brief, thrilling
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-
ger.

That 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 him in triumph.

He was mistaken.

A moment after he had made his count some
one reeled on his horse and fell to the ground.

it was Fraser Harold.

A ery 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
side to side like some broken flower—on his
knee.

‘“‘Praser! Fraser! oh, God! he is dying.
Fraser!”

At the sound of his name called in that pierc-
ing, passionate, agonized voice, the wounded
man opened his darkening eyes.

“Fraser, lam here. It is your littlegirl —

your poor little girl, Do not die—look at me |
—speak to me—my darling!”

“Florence, is this you?” the words came
with difficulty.

“Yes, yes. Do not be angry with me, my
husband. Did you think I could keep away
from 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-

*

 

| question.
der a cree, with joyful children and coquettish

ed, turning her great dark eyes, full of misery,
upon those who stood about, listening in won-
der and agitation to the words of the two.

“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 afew 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. Ihave 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
themso. My dear wife, amsorry 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!

Six months before she had dreamed her idle,
girlish dreams of life, as she hung over the rus-
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—th's was the end of all
—this dead face smiling on her knee, and she
—a widow.

 

CHAPTER XXI.
A MEETING UNDER RAINY SKIES..

CHARLI£ WARD passed several tiresome, dull,
unhappy days after the flightof Florence. He
had nothing to do but wait—the hardest of all
work. He felt uneasy about Florence and rest-
less to hear from Vidlet. Every pulse of his
heart tingled with impatience to once more see,
or hear a word from the fair girl to whom he
had given his affections. In his wors: imag-
inings of the persecutions to which . Ethan
Goldsborough might subject her, he had never
conceived of anything;half so bad as the reality.
But he knew 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 a brief message: ‘Come over,
if possible, by first steamer. Will meet you in
Paris,” and signed by his tutor, Mr. Vernon.

The dispatch reached him on Friday; the
following day he sailed on a French steamer

r 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 Charlies 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 in the
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
They sat down on a rustic seat un-

b nnes only in their vicinity; the lawyer took
the young man’s hand again in his own, and
bursting into tears, sobbed out:

‘Our darling gurl is dead, Charles, She had

“

 

|

 
 

 

 

 

BLACK EYES AND BLUE. 27

 

 

nothing but trouble over there, and she killed
herself.”

“Killed herself!” mechanically, j

“Yes. Her unnatural father took delight in
making her miserable. Finally, to spite her,
her mother, all of us, he forced her into a mar-
riage with an old Jew baronet—the most de-
testable creature that ever coveted a pure
young girl for his wife—she could not escape
the two—”

“Oh,” moaned Charlie, ‘you are killing me,
too, Mr. Vernon, with this story. Oh, I can-
not bear it.”

“<Man, that is born of woman, is prone to
trouble as the sparks are to fly upward,’” con-
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-
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—fearfully!
He insisted on getting into one of the boats,
with three sailors, capsized it by his awkward-
ness, was carried under the ship, and could noc
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 on—but to Charles
Ward night was over 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’Kg-
laniine was mournful,

_“ 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 sce 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 b« a printed ac.
count of the disaster; and she had also had a
long letter from him, giving particulars, and
asking about Florence.

‘Where is he?” asked Charlie,

“We believe him to be in London.”

“T am going to try and find him, and have
a personal interyiew. I must tell him all I
know about Florence, and garner every scrap
of information about this—this accident.”

“T wish you would, Mr. Ward,” sighed Ma-
dame D’Eglantine; and Charlie left, that night,
for London.

“ What a comfort--what a help—such a son
would be!” exclaimed the bereaved mother
with a fresh burst of tears, after he left her.

Charlie arrived in London on a wet, dark,
dismal December afternoon, The lamps were
lighted at three o clock, and burned dimly in
the thick atmosphere. Where to. go—what to
do—he had not decided. He only felt pushed
oa by the hand of an irresistible fate to find

 

| Ethan Goldsborough. The only thing which

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.
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,
portly, handsome American gentleman of mid-
dle age walked quickly past him, with a lady
on his arm.

If Charlie had inadvertantly come in con-
tact with an electric battery he could scarcely
have been more shocked.

“ Bthan Goldsborough!” 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 vailing 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, ruffian?”

“Oh, I dare anything, Ethan Goldsberough!
How dare you?”

For Violet, with a scream of joy, had flung
herself upon her lover’s breast, and was cling-
ing to him in the very street.

“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,
presently:

“Tt was always a pleasure to me to do any-
thing for her mother’s happiness.”

“Heartless 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. ‘IT 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
could have made him lose sight of her.

“Did he tell mamma I was dead?’ the girl
asked, as the vehicle rattled on over the muddy
stones.

“Yes—you, and—and—the other one: the
man yo married.”

“Sir Israel Benjamin is dead,” spoke Violet,
solemnly.

“Thank God, Violet. J cannot be sorry to
hear it.” E

“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 vessel.”

She shuddered, and grew silent. Charlie
conld 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 squeesing
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.” ;

Charlie entered the hotel with them, accom-
panying them to their private parlor on ‘an up-

 

per 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 thé table; the
elder man turned and stooped to pick up his
napkin—the waiter had been dismissed with the
appearance of the coffee—and Charlie seized
the opportunity to drop a powder into his cup,
which he had for some time been holding ready,
in the hollow of his hand.

It was not half an hour after this before the
wine, and the powerful but not dangerous opi-
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
you trust yourself to me?’

“ Will I trust an angel of light, Charlie, to
save me from a demon?”

Burdened with very little baggage, light of
heart, bright o* countenance, with a delicious
consciousness of coming bliss for which they
were quite willing to bide a proper time,

‘These lovers fled away into the storm,”
leaving the wicked father to labor with his
opium-dreams.

“ 1 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
message is more swift, and twenty minutes be-
fore the London night express arrived at its
station in Dover, the chief of police at t at
point had received an order by the wires, read-
ing thus: “Arrest a young couple, eloping,
the lady about seventeen, fair complexion, blue
eyes, an America; the young gentleman, brown
eyes, hair ditto and curling, an American,
name Ward. Detain the lady at least, on or-
der of her father, who will go on for her by
next train; she is not of age, consequently sub-
ject to his control. The young man can be
allowed to proceed;” aud signed by the head
of the London detective force.

Ethan Goldsborough bad aroused from his un-
timely slumbers in season to stfike his veno-
mous fangs once more, with a last desperate
effort, into his innocent victims,

 

CHAPTER XXIL
EXEUNT OMNES,

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 X1V., 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
dark-red mass of buildings, standing on their
green terraces, is warm and pleasant to the
eye. There is a lovely flower-garden —a little
too artificial, perhaps, after the French style,
but still very lovely, 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
west—there the glittering, softly-rolling, dee p-
blue sea.

Onto the stone terrace that overlooks the
ocean—the long, gray terrace with its heavy,
carved balustrade, against which shines the
dark-green of creeping myrtle and the wind-
wan cheeks of a few straggling roses—as the
sun melts rosily into the far waters and the
light breeze rushes in from the gold-tipped
waves with a gayer freedom—comes a lady,
and walks slo up and down, looking wist-
fully—with great, solemn, tuminous, beautiful
eyes—over the sliding, shimmering seas.

She is a little lady, dressed in black, without
an ornament about her except the large gold
28

THE! FIRESIDE! LIBRARY.

 

 

 

cross which gleams 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
black: andthe eyes so°sad and wistful) But
youth has refused to join “in the sacrifice, and
hung his crimson’ banner on the dark cheeks
cand love-curved lips. t

Youth* and: health have conspired agains’
‘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. g

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. f .

Every one of the hundred paneled, gilded,
carved rooms wears a festal aspect. 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 repast.

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—
watches the approachrof 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; ata 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-door and tells the panting beauty
what she already knows—that her young mon-
sieur has arrived. She goes out, tardily; slips
slowly, with lingering steps, down the broad
stairease, and enters. the;immense drawing-
room to the left... Here:a happy-looking, hand-
some young fellow, who has been gnawing his

lips withsimpatience, darts forward and catch-
es the sweet, palpitating ghost to his breast.

“ Violet!”

“Charlie!” «

A young couple who are expecting to be mar-
ried in the mornihg do not care for inquisitive
reporters at their meeting; so we will cross the
great hall to a,smaller room—a sort of ladies’
boudoir, on thé other side—where the host and
hostess of the chateau are welcoming an unex-
pected guest. i fs ‘fifo ¥

‘““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!” © §

“ Ah, Mrs.. Vernon, I must hasten to own
that I am not so unsélfish as I appear. . I had
an object—an objectof the greatest, possible im~-
portance to me!—in coming here with. Char-
lie.”">

Murder will out, Redmond Rhodes has call-
ed our old friend, Madame .D’Kglantine, Mrs.
Vernon, and that is‘;who she is and has beon
for the last six months. Itis Violet’s adopted
father—at last with the right to be called her
father—who stands beside the fair owner of
the old chateau, her contented husband.

Two years have passed since the foggy night
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 bring 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.in the baronet’s
death. Violet was dragged to London
and restored to Mf. Goldsborough by the of-
ficers. Charlie went on to Paris with his won-
derful good news, which was, with due cau-

 

tion, ‘imparted to Madame D’Hglazitine, and
had the magic effect to:restore her to’ health—
for ‘joy seldom: kills.”

Violet persistently, obstinately refused to
have or touch a pound ora 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
play—threatening to»make him’! prove before
an English jury that he did not connive at Sir
Israél’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 signoff from all future
claim, for the’ sum of ten’ thousand pounds.
With this in his pocket; Ethan Goldsborough
sent Violet back to her mother, with an insult-
ing message, and the declaration—which they
were’ only too happy to hear—that “‘he wash-
ed his hands of them forever.”

The desperate man made no attempt to re-
turn to America to look after his daughter
Florence. Perhaps 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 dovk ” -sny snug little fortune,
for Florence’s sake!” he resolved—and attempt-
ed zealously to do it.

In other words, he became a confirmed gam-
bler—losing and gaining—losing and gaining
—put always averaging more loss than gain;
and unable to tear himself away from the peril-
ous fascination; until, not more than a twelve-
month from-the time of his return to the vari-
ous Spas where he-.could indulge his passion—
play being then forbidden in Baden-Baden,
where he began it—he found himself penniless,
friendless, stricken with disease of mind and
body, gnawed by memory, deserted by hope—
and blew out his brains in the presence of the
stolid ‘croupier who had raked in his last
kreutzer. ‘

Long before this catastrophe; Madame D’-
Eglantine had gone to America, at Violet’s
earnest request, to look after Florence; for
Charlie had confided to them her poor pros-

pects of happiness with the man of pleasure she

hadéso rashly married.

Mr. Rhodes chanced’ again to be their com-
panion du voyage on’ the way to New York.
The reader may infer’ how it still further in-
creased the warmth of their friendship to find
that he had befriended Florence, as well as
spent two nights in prison on Violet’s account.
His discovery 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
talking ‘together... Of course, he gave them
Fraser Harold’s address—or that of his family
—and to their house Violet and! her mother
went at once, after resting one night from the
fatigues of the voyage. F

‘They found the family in deep mourning—
heard, witha fresh shock, 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-widow’s weeds, as. Flor-
ence.

“Oh, take: me with you, Madame D’Eglan-
tine,” she pleaded, her pride all broken down,
“Mr. Vernon and Violet, Charlie and even
you, seem so much nearer to me than these
do.. They are kind, but they are cold as
icicles; I know from their manner they feel
that I am in some way to blame for their son’s
death. Iused to bejealous of you, Violet,” she
added, looking piteously at her fair half-sister,
“T was hateful to ‘you, willful, vain, spoiled.
Now. I am only’a poor, broken-hearted woman,
whose faults, I hope, are buried in: her hus-
band’s grave,” and the tears stole down her
wan cheeks. f ,

— ‘You 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.

They passed the remainder of the winter in
New York, having delightful apartments, their
business cared for by Mr. Vernon, and’ Charlie
being scarcely amore constant visitor than
Redmond Rhodes,

In June they went to France to remain, Mad-'

ame’s vast estates there requiring her and her
agent’s personal supervision. Violet and Charlie

*

 

Ward were engaged’ before they parted, w1tn
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 grown
up between Mr. Vernon and. his client, finally
culminated in marriage; which delighted Violet
and made her, as she declared,: ‘‘the happiest
girl in the world.”

And now her own wedding-day is but a few
hours off! :

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 exquisite needlework of
the silken tapestries upon the wall.

All are happy except poor, desolate Flor-
ence. -

She paces the stone terrace, looking off 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 poor little soul of one who is
not yet made perfect through suffering—though
her character is vastly improved.

She thinks of her own brief 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, petted, 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 stops in her slow
walk, turns her face to the illimitable sea, and
cries out, with a pasionate sob:

“Oh, how forlorn! how forlorn!”

‘Mrs. Harold—Florence!” speaks a deep,
tender, trembling voice, ‘my. darling! you
shall be forlorn 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
es and press on her purple hair a lover’s

iss.

“T have loved you, little one,” he said, ‘! ever
since the night when I washed the wrinkles
from your child-forehead. 1 came back from
Newport, that night in the.lorig ago, to tell you
so. I found Fraser Harold before me, and |
gave you up. . L-have waited patiently, a good
while; and now I want you to answer 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,
you, sweet?’ To-morrow? Remember, I am
not a boy, and I have waited two’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 oblivi-
ous of the banquet which was waiting; but the
master carried his point at last, and on the
morrow there was a double wedding.

THE..END.

 

 

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