' i ; “e VOL. LeeG. thy Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by the Publishers of BrLLES AND Bravx, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at W: NEW YORK, FEBRUARY 28, 1874. ashington, Yearly, $4.00. Dyers Be Prick 10 Cunts, gXeuly, $400, Sf he AEST: s Sit ZZ \ . ZZ Zi LLL F sa ZF LIZZ ZZ Ze AA Z EZ IT WAS HE AT LAST GLANCING UP WHO CAUGHT CECIL BERTRAM’S JEALOUS, WISHFUL GAZE UPON THEM. THE MADDEST MARRIAGE EVER WAS. BY MRS. JENNIE DAVIS BURTON. CHAPTER I. FAIREST OF THE FAIR. Music faint and sweet as the wail of the dying swan was upon the air. Colored globes, crimson, purple, and amber, dotted the green- house; there was the breath of orange-flowers and magnolias, and the trickle of a fountain somewhere near—all together that merging of the real and the ideal, that glow of warmth, and taste and subtle fragrance, that make the at- mosphere of aristocratic life, and turn the head of any novice who may possess a spark of im- pulse, a grain of imaginative nature. : It was March, but for that one night as mild as May. A window was open behind a screen of glossy leaves and starry blossoms, and beside it the two young people without whom this scene would certainly never be complete. Music and flowers and colored lights, and trickling waters, and great calm stars looking down from a purple sky, and love and lovers— surely the acme of all perfection had been reached here. ; “Nice, isn’t it?” Berenice Lawrence.sunk with a sigh into a seat, just large enough for one but with lounging room beside it, and a twisted rail, where the round, bare arm, perfect enough for a model, ‘‘ marble faintly flushed,” rested in tempting proximity to her companion’s broad- cloth, and a high dark back which brought out to its clearest the fair face and crimped gold of the graceful little head. A petite. blonde was Miss Lawrence, a belle for three seasons already, with as many con- quests at her finger-ends as she could have told at one counting. A dangerous little piece of femininity, as witness the confiding glance of appeal she sent up into her escort’s eyes, which started the boy’s heart throbbing, and brought the blood to his smooth cheek in a dash of red which should have been natural but was too seldom seen there. “Tt is like Eden,” he answered, in his artist enthusiasm. ‘‘Like in more ways than one, since, when my hour is over, I shall be banished from it. Is it possible that anything on earth can induce you to give up this sort of life, Miss Lawrence? I begin to comprehend that it must be a fearful ordeal to go voluntarily outside the roses and honey where one has fed on them all one’s life.” ‘*But roses and honey don’t belong here, you know. They are the accompaniments of love in a cottage, where people dine under the trees on berries and cream and go wandering in print dresses that never need doing up, a la Watteau. It is tempting in novels and pic- tures, but for real life, don’t you think a little less moonshine and a little more baker’s bread might be preferable?” “And yet you have let me think that you might dare love in a cottage. You aren’t go- ing to regret it, Berenice? Oh, my darling, it is asking so much from you, you who can have your choice among the highest and best. Are you very, very sure you will not tire waiting while even the cottage is an uncertainty yet?” “Tf I do you know what to expect. No promises and consequently no broken vows, that was the agreement, I believe.” “You take pains to keep me in remembrance of it. Iam quite reconciled to the agreement now that I can look into your eyes, but oh, Berenice! back there in the rooms, with Mr, Trelawney more constant than your shadow, and I feeling the world of disparity between us, it seemed like madness to believe that you ever could belong to me. Tell me again, as you did once, that you are mine—mine |” What could be more enchanting! The boy was so thoroughly in earnest, his hazel eyes had softened and darkened and were shining their liquid light in such unutterable devotion down upon her, his auburn hair worn long and waved in true artist style caught its richest tint, and the unusual color come into his pale face beau- tified it wondrously. Flirting under such cir- cumstances was delicious, and Berenice Law- rence in her native element. She could twist him about her taper little finger, move him to happiness or despair with a word or a look, and on earth she would not ask for any more de- lightful consummation. “T never told you so; you assumed that, you know. And you are trying to be jealous; don’t deny it, Cecil. That was ruled out of our bar- gain, too. Whatever may be my supreme pleasure, remember there are to be no green eyes cast in my direction.” “‘T wouldn’t be worthy if I couldn’t trust you. But still I have my own misgivings ; I almost doubt if I have the right to take you from your velvet-lined, wax-lit world, and give you, in- stead, poverty and print gowns, and besides only—love. But no one else could give you so much of that. It means all that I am, all that I ever will be, my very life given to you, Bere- nice, Does none of it frighten you?” “So much that I think I must decline so great a gift. That is what you want of me, I see.” “ And you are really not afraid to be poor ?” “*T believe I have a talent for poverty. — It’s so poetical, and brings out all sorts of unsus- pected qualities, and I haven’t a doubt but I’m quite clever in. my own way and only the op- portunity wanting to make the fact known. And now, Mr. Cecil Bertram, if you’re done star-gazing, I am sure that I hear my sister’s voice making anxious inquiry in the distance.” ‘Already? If this time would only last for- ever,” “Tt can’t, fortunately ; and you wouldn’t wish it if it were your second ball after the opera.” A minute later, and the nook was vacant. Mrs, Athol, the married sister, gave a sigh of relief as Berenice floated into sight, her finger-tips on the young artist’s arm, her face unconscious as a pearl under his lingering gaze. “At last, my dear. The carriage is waiting, and Mr. Athol quite impatient with the delay. Are you accountable for the truancy, Mr. Bertram? You artists, as a class, have no idea of the value of time, I believe,” Miss Lawrence, fairly under her protecting wing, was whisked away without ceremony, and five minutes after Cecil Bertram, watching for a parting word, missed it, but had the feli- city of seeing Mr. Trelawney lift her into the carriage, and himself follow when the ladies were seated. : “ Out of sight, let it’also be out of mind, my dear fellow,” said a voice bebind him. “The cat may look at the king without any particu- lar objection offered, but woe to the mouse that plays unwarily within the reach of the cat all the same.” “Complimentary, if you are reducing me to the station of the mouse, Don’t preach, Goldwood. Pity the world if such cynicisms were to shake its faith, “So young to falla victim, but there’s where your salvation lies. Rub off your romance in these callow days and there’s hope for you yet. Just now, let’s go home.” A Madison avenue palace opened its portal to the party returned from the ball. The ladios Swept together up the broad stairway, and Berenice half paused with her hand upon a door, ‘‘Edmonia, can’t you spare me Clotilde for a couple of minutes? I’m tired to death, and want nothing in the world for the next six hours but night-robe and pillows. How sweetly does one sleep on eider-down, to be sure!” - sweet sleep, but you don’t find it necessary to ters the aspect of affairs,” seemed to invite BGHELLES AND BEAUX. [Fupruary 28, 1874, “*T shall not detain you very long from your pillow, Berenice, but I am going in for a mo- ment now. A good conscience is said to insure reconcile the two.” “And you envy me—is that it? Poor Edmo- nia! And yet one wouldn’t suppose you need to quarrel with fate. Sit down and be soci- able as long as you like, only don’t ask me to talk after the fatigues of the evening.” Miss Lawrence sunk into the depths of a Sleepy-Hollow chair, loosing her hat-strings and dropping her hands with a sigh after the accomplishment of this hereulean task, But Mrs. Athol was not to be put aside from her serious vein. “‘T want to say a plain word to you, Berry. You have as good as promised to marry Mr. Trelawney. Do you think you are’ doing exactly right by him and others in giving as much encouragement to any one or a half-dozen besides?” “Well, dear, go on.” “T asked you a question, Berenice.” “Oh! I thought you were only wanting to moralize, and no one has a better right, of course. What was it?” “Are you deliberately turning poor Cecil Bertram’s. head, only amusing yourself with what must be severe earnest to him? I don’t like to think it of you.” “Pray, when did you develop so much hu- manity, Mrs. Athol? How can I help it if ‘poor Cecil’ is so foolish?” “It is foolish to suppose there is any truth left in women. And I was speaking for you, half-fearing and half-hoping for you, sister. I am worldly enough to understand fully all you would sacrifice for giving up Mr. Trelawney for Bertram; but, if you care:most for him, do be brave enough to stand by your own heart. A mistake now will be aregret for all your life; think of it, and be true to yourself, I will send Clotilde to you immediately. Good- night!” She leaned over to kiss the fair cheek fondly, and left the room more hurriedly than was wont with calm, deliberate Mrs. Athol. Be- renice’s blue eyes opened wide to follow her and the brows arched over them. ‘“Has Edmonia’s ghost come to light?’ she mused. ‘‘ Who would ever have accused her of romance? For the advice, who ever did take advice, or who ever failed to say on so broad a chance, ‘ Physician, heal thyself.’ ” But, despite the worldly-wise reflection, Miss Law- rence a little later pressed her bright head upon eider-down and went to sleep with the softest of soft smiles dimpling her lips. CHAPTER II. A HEART OR A DIAMOND ? “THESE home affairs are the stupidest of all affairs, but they are to be classed as necessary evils, and endured with the best grace we can call up, I suppose. Who is it we are to have this evening, Edmonia?” Miss Lawrence opened her sleepy eyes and doubled a cushion under her fair head. She was in morning dishabille, stretched at length upon a lounge in her sister’s room, where she had been dozing over a half-dozen pages of the latest novel for the past two hours. “A few of Mr. Athol’s friends—the Morti- mers, the Eatons, and, of course, Mr, Tre- lawney.” “Of course,” very serenely. “Just as I said, the stupidest of all stupids. It’s not worth while getting one’s self up for such a lot, always excepting Mr. Trelawney, of course! Nobody else, my dear?” “Mr. Goldwood and his friend.” “Ah!” The ejaculation, softly breathed, saying in itself unmistakably—“‘ That quite al- some further remark, but Mrs. A‘hol, quietly assorting laces, gave no response. She had volunteered her word a week before and she was nota person to often repeat herself or to force her opinions before another’s judgment. ‘Think of it, and be true to yourself,” she had said that night, after the ba.., and in spite of herself, Berenice had thought of it more than was quite agreeable to her general equable state of mind, thought of it with a question coming up which she had never seriously enter- tained before. Could she put aside all the lessons of her life to be true to herself, or had she been so thoroughly imbued with selfishness that being true to herself would be false to truth? The blue eyes watched furtively from the screen of the half-fallen lids while she wait- ed, but a minute ticked away, the silence was unbroken, until she put forth a questioning voice. “ Edmonia?” “Yes, my dear.” “T have been thinking ”—a little pause, which still elicited no expression of curiosity— “thinking as you’ve always been fond of me, though you’ve had little enough reason, good- ness knows, perhaps, that it might—be rather probable ” — slowly, contemplatively — “‘ you would like to have a portrait of me painted. You are apt to lose me soon, in the course of natural events, you know, and just now ‘in the spring-time of youth, the bloom of the flower,’ I shouldn’t object to having my own best looks perpetuated. We belong to a fast fading fam- ily, unfortunately; even you who have done remarkably well for one of us, are not quite proof against the progress of time. It would be almost a charity, besides, to throw a job in his line in the way of Cecil Bertram. I don’t believe he has had a single commission in all the time we have known him here.” “Notwithstanding which, I fancy Mr. Ber- tram would object to receiving charity. Under would induce me to have your portrait painted by him.” ‘Oh, very well, then,” with an air of injured dignity, resenting the grave tone. ‘‘It was preposterous to suppose you could possibly care for such a reminder, and as to gratifying me, of course that is not to be taken into considera- tion at all. The inevitable result of being a helpless burden, and for your sake I shall en- deavor to change my condition soon. If the worst comes to the worst I can develop a genius for something, I daresay, nursery-gover- ness or making wax fiowers in an attic, though I know I'd die after the fashion of the poor sewing-girl.” “‘T am sure you will not do me the injustice to misunderstand me, sister,” said Mrs. Athol, gently, a little flush staining her usually pale face at the uncalled-for reproach. ‘It is my happiness to be able to shield you from such cares until you can find some nearer and dearer protector. The portrait shall be painted if you desire it, but by any other artist than Cecil Bertram. If your own peace of mind is in no danger, don’t tempt the destroyal of his.” “What a fragile bit of china that same Mr. Cecil Bertram must be in your estimation, Ed- monia! I always supposed we were the sus- ceptible half of humanity, the ones to be kept in glass cases until the favored owner in futuro chances along. Ireally don’t suppose he would be complimented by your opinion of him.” “That boy has a fresh heart yet, Berenice. He is not accustomed to the ways of the world as youare. The love of coquetry was born in you; in the main it has done no particular in- jury, but that young artist is different from the lovers you have thrown over.” ‘And “those who have thrown me over. Don’t neglect that part while you are about it, Edmonia. You are quite right, my coquetry has done no injury in the main. Your men of the world have very acute distinguishing pow- ers, ready enough to flirt with any decidedly pretty little pauper, but always steering wide of the shoals and quicksands that might run them into matrimony. Who would have thought I should have to wait three years for my first eligible? Is it any wonder, after all, that I like Cecil Betram all the better for the difference you speak of between him and those other men?” “And yet, Berenice—” “And yet, my dear, there is Mr. Trelawney. Well, and what of it? It isn’t settled yet that I’m to be Mrs. Trelawney.” ‘Tt depends upon you. It is quite time you know your own mind.” ““*The hour draws nigh; I haven’t forgot- ten it. Why don’t you ask me if I mean to marry him, Edmonia?” . “T trust to your own discretion, and your own time to tell me.” “As if there could be a doubt of the result! But is it not a pity we can’t have a voice in these matters that are of greatest importance to us?” “We have. It is a terrible mistake to ac- cept any voice but our truest promptings.” “How many do it? Not you, for one, I am afraid, my dear Edmonia. I remember— But no matter for that. We have to go with the tide. There’s no help for it. What would life be without these things we are both accustomed to, fine clothes and fine living, and no more trouble over time than to have it pass in the most agreeable way?” “Much, if the spirit went with the act in choosing an humbler sphere, much mote than in this luxurious life if it be all show, only hol- low.” “Tt can’t be, when the luxuries make the life. I will tell you what is hollow, hollow, hollow.” Miss Lawrence started to a sitting posture and spoke with a vehemence that con- trasted with her former inert tone. ‘It is the life which you and I knew once, holding these things on the barest sufferance, never knowing one day but that the next might see us stripped of them all and turned out from the very roof that sheltered us, duns on every side, harassed by the ‘ butcher, baker, and candlestick-maker’ at every turn, straining every nerve to keep up appearances, and praying only for the bubble to last until some one of sufficient means was taken in by it. It held out; you paid the price and took the better lot when it was offered, and now that it is my time, I cannot do better than to profit by your example.” That pained flush was yet in Mrs. Athol’s face, but, whatever its cause, she was not moved from the calm earnestness with which she had previously spoken. “‘T can only urge as I have done before, that you be true to yourself, Berry. It is not safe to trust to another’s example, because you are never sure of reading aright another’s motives. Come in! Ah, something for you, my dear.” The something was a bouquet of hot-house flowers, through which Berenice’s white fingers played for an instant, and then came forth tri- umphant with a note and a little sparkling ob- ject from their midst. “Mr. Trelawney’s compliments,” she read. ““*He begs that Miss Lawrence will wear the ring as a token if his suit is accepted, and will do himself the favor of receiving her answer at the time appointed.’ How sure he is of his prey! and oh! what a beautiful solitaire! What would be the use of quarreling with destiny, Edmonia? I was made to enjoy diamonds, not to sully my dainty hands in manipulating broom and brush and cooking my lord’s din- ners.” Far too dainty to find her place in such a practical sphere Miss Lawrence looked in the gaslight of the drawing-room that night. She wore pink glace, with touches of richest lace here and there which shimmered about her like arosy cloud. Cecil Bertram’s eyes dwelt upon the circumstanees, Berenice, no consideration her as something too rare and beautiful for earth, something to be approached reverently, to be placed upon a summit and worshiped as quite ‘too fair and good for human nature’s daily food.” He had much to learn yet, this poetic dreamer, this beardless youth whose am- bition soared to the skies, whose expectations annihilating space reached to love in a cottage, a consummation to all practical intents scarcely less far from his reach. Or perhaps it was further. Inspiration might catch the skies, but it could not make imagination real. Another pair of eyes sought her face and fell for one instant to her hand. “We will not anticipate,” said Mr. Trelaw- ney, at her ear. ‘‘Pardon me if impatience asserted itself so near the end of my probation.” “‘Mr. Trelawney’s worst enemy would hard- ly accuse him of impatience. Certainly not in such a minor matter as that to which he refers. I fancy an affaire du ceur would be the last to shake your equanimity, sir.” ““ Because my chances are on the winning side, Miss Lawrence. I can hope that without egotism. In any other case I should be quite assured, but love, you know, makes the boldest of us tremble.” There was that in his gleaming black eyes bent upon her which scarcely tallied with his words. There was surely no fear of rebuff, no evidence of his trembling. Berenice’s gaze fell before his, and a vaguely uncomfortable feeling his pres- ence carried swept across her. It may have been that she recognized her master in this man whose power was to buy her for his wife, that she felt her own weapons so effective elsewhere fall harmless when directed against him. A man calculated to attract attention any- where was this Mr. Trelawney—a man who ex- ercised a species of fascination over all with whom he came in contact, not a purely pleas- ing spell, but who, at the same time, attracted and repelled. The fascination was of a power- ful mind, the repugnance of a nature, cold, cruel, and crafty, to the furtherest extreme. His personnel was striking, not tall, but rather slightly built, with nerves and sinews of steel, a passionless, colorless face not regular enough to vie with the sculpturing it might otherwise have rivaled, and eyes and hair of such a jetty black as to almost painfully contrast with his dead-white skin. He was thirty, an acknowl- edged conqueror among women, and he had conferred the honor upon Berenice Lawrence from among a host of choosing her for the en- vied position of his wife. It was that fascinating influence which held her now while he chose to linger by herside. It subdued her, it checked all those pretty arts with which she was wont to draw on her ad- mirers. It was he at last glancing up who caught Cecil Bertram’s jealous, wishful gaze upon them. “A reminder that I have not yet the privilege ‘of complete monopoly,” he smiled. ‘‘ I acknowl- edge it, and withdraw.” “‘ How very sure he is of me,” thought Bere- nice again, bitterly. ‘‘Suppose I should find the courage to reject him; suppose—’ The remainder of the reflection was lost in the beaming look with which she greeted her artist devotee.” It chased the moody frown from her brow as a cloud rolling itself away before the sun. “Sir Malcontent,” she reproved. ‘Do you suppose I did not detect you glowering from your solitary corner? There must be no more sulking to yourself, do you hear? No, nor so much brightening all at once; you must be made to do penance for your sins.” “Tt is either Heaven or Hades for me; my creed will not admit of a purgatory. I am in heaven now to know that you did observe me when I supposed you had eyes for no one but Mr. Trelawney.” “What an exacting mortal! You deserve heaven, Cecil; you are too good for earth. I don’t suppose there is a particle of dissimula- tion about you?” “* Not with you, at least.” ‘‘Poor boy!” thought Berenice. “I am really afraid disappointment will go hard with him. He will need to be broken to it by de- grees.” Mr. Trelawney had failed to distinguish the solitaire diamond upon her hand, but it was there, the stone turned in. Her vanity had tempted her to wear it, her rebellion and coquetry to conceal the fact. An imperceptible motion turned it now, and the brilliant flashed a gleam up into Bertram’s eyes. ““You wear a new ring,” he said, quick sus- picion invading his heaven. ‘Berenice, does it have any significance?” “Everything has significance of its own.” He had ‘been tortured a little time before, a though soothed, was yet awake to the act. “Tt is what I should like to give you for an engagement ring, but I shall never be able. Js it an engagement ring, Miss Lawrence?” “What if it were?” “T should think as Goldwood says, no woman is worth a man’s honest thought. I would rather die than know you to be false, Berenice; it would be better.” A youth’s extravagance delivered with a youth’s earnestness, and ac- customed as she was to such, it impressed her. She dropped her hand into shadow, and again turned the ring. “Be consoled, you impulsive boy. It is not an engagement ring.” To herself she added— “Ts not, whatever it may be soon. I am like the child of the story, with an orange in each hand and crying for the third. I can’t have them all, and the trouble is which one to dis- card where all are so dear.” Miss Lawrence could have found no great difficulty in solving the trouble. When Mr. Trelawney called for his answer next morning, the appointed time arrived, she came down to meet him a trifle worn and ennuied, herdia- mond sparkling upon her finger with no at- tempt now at concealment, CHAPTER III. A MODERN ROMEO. A NEAT little cottage on the Harlem road, with everything new about it, the cottage itself of shining red brick, the flight of steps at the entrance of the whitest stone, porphyry vases at the sides, with dwarf evergreens holding their own against the March weather, which was boisterous as it drew near its close, the light iron railing encircling the tiniest of yards, and meeting the steps with a curve—all the neat, precise belongings which pertained to a model cottage on a small scale. There was nothing incongruous within. Tiny rooms, plain. furnishings, plenty of light, and an intensity of quietness reigning throughout, neutral col- ors for the most part, but in the parlor a touch of crimson in the carpet and tea-rose blossom- ing in the window gave a pleasing impression like the finding of the first violet bursting its bud in some sheltered spot while winter snows yet hold their sway, or, like the flame of the last chrysanthemum, not yet burned to dust after leaves have fallen and cold rains and hard frosts have faded out all other bloom. The touch of brightness and the yellow roses were a relief, all else was too precise, too methodical, too suggestive of the Dull and somber gray Of lonely life as it wears away. And the surroundings spoke truthfully. The mistress of the cottage, in her little parlor that blustering March afternoon, was prim and gray as they hinted at. A straight, spare, an- gular form, a long, thin face, sharp gray eyes, thin lips, and rather scant black hair, quite un- compromising and quite self-reliant, one might find in Miss Juliet Bell at first sight as much as was apt to be discovered in years of such ac- quaintanceship as might be formed with her. She had not been young at sixteen and she was not old at thirty-six. There was a ring at the bell as she sat sewing in the glow of the sea-coal fire, and instantly a rival glow sprung into her thin sallow ch eks. She put out her hand to break one of a cluster from the tea rose, holding it against her black hair and noting the effect in a mirror inclined above the mantel. It was not unpleasant at that par- ticular moment, but Miss Bell was scarcely at ease with the unwonted adornment and dropped it upon the little sewing-table at her elbow. Her whole life had been hard and neutral as herself with the exception of one late ray of sunlight which had crept into it, to the soften- ing influence of which was accountable the dash of crimson and the bloom of the rose. We all have our romance at some time, and who can say that Miss Bell’s was less sweet in its existence at thirty-six than it would have been in coming a score of years before? The color still was in her cheeks as the visi- tor, evidently well accustomed to the house, let himself in a moment later. She looked up with a nod and a word, with a wave of her hand indicating a chair. It was accepted, and leaning back in the fire-glow, Mr. Trelawney took a leisurely survey of the room. ‘“‘How particularly comfortable you seem, Juliet. Not a bad investment of a couple of years to insure you this, was it? The old man’s disposition was not of the sweetest but a clever woman is a match for any man.” “Tam glad you think so ”—pointedly, “and that you are satisfied with the result of those two years. I might have done as much for my own gain, but not with the same heart as in working for you.” Mr. Trelawney laughed, a softly sarcastic laugh, with a glance at the broken flower and another at the thin, sallow face. ““T wonder how many with the pleasure of knowing you have gone to the depth of finding your heart, Juliet? Not many, Pl be bound, and not one to find it ahead of the caution that feathered your own nest first. I am not the. one to blame you for that, however.” The glow in-her cheeks deepened, one might almost have thought angrily, but there was not the slightest change in the even intonation of her words. “You speak as if I did not always put your interest ahead of my own, Alfred. I doubt if you will ever know all I have done for you.” “‘ At any rate I know it well enough to be appreciative. I have been considering - how much in the way of gratitude I ought to add to your annuity. Some men would fancy it enough as it stands, but I hope I am not one who makes light of the service of a friend.” The long, thin fingers, that had plied the needle steadily, stopped. Her work dropped into her lap and Miss Bell looked across at him, her lips closing in a firm line for one second before she spoke, her searching gaze seeing further beneath the mask. of his immovable face than perhaps any other gaze could have done. “What is it you have come to say?’ she asked, coldly. ‘I thought you knew me well enough to be honest with me. whatever you may be with the rest of the world.” If it were not out of the question for Mr. Trelawney to be embarrassed at any thing, one might have suspected him of embarrassment then. It was not shown in his look or his manner, though it was a full minute before he met her gaze or answered her question. Then his look was mastering, threatening; his words unequivocal and to the point. “You are a sensible creature, Juliet, and- will see the advisability of following my sug- gestions. I am to be married in May, and in lieu of any expectations you may have enter- tained, I propose to make a. handsome addition to the annuity you now enjoy, possibly te en an Rane Rapes ZN GA cee en + ee ee Frpruary 28, 1874.] BHLLES AND BEAUY. 3 double it if you are reasonable, as I expect you to be from the first.” The flush, pleased or angry, died quite from the face of Miss Juliet Bell now. A gray shade crept up in its place; a stony, awful calm fell upon her as she sat. “To be married in May, Alfred—you are to be married in May,” she repeated. ‘‘Did you suppose I would object to that? Ihave waited through two Mays, as no one knows better than you.” “Don’t make the pretense of misunderstand- ing; between you and I it isn’t worth while,” he said, roughly. “If you supposed I ever really entertained the idea of marrying you, you are undeceived at last. “You served me a good turn and I am willing to recognize it. Let us come to terms and spare such amuse- ment in the line of recrimination as we might indulge in, but which will not alter facts as I tell you they stand. You have a temper under all your quietness as I chance to know, Miss Bell, but it isn’t worth while getting it up for the present occasion.” He stood up, his back to the fire, his white face and gleaming black eyes bent upon her. Subtle and crafty as he was he had not been able to fathom how her subtle and crafty na- ture would meet and resist his. He expected a burst of futile passion, violence and threats perhaps; he did not look for that unbroken, stony calm and was not satisfied with it. “‘Then you never meant one of the promises you made me?” she asked. ‘‘From the very first you meant some such end as this, from the very first you lied to me and meant to shake me off sooner or later. Is that what you wish to tell me?” “Tt is written, ‘a man shall not marry his grandmother,’ you know. I never contem- plated that idiocy, my charming Juliet. There was not even much amusement in the little play of which this is the finale, but you and I werd well enough paid for our partsinit. It was one of the things to be that we should play it together; it is over and this is the last of it.” “Not quite the last of it,” she said, in that same still voice. ‘‘I should like to review it with you. It began with my situation as nurse to old Miles Trelawney. There wasn’t much between you except the name, unless it might be the recognition which one rogue has for an- other.” ‘‘A kindred bond uniting us three, perhaps, Miss Bell.” “The old man was tottering into second childhood, not to be relied upon,” she pursued, ignoring his interruption. ‘‘ You hadn’t a shadow of claim upon him in reality; there was a granddaughter somewhere who should have come in for the fortune, and would have done so but for the influence you brought to bear and the watch you kept over him through me,” : “To cut the story short, the fortune was left to me, an annuity to you, my faithful ally, and the granddaughter somewhere remained out in the cold, quite a deserving fate since the sins of the father are to descend to the children. And now, what bearing may all this have upon the matter in hand?” “You won me to your purpose—” “Readily enough, Miss Bell.” “Through professions which you have just declared false from the first. For you I was no better than a slave to that exacting, peevish old man’s will. You held out the promise that we should enjoy his wealth together, and I have not been insensible to your covert taunts and sneers since, though I have never resented them. I never would have resented them had you been true to your vows; I would not even have pressed you to a fulfillment of them while you showed yourself true. Do you not believe that, Alfred? Do you not believe more, that, had you even made me your wife and slighted me as you would have done, as I always knew you would do when it came to that, do you not believe that I would have been faithful to you and loved you through all the abuse you might have heaped upon me?” ‘‘The old girl be dashed! What is she driv- ing at, and what devil has possession for her to take it so?” thought Mr. Trelawney, uneasily. “‘T haven’t the least doubt of it, Juliet,” he said, with the utmost sang froid, “It is a pity to deprive myself of so much devotion, but. taking into consideration age and appear- ance and adaptability and all that, the admis- sion does not shake me from my position. Is that all, and do we come to terms at last?” “Not quite all. I never shirked the dis- agreeable duties you imposed upon me; I would have been patient and contented with my lot joined to yours—” ‘Patient and contented, Miss Bell! You might have been even better than that, consid- ering the magnificence that lot represents. I beg pardon! I was not meaning to recall all you have lost—rather, all that you never had a show for.” “Do you believe now that for the sake of having revenge for the slights put upon me, to repay the insult of having another put before and above me, I would throw away what I have gained? That to see you stripped of the wealth which my efforts alone could have brought you,I would go back to my old hard life, all the harder for this interval of comfort and ease? Do you believe that, hating, I could work to ruin you as, loving, I worked to raise you where you are to-day?” All said in that pas- - sionless, stony way which could mean nothing but strong passion most strongly repressed. “Upon my soul, Juliet, I can’t say. You women are riddles at the best, I believe. It would be bad policy if you would, providing you could; as you can’t, it isa phase not worth while pursuing. The worst in your power todo would be toraise a senselessmuss. Be sensible instead. I will make immediate arrangements for hav- ing your annuity doubled, and we cut adrift from this time out.” “How well you understand human nature, Mr. Trelawney. Let it be so then. And now, beforeswe cut quite adrift, will you tell me who has the happiness of superseding me in you affections?” There Was no reason why he should not tell her; the engagement would be made public in a few days at furthest, but it was with a feel- ing of reluctance that he gave the name. ‘“Miss Berenice Lawrence,” she repeated after him. ‘A belle whose reputation is so exten- sive that it has even reached me; a mercenary flirt who has broken hearts and dazzled eyes and turned heads by the score. What are you going to marry her for, Alfred?” ‘What for? Why do men marry in gen- eral?” - “Are you very much in love with her? Am I sacrificed for you or for her?” “T am very well satisfied, Juliet.” There was some stiffness and some reserve in the short reply. ‘‘Say.good-by, now. I have overstaid my time as itis. Don’t be irreconcilable, my dear. Remember— ‘There was a goose so gray, But some time soon or late, An honest gander came that way, And took her for his mate.’ Farewell, Juliet. Your Romeo will come yet, never fear. You won’t shake hands? Well then, I must go without.” Miss Bell, with her face set immovably, rose up, stiff and angular, from her chair as she watched him out of the room. She heard the outer door clang, she knew that he was gone, but her aspect did not change. At last her | glance fell upon the tea-rose blooming in the window, and putting forth her hand she plucked the flowers one by one, dropping them upon the glowing coals, and at last flung the pot and rifled shrub beneath the grate, all with-. out a single mark of passion breaking the stony calm. Her late romance had faded out of the life of Juliet Bell swiftly as the roses shriveled, and what manner of Phenix was to arise from the ashes no one might have guessed. The vague uneasiness which Mr. Trelawney experienced very soon dwindled out. ““T wouldn’t doubt the sincerity of the fair Juliet’s intentions if she had the power to injure me,” he reflected on his homeward way. ‘‘ Not having the power she gave more evidence of common sense than I expected.” Days and weeks wore away. Stormy March lapsed into showery April, April melted into May. Wonders in the way of mantua-making and millinery had transpired in that time. Bundles came and went, dressmakers invaded the Athol mansion at all hours, and a seamstress newly employed in the house stitched steadily upon the shimmering silks, altered and added to and followed the caprices of the fair creature whose outfit they were, with a patience which at last drew the languid approval of the bride- elect. ““What a merey we don’t have to marry more than once in our lives,” said Berenice one morning sitting down in midst of the precious litter of the workroom. ‘‘That is, of course, provided no special dispensation of providence makes it necessary. Dear me, Miss Brown, it is lace not fringe to go upon that blue. Only three more days of this worry, thank good- ness,” “Only three days,” echoed Mrs. Athol with a sigh. She was thinking how lonely the great house would seem with her spoiled and petted sister gone out of it. “You couldn’t look more lugubrious if it were a funeral in prospective instead of a wed- ding, Edmonia. By the way, what a useless amount of sentiment people waste over these affairs. One’s friends may be excused for sounding the chant ‘come out and be married’ as though it were ‘Come out and be buried,’ but to flutter over one’s own marriage is all fudge. Something might happen of course, but something never does happen when one is half inclined to pray for it. I don’t hope for anything worse than to see Cecil at the wed- ding, or look for anything better than the tire- some time to come after it. That is better, Miss Brown. Come to me when I’m settled in Trelawney palace and you shall have a per- manent situation there.” “Thank you. I shall not fail to come,” an- swered Miss Brown, lifting her eyes for one second from her work, “A clever creature,” said Berenice, as she followed her sister from the room, ‘‘but pecu- liar. Did you observe what a strange look she gave me?” She might not have dismissed that look from her mind so casually had she known all this chapter contains; had she known further that to all outward appearance Miss Brown was the double of Juliet Bell. CHAPTER IV. THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA, ‘‘Wuar do you intend to do with yourself, Cecil?” It was the morning after the dinner-party at the Athols, the morning that Berenice wore Mr. Trelawney’s diamond soltaire as a token of the favorable decision he had expected. It was a luxurious little studio where the two friends had come together as had been their morning custom all the winter past. Very dissimilar were they to have knit so close a bond of friendship as existed between them: Gold- wood was forty, looking every day of his age, but carrying it gracefully—a tall, fair man, who, younger, had an effeminate beauty, which had been improved rather than lessened by such traces of time as were visible upon him. His hair and beard were golden as ever, but the mouth was firm and lines were graven deeply in the high forehead, which might have hinted to some more trying experi- ence than the mere lapse of time but for a cer- tain lightness of manner, a buoyancy that spoke of perennial youth. Not in its purity, however, for retain much of the halcyon days as Wé may, some alloy will creep in later, and Goldwood had worn out the freshness to re- place it with the worldly wisdom and cynicism which accept little from the heart, ask much proof to further belief. He had talent, as proved by the fact it had developed in spite of prosperity, he had been successful in his art, and he was careless of it as a man is apt to be when his success has cost him little. Bertram was busy before an easel, but held his hand and turned his head at the question. Goldwood stood behind him looking at the un- finished picture, a bit of simple country scenery, the moon coming up in full, yellow glory be- tween two hills, a fragment of latticed porch and cottage gable indistinct in the shadow, and a wicket gate, where a girlish figure stood with hands loosely clasped over the post, with the face turned to the flood of mellow radiance and expectant eyes looking away through light and shade—a pretty piece—which he appropriately called ‘‘ Waiting.” In the fair face and golden hair and blue eyes of the waiting form Berenice Lawrence had been reproduced with almost faithful exactness. “What do you intend to do with yourself, Cecil?” Goldwood asked, with his cool eyes resting upon it. “Put in the morning here, with your kind permission. Was that what you meant?” “By no means. What do you intend to do with yourself in the days and years ahead of you? I am safe in assuming you have some dreams of glory and fame. How do you pro- pose to follow them up, how to catch these two fickle goddesses, Fame and Fortune, that are somewhere set in your prospective?” “ By hard work, if I ever do reach them. Is it so very preposterous for one to hope it?” ““Possibly not, my dear boy, if the question of daily needs were only disposed of. If strug- gling artists could live on air and go on paint- ing divine inspirations without money and without price, the world might be figured into finding out one in a hundred of them, perhaps. As affairs stand it is a hard matter to turn the divine inspirations into three meals a day, a bed at night, and a coat that is more shabby than genteel. Happy young fellow if you can find the pleasantness in such a_ prospect ahead.” “T hope for something better ahead. You yourself have encouraged that hope, Goldwood, and I owe much to your kindness and the lib- erty you have given me here.” “Yes, it is meritorious to take an interest in a promising young fellow, and flatter my own self-esteem by giving him the run of my studio and the felicity of contemplating my own pic- tures. I hope you haven’t lost by it, but I doubt if you have much gained. What have you done with the two precious efforts that came into creation here, before you took to ‘Waiting? ” : The young artist colored as he met the oth- er’s glance. “They are on exhibition, and really have won some favorable notice.” “But have not found a market. And, mean- time, I had the curiosity to wonder how you lived and the chance to discover. There, don’t flush up so, Cecil; I never supposed you a Croesus, though you gave me to understand from the first that you would accept no more than the-inestimable benefits referred to before this. And TI find that your only source of in- come is through designs, and reproducing street scenes for the illustrated editions. Can you guess what my first impulse was upon making the discovery?” “Not to consider your kindness misplaced, I hope?” “Just that. Is it any wonder I should be disappointed? With your experience of the absolute money value of the practical, to think you should waste time on such fanciful efforts as that before you! Why the deuce don’t you turn your talent to account instead of folding it away in a napkin?” : “Tl be exceedingly obliged if you'll only point out the way, Goldwood. I confess to be- ing in the dark.” “You can afford to do this sort of thing after you make a reputation, not before. Go to work, paint one great picture and abide by the result,” “But you forget the daily needs, mean- time.” “‘Confound the daily needs. Establish your- self in the house here, take all the time you like, and give me the pleasure of bringing out one creditable protege.” ““Not a word more, Goldwood. accept charity, even from you!” “You are an obstinate young idiot, Cecil. Turn portrait painter, then. People will pay for having their own faces perpetuated, when you might put Paradise on canvas without get- ting a grunt of approval from them.” “Only one thing wanting to complete the programme,” said Bertram, with a laugh. “That is an order.” ; : “And that awaits you. To tell the truth, what I have been driving at for the last ten minutes was to bring you about to the proper point to consider it. I am pestered with such orders, being the natural consequence of not wanting them. One came to hand this morn- ing from a person more considerate than the general run of men, whe knows my views and authorizes me to find some suitable artist to transfix the representative man. The situation is Rockpoint, as wild a piece of shore scenery as you need care to study, and the time as im- I wouldn’t could not, would not, believe it. mediate as your own arrangements will per mit.” ‘You know how pressing they are. I take up the chance and thank you for it, Goldwood, knowing that such an order never came about without the manipulation of my best friend.” That was the track which led Cecil Bertram to Rockpoint a little later, sent there without a suspicion of the other object which was co- equal in Goldwood’s mind with his friend’s in- terest, the purpose of removing him from the dangerous presence of Berenice Lawrence. “The foolish boy would let her ruin his life,” reasoned Goldwood. ‘‘Keep them apart until he knows her worthlessness, and trust absence and a true light to conquer puppy-love.” Within a week the engagement of Miss Law- rence to Mr. Trelawney was the sensation of uppertendom, but April was almost through when the sensation arrived at Rockpoint in an apparently careless paragraph in one of .Gold- wood’s unsatisfactory letters. The portrait had received its finishing touch that very day. Bertram’s portfolio was stored with sketches of the rough shore; it was his purpose to linger but a few days more when a new order came to him which, following so close upon the first, was like the promise of positive prosperity in the new line opened to him. That hopeful glow was upon him when the note came. Goldwood wrote: “‘One of the items that interests everybody is the approaching sacrifice of la belle Law- rence, whose brilliant race is almost run, Ma- trimony may begin a more brilliant cycle for her, but if I am any judge of human nature, my Lady Butterfly will find a hard master in Trelawney. Even now, while ‘Come, haste to the wedding’ jingles in the air, I fancy that he asserts more of a rule over her than she im- agines. How I have been led to observe so much I can hardly say, since neither party is a favorite of mine, and I have no sympathy to send after them into the hymeneal state. It’s the regular proceeding, ‘she marries him for his money, he marries her for her face,’ and such accompanying graces as may lend greater dignity to the house of Trelawney. The 15th of May witnesses the event, as I remember from having it sounded in my ears at every turn.” | The paper crushed beneath his hand, and Cecil Bertram stood white and still, scarcely comprehending yet all that these lines con- veyed. Berenice to marry another! Berenice false to him! True, he had claimed no promise in words, but the spirit of the understanding he had recognized was no less binding. He Great hea- vens! to do so would be to brand her as worse than fickle, to declare her the heartless, mer- cenary flirt the world had judged her, mis- ert her, he had believed firmly until this our, He went out into the open air with the whirl of tumult in his mind, the dread and despair and deadly pain of his own shock of awakening from the bright sweet glamour which she had cast about him, an oppressive nightmare kind of weight which it seemed a strong effort of his own must shake off. It was a damp, chill day, the sky gray and lowering, the earth cheerless, a dismal day in unison with the dreariness he felt. He grew more collected as he walked on aimlessly, and his own pain sharpened as he realized it better. He was young; life had been more a day- dream than reality with him even at its hard- est, and he had poured out all the richness of a boy’s romantic passion at her feet. Another might have been cured by knowing her as she was, a creature of selfishness and vanity, but he had raised an ideal, to crush which was to crush all the chivalrous faith and better senti- ment of his heart. More practical natures might pass such a trial lightly, but to him it was one of those crises which fortunately come seldom in a human life. He saw the future as he had hoped to make it with her to inspire him, a fair picture already slipped from his grasp, and instead dark chaos and hopeless confusion stared him in the face. “T tell you I hate it! I tell you I would rather be dead, dead, at the bottom of the sea, than buried alive here |” A sharp, vibrant voice cut through the air and into his hopelessness suddenly. He looked up to find himself without a high, half-ruined wall, the sea lying gray and flat in the distance beyond the marshes, and bare bluffs shutting away the little town and the picturesque stretches of point and summit.and shore beyond. He had wandered three good miles out of the way, but was only convinced of it by remember- ing a previous observation he had taken of this desolate place. A great racked building, grim and black, with only a cone of roof and two dormer windows like staring cold eyes visible from where he stood, was shut in by the wall, and a tangle of bare branches that rattled in the wind rose higher than the one and less high than the other, like a prickly guard between the two. “‘Madelon !” said another voice. “ Madelon, come in outof the damp. Your aunt would be displeased if she knew.” “That is it—she never does know. I might as well be dead for all any one on earth either knows or cares about me. It is dreadful to think of killing myself, but I do believe it will comee to that yet with the horrible fancies I brood over night and day.” : ‘ “‘Madelon |” “Tf any one ever went mad from lonely ter- ror, I shall go mad yet. Oh, it is bitter, bitter! Think, to have never heard a tender word, to have never seen a loving face, to be kept apart from all the world as though there was a curse upon me.” “Tt is wicked and ungrateful to complain,” said the other monotonous voice, wide contrast q a B i meee Af GHLLES AND BHAUX. [Frpruary 28, 1874, to the passion and despair of the first. ‘You have no right to question what has been chosen as best for you.” “Why do you always tell me that and no more? If you would tell me, Esther—’ “Your aunt will want me, Madelon, and she may ask for you. You had better come in along.” Footsteps moved away, unchecked by the call sent despairingly after— ‘Esther, Esther !”? Then a sound of passion- ate sobbing and muttered unintelligible words. A moment before Cecil Bertram would have declared his the greatest misery on earth, but here had come the revelation of a deeper misery like a sharp reproof. There was a break in the wall very near, a heap of fallen bricks and rub- bish upon which he stepped and with his hands upon the top he raised himself to look over into the wild space below. He had but a single glimpse of a girl’s bowed form and then the decaying structure upon which he leaned toppled, he had a sense of fall- ing forward, a cloud of dust stifling him, a jag- ged pain crushing into his arm, and then sud- den blackness and oblivion. (To be continued.) THEN AND NOW. BY ALLAN DEANE, Have you forgotten that day, dear, I wonder, Faded and on though so long, long ago, Footpath and cliff-top, with wild waves whose thunder, Dreamily died on the white shore below? Have you forgotten the glad words I whispered, All that I asked of you, all that you vowed? lin the strength of a man’s mighty passion, You in your girlishness, dainty and proud? Oh to call back the mad love-spell that bound me! To hold your soft hand ’tween my paims of brown! To feel with the light of your pure eyes on me, Careless alike of Fate’s blessing or frown! Well, well, no matter. "T'were wiser, perhaps, dear, Each should live solely on what might have been, God, in his kindness, oft withers hopes blossoms; Pain is the lot of the children of men. So runs life’s measure. Far truer, ay, nobler, Thus to live, labor, love, suffer, apart, Praying through all that in Heayen’s wide mansions Some day, ah, sweet, ‘“‘we two leap heart to heart!” LOVE VERSUS-A RAIN STORM. BY LUCILLE HOLLIS, OLLIE REDMOND was tired of staying in the house. She was a vivacious, rest- less little mortal, and the accident that had confined her for three weeks to the pleasant parlors on Cambridge square was a serious matter to her. What made it more aggrava- ting was that it should have occurred while she was at uncle Herbert’s, where she invaria- bly had ‘‘a glorious time ”—that is how Mollie expressed it; and that on this very day, when she was to go out again, it should rain! “Tt was mean;” and so Mollie stood in the shade of the lace curtains, drumming the tips of her fingers upon the window-panes, and looking with rueful eyes upon the steadily descending, drenching drops, and the murky tides that rushed along the gutters. “Tf only Frank would send me a nice, long letter to-day, or—”’ What other amusement Miss Redmond was about to suggest must for- ever remain an unsolved problem to mortal ken; for, at that moment, aunt Anna entered the parlor. She came straight to where Mollie stood, and placed her white left hand, where a diamond solitaire and a plain, broad wed- ding-ring rested, upon the girl’s shoulder. “Mollie, dear, I am obliged to go out this morning. In case you get weary of novels and fancy-work, I would like to get you to do a favor for me.” “Certainly, auntie ; I shall be delighted. What is it?’ ““To go in the library and arrange my escri- toir. The picture-hanger was so careless as to upset it yesterday, and I fear the contents are sadly disordered. And look carefully for that list of tableaux I mentioned last night. We must commence to prepare for that affair soon.” “All right, auntie,” and Mollie wandered into the library, picked up a book’ that she liked, and forgot about the escritoir until nearly lunch-time. Seating herself before it, she soon arranged its contents, and found the desired list, and something else that interested her. It was a faded miniature case, containing a picture of a handsome girl. On the white satin, opposite the face, was written: ‘Herbert. August —, 18—.” The luncheon-bell rung, and Mollie went down, meeting aunt Anna, who had just come in, upon the stairs. “You must be glad to get back, auntie; aren’t you almost drowned?” “Oh, no; I do not mind a rain-storm,” said aunt Anna, laughing. At luncheon, Mollie announced, “I found the list, auntie, and an old picture of a pretty girl.” “Did you know her?’ asked aunt Anna, smiling, and passing some cold chicken to Mollie. * “No. Who was she?’ “Your uncle Herbert’s affiancee, once,” “Why, auntie! And did she die?” “Oh, no. She is living still, in New York.” “Then why did not uncle Herbert her? Did your yellow hair entangle his heart to the expulsion of her image?” cried Mollie, gayly. “You must ask uncle Herbert to tell you about it. Hesays it was a case of ‘love versus a rain-storm.’” In the afternoon a note came from Mr. May- nard’s office, saying that he meant to take the ladies to the opera in the evening, as he thought Mollie well enough to go out if well wrapped up. ‘Frank Eustace will meet us there,” he added. Of course Mollie was delighted with the contents of the note, especially the last sen- tence; and flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes greeted uncle Herbert’s return. “Uncle Herbert,” Mollie exclaimed at din- ner, “tell me about ‘love versus a rain- storm.’” “Why, you little fraud, what do you know about that?” “T found a miniature in auntie’s escritoir, and she said the lady was your affiancee once, but that her own golden hair entangled your heart to the exclusion of the other lady’s image.” “‘T think you made that suggestion yourself,” laughed Mrs. Maynard. ““T believe I did. And it was true, was it not, uncle Herb?” “Tt certainly was, Mollie.” “ Auntie said that you called it a case of “love versus a rain-storm,” and that you would tell me about it.” “T will, when we are in the carriage.” In the carriage Mr. Maynard began: ‘‘Twelve years ago I was a young man.” ‘You are now,” interrupted Mollie. “Be silent, Miss, or I shall not tell you the story.” “T am silent,” said the irrepressible. “Twelve years ago I was a young fellow, secretary in the New York house of the firm of which I am now partner. AsI had few ac- quaintances there, and lived in a hotel, I gladly accepted the offer of a fellow-clerk, Myron Cowperthwaite, to introduce me to his sisters.” “The Cowperthwaites lived on a quiet street, in a plain house, but their home was a pretty, cheery one; and there were three girls; merry, witty, good-looking, and charming company. But these qualities were all intensified in the eldest sister, handsome Laura Cowperthwaite. She was tall and graceful, with brilliant, dan- cing, night-dark eyes; masses of black, waving, lusterless hair; scarlet lips, that were rather too apt to pout, and a glowing complexion.” “Not a bit like auntie,” interposed Mollie, who was always proud of being told she was the image of her lovely, golden-haired aunt Anna. “Not a bit,” said uncle Herbert, his eyes twinkling. ‘‘ Laura was my ideal of beauty.” “Then you mean before your taste was cul- tivated,” retorted saucy Moll. “Be quiet, Miss Impudence, and hear what I have to say concerning the handsome Laura. She immediately determined to make a con- quest of me, and I saw it. But she was the only lady acquaintance I had to escort about; I was invited constantly -to the house, and— well, I succumbed to her charms. Before many weeks we were engaged. Matters went pretty smoothly through some months, though I did sometimes think Laura required a much larger share of devotion than she was willing to accord; and, once or twice, I caught myself wondering whether she cared so much for me as the clerk, Herbert Maynard, as she did for my being the only son and heir of wealthy old Hugh Maynard. “In October I had orders from the firm to prepare for a trip to Europe. Laura was en- ticingly, wondrously affectionate then; and finally the day came upon which I was to sail. It was a cold, fearfully rainy Thursday. I had not taken my final farewell of Laura the night previous, for she was to be on the pier to see me off. It rained so fearfully, I sent a car- riage for her, and just after it had gone, there came news that delayed my trip for a month. I started immediately for the pier to meet Laura, and tell what I supposed would be to her glad tidings. “The carriage brought no Laura, however, but a note at which I was terribly cut and angry. It rained too hard for her to venture out for such a trivial matter. She hoped I would write soon, and then I could say good-by as well as if she had taken the trouble to come and see me off. “That afternoon Myron said, ‘ Since you are in New York, instead of on the Atlantic Ocean, I presume we shall see you at the house this evening.’ ‘T think not,’ I answered, and hurried away. Laura would understand my absence, and she could repent a little. I thought. I was angry, and in a mood to battle with the storm, so I walked up Broadway. As I had my umbrella pretty low, to shield myself from the blinding rain, I walked very roughly against a young lady, causing her to drop several parcels. I picked them up, and apolo- gized; and finding her very sweet and pretty, I begged permission to hold her umbrella, or carry her packages. She was condescending, and the walk was so pleasant, despite the storm, that I was awfully sorry when she stopped before a handsome brown-stone man- sion. “