Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by the Publishers of Benes anp Beavx, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Pricx 10 CEents.
NEW -YORK, JANUARY 31, 1874.
aes is the time for gay romance—
; When feet are swift and hearts are true;
Then on life’s stream the dimples dance,
And sunshine smiles in skies of blue
The rainbow glimmering in the dew. —
The perfume in the round red rose,
Make half the charm; and so with you
Love gilds the day, ye Belles and Beay x}
To listen to the light guitar
And know whose fingers touch the string,
And blow soft kisses where you are
And know whose voice your praises sing,
ween wee AND Br ary
Give wings too fleet to flying hours:
Then red the cheek with rapture glows,
And sweeter than sweet birds in bowers
They trill their songs, these Belles and Beaux!
No care they take of future times—
The nest, if it be lined or not—
But blush, and sigey\Gid jangle rhymes,
So heedless of the dinner-pot b
That one would think they jiyed like bees
On honey that in clover grows:
While Dian lets them take their ease
Nor ever mocks these Belles and Beaux.
Well, let them live their precious day
And sip of Hybla’s font, at will;
Should summer Mount and fly away,
They will not feel December's chill.
Bold Cupid lurks in many a guise;
On silver skates, like light, he goes,
And many a fatal arrow flies
Among the gliding Belles and Beaux.
Beneath the light of lustrous lamps
He watches; in the joyous dance
ete Se
He nkngles: and ’tis said he camps
All Winter in a Beauty's glance!
GREETING.
He gathers violets in Spring;
And Autumn’s grapes, in purple rows;
At every feast or gathering
There Love is with the Belles and Beaux.
Tales of his doings deftly told
Shall charm these pages week by week,
With pure enchantment which the old
And wise may either shun or seek,
| God gave its music to the bird,
| Its sweetness to the blushing rose,
And those soft hopes by which are stirred
The dreaming hearts of Belles and Beazx,
Yearly, $4.00.
Quarter'y, $1.06.
nr
BGHELLES AND BHAUX.
*
[January 31, 1874.
THE ROTHCOURT HEIR;
BETROTHED AT THE CRADLE
BY THE AUTHOR OF “OF HIGH DEGREE,” ETC. /
CHAPTER I.
THE BETROTHAL.
TuE leaves were being whirled off the trees
in rapid succession, and scattered by the north
wind. Already the lawns and paths of
the Reedes were strewn; even the flower-beds
were covered, although that very morning Job
Hathaway—under-gardener to Squire Ruther-
ford—had spent an hour sweeping and gather-
ing the russet-tinted leaves into neat piles un-
der the laurels,
Job surveyed the wholesale disorder with the
exemplary patience for which his namesake is
famed. Then he looked at the distant form of
his master on the terrace.
“T don’t believe he would care if the garden
was turned into a howling wilgerness to-mor-
row!” said Job, not unkindly.
His remark was infinitely true. Squire
Rutherford took all the minor evils, the small-
er inconveniences, of this life in an easy and
happy sort of fashion peculiarly his own.
This gusty afternoon he was walking up and
down the laurel walk arm in arm with his
friend Lord Roth. The twowere talking ami-
cably, as men who had a liking for each other’s
company. In their walk they passed and re-
passed the open drawing-room window. With-
in the room sat two ladies and an elderly
gentleman. The former were Lady Roth and
Mrs. Rutherford, the latter was the Reverend
Mr. Carlyle, rector of Rothbury, and father of
Mrs. Rutherford.
Two months ago Lady Roth had presented
to her husband a son and heir. Within a fort-
night of that event a daughter*had been born
at the Reedes. The children were the first-
born of the two houses; it was to celebrate their
baptism that the families had dined together to-
day.
There was a careless happiness in Squire
Rutherford’s face and manner which even af-
fected his walk. He was fair-haired and pleas-
ant-voiced. The expression on his handsome
face was candor and unsuspicion—too much so
of the latter. Incapable of any thing mean or
base himself, the Squire was slow to see such
in others. He was open-handed, too, and the
veriest impostors found an easy prey-in the
good-natured gentleman. ’
Perhaps circumstances had conduced to this
‘happy state of mind. At twenty-five years of
age, Adrian Rutherford had found himself the
fortunate possessor of the wide stretch of mea-
dow and forest-land before him, That grand
domain, with its manor-house, and its deer-
haunted glades known as Free Chace—only di-
vided from the Rothcourt property by a nar-
row stream—-owned him as master. The more
modern but elegant house and grounds called
the Reedes were his also. Here he chose to re-
side, while for Free Chace he-had found a ten-
ant in the wealthy member for the county, Sir
Dalrymple Dare.
Adjoining Free Chace lay Rothcourt. That,
too, was a heritage of which any man might
be proud. . Between Rothcourt and the Reedes
lay the village of Rothbury, almost every
house and farm of which belonged to the lord
of Rothcourt. Reginald, the present Lord
Roth, was a few years older than the young
Squire. He was taller, too,.and very dark,
with black hair, crisp and curly, black eyes,
and a heavy mustache which covered the weak,
undecided, yet beautiful mouth. The face was a
handsome one, in spite of a certain sinister ex-
pression that it wore at times; and beneath the
olive skin the color would flash with every
changing passion of the unquiet heart. Lord
Roth’s was not the disposition to gain the wide
and loyal love of all about him, as the Squire
had done, but his face was one to haunt a wo-
man’s “nightly dreams and waking fan-
‘cies.”
Slackening their pace, the two men at length
came toa stand-still. The scene before them
was a fair one, seen in the light of the late Oc-
tober day.
“Do you remember our adventure in .that
old elm tree, Roth?’ asked the young Squire,
laughing, and pointing to the dismantled trunk
of an ancient tree some distance off. ‘‘ How
firm was our conviction that it contained a mag-
pie’s nest!’ _ 3
‘‘T remember; and how cruelly we were de-
ceived! You narrowly escaped breaking your
neck. That is like you; to this day you are
ready to rush headlong into any scrape, and
then repent at leisure,” was the amused reply.
‘How short a time it seems since that after-
noon when we made our first attempt at part-,
ridge-shooting in your father’s preserves!”
The words of an old song floated on the breeze
in the Squire’s clear baritone, with just a tinge
of sadness in them, such as a past and pleasant
memory recalls.
“Yes; and now I have ason and youa daugh-
ter,” said Lord Roth, thoughtfully. ‘‘ Come,
Adrian, let us go in.”
There was a shade of pomposity in his voice
whenever he spoke of his son. No one. could
ever know the depth of love in that man’s
heart for his little child.
“* And if your son should wed my daughter—
‘Why, what a wedding there will be!’”
sung the Squire, in light-hearted, careless
tones.
Lord Roth looked at him quickly. It was
‘not the first time that this thought had occurred
to him; and it was a pleasant thought for
many reasons. But he spoke quite coolly—
even lightly. *
“Tt is just possible they might, Adrian—par-
ticularly if they were led to suppose that we
were against any such thing. Young people
usually make a point of falling in love against
their parents’ wishes.”
“So they do, Roth. But, seriously, should
such a thing come to pass, I should not know
how to be thankful enough. It would be a
closer bond than ever between us, old fellow.”
“What a girl you are, Adrian!” said Lord
Roth, with the shadow of a smile on his mobile
lips. ‘You, at least, are unchanged with the
lapse of years.”
“That is a doubtful compliment,” laughed
the other, as they entered the drawing-room.
The ladies were engaged in quiet talk, Mrs.
Rutherford holding her baby on her knee. The
Rector, having partaken bountyaghy: of the
Squire’s old port, had fallen asleep in an
arm-chair. ‘
“Rose, we have been hatching a plot worthy
of Machiavel,” said the Squire, gayly, and seat-
ing himself as he spoke by his wife. ‘‘ This
and another little bit of finery are in process of
time to become devoted lovers, and eventually
the reigning sovereigns of Rothbury, and own-
ers of the united lands and revenues of Roth-
court and Free Chace.” ' ;
The lady turned her pretty, inquiring face to
Lord Roth. ‘
“Seriously, yes,” he said, smiling, ‘‘ My
dear Mrs. Rutherford, we only await your
sanction to perform the ceremony of be-
trothal.” +
He addressed himself to the Squire’s wife,
utterly ignoring Lady Roth, whose meek and
quiet face was turned toward him.
“They are to be the modern Paul and Vir-
ginia, Romeo and Juliet, or any other devoted
pair you may choose to name,” supplemented
the Squire. ‘‘ Come, Lady Ellen, give us your
support. Why, where is Romeo?”
“He is with his nurse,” replied Lady Roth,
quietly.
“But I do not understand what all this is
about,” observed Mrs, Rutherford.
“ Only a little plot, the denouement of which
is to give general joy and satisfaction,” return-
ed her husband, ringing the bell. ‘‘ Tell Mrs.
Kenn to bring the child,” he said to the servant
who answered his ring.
In a very short time Lady Roth’s nurse en-
tered with the little heir. She was a young
woman, with a dark and beautiful face—an
Irish face of almost perfect loveliness. Her
glossy black hair was gathered in rippling coils
beneath a coquettish widow’s cap. Her blue
eyes—mostly lowered beneath their long lashes
—were apt to glance quickly at things and people
about her. This was Mrs. Kenn, partly maid
to Lady Roth, partly head nurse to her child,
and esteemed by her gentle mistress invaluable
in both capacities,
The ‘ceremony ” proved more troublesome
than either gentleman could have foreseen.
Mrs. Rutherford, half-amused, half-distracted,
held her baby daughter, and Mrs. Kenn the lit-
tle heir of Rothcourt, while the laughter-loving
Squire joined the children’s hands, and Lord
Roth said, with mock solemnity:
“(T, Reginald Roth, do hereby solemnly vow
that Iwill in good time take thee, Beatrix
Rutherford, to be my wedded wife; in token
whereof I plight thee my troth.”
Then Squire Rutherford, amid sundry explo-
sions of laughter, registered, on behalf of the
said Beatrix Rutherford—who shrieked lustily
meanwhile—a similar solemn vow to take Regi-
nald Roth—at present aged three months—to
be her wedded husband at some future time.
Both children cried furiously. Mrs. Kenn
smoothed the little heir with cooing murmurs.
Mrs. Rutherford endeavored to quiet her daugh-
ter.
“Tt’s over,” said Lord Roth, resigning the
boy to his nurse. ‘‘What do you say to that
piece of business, Mrs. Rutherford?”
“No, it is not over,” interrupted the Squire.
“The deed is not signed. See here.”
He seated himself at the davenport, and
wrote on a slip of blue paper:
“J, Adrian Rutherford, do give and bequeath to
Reginald, son of Lord Roth, of Rothcourt, in the
event of his marriage with my daughter, Beatrix
Rutherford, the whole of the property known as
Free Chace, in the village of Rothbury, as the said
Beatrix’s dowry.”
“There,” he said, triumphantly, handing the
paper to Lord Roth, ‘* that will make one pro-
perty of the two estates.”
Lord Roth laughed carelessly, saying:
“Tf this were given to any one but me, you
might rue the day you wrote it. How easily
you could be duped, old fellow!”
“Don’t imagine that I am so simple, Roth.
There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip.
Think of the ills these little bits of humanity
are heirs to, and of the perils of infancy; and
even supposing that they weather all these,
there is the possibility that both may bestow
their hearts in other directions—whereupon the
deed is null and void.”
“Very well put,” said the other, coolly.
“You have missed your vocation, Adrian,
Both in pleading causes and writing deeds you
excel, mon ami,”
“T think, too, that I still retain a boyish af-
fection for any scheme embracing a certain
amount of risk,” rejoined Mr. Rutherford, of-
fering Lord Roth his cigar-case. ‘“‘ Come, Roth,
let us smoke another cigar in the billiard-room
while my wife orders coffee.”
As Lord Roth crossed the spacious hall in the
wake of his friend, he quietly folded and placed
in his breast-pocket the slip of blue paper with
the Squire’s signature.
CHAPTER II.
THE FATHER’S AMBITION.
In the somber library of Rothcourt Hall its
master sat late at night, alone. The wax ta-
pers lit up the dreary gloom of the apartment,
with its quaint and massive furniture and tap-
estry hangings; without, the autumn wind
moaned drearily. The hour was late, the fire
burnt low, yet Lord Roth still sat by the open
desk, anon rising to pace with slow and mea-
sured tread the length of the room. He was
thinking of something deeply, intently—some-
thing of absorbing interest.
For two generations past the Roths of Roth-
court had led dissipated lives. . The late Lord
Roth—whose wild career, reckless gambling,
and revelings had reduced his heritage almost
to nothing—had, dying, left his son only the
barren honor of the title, with the lands of Roth-
court deeply mortgaged to the furthest acre.
On his deathbed he told his son that a wealthy
marriage would yet save the young man’s
honor and the heritage he held so dear. Look-
ing back upon his own wasted life with feelings
of deep remorse, he conjured his son to wed a
wealthy bride for his own honor, and to save
himself from the shame of the beggary and
ruin that seemed inevitable.
Later Reginald Roth remembered his par-
ent’s words, and resolved to act upon them.
Fortune seemed to favor him. Six months af-
ter his father’s death he met his cousin, Char-
lotte Berney, for the first time. She had a
handsome fortune, and a face that, had she been
any one else, would have proved too fair for
Reginald’s peace. He loved her with the pas-
sionate love that it was his nature to give, and,
having once given it, gave it forever. She re-
turned it, and these two—so singularly fitted
for each other—were betrothed. :
Had things gone on well, Reginald Roth
would have been a good man—a good master
to his tenantry, an honorable gentleman in his
generation. He was not bad by nature, but
became so by circumstances. Things were or-
dered differently. An adverse fate appeared
in the shape of Philip Haughton, Lord Roth’s
only cousin on his father’s side, and, after him,
heir to Rothcourt should Reginald die without
heirs.
Between these two had ever existed a bitter
animosity. As schoolboys they had been ri-
vals, and in almost every case Philip Haughton
had been victorious over Reginald Roth. Phil-
ip was handsome, carelessly clever, and of an
easy, complaisant manner, terribly irritating
to one so high-spirited as Lord Roth. He was
wealthy too on his father’s side, and the desire
of his heart was to possess the title to which he
had so near a claim. He loved Charlotte Ber-
ney in his careless fashion, but he hated Regi-
nald deeply. When these two were engaged,
he too was spending the autumn at Stainwolde,
the seat of the Berneys, and he set himself to
work mischief between them.
It was an easy task. Like most passionate
natures, Reginald Roth was terribly jealous,
and Charlotte had many admirers. Philip
worked cleverly, and the fruit of his treachery
was a quarrel between the two lovers. Reginald
gave way to jealous rage, Charlotte was proud,
and they parted.
Lord Roth spent that Christmas at the house
of a friend in Devonshire. Here he met a
young lady who was deemed an heiress—the
only child of a wealthy merchant. Knowing
that he must marry for money, and quite in-
different as to whom he married, Lord Roth
made her his wife. Scarcely was fhe honey-
moon over when tidings reached him of the
death of his wife’s father, and close upon it the
frightful disclosure that he had died a bank-
rupt. Reginald Roth, to his unutterable hor-
ror, found himself united to a penniless woman,
for whom he had not a particle of affection.
He said never a word, but his indifference to
his meek wife soon grew into positive dis-
like.
A bitterer day was in store for Lord Roth.
By some means Philip’s treachery became
known to him. Of the anguish of this awaken-
ing Lord Roth never after dared to think.
Looking back upon all that he had lost—love,
happiness, and wealth—he swore a sacred oath.
“My cousin Philip shall never have Roth-
court—he shall never bear my name—not if I
perjure my soul to keep it from him!” he said
to his own heart; and he kept his vow.
No marvel that the proud and unhappy man’s
brow was shaded by the weight of his sorrow.
If he was faulty, he was unfortunate. His
love for his child was of the most intense na-
ture. His own life, his hopes, his peace of
mind were all blighted—his aspirations for the
future were centered in his child. He hadnow
an heir to his father’s name and to the burden-
ed property, which, by dint of almost impossi-
ble scheming, might be preserved. Above all,
the child was another barrier between Philip
Haughton and Rothcourt.
To-night, as he sat in his solitary room, he
took from the drawer of the escritoire the paper
which the Squire had given him in a moment
of thoughtless mirth.
“This would save it—my boy’s heritage,” he
murmured, passionately, ‘‘ This would secure
it tohim free and unfettered, as I might have
secured it had I not been mad, If it might be
so! Yes—it shall beso, Yet, Adrian is my
friend. Am I then never to have one desire
gratified? My son, my little child, is there any
sacrifice I would not make for your sake?”
But oh, the long, long years before this fond
wish could be realized—the years of meager
existence, of battling with poverty and debt.
“Oh, Heaven, if he should die!” he thought,
as he locked the paper in his secret drawer, and
with the thought cold drops of perspiration
chased each other down his brow, and his very
lips grew white. No marvel that the proud
man’s head was bowed beneath the weight of
his secret sorrow and the sting of his bitter
poverty. If the dream he was cherishing was
to lead him into sin, his hard fate was a little
to blame as well as his own weakness.
CHAPTER Iii.
RACHEL,
BEFORE Charlotte Berney knew and loved
her cousin Reginald Roth—before his meek
wife gave her tender heart into his keep-
ing—some one else loved him with a love deep-
er, fiercer and more adoring than he dreamed
of. It was a very sweet and beautiful dream
that lay in Rachel Flaherty’s heart—a dream
which she adorned with delicious fancies and
never-to-be-realized visions floating in her ro-
mantic brain. She was the daughter of an
Irish farmer on the Rothcourt estate, and she
hoped to be Reginald Roth’s wife.
It was a strange and daring hope, but she
was young, innocent and foolish—not more so,
perhaps, than others have been before her, and
will be again so long as this world of imperfect
humanity continues. There was some excuse
for her—he had given her grounds for the hope.
In the listless, idle days before his father’s
death, Reginald found time hang heavy on his
hands. He admired the young Irish girl as he
admired every thing that was beautiful and
natural, until the dark ending of his life’s ro-
mance made him indifferent and callous to all
the tender emotions belonging to youth long
before his own youth was past.
So; he had dallied after Rachel Flaherty’s
footsteps, to whisper fond words in her ear.
He had been wont to honor her dairy with his
presence, watching every movement of the
rounded arms and graceful form with undis-
guised admiration in his lustrous eyes. He had
kissed her once or twice, unmindful of the rap-
ture in her downcast eyes. To him it was an
hour’s play, forgotten as soon as ended.
But Rachel did not forget. The first cloud
in her sky was a short visit paid by Miss Ber-
ney and her father to Rothcourt. Then follow-
ed a period of bitter suffering, in the midst of
which came the tidings of Lord Roth’s mar-
riage.
The day he brought his wife to Rothcourt she
watched, from a wicket gate where he had of-
ten been wont to meet her in the past spring-
time, that for Rachel had been the brightest,
gladdest spring in all her life, the carriage
which contained the newly-married pair. She
looked at him as he passed—herself unseen—
and, although her heart was sick and sore, a
strange bitterness rose in it, making her face’
flush, and her hands tighten their grasp on the
rail by which she stood.
“He has won my love but to cast it from
him,” she thought, fiercely ; ‘‘now my hate
shall work him woe!”
It was a terrible thought, and the look kind-
ling in her eyes was just as terrible. Perhaps
with the years to come the -love and the hate
would both die out—perhaps!
Beautiful Rachel Flaherty had many admir-
ers, and the next thing she did was to marry
the bailiff. Why she did so she scarcely knew.
During the few months that she was a wife she
scarcely thought of her husband; she was
thinking always of the man who had wronged
her—wild and, at times, horrible thoughts. She
told herself that she hated him, but she thought
of him day and night.
‘When they brought her husband home dead
—killed by a fall from his horse—she did not
shed a tear. People thought she felt more
deeply than she allowed the world to see, but,
in reality, she did not feel his death at all.
‘When her baby was born, it seemed to her that
he resembled Lord Roth. For that reason she
was doubly fond of the child. She was, how-
ever, obliged to maintain him; so, leaving him
in charge of her widowed mother, she secured
the post of maid to Lady Roth and head nurse
to her child. Some fascination drew her near
to Reginald Roth and his wife. True, she did
not like the lady with the childish face and
gentle voice, but she was willing to wait upon
her.
On the afternoon following the children’s be-
trothal she sat by the glowing fire in the plea-
sant day-nursery at Rothcourt. In her lap lay
the little heir, asleep. A strange smile played
upon her lips as she turned over in her imagin-
ative mind the events of the preceding day.
Opposite to her sat the under-nurse at needle-
work. Behind Rachel was a door communicat-
ing with Lord Roth’s dressing-room. It was
closed, but the sound of footsteps moving about
on the carpeted floor was plainly heard by the
two women, They were Lord Roth’s footsteps—
he was dressing for dinner. Hearing the child
cry, he opened the door and came into the nur-
sery.
a What is the matter with the young Turk,
Rachel?” he asked, gayly.
He took the boy from Rachel’s lap and held
him in his arms.
She gave a covert glance at him as he stood
Very haughty, very high-bred he looked now,
as always. He was in evening dress, and wore
old-fashioned low shoes with square diamond
buckles. Diamonds flashed on his shirt-front
and wrists. It was his custom to be as elabo
rate when dining alone with his wife as when
his table was surrounded by guests, Fine
linen and purple became Reginald Roth.
He played with his boy for a few minutes,
and then restored him to Mrs. Kenn. Her
hand—small and white as a lady’s—lay an in-~
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;
January $1, 1874.]
GELLES AND BGHEAUX.
j 3
stant upon his as she took the child, but it
touched no chord in his heart—awoke within
him no memory of the time when he had held
that same hand closely within his clasp: He
stooped and kissed the boy’s dimpled cheeks,
and the perfume of his glossy locks was wafted
in her face. Then he went out of the room,
leaving the dressing-room door ajar.
Eunice Mills looked after him with open ad-
miration upon her ruddy face.
“How fond his lordship seems of the little
fellow!’ she said, as the sound of Lord Roth’s
footsteps died away.
“Yes, but I wonder if it will last,” was the
reply, spoken slowly.
Eunice was a young servant—years after,
when she was housekeeper in this same house,
Rachel’s words returned to her with strange
significance. She looked up from her darning.
“Last?” she uttered. ‘Why should it not
last?”
“Oh, I don’t know—men’s love is short-
lived,” was the listless answer. ‘Love one
day, forgetfulness the next.”
Her bright eyes-were bent upon the fire.
“Oh, he’s not like that, Mrs. Kenn,” said
Eunice, incredulously.
“‘Isn’t he?’ replied Rachel, with a half-
smile. ‘‘Why, child, though he is Lady El-
len’s husband, I have seen him make love to
another lady—ay, and look at her with eyes
that seemed to say the earth was not good
enough for her to tread or the air for her to
breathe.”
‘‘Have youreally?” said Eunice, interested.
“Who was it, Mrs. Kenn?”
“His cousin, Miss Charlotte Berney,” an-
swered Rachel.
The bitterness was gone from her tone, and
it was full of dreamy sadness.
She was a strange woman—a remarkable
woman—one that in a higher grade of life
would have been a mark for much criticism—
for praise or blame as.she herself willed. Her
fellow-servants seemed to have a dim percep-
tion of the power that belonged to her; they
were a little afraid of her, a little angry with
her, and very fond of her if she chose to have
them so.
‘Why didn’t he marry her then?’ was
Kunice’s natural question,
“ Why?’ returned Rachel, sharply. ‘‘ Don’t
I tell you that it’s love one day, and forgetful-
ness the next, with them all?”
Eunice appeared incredulous. She was
“keeping company” with the footman, and
this was a very dismal prospect. Suddenly
she lifted her head.
“What is it?” asked Rachel.
‘“‘T thought I heard some one in there,” said
Eunice, pointing to the dressing-room.
“Get up and see.”
The girl obeyed. No—the room was empty.
She shut the door and sat down with an ex-
pression of relief.
“Suppose my lady had heard us!” she whis-
pered.
Mrs. Kenn appeared quite unruffled even by
this supposition,
“My lady” had heard. She was locked in
her bedroom now, trying to do battle with her
fierce pain. The half- bitter, half-scornful
words she had heard fall from Rachel Kenn’s
lips told her a new tale. Had her husband
loved his cousin once? If so, did he love her
still, and was he her husband only in name?
She fought against the terrible idea. In
spite of his coldness to her she had fondly be-
lieved that in his heart he loved her, else why
had he chosen her for his wife? She had never
wronged him by thinking that he had any
other motive for wedding her. Now all seem-
ed to be changed—a new light was thrown up-
on many things. The coldness she had held to
be his manner was in reality the true nature of
his feelings for her, He had loved before—he
had been disappointed in his love—and he had
married her because— -
Why? The reason baffled her. She loved
her husband; he had lifted her from her lower
estate; he had given her a title, and made her
a wife. Should she not in return give him her
love? !
The tears gathered in her eyes, and fell hot
and fast upon her costly dress, as her thoughts
went back with a deep, ineffable yearning to
her girlhood’s happy home, before Lord Roth
came into her life. Ah! never in all her wed-
ded life had the gloomy splendor of Rotheourt
given her so light a heart as the old home
where the merchant had let his daughter reign
as queen. And now, as the autumn sun set,
and the shadows grew dark and numerous in
her chamber, the last gleam of sunlight went
out of her life, leaving it dark and cold and
dreary forever. ' :
“Oh, my boy, my darling boy!” she cried,
in her despair; ‘‘you love me. I have only
you in all the world; nothing shall part us but
death—nothing!”
Lord Roth’s passionate love for his little son
was patent to all eyes; not even he himself
knew its depth. His son would redeem his
heritage from its thraldom, would form an in-
surmountable barrier between that heritage
and the man who Reginald Roth had sworn
should never hold it.
As the time went on these hopes and desires
grew stronger and more intense, His eye
would dwell upon the boy, as he sported on
the lawn or walked at his side through the vil-
lage, with a yearning gaze. The very ser-
vants remarked it and talked of it.
It was his thought to instill into the boy so
fervent a love for his heritage that, in the days
to come, he would deem no sacrifice too great
to make for its safety and its honor. And for
the man who was nursing this absorbing pas-
sion, what would it bring in the coming years?
Good or evil?
CHAPTER IV.
THE CHILD LOVERS.
THERE had been a shower, and the hedge-
rows, in all the glory of spring-tide verdure,
were drooping beneath their weight of crystal
drops. The orchard trees were laden with
blossom, and in the well-trimmed beds of the
Reedes spring flowers were in full bloom; ey-
ery thing looked fresh and fair.
The shower was quite over. On the terrace
steps stood Mrs. Rutherford, regarding with a
thoughtful face her little daughter, who was
seated in a chair-saddle upon a diminutive
Shetland pony, held by a groom, just in front
of the steps.
Three years have elapsed, and, beyond a
certain embonpoint and an expression of deeper
gravity in her eyes, the Squire’s wife is little
changed. The bright color is still blooming in
her cheek—the sweet smile lingers round the
pleasant mouth. During these three years
two more children have been born to Squire
Rutherford.
Beatrix Rutherford sat her horse well for so
young a child. Her proud little head was
erect, her bridle daintily poised. Round her
shoulders, and in contrast with her dark-blue
habit, hung the waving masses of her golden
hair. +=
Presently the Squire, on his bay mare, rode
round from the stables. He puckered up his
handsome face as he criticised the clouds.
“The shower is over, I think,” he said.
is safe for Beattie to venture.”
“Take care of her,” returned the mother,
fondly.
She watched them away, the Squire holding
the child’s leading-rein as they rode together
through the village. His little daughter dis-
tributed her smiles freely to old and young.
All Rothbury loved ‘‘ Miss Beattie” as they
loved her jovial father.
He was taking her to Rothcourt to pay a
farewell visit to the little heir. The Roths
were going abroad for a time; Lady Roth had
been ailing during the past winter, and her
physician had ordered change of climate—Italy
or the Mediterranean,
Lord Roth had shown no unwillingness to
acquiesce in this order. It would be a good
excuse for dismissing the large staff of expen-
sive servants—all expense told heavily on his
lordship’s purse—and the family could live
abroad in comparative cheapness. These were
some of his private thoughts; outwardly he
spoke pompously of the benefit that Lady El-
len would derive.
For Lady Ellen herself the subject was one
of complete indifference; for long past she had
lost all interest in every thing but little Regi-
nald, The coldness between her and her hus-
band had grown with years. To dream of
raising her voice in opposition to his scheme
would never have entered her head.
Riding up the avenue of elms that faced
Rothcourt, the Squire and Beatrix met little
Reginald with a nursemaid. Mr. Rutherford
dismounted, and, lifting his daughter down,
left her with her little friend, while he rode on
to the house.
From the window of Lord Roth’s private
room the two gentlemen watched the children
as they talked,
“So you are going to send the girl. away,
Adrian. What a dignified style she has of
a
‘holding her head!” said Lord Roth, with an
amused smile.
“You know of it then? -Yes, I am going to
send her to my aunt Margaret, at Dijon. She
is her godmother, is wealthy and alone, and
has begged earnestly to have the child, for a
time at least; soswe could scarcely refuse, al-
though Rose and I have had a hard tug with
our feelings. However, we console ourselves
with the thought that it will be for Beatrix’s
good.”
“For her good?’ questioned Lord Roth.
“Why, yes. My aunt is very wealthy—she
will give Beatrix a better dower than I could,
after all. I have two more girls to provide
for, Roth.”
The Squire shrugged his shoulders, . Lord
Roth shot a covert glance at him from under
the shade of his long lashes.
“She is a pretty little child,” he said, slow-
ly. ‘‘ You are sorry to lose her?”
“Can you doubt it? But we could not let
our love stand in the way of so great a benefit
for Beattie. My aunt thinks a great deal of
her,” said Mr. Rutherford, fondly regarding
the little figure in the blue riding-dress, ‘I
may have a large family, you know, Roth, and
I can not shut my eyes to this advantage which
good fortune has laid in my path,”
Had the Squire forgotten a certain slip of
blue paper which he had given his old friend
three years or more ago? Lord Roth had not.
“Tthink they get on very well together—
don’t you?” he said, eagerly.
“The children? Oh, capitally! How tall
your boy is—taller than Beattie, and we think
her tall.”
‘““Yes,” said Lord Roth, regarding his son
proudly. ‘He isa fine lad. I am glad I have
no more boys.” fopho
Half an hour later, as the Squire mounted
his horse, he glanced down at little Reginald
Roth. ,
“‘Good-by, Reggy,” he said, kindly, bending
from his saddle to place his hand on the curly
head.
If he had only known of the changes that
time would have wrought upon the sweet,
sunny face before he saw it again!
The Squire and his little daughter rode
away homeward, side by side; and the gather-
ing twilight hid the mist in Adrian Ruther-
ford’s blue eyes as he thought with wistful
pain of the few rides that remained to him
with his dearly loved little Beatrix,
Meanwhile the preparations were complete
at Rothcourt for the Continental sojourn that
was to restore Lady Roth to health. All the
servants were dismissed save the steward and
his wife, who were left in charge of Rothcourt,
and Rachel Kenn, who was to accompany her
mistress abroad.
It was the evening before the day appointed
for the journey, and Rachel Kenn was bending
over the wooden crib in which her boy lay
asleep. It was a plain little crib, and the
room containing it was simply and scantily
furnished, although very clean. There was
no tear in the young mother’s eyes, but upon
her lips was a yearning smile that lent an ex-
quisite beauty to her face.
“Darling, darling,” she murmured, in soft,
musical tones—‘‘ my own love, good-by!”
The passionate murmur did not wake the
child. He slept on calmly, one brown arm
pillowing the head with its masses of shining
dark hair, and on his olive cheek a tear, As
she bent over him a sob quivered on his lips.
It moved the mother’s secret love.
“Dreaming of mother! Ah, darling, when
you waken she’ll be gone; but it is better so.
Perhaps some day we shall meet again—some
day not very far off.”- ;
She laid the bed-clothes straight and -turned
away, never pausing to look back. Down the
well-scoured stairs she came, and into the little
kitchen, where an elderly woman sat knitting
by the fire.
Rachel advanced to the other side of the
hearth, and bent her head upon the wooden
mantelpiece. It was a very pale and serious
face that the flame played upon.
“You will take care of Oliver?’ she said,
without moving.
“You know I'll cherish him as my own
heart’s core, Rachel,” was the reply, in Mrs.
Flaherty’s richest brogue.
“And, mother, be sure I shall not forget to
send you money for yourself and him regular-
ly. Do not be troubled.”
“Ye’re a good daughter, Rachel. None
could say that iver ye forgot your mother in
her old age. Tll remimber. Now, sit you
here, and eat a little of this stew; it’s splendid,
and IJ’d be throubled to eat it all myself.”
An hour later the two women parted.
With slow and thoughtful footsteps Rachel
returned to Rothcourt,
It was a fair and balmy day in spring when
Lady Roth entered the carriage that was to
convey her to the nearest station. Her maid
and the luggage were already gone on. As
the carriage drove away, Lady Roth turned
her face toward the old Hall. She looked at
the turrets that rose up fair against the sky—
at the massive gates, at the pillars with the
grotesque stone faces that adorned them. She
looked at the pine wood that bounded the park
—the dark pine wood where the wind wailed
and sighed in low moans; she looked with ?y
languid smile upon her face. It was her J
look at Rothcourt! ‘
® ~w
CHAPTER V. Soul
A REVELATION.
In the front chamber of a small but ex-
quisitely-furnished villa overlooking the, Bay
of Mergellina, on the Mediterranean, sat Lady
Roth before her mirror. The May sunset
flashed upon the waters of the bay till they
gleamed like fretted gold. In the garden be-
neath the window Lord Roth was laughing
and playing with his little son; their voices
could be heard distinctly. Beyond the grounds,
which were bounded by a low white wall, lay
a narrow stretch of golden sand washed by
the waters of the little bay. A few fishing-
boats lay at anchor, and far off in the sunset
the spires and pinnacles of Naples—which was
scarcely five miles distant—were flashing in
the gorgeous light.
Rachel Kenn was dressing her mistress’ hair.
Lord and Lady Roth were going to an evening
assemblage at Naples. Lord Roth’s scheme of
economy had ended in his taking this small but
costly home with a suitable staff of servants,
and in his rather free indulgence in the plea-
sures of the best society in Naples. The life
suited him—he was born to luxury.
Occasionally he had uncomfortable misgiv-
ings concerning a day of reckoning, but he put
them aside. All would be well when a few
years had passed over Reggy’s head, making
the child a man; in the meaa time things must
take their chance; every thing would be weil
when Reggy was married.
This dream had become part of Lord Roth’s
life. It was the end of all his hopes —the talis-
man that would turn this life of miserable debt
and anxiety into one of rest and plenty and
honor, as it would have been ere this had he
been wise.
As Rachel wove the brown hair into silken
braids, her restless eyes cast swift glances
through the window every now and then.
Seated upon the gunwale of a boat that lay
upon the sands was a young man mending a
fishing-net. His clear-cut profile was distinct
against the sky. His face was one of dark
and sensual beauty. As he worked, he sung
in a tenor voice of exquisite tone, the clear,
rich notes sounding through the open window.
“Tf it were not for disappointing Lord Roth,
I would not go to the palace to-night—I feel so
strangely nervous and restless,” said Lady El-
len, dreamily.
‘Perhaps you will feel better when you ar-
rive there, my lady,” suggested Rachel, in the
soothing tones of her musical voice.
Lady Roth’s health had decidedly improved
of late—she looked better, too—less thin and
fragile.
“Still, I would rather remain at home.
Lord Roth is anxious to go—he expects to
*’
meet his cousin, Miss Berney, whom he has not
seen for some years.”
Lady Ellen often talked of her private af-
fairs with her maid—Mrs. Kenn stood high in
her regard. There was a slight peculiarity of
tone in Lady Ellen’s voice as she spoke—an ef-
fort to speak with careless indifference which
was patent to Rachel’s sharp ears,
“No, his lordship has not seen Miss Berney
for long,” she said, musingly.
“You remember her, I suppose?” asked
Lady Ellen, with that same assumption of care-
lessness,
“T don’t think any one who had once seen
Miss Berney could ever forget her, my lady.”
“She was so beautiful?’ asked the other,
wistfully.
‘Beautiful? (Will you hold your head a
little higher, my lady, if you please?) Yes,
she was very beautiful when I knew her—that
was five years ago.”
Rachel took a subtle glance at the mirror.
She hated the childish face that it reflected.
Her eyes came back to the brown braids with
a quiet satisfaction. She was not sorry that
the woman who had supplanted her should feel
some of the pain she had suffered. She went
on in unrufiled tones:
“That was at Rothcourt, my lady. Miss
Berney and her father were Lord Roth’s
guests for a short time then. Miss Berney
used to ride and hunt with my master. They
said no lady in the county rode like her. My
master often called her ‘Di Vernon.’ Beg-
ging your pardon, my lady, people used to say
she would be mistress of Rothcourt.”
Another swift glance at the mirror. The
shaft was telling—the face was white, the
mouth still. With skillful fingers Mrs. Kenn
fastened the gems above the forehead.
The conversation was interrupted by Lord
Roth. ~ He came in with a brighter look than
he usually wore.
“Tam very late, I fancy,” he said. “I had
almost forgotten the time, playing with the
boy. What a romp he is, Ellen! Wait for
me in the drawing-room, will you? I shall not
be long.”
He hastened to his dressing-room, and Lady
Roth, having finished her toilet, descended the
staircase and entered the drawing-room as one
in a dream. .
Some of this agony she had suffered once be-
fore. Time had softened the sharpness of it,
although it had never healed the cruel wound.
Now it was opened again. How should she
bear it—how meet the woman to whom the
first, best, and only love of her husband’s man-
hood was given, and perhaps never recalled—
givem so openly that the very servants talked
of it?
Lady Ellen was a meek woman, but a sensi-
tive one, and her every nerve quivered with
pain, while within her breast was born a feel-
ing nearer akin to anger than she had ever
felt; jealous anger it was, and sullen, as in
people not easily provoked this passion is apt
to be. She had long known that her husband
did not love her, and now she was going to see
the woman he had loved.
Her husband came in presently, and cried
out at her ghastly face, but she laughed the
subject off. He suggested that she should re-
main at home, in the cool, unrufiled matiter-of-
fact tone he ever used to her, but she persisted
in going. Not for worlds would she stay now
that some fascination possessed her to go.
The twilight was gathering when she entered
the carriage with her husband, The last thing
she saw was her maid, Rachel Kenn, leaning
over the low white wall, and talking te the
young fisherman with the tenor voice.
There was silence during the long drive, but
that was nothing unusual. Once Lady Ellen,
looking at her husband’s face, fancied it wore
the same bright look as it had worn ail day.
When they reached the glittering mansion of
the Neapolitan Minister, the lights that fiashed
upon her showed a burning color in the usually
pale face. There wasa great crush, and pre-
sently a lady of their acquaintance offered her
aseat. Lord Roth accepted it for her, and for
a little while stood at her side; then an English
gentleman came and took him away. He
turned a moment, as he went, to say that he
should not be long gone. She gazed after him
as he departed.
In the room adjoining the one in which she
sat there was dancing going on. The costly
curtains, which usually hung from a marble
archway and separaied the rcoms, were with-
drawn, so that a full view of the dancers could
be obtained. The crash of the music formed a
good excuse for not conversing, and with
strained eyes Lady Roth sought among the
glittering throng the face she wanted to see.
There were fair women there—aristocratic
women—many she knew; but she thought that
she should recognize among them all the face
of Charlotte Berney. She sought in vain.
Not one of all those countenances, it seemed to
her, could belong to her husband’s cousin.
Presently she saw Lord Roth approaching her;
and, while he was yet some distance off, a wo-
man swept by her with a flash of diamonds
that almost blinded her, a throat white as ala-
baster, eyes blue and soft, laughing lips, and a
stately head crowned with golden hair.
It must be Charlotte Berney! Lady Roth
guessed it by some wild instinct before she saw
her husband advance with outstretched hand,
and bow reverently while he looked down at
the fair face.
» Lady Ellen watched them with her dazzled
eyes, and a strong agony convulsed her heart.
The music seemed a crash of discord, a hideous
noise; she pressed her hand upon her heart to
still its wild throbbing.
They were coming toward her now, and her
gaze never moved from the smiling face and
luminous eyes till they were bent upon her,
0: so ea
POLITE ET TT
en
[3
Z .
GHLLEHS AND GHAUX.
[January 31, 1874,
“Lady Roth—my cousin, Miss Berney.”
Then, in a vague way, she rose and took the
dainty hand, and strove to smile at her hus-
band’s cousin.
“Miss Berney has promised to dance this
waltz with me, Ellen,” said Lord Roth. Then,
turning to his cousin, he added: ‘‘ Afterward,
Charlotte, I hope to introduce your father to
my wife.”
“T have quite lost papa, Reginald. He is
tired, and wants to go home; so our dance
must be a short one.”
The accents died away as Charlotte Berney,
leaning upon Lord Roth’s arm, swept away,
with her.arch face lifted to his as she spoke.
“Do you feel better now, my lady?” Rachel
asked, in her soft manner, as she bent over the
still face on the pillow.
All the flush was gone now, and the face was
very white and very weary.
“Yes, I feel better, Rachel. I think TI will
take a sleeping draught. I want rest.”
Yes, she wanted rest—rest from her heart-
ache. But she was not to know it yet—she
was to drink the cup of suffering to the dregs,
and then there would come to her the rest that
is promised to the weary.
Rachel gave the draught, and sat by the bed
till the tired eyes closed; but the sleep was
troubled. Bending over her mistress, the
waiting-woman listened to the disturbed moans
and broken words,
“I knew it would come this time,” she
murmured, half aloud; ‘‘and I said that,
when it came, I should be glad.”
CHAPTER VI.
A WIFE’S AGONY.
“WiLL you come out on the piazza, Ellen?”
The question came from Lord Roth, as he
arranged a light shawl round Charlotte Ber-
ney’s shoulders. Lady Roth looked up at
them.
“No,” she replied, ‘‘I will stay here.”
“ Are you not so well to-night, Ellen?” asked
Miss Berney. ‘
Lady Ellen shivered under the touch of the
jeweled hand.
“T only want quiet and rest,” she answered;
“T am better alone.”
Miss Berney’s arched lips were parted in a
fascinating smile as she strolled at her cousin’s
side on the piazza, now flooded with the sunset
glory.
Lady Ellen lay still on. her couch. It seem-
ed to her that Charlotte Berney was now al-
ways in the house. She heard the softer tones
of her husband’s voice when he addressed
Charlotte, she saw the deeper fire in his eyes
when they rested upon her. All her fears
were realized. Reginald Roth loved his cousin
still, and his wife knew it. It was no wonder,
she thought; yet day by day the lines of pain
and weariness grew upon brow and lip—day
by day the gnawing pain grew in her heart—
pain that no word of hers might give utterance
to.
“Mamma,” said the soft voice of little Regi-
nald, “may I stop with you? Rachel said I
might—she is talking to Tonio.”
Lady Ellen lifted the child to a place beside
-her, kissing the sweet face and flaxen curls.
“ Will you tell me about Ridinghood, mam-
ma? I like stories so much,” pleaded the ba-
byish voice.
“Not to-night, Reggy; mamma is tired,
You may talk to me instead.”
Reginald availed himself of the privilege,
and lisped out a disjointed account of his small
adventures during the day—of the strange fish
that Tonio, the young fisherman, had given to
him; of old Mariotta, Tonio’s father, who was
gone over the sea, but was soon coming home
with some wonderful shells he had promised
the little ‘milor”—‘‘ pink shells and white
ones-that would sing in your ears,” said Reg-
gy, with wide-open and mysterious eyes.
Lady Ellen listened with the smile she al-
ways had for the darling who in his three
short years had grown into her heart and life
so closely that her very existence seemed to
depend on her child.
Mrs. Kenn entered noiselessly.
“You here, my lady? I thought you were
on the terrace with my master,” she broke out,
in surprise.
She came to the couch and arranged the pil-
lows with care. Asshe didso she glanced at
the two figures in the garden, and then at her
mistress. Fora moment their eyes met.
“Come, master Reggy,” said Rachel, turn-
ing quickly to the child. ‘“‘It is bed-time.”
He lingered a little, till the rustling of Miss
Berney’s dress sounded near, and then he hur-
ried away. That lady was not among his fa-
vorites.
Charlotte Berney took her leave early that
night. Lord Roth placed her in her carriage,
and retired to spend the evening in his private
room. There was nothing tempting to him in
the society of his dull and listless wife.
Lady Ellen’s solitude was broken by Rachel
Kenn. She asked the favor of a few minutes’
conversation with her mistress.
“T want to tell you, my lady, that I am go-
ing to marry Antonio Alfieri,” she said, calmly.
Lady Roth looked up astonished.
“You are surprised, my lady?” said’ Rachel,
coloring.
“Yes, very much, Rachel. But I hope you
will be happy. I shall. be sorry to lose you,”
added the lady, gently.
“T would not leave you for any other rea-
son, my lady,” said Mrs. Kenn—she was touch-
ed a little by the sympathy, and the unvarying
kindness she had received during long years at
the hands of the woman she had tried to hate—
‘but Antonio pleads very hard, and he will be
good to me,” she continued, ‘He will be well-
to-do, my lady, for old Mariotta, his father,
will take but one more trip in the barque, and
then he will give it up to Antonio, and live
with his friends in Naples.”
“Tt is Mariotta the merchant of whom you
speak, is it not?”
“Yes, my lady, the old man with the long
white hair, to whom Master Reginald used to
talk so much when we first came here. His
next voyage will be his last; then Antonio will
have the barque.”
There was a long pause, and then Lady Roth
spoke suddenly, lifting her wistful face:
“ But what is to become of Oliver, Rachel?”
“J have arranged with Antonio, my lady,”
explained the waiting-woman, ‘‘that Oliver
and my mother are to come out here and live
with us—my mother will be willing, for she is
lonely by herself. I shall be lonely too, my la-
dy, when Antonio is gone on his trading voy-
ages.”
“And if she should not be willing?’ said
Lady Ellen,
‘Tf she should not be willing to remain,” re-
peated Rachel, calmly, ‘‘ we must pay for her
journey back to England. I can not be separ-
ated from Oliver, you know, my lady. But
my mother has no relative but me; and I feel
sure shé will choose to make her home with me,
wherever it may be.”
“And Antonio is willing that it should be
so?”
‘¢ Antonio has no wish but to make me hap-
py,” said Rachel, in a low, but proud tone.
Lady Roth turned her face away. There
was a flush on her wan cheek, and a sudden
pain in her eyes. Mrs, Kenn went out, clos-
ing the door.
Lady Ellen lay still. Her fingers were toy-
ing with a little gold crucifix on her throat. It
was an old-fashioned ornament that had be-
longed to her when she was a girl. The initials
of her maiden name were in raised letters on
the back; and, after her marriage, she caused
the initials of the new name to be added. As
she lay thinking, her thin fingers passed me-
chanically over the three letters. Her eyes
were filled with unutterable sadness; and, long
after Rachel Kenn was gone, they were bent
in a wistful gaze upon the waters of the bay,
as if, through the gathering twilight, they
could see afar off old Mariotta’s sail.
CHAPTER VII.
THE HUSBAND’S CONFESSION.
Tur morning sunlight was sparkling upon
the golden sand and upon the white piazza,
where the shadow of the leaves, creeping up the
pillars, lay thick. It was a very hot morning;
the window of Rachel Kenn’s chamber was
thrown wide open,
Rachel knelt upon the floor in front of an
open trunk, in which she was packing linen and
finery. She was packing it to take with her
for a fortnight’s holiday to Antonio’s friends in
Naples. Lady Ellen — always thoughtful for
the happiness of those about her—had given
Rachel a present of money with which to buy
clothes for her marriage. It was to spend this
that Mrs. Kenn was going to Naples.
Her room was a small off-room on the
ground floor. Adjoining it on one side was
Lord Roth’s private apartment, half - study,
half-library, where he spent many of the hours
when Charlotte Berney was not in the house,
The same vine that spread its tendrils about
Rachel’s window grew in thick luxuriance be-
fore Lord Roth’s sanctum.
This room had two doors—one leading from
a tiny conservatory, the other leading into the
hall,
Lord Roth was seated before his writing-ta-
ble this morning, with his face shaded by his
hands. Before him lay a paper containing a
peremptory application for money. He had
had many such lately, but this was an insult
that it was hard for proud Lord Roth to face.
On the table were strewn a heterogeneous
hesp of bills, at the sum total of which he
scarcely dared to look. His eyes were fixed up-
on the sheet before him, every written word of
which was torment to his brain. He had sat
thus since he opened the letter, two hours ago;
and so stupefied did he feel by the shock that
his thoughts refused to arrange themselves in
order. The amount of money demanded was
larger than he could raise. The refusal to raise
it would entail—what?
“T suppose it must have come to this, sooner
or later,” he said to himself, mechanically, ‘I
have tried to hold on, to struggle through for
the boy’s sake, I would have done it if I could
—have kept my honor before the world; but it
is more than I can accomplish. Honor!” he
moaned, passionately. ‘I don’t think I have
any honor left since she has crossed my path
again! It would bea good thing if death came
between me and this load of sin and misery.”
Some one entered the room, He raised his
head and looked at the beautiful vision before
him. >” influence She heard the rumor that the husband who re-
: on those about him.” His wealth secured him | fused to acknowledge her was paying court. to
high standing; his energy and enterprise were another lady. This stung her. to action. What
i a guarantee for the continuance of prosperity, | Woman could bear a rival in her lawful place!
i and his proud, generous and genial character | She hurried to Philadelphia. She sought
j gave him social supremacy, and obtained re- | Mr. Coxe, a business partner and friend of
: spect from foreign Governments. Clark’s, and proclaimed herself Clark’s wife.
j About 1802 he became acquainted with Ma- | He asked for the proof of her marriage. Alas!
ts dame Zulime de Granges, the wife of a French- | she could produce none. The records had been
man said to be noble in his own country, | lost or destroyed; the priest had gone to Ire-
; though reduced in this to a “‘ horrible shopkeep- | land; the witnesses had disappeared.
: er.” This lady was a Creole of extraordinary | Zulime was reminded of the great wealth
{ beauty. Clark became enamored of her; and | and power arrayed against her claim. She
i when it was ascertained that her marriage with | consulted a lawyer and met with further dis-
De Granges was void because his wife wedded | couragement. She learned that her husband
in France was still living, the rich chevalier | was engaged positively to a lady in Baltimore.
made proposals of marriage to her. She and Zulime found her enemies too many for her.
; her sister found in Philadelphia a witness to De | She had none of the spirit and energy of her
, . Granges French marriage, who knew the wife | daughter Myra, There is a story that she
to be still living. The wronged lady was there- | went in a carriage to the front of her rival’s
fore free to wed another if she pleased. house, one evening when there was a party,
Daniel Clark appeared at this juncture, full | and saw it brilliantly illuminated; thatshe saw
of ardent love for the beautiful victim of the | also her faithless lord walking with his young
Frenchman’s perfidy, and prevailed on her to | betrothed on the veranda. We doubt the truth
consent to a private marriage before competent | of this. A woman would scarcely have been a
: witnesses. woman, had she not then and there denounced
; A report now came that the French wife of | the recreant, or left the marks of her ven-
cai nN
att A TI
“HOW CORA WENT 190
ELUR OPE.
BY LUCILLE C. -HOLLIS.
HE hour is late, and the evening a warm,
pleasant one, in May. Delmonico’s sa-
loon, on Fourteenth street, is brilliantly light-
ed, and white-aproned waiters are hurrying to
and fro, bringing luscious little suppers to the
gay parties that have gathered here since the
close of the opera and the play.
Here are many women elegantly arrayed,
and handsome of form and face, but none
more fair to look upon than Cora Heath,
daintily eating an ice and discussing Edwin
Booth and Shaksperian plays with her escort,
Mr. Ed Carter. :
She is petite, and the World says—and the
World ought to know—beautiful, Her cloak
is thrown carelessly back, and the delicate
laces on her arms and shoulders fail to conceal
the perfection of their fairness and symmetry.
Her companion regards her with unfeigned
admiration, He is a graceful, stylish man,
charmingly polite, and on the best of terms
with Miss Heath, though he holds the equivo-
cal position of intimate friend to her lover.
Who is her lover? Ah! a woman asked
that question! Know, then, oh! feminine
ais unicast
De Granges had appeared to claim her rights;
and on hearing this, Mrs. Daniel Clark and her
sister, Madame Despau, hastened home to New
Orleans.
De Granges, it is said, was prosecuted for
bigamy, tried, convicted and imprisoned, Zu-
lime then saw her way clear to a public ac-
knowledgment of her marriage with Clark, so
that she could take her place as mistress of his
geance on the face of the object of his court-
ship!
Poor Zulime succumbed, She knew that in
lax New Orleans infidelity in man was reckon-
ed as nothing. Perhaps she may ‘have even
questioned whether she had not been, all along,
the victim of man’s deception.
Daniel Clark died on the 16th of August,
1813. In that same year he made his last will.
of counter claimants and incumbents on pro-
perty owned by her. Their only hope seems
to be in wearing out her patience by petty
litigation, and by wearisome delays. She has
established her rights beyond dispute, and
must eventually triumph in the details, if her
life is spared long enough,
She is a woman of youthful appearance, and
is still beautiful. Her brown curls shade a
There are thousands’| curiosity, that his name is Barton Keyser; he
is a young but brilliant lawyer; he is blonde
of complexion, and tall and broad-shouldered
of stature.
Cora’s voice is so musical, her laughter so
like the chiming of silvery bells, that another
gentleman, besides Mr. Carter, is regarding
her admiringly. He sits at the next table,
drinking amber-hued champagne, and con-
versing of State politics, with J. Mason Ran-
1 house. She expected her justification before | By this he declared Myra Davis his daughter | brow on which time has planted no wrinkle, | dall, his particular friend and protege, who is
1 the world, from the judicious proof of De | and only legitimate child, and left to her the | and her dark eyes sparkle with vivacity, and | the young, laughing-eyed, managing editor of
8 1 Granges’ bigamy. whole of his estates! kindle a corresponding enthusiasm in all who | a daily paper. His name is John Vere, and
a i But at this critical time De Granges made The executors were all well-known citizens | converse with her. She has a cheery, joyous | he is large, dark, handsome, and thirty-nine.
4 his escape from prison. The Spanish Governor | of New Orleans, Evidence exists of this will; | laugh, and a silvery, musical voice, with elo- | He is richly, but ‘a trifle negligently, attired,
; was charged with aiding his escape. He was | and in his last hours Clark solemnly charged | quence, and piquant wit. A story from her | and looks what he is—a wealthy politician.
| hurried down the Mississippi, taken on board a | Boisfontaine, and Lubin his attendant, to hand | lips is listened to with fascinated attention ; so ‘To descend from Shaksperian representa-
| ship about to sail from the Gulf for Europe, and | over to De la Croix, one of his executors, the | glowing is her style, so penetrating her hu-| tions, do you like French dramas, Miss
10 : carried to France, ; “ little black case” containing this will! mor, so easy her flow of language. She has | Heath?’ asks Mr. Carter,
a j This untoward accident raised an obstacle to While Clark lay in the unconsciousness pre- | more than once pleaded her own case, and The lady balances her spoon on the rim of
at : the recognition of his beautiful spouse by the | ceding dissolution, Relf, his partner, turned to once, it is said, spoke over two hours to a jury, | her glass and answers:
on } proud merchant prince. He seems to have | the armoire, took up the bunches of keys, and | and gained her case. She understands the law, “Yes, very well, only they inspire me with
t= i never, during his life, presented to the world | left the room. Afterward, when the black | and has mastered, details as well as principles. | such ardent desires to see France and French
; his lawful wife, the lovely, but unhappy | case was opened, no will was found! At a party in Washington, an old gentle- | dramas aw naturel that they are somewhat un-
i Zulime. A previous will was produced, and admitted | man, fond of reminiscences, remarked, while | satisfactory. How I envy you who have seen
| Her child was born in the house of M. Bois- | to probate. Under it, Relf and Chew, execu-| he looked at her, “Thirty-five years ago I | all of Europe!”
: fontaine, a refugee from St. Domingo, and a | tors, assumed charge of the estates. danced with that lady, and she looks no older | “Indeed! I should never have dreamed that
} confidential agent of Daniel Clark in the man-| _ It is said that Colonel Davis removed to Phil- | now than she did then.” She has a slender, | envy was possible with you.”
agement of several of his estates. Myra | adelphia in 1812, and some years later to his | girlish form, though rounded well, and a deli- “Proof, you see, that we ‘live and learn,’”
CLarKk, soon after her birth, was placed by M, | home in Wilmington. Here Myra’s young | cate complexion many in youth might covet. | retorts Cora, laughing. ‘Did you not enjoy
Boisfontaine in the family of his brother-in- | girlhood was passed. She was supposed the | At a ball she Was Once requested to “advance” | yourself immensely?”
law, Col. S. B. Davis. Both these appear to | daughter of Colonel Davis, and knew nothing | that she might be presented to the British Am- “Hardly. Tolerably expresses it better. 1
have been gentlemen of culture and honor, | of her real parentage. She grew up beautiful, | bassador. “« Advance ? she responded ; ‘‘cer- | went as Carl’s escort merely to oblige father.
i They probably believed the stories circulated | charming and highly accomplished. tainly not ; it is Lord N.’s place to come to a | I’m not fond of traveling, but allowed myself
i: i Y persons interested in suppressing the truth; In her early bloom she met and loved Wil-| lady, if an introduction is to take place,” | to become a victim of circumstances.”
ood :
F
eed
saelatineeeaiensemeiiiatieanaans
BGELLES AND BHAUX
it a Sai ie ca é
[January 31, 1874,
“How willingly I would have been the vic-
tim of such circumstances,” replies Cora.
“Miss Heath, you astonish me! You really
would have gone as escort to my brother?’
laughs Ed. ‘‘In that case no persuasions
would have been necessary to induce me to ac-
company him. I would start for Europe to-
morrow, with you for a traveling companion.”
Miss Heath arches her brown eyebrows be-
witchingly and answers, gayly:
“Suppose we go!”
“Now you tempt me,” says Mr. Carter,
with a glance that deepens the rose-tints in the
fair, bright face opposite him. “ But I must
resign that honor to Bart, as long as he has the
better right.”
“And do you doubt that he always will
have?” asks Cora, with a little conscious
blush,
“Not in the least! Therefore, I feel per-
fectly safe in pledging myself to take you to
Europe, as soon as your engagement to him is
broken, if you will marry me.”
They are rising from the table, and Ed
speaks jestingly. Cora answers in the same
strain:
“Oh, I would marry any man who would
take me to Europe on my wedding tour; why
— I beg a thousand pardons!”
In passing thenext table, the fringe of her
opera-cloak caught on John Vere’s chain, scat-
tering the contents of the wine-glass he held
over his hand and sleeve.
“Not at all! It is of no consequence,” Mr.
Vere answers, smiling, and unfastening the
fringe. ‘By Jove!’ he exclaims, as she
smiles back at him and passes on, ‘who
would not be tempted to take her at her
word!”
“What! an incorrigible bachelor, like you,
tempted to marry and take to Europe a girl
who begs your pardon for an accident and
smiles at you once?” asks J. Mason.
Vere evidently thinks he was foolish, for he
returns to legislation and champagne,
It is fifteen months later, and Cora Heath
and aunt Mabel—for Cora is an orphan, the
adopted child and reputed heiress of Miss Ma-
bel North—are passing down the dining-room
of a Long Branch hotel. They seat themselves
at their table and sit there chatting pleasantly.
Aunt’ Mabel is wealthy and eccentric, and
adores Cora. She has never been known to
oppose the girl in but one whim, that is—sho
will not let Cora cross the ocean.
While the ladies sit thus unconcerned, two
gentlemen, out of the party of six who occupy
a table opposite, are regarding them closely.
“That young lady’s face is familiar, Jack,
yet I can not recall her name,” says J. Mason
Randall, to John Vere.
“T doubt whether you ever heard it,” an-
swers his friend. ‘‘ We saw her one night, af-
ter theater, at Delmonico’s, over a year ago;
and, if you remember, she christened me with
champagne, as she passed our table.”
“Ah, yes, I recollect now,” and Mr, Ran-
dail’s memory is so good that he mischievously
adds, ‘‘and that you were moved to a strange-
ly emphatic and matrimonial mood by her
smile.”
The gentlemen are nearly all from Albany,
and that grave and monetary theme, “ office,”
is the present topic of their conversation, Mr.
Vere is too much engrossed in it to notice J.
Mason’s raillery; but when every one else be-
comes intent on it, he becomes intent on
watching Miss Heath. So much so that, when
suddenly surprised with questions, he ad-
vances some sadly heterodox political views.
Miss Heath is thoroughly polite, thoroughly
courageous, but a trifle unconventional. In
the early morning she runs down the hotel
steps and trips toward the surf. There are
not many bathing yet, and Cora enjoys her’
bath the more because of the sunrise quiet that
prevails along the shore.
John Vere is in the surf. He comes out,
just after Miss Heath, and finds her shivering,
and vainly striving to unlock the door of her
bathing-box.
“ Allow me,” he says, and opens the door.
Cora smiles dazzingly, through the salt drops
that drip over her face, and suddenly remem-
bers him.
“You return good for evil, I see,” she says,
prettily, and disappears in her bathing-box.
Oddly enough, John Vere meets her again,
when she reappears, costumed and sparkling,
and they walk back to the hotel together.
Her vivacity and piquancy charm him.
“Must we consider our acquaintance at an
end?” he asks, as they stand in the hall.
“T should be sorry to do so,” answers Cora,
in her straightforward, captivating way.
They exchange cards, and in ten days John
Vere’s Albany friends declare him to be
“pretty far gone.”
Itis the last night of Miss Heath’s stay at
the Branch. She and John Vere are tired of
waltzing, so they wander along the sands.
To-night the roll of the waves is music, soft
and rippling. The darkness above them is
brilliant with gleaming, starry jewels. The
ocean is one vast sheet of lazily-throbbing sil-
ver sheen. The warm, pulsing beauty of the
night thrills John Vere’s soul, and the soft
touch of light fingers on his arm thrills his
heart. He yields to the combined influences
and sacrifices his bachelor freedom upon the
shrine of love, offering hand and heart to Miss
Heath,
“Oh! Iam so sorry you have told me this,
Mr. Vere, for I am engaged,” says Cora, softly
and pityingly.
He makes no answer, and facing him she
sees, by the moonlight, how white he has
grown, and such pain in his eyes, and about
his firmly-closed ips, as she has never seen on
a man’s face before,
“You think I have flirted with you,” she
cries, remorsefully, “but, indeed, I have not
meant to! I have enjoyed our acquaintance
so much, oh! so very much! Must I remem-
ber it with bitter pain? Are you~ going to
hate me?”
She holds out her hands imploringly. He
takes them in his own, kisses them, then puts
one back on his arm, and they walk slowly on.
Presently the color comes back to his face,
and with voice and manner very calm, he an-
swers her:
“T should be most unjust, did I think you
had flirted. I know you better than that; so
much better that, instead of hating you, I re-
spect you above all other women. Twenty
years ago I was engaged. The lady threw me
aside, to marry a wealthier man. Since then,
until I met you, I have despised your sex.
You won my admiration, and compelled me to
have faith in you, by your frank, fearless man-
ners. You liked me as a friend, and were not
ashamed, or afraid, to show it. That I have
allowed my feelings to deepen into love, is my
own folly. Yet I shall never regret it, Miss
Heath. I shall be the better for having met
and loved you. If more women would accord
us men such fearless, honest friendship, throw-
ing aside the cold, hypocritical conventionali-
ties of society, we should give them deeper re-
spect; they would have greater influence over
us for good; they would make us better men.
No, Miss Heath, I shall not regret my love for
you, though its dream may not be realized,
and some other man will have the joy I have
coveted, of showing you the Old World.”
He stops suddenly, and studies her face by
the moonlight.
“You remember the night we met in Del-
monico’s? Yes, I see you do. Tell me! that
man is not the one you intend to marry?”
‘No! oh! no!”
He draws a long breath of relief, and a pale
sheet of light falls athwart his dark, handsome
face as he says, earnestly:
“Tam glad. It would be hard to think of
you as his wife.” P
He does not speak again, until they are
nearly to the hotel. Then he says:
“T trust the man you marry will be worthy
‘of you, more worthy than I; but I shall hope
to retain a place in your memory, as a
friend.”
Cora can not answer him, but hot tears plash
down on his hand.
“Why, little girl, have I made you cry?”
he asks, tenderly, so tenderly. ‘‘ Forgive me,
if I have pained you.”
They stand on the piazza, now, in the gray-
ness and chill of the dawn, and Cora can still
find no words wherewith to answer him. She
tells herself that she does not love this man as
she does Barton Keyser. Yet this parting
pains her strangely, and her drooped eyes are
dim with tears, and the throbbing of her heart
chokes her.
““Good-by,” says John Vere’s voice, softly—
a little tremulously now—“ perhaps it is for-
ever.”
His face touches hers, his first and last kiss
burns on her mute lips, and she is alone.
Alone! Only two months ago Cora Heath
was murmuring that word sorrowfully, be-
cause John Vere had passed out of her daily
life; now, she realizes its full import. Twenty
years old and utterly friendless. *
Miss Mabel North had a horror of death. Tt
seemed to her that to make a will was to pre-
pare for instant dissolution; and she delayed
the writing of this important document until a
sudden, fatal apopletic fit rendered atonement
for past procrastination impossible. Her law-
yer knew that she had intended all her proper-
ty to be Cora’s, but in the absence of a will,
and the presence of near relatives, Miss Heath
was left penniless. The Misses North, aunt
Mabel’s nieces, did offer the girl a trifling an-
nuity, but it was so insultingly smali that Cora
scornfully refused it.
To Barton Keyser she wrote the plain facts
of the case, nothing more. ‘If he loves me,”
she said, ‘‘he will come; if not—” she drew
herself up proudly—‘‘I shall not mourn for
a man who would have married me for
money.”
He did not come. He lived stylishly, de-
voting all his income to his own expenses. He
admired Cora extremely, but he could not af-
ford to marry a poor girl; so he sent her a
formal note of condolence, and Miss Heath un-
derstood its meaning, and returned his ring.
That night, a sore temptation came to Cora
Heath. Sucha temptation as only a woman
delicately reared and suddenly reduced to se-
verest poverty, as she had been, can under-
stand.
Ed Carter, in his graceful way, but with a
cool assumption of acceptance that sent the
blood thrilling angrily through Cora’s blue
veins, asked her to be his wife. :
“She is society bred, and deuced pretty,
and I am rich; why should I not fulfill my old
promise of marrying her, now that Barton has
released his claims on the beauty?’ he solilo-
quized.
Cora crushed back her pride, and reflected.
“He is wealthy, it will be a revenge upon
Barton, and I shall never have to work, nor
even leave the circle in which I have lived,
and—” Her heart throbs hotly and quickly;
for suddenly memory pictures a sheeny sum-
mer sea and a strip of sparkling sands; and
brings to her ear the soft, rippling music of
the waves and a voice, saying: “It would be
hard to think of you as his wife.”
She answered Mr. Carter calmly and de-
cisively.
“JT thank you for the honor you do me, but
I can not be your wife.”
She is thinking this morning of her answer,
and of the surprised look that came into Mr.
Carter’s face, and of the sneer that curled his
lips, and she does not regret what she has
done. But she is heart-sore and lonely, List-
lessly she takes up the morning paper. She
has not decided what to do, yet, but an adver-
tisement meeting her eyes decides her;
‘A lady about to travel in Europe, with two little
girls, desires to secure the services of a well-edu-
cated young woman, ag companion and governess.
She must understand French and German. Refer-
ences exchanged. Address Mrs, A. E., Albany,
Ney
Letters and references are exchanged with
satisfactory results, and, at the appointed
time, Cora meets her employer on the steamer,
bound for Europe.
A few friends accompany Mrs. Edane, and
her little daughters, to New York, and come
on shipboard to bid them adieu. Among them
are her brothers, Carl and Ed Carter, and her
dear friend, J. Mason Randall.
Cora and Ed are both surprised. He has
not dreamed that she is his sister’s governess
who might have gone to Europe as his wife.
His only recognition is a cold, insolent stare,
for he intends that she shall realize the differ-
ence between the position she has chosen, and
the one she has refused.
Cora’s fair cheeks burn, and her pride can
not restrain a look of gratitude when Mr. Ran-
dall greets her warmly, and expresses his plea-
sure at meeting her again.
“Miss Heath,” he says, kindly, when taking
his leave, ‘I am sure you are a charming
writer. Any thing you will send us while you
are abroad will be most acceptable, and I
doubt not very remunerative to yourself.”
Cora has scarcely time to say ‘‘ thank you,”
as he slips his card in her hand, ere the gay
party are gone, and she is on her way to Eu-
rope—not as wealthy, courted Miss Heath, but
as this proud Mrs. Edane’s servant.
*
The night finds J. Mason Randall in Albany,
sitting, at midnight, in John Vere’s bachelor
den. Cigars and wines stand untouched* upon
the table while one man earnestly speaks, the
other intently listens.
Mr. Randall is talking of Cora Heath.
Mr. Vere’s face is in shadow, but when his
friend ceases, he says, sadly:
“ Poor little girl! She dreamed of going to
Europe as a happy bride, and she goes, instead,
as a poor governess,” :
“Mrs. Hdane is a proud, but exceedingly
kind, lady,” suggests J. Mason, comforting-
ly.
“Cora shall not test her kindness long,”
Vere says, resolutely.
The next European steamer numbered John
Vere among its passengers, to the intense aston-
ishment of his friends, who talked of tendering
him the nomination for Governor.
Mr. Randall was in the secret, but told no
tales, until a year afterward, when Mr. and
Mrs. John Vere returned to New York.
BEAUTIFUL BELLS.
BY J. G. MANLY, JR.
Hear the.sweet chimings,
Beautiful bells!
oet’s rhymings!
isten, there swells,
Swells, swells over the dells,
Not knells, but bells, sweet bells,
Chiming! Beautiful bells!
Some
Fancies forgotten
On our thoughts rush,
Sweetly begotten!—
emory’s touch,
Loveliness’ blush! Gush
Not knells, but bells, sweet bells’
Chiming! Beautiful bells!
Let me but ponder
What the chime flings
From the steeple yonder!
All musical PES
Love’s springs; and thought which wings
Not dwells, o’er plains and dells,
From you, beautiful bells!
Now soft are ending
Beautiful belis!
Sweetly ascending
eaven’s citadels,
Wells, wells, each chime and tells,
God we worship! Beautiful bells!
SHAMIEWELE Y.
HE passion for jewelry has been a habit
of mankind from the days of Solomon to
those of the Shah. It was illustrated by the
idolaters of Somnath; it blazed at the feet of
the Esterhazies; it has culminated in the tiara
and belt of Nasr-Shah-Eddin. This potentate
made himself the cynosure of Europe by means
of the diamonds flaming upon his aigrette, his
breast, and the hilt and sheath of his scimitar;
and so. the subject of gems has been wonder-
fully upon the carpet lately. But with fashion
comes ambition. People will wear glittering
ornaments somehow, and prefer the false to
none at all. Everybody, too, has read tales of
extravagant ladies pledging their genuine
jewels and wearing shams for the deception of
society. And the art has reached such perfec-
tion, that, apart from certain tests, which, of
course, are impossible to apply, they really do
deceive. In flash and splendor, the imitated
are often scarcely inferior to the originals,
whence, by the chemist’s magic, they are cop-
ied. ;
In dealing with this consummate kind of for-
gery, one preliminary remark has to be made.
Jewels viewed in a natural, and jewels viewed
in an artificial light, are, like certain sorts of
beauty, not to be compared. There isa fluid
radiance in them which wants refraction; the
former take it from the sun, the latter from the
chandelier. In the case of the peerless stone,
did illusion is to produce a perfectly colorless
substance, thoroughly lucid, and capable of re-
flecting all lights. To this pebble—for it is
nothing more—have been attributed many vir.
tues; but it can be fabricated. by science with
a very near approach to reality. First, it is
necessary to dissolve charcoal. Then follow
processes requiring crystallization—a mingling
of pure water, a little carbonate of sulphur, and
certain proportions of liquefied phosphorus.
Still, all this may not yield a thoroughly de-
ceptive diamond. Another composition is made
from silver-sand, very pure potash, minium,
calcined borax, and a form of arsenic, varied
occasionally by a mixture of strass—a mixture
for which an equivalent is paste, and which re-
presents transparent pebbles burnt to powder,
white-lead, and other similar materials. Some-
times rock-crystal is used, with borax acid from
Italy, and nitrate of potash. Of these materi-
als. is composed the false diamond, which fig-
ures so alluringly in the shop windows of the
Palais Royal.
Let us turn to the sapphire, the next esteem-
ed among precious stones, even above the em-
erald and theruby. It is a product of the East,
though found, of inferior quality, in Bohemia,
Saxony, and France among rocks of the second-
ary period. There are white sapphires, occa-
sionally mistaken for diamonds; crimson or
carmine, resplendent beyond description; ver-
milion, and topaz-tinted. Indeed, we may
assign rank to the emerald as daughter of the
sapphire. Do you covet them in order to beam
with borrowed luster ata ball? Take, as the
cookery-books say, one ounce of paste, mix
with two grains of precipitated oxide of cobalt,
and there you have the coloured and glowing
necklet, which none except a jeweler can de-
tect. Supposing, however, that you desire ear-
rings of chrysoberyl, or chrysopal—or cymo-
phane, as the French term it, which means
‘floating light ’—the trifle is exceedingly pretty,
with its surface of asparagus green and its
heart of radiating fire. Yet it isto be emulated
by a combination of aluminium, silica, oxide
of iron, and lime.
Coming to the splendid gem, the ruby,
whether of Brazil, Barbary, or Bohemia, with
its cherry or purple red, varied by opalescent
or milky aspects, there are various methods of
rivaling it—with litharge and calcined shells;
with paste, antimony, glass, and purple of Cas-
sius; with white sand, washed in hydrochloric
acid, minium, calcined potash, calcined borax,
and oxide of silver, stirred in a crucible. We
are furnishing our jewel-box rapidly, and at a
very moderate expense. But care must be
taken lest, through an imprudent admixture,
your fictitious*ruby should suggest the idea of
a garnet, which isa poor and unrecognizable
relation of the family. The topaz has never
been very fashionable in England; yet itis a
charming gem in all its varieties, yellow, white,
colorless—‘ drops of water’ the Dutch lapida-
ries call these—orange, shining to little dis-
advantage among diamonds, ‘red jonquil,’
purple, red, blue, and violet. But it is unneces-
sary to search the rocks of Brazil, Saxony, or
Bohemia to gain credit for wearing these bits
of beautifulradiance. A little white lead, with
some shells of a rich tint, pulverized and cal-
cined, will yield a composition of exquisite fire
and tint, capable of being cut like the genuine
gem. So will a mixture of antimony, glass,
and ordinary jeweler’s paste with purple of
Cassius; but the best imitation of any is pro-
duced by a composition of white sand, minium,
burnt potash, burnt borax, and oxide of silver.
This, with the necessary processes, is a some-
what costly preparation.
Far above the topaz, however, in point of
splendor and value, ranks the emerald—not
of Brazil, or India, or Carthagena, but the
‘noble’ quality discovered in Peru, among the
valleys of New Granada, of a rich grass green,
with a sort of velvet surface, unapproached by
any other precious stone. There are, of course,
several varieties—the sky-blue, the aquamarine,
the corn-colored, even the white; but they are
not often imitated. The true smaragdus has
been converted almost into an object of wor-
ship. It has been exalted as an amulet in cases
of epilepsy and insanity; its aid has been in-
voked for the detection of witches and hidden
treasures; that of Mantu, indeed, was formerly
termed the ‘goddess.’ Still, our chemist will
with paste, oxide of copper, and niter of potash,
create something wonderfully similar, or, more
elaborately, he may employ numerous different
materials, including the invaluable silver sand.
The true hyacinth of Ceylon, often confounded
with the orange sapphire and the saffron topaz,
and known also as the ‘brown diamond,’ can
be counterfeited almost to perfection. So with
the water sapphire, hyaline, the common ame-
thyst, the ‘smoke diamond’ of Alencon, the
cats’ eye, and the agate. Onyx and coral need
scarcely be enumerated. There is a notorious
manufacture of onyx nearly all over Europe,
from German pebbles, treated with acids; and
the false can scarcely be distinguished from the
true, except by their weight and price. We
should recommend very great caution in pur-
chasing what purports to be onyx. In no kind
of precious stones is more deception practiced.
- As regards coral, there are also false kinds
as well as the reality. By the aid of the real
or pink coral, many beautiful imitations are
effected; sometimes with the assistance of dia-
mond-dust, for application to mosaic, to furni-
ture ornaments, and enamel. The opal is, in
its way, peerless among precious stones, and the
only one which, when extracted from the earth,
as in Hungary; is soft, hardening and diminish-
ing in size through exposure to the air. It is
rarely larger, with its milk-blue beauty, illu-
minated by sun-tints, than a nut, but has al-
ways been marvelously esteemed. In fact, the
flamboyant opal of Mexico, representing an ad-
however, the diamond, the object of the splen-
.
mixture of silica, iron, and water, is a magnifi-
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January 31, 1874.
BGELLES AND GEAUX.
cent gem, and its family is mentioned in the
Apocalypse as including ‘the most noble of
stones.’ In consequence of their being exces-
sively prized, and of a quickly fading nature,
sham specimens are fabricated to an extraor-
dinary extent.
Thus, also, with pearls, although by many
they are preferred when they have lost their
origmal whiteness. The rage for these has no
limit. False pearls were invented in Paris to-
ward the close of Henry IV.’s reign’ by an in-
genious fellow named Jaquin. Thence the
manufacture spread into Italy, where it was
extensively practiced, though the French speci-
mens retained their superiority. To begin with,
were employed the scales of the blay, a small
flat fish, with a green back and white belly,
common in numerous rivers of Europe. The
scales are carefully scraped off, and repeatedly
washed in pure water until they glisten like sil-
ver. They are then again washed in a sieve, in-
closed in a net, and whipped into a pulp,
though still retaining those rectangular parti-
cles which, to some extent distinguishable to the
eye, constitute a high merit in genuine pearls.
The mass thus formed was at one time known
as ‘essence of the East.’ To it was added some
gelatine, from the same fish. Glass of the most
delicate texture, and powdered white wax, with
a dash of mother-of-pearl, completed the opera-
tion, and the necklace of the demoiselle was
ready for wearing. It needs only a slight ad-
ditional chemistry to convert these pearls into
opals—a kind of jelly made from parchment is
added.
The rose-pearls of Turkey are formed by
pounding fresh and young flowers in a mortar
until they become a paste, spreading this on
cloth, and laying to partially dry in the sun.
When nearly dry, they are poundéd again in
rose-water, then dried again, and so on until
the paste is exceedingly fine, when it is round-
ed into shape, polished with rose-water, for the
sake of luster and scent, and thus becomes the
pretty imposture celebrated as the rose-pearl.’
They are of various colors—black, for the
white throats of Circassia; red, for beauty of a
darker depth; blue, also for fairness; and a
splendid amber, fit for all complexions, though
chiefly for the brunette. - Mock-pearls, it should
be remarked, by the way, have been made from
fruit, perfumed with storax and musk.
The commerce in these fictitious decorations
is principally French and Austrian, though
something is known about it in our own honor-
able country. There is Japanese cement, there
is rice-paste, and there are Roman pearls, made
up of silver sand, fish-scales, spirits of wine, and
white wax. The Venetian pearls are generally
vitreous, and little likely to deceive, yet they
are sold by thousands of boxes throughout Eu-
rope, Asia, and the New World. The art em-
ployed is simply that of producing white glass
in tubes, tinted, however, by a process which
the Italians still claim asa secret, though the
existence of any such mystery in our days may
be doubted. These tubes, so to speak, are
melted again, whirled into a globular shape, or
sometimes manipulated in a softened condition
into the spherical form, which, however, is oc-
casionally produced by simply stirring the frag-
ments of glass round and‘round in a vessel
filled with warm sand and hot wood ashes.
Nothing now remains beyond coilecting the
pearls, blowing off the dust, stringing them on
thick strings of silk, packing them in barrels,
and exporting them far and wide throughout
the world, only stopping short of the uninhab-
ited slands.
aSnamel would come into’ our scope, with
gilding, silvering, damascening, besides the alloy
of coinage, but that the subject, however at-
tractive, would attain to unmanageable propor-
tions. These are among the most tender and.
delicate arts existing, and their culture has al-
ways accompanied the higher progress of civi-
lization. Enameling is, in fact, the creation,
rather than the imitation of a jewel, and calls
upon the artist’s taste and skill scarcely less
than did the production of Ascanio’s famous
lily. The clouding and watering of metals,
again, are artificial glosses upon nature, repre-
senting a subtle science; but it is in the fabri-
cation of decorative insignia illustrating the
various orders of chivalry in Europe, that the
limits of ingenuity have been reached, with
their mixture of false gems, their crucibles of
color, amaranthine enamels, bits of polished
shell, and rays of burnished metal.
Thus, therefore, there is still a sort of al-
chemy practiced in this world, for is it not a
Rosicrucian art to manufacture diamonds, em-
eralds, rubies, opals, and pearls from the com-
mon elements of the earth, and convert the
contents of a laboratory into sparkles which
shall flash as though they were beautiful secrets
surrendered by the too miserly mines of Gol-
conda, or the Sinbad valleys of Brazil! The
very light of heaven, the sunbeams themselves,
have been entrapped and imprisoned by these
mimetic jewelers. As for the result, what my-
riads of people are pleased in the indulgence of
a little innocent vanity, without wearing one
fortune on their heads, another round their
necks, and a third upon their arms! It is not
the savage only who delights in baubles, Be-
sides, do we not thus enjoy that which Marie
Antoinette called the ‘luxury’ of wearing dia-
monds, without her ‘torturing fear’ of losing
them?
ee
ta" Mr. CovILLE says a looking-glass af-
fords a woman @ marvelous amount of com-
fort and gratification. He says his wife
thinks just as much of consulting her glass
when she ties on her apron as when she ties on
her bonnet. He says that when there is a
knock at the door he goes there at once, but
his wife, on the contrary, ejaculates :
“Mercy, Joseph, who's that?’ and dashes
for the looking-glass the first thing,
BERTIE’S TUTOR.
BY HENRI MONTCALM.
NE of those beautiful October afternoons,
when we love to wander along country
paths and listen to the story of the falling
leaves, Call to mind your ideal of a grand
old country house, surrounded with well-kept
walks and elegant terraces, color the picture
with the varied hues of fall, and you have the
scene which opens our story.. A scene that
could not but make a young man regret the
poverty which compelled him to labor; yet
the knowledge that such a spot was to be the
scene of that labor might well reconcile him to
his lot. Thoughts something like these passed
through the mind of a young Harvard student
as he turned in at the carriage gate and walk-
ed slowly toward the house, gayly swinging
his sac de nuit as he went. Suddenly the
sound of his own name caught his ear; and un-
able to resist the temptation, he moved a few
steps from the drive, and softly putting aside
the leaves of a rustic arbor, he stood an unob-
served witness of the following scene:
Two young ladies, beautiful and stylish,
were seated negligently within, while a copy
of “A Simpleton” and a blue-and-gold vol-
ume on the grass showed that some interesting
topic of conversation had interrupted their
literary labors.
“Yes, he is ‘a Senior, and is coming down
here to ‘cram’ Bertie—I believe that is what
they call it—so that he can enter the Fresh-
man class before Christmas.” These were the
first connected words that reached the listen-
er’s ear, and they were spoken bya large,
showy-looking blonde, whom he at once con-
cluded to be Miss Cressy, his pupil’s famous
sister. For he had heard much of her as belle
of the last Boston season.
“And is Mr. Greene as conceited as col-
legians generally are?” inquired the second
lady, a very pretty but by no means as hand-
some a girl as Miss Cressy.
“Oh, of course. You remember the song
they sung last Class Day:
‘In Senior year*we act our parts
At making love and breaking hearts.’
I have met hundreds of students and never
saw one yet but thought that all womankind
was crazy after him.”
“ And what kind of looking gentleman is he?”
“Tndeed I have never seen him. But we all
know the tout ensemble of the genus valedic-
torian. Tall, slim, sallow, spectacles of green
glass, seedy broadcloth coat and shabby shoes.”
‘There is little danger of his breaking your
heart, cousin Ida,” said the plainer girl; and
the subject of their remarks, his vanity
probably a little wounded by so flattering a
description of himself, muttered, sotto voce,
““No, should think not. She isn’t troubled
with such an article.”
“Tittle danger of that, Jessie,” responded
Miss Cressy, with a toss of her head. ‘‘ But I
am sure we shall enjoy having him here.
There has been no excitement since the March-
monts went away. For my part I’ve resolved
that our valedictorian shall fall in love with
me. Oh, such fun!” and Miss Cressy clapped
her beautiful hands in great glee.
“But, Ida,” objected her cousin, “ you
ought not to trifle with the gentleman. He is
probably one of those poor students that have
their own way to make and haven’t seen much
of the world. Pray be careful, or you may do
serious harm.”
“Ah, Jessie, you are forever preaching; but
really, I only want a little amusement. But
we had best go in and dress now. The tutor
will be here on the five o’clock train and we
must meet him at dinner, of course,” and Miss
Cressy arose and yawningly picked up her novel.
Such was the conversation that rung in the
ears of Mr. Howard Greene, newly engaged
tutor of Bertie Cressy, as he cautiously stole
back to the path and went on toward the
house. Let not the reader condemn him too
severely for thus playing the eavesdropper.
If accident had enabled some member of the
Old Parliament to overhear Guy Fawkes dis-
cussing his plan of blowing the whole of that
honorable body sky-high, could he have been
blamed for listening with all his ears? Here
was a young lady plotting against the peace of
mind of our hero. Miss Guy Fawkes Cressy
had announced her intention of laying a mine
which should rend his susceptible heart to atoms,
and I am frank to say that in my opinion he
had a right to know something about it.
Old Mr. Cressy was a thorough gentleman
even when awakened from his afternoon nap.
Yonsequently, when he was aroused by the
stranger’s step on the piazza, he rolled out of
his hammock and advanced to meet him with
a smile and a hearty grip that put him at once
at his ease.
“Mr. Greene, of course,” cried the old
squire. ‘‘ You are none the less welcome for
coming one train sooner than we expected.
You would have found the carriage waiting
to-night. Pray feel perfectly at home, sir.
Bertie has vamosed the raneh—gone off fishing
or shooting, or something or other. You may
not see him to-day. I would ask you to sit
down here awhile and teach me instead; but I
know you must be hot and tired.” Thus the
kind old gentleman ran on, brimful of good-
cheer. But Howard, who caught a glimpse of
white dresses approaching through the shrub-
bery, hastily accepted the squire’s offer to con-
duct him to his room. He had resolved to
make a good impression upon the young ladies
and did not care to be seen in his present travel-
stained condition. j
I have not described my hero; but of course
he was the exact opposite of what Ida Cressy
had described. The perfect health which a
surmmer’s training for the Races had given
him, together with a naturally fine physique,
made him a very handsome fellow indeed.
Add to this the air and dress of a gentleman
and the culture and conversation of a scholar,
and nothing was lacking except wealth to
make Howard Greene a very eligible parti.
Though he had during the past two years
rather shunned society for many reasons, so
that Miss Cressy had not met him, yet his po-
sition by birth was such as to make him wel-
come in the best B. street circles; and his
intercourse with the world was by no means so
limited as to make him an easy prey to the de-
signs of any girl of the period.
Consequently, when, an hour after, the new
tutor sauntered into the dining-room, half a
minute late, he went through the fiery ordeal
of introduction with admirable composure.
He took his seat and nonchalantly unfolding
his napkin, allowed his eye to rove around the
circle of faces and rest fora moment on that
of Miss Cressy. That young lady was morti-
fied enough to be startled by his self-possessed
yet respectful glance into awkwardly breaking
an egg and making a sorry spectacle of her
white hands. Squire Cressy, who believed in
table-talk, at once engaged his tutor in a dis-
cussion of the respective merits of this and that
species of turnips. But Mr. Greene, who was
determined to implicate the ladies in the con-
versation, gradually brought it around to the
subject of horticulture and then appealed to
Miss Cressy directly for her opinion. He was
so evidently a gentleman, and so entirely ig-
nored the fact of his position as tutor himself,
that she had forgotten it long ago, and an-
swered readily. This led to a dialogue be-
tween him and the two young ladies upon the
subject of landscape gardening, in which the
gentleman showed a-great deal of wit and a
very limited knowledge of botany.
When the two girls separated for the night,
a resolution of astonishment was unanimously
passed voting the new tutor a very handsome
and agreeable fellow. Nothing more was said
by Miss Cressy about winning his innocent af-
fections; but she mentally resolved that it
would be very nice indeed to bring Mr. Greene
to her feet. But little Jessie Wild, her plainer
cousin, lingered a moment before the mirror
ere she turned off the light; and I’m afraid
there was in her heart ‘‘a wish that she
scarcely dared to own”—that she had been
born as handsome as her cousin Ida. As for
the tutor, he was very well satisfied with him-
self indeed as he retired to rest, and his last
thought that night was, ‘‘ What a magnificent-
looking woman Ida Cressy is! Too showy,
though, by half. And what a shy little thing
her cousin was! I could scarcely get a word
out of her.” —
The reader must fill up to his own satisfac-
tion the three weeks that followed the tutor’s
arrival. At the end of that time ‘Howard
Greene felt very well acquainted at Mr.
Cressy’s.
One morning the young Lord of the Manor,
Bertie Cressy, declared that Xenophon might
go to Jericho and Homer be everlastingly
blowed; but that the only rational thing for
rational beings to do on a clear, frosty Novem-
ber morning was to go horseback-riding. So
nothing loth, his tutor consented, his cousin
Jessie readily agreed, and even his sister bow-
ed her stately head to the young tyrant’s de-
cree. Soon after breakfast the young ladies
appeared at the door, where they found Bertie
and Mr. Greene with the horses.
Now, notwithstanding Miss Cressy rode a
jet-black horse named Hamlet and her cousin
an equally-untamed steed surnamed Tartar,
and even in spite of the fact that their road
ran through unfrequented woods and past
swollen streams and rocky precipices, the
reader is not to anticipate a runaway. The
heroine of this story—if it is decided which of
the cousins is entitled to be so called—will not
dash down the road on an affrighted steed, her
hair streaming behind her, and be snatched
from the saddle by the strong arm of her
adorer, just as the horse makes his final leap
into four hundred feet of airy nothing. The
story is to have a very quiet ending indeed.
The party rode soberly down the river road
and into the woods, Miss Cressy and the tutor
in advance, with Bertie and Miss Wild some
rods behind, During the past fortnight Ida
Cressy had felt herself very strongly attracted
toward Howard Greene. * Had he been rich it
is probable she would have acknowledged her-
self unequivocally in love with him. As it
was she looked upon him with interest at least,
and it was her constant determination to bring
him to her feet. But how was our hero in-
clined in the matter? He was too much a man
of the world to have been deceived by Miss
Cressy’s allurements, even had he not over-
heard the conversation already recorded. He
had too good an opinion of himself, however,
to doubt his ability to win a girl like Ida Cres-
sy, if he really desired it; but the truth of the
matter was that he liked her less showy cousin
far better. The modesty and shyness of Jessie
Wild had not been able to obscure her real
worth, and he had come to see in her a pearl
of great price. Still he was only a poor stu-
dent and had no idea of offering himself to her
at present—indeed, he had scarcely confessed
to himself that he loved her.
Yet when Miss Cressy, without a moment’s
warning, impulsiveiy touched her horse with
the whip and galloped off through the trees, he
acted very much like a man in love, when, in-
stead of following her, he turned back to the’
others, saying, “ Bertie, I don’t feel just up to
a race this morning; will you ride on after
your sister? I will stay with your cousin.”
So Bertie whipped up his pony, glad of an
excuse for a dash, while Mr. Greene walked
his horse by Miss Wild’s side, She looked up
at him archly,
“Tam sorry you are unwell this morning,”
she said. ‘Is it serious?”
“Qh, no, only a slight headache ””—and then
catching her glance, his face broke into a smile
that no man with the faintest shadow of a
headache could possibly have assumed. Her
lips parted in a little rippling laugh that sound-
ed to his ears sweeter than the music of run-
ning waters. They had been alone several
times of late, taken one or two early rambles
before the rest of the family were up, and she
was getting over her shyness with him. He
comprehended her laugh, and being found out,
like a man he immediately owned up,
“Tt seems I am convicted of a white lie,
Miss Wild; but you certainly ought to pardon
me when it was told in your behalf.”
“My behalf?” repeated she, opening her
eyes in mock astonishment.
“Yes—that is—well, I preferred to ride
with you.”
“Oh, you did?” She spoke in a careless
tone enough, but he caught her eye again, and
she could no more keep back the glad light
that flashed into it than she could control the
telltale blush on her cheek. That look was too
much for him, and in one instant he had made
a resolve that overthrew all his former resolu-
tions.
“Yes, Jessie, and I want you to let me stay
by your side always.”
That was the way he proposed to her—a
very commonplace way indeed he decided as
he thought it all over afterward. He might
have done it a hundred times more eloquently
and gracefully if he had only known before-
hand that he was going to do it at all. But it
was enough for her. She never answered a
word, but with one hand she pulled up her
horse, and the other she reached out* and put
in his, while her eyes looked into his eyes with
the look of perfect love and trust.
This charming little scene does not quite end
the story, though. They presently quickened
their pace, lest their loitering should excite re-
mark. Half an hour after Howard Greene
found himself again by Miss Cressy’s side.
She evidently preferred his company to that of
her brother. She was bestowing upon him her
most bewitching glances. Had he been in love
with her those glances would have placed him
in the seventh heaven of delight; but as he
was not, he saw in them the heartless purpose
of a coquette, and all at once there came into
his heart a reckless determination to humble
her.
They were pacing along together, his horse
of course just a trifle in the rear. Concealing
in the hand next her an open penknife, he be-
gan the conversation:
“Miss Cressy—Ida,” he commenced, and as
she looked up he threw all possible adoration
into his eyes. She did not resent at all the use
of her given name.
“Well, Mr. Greene?” she said.
“Don’t you think this is very sentimental
weather?”
She laughed gayly. ‘‘ Yes, indeed, and I
should so like to hear you talk sentiment.”
“Well, I have a sentiment to tell you
about.”
“Indeed!” and she elevated her eyebrows in
pretended surprise.
“Yes, I have a proposition to make—in-
deed, something of a proposal.”
A flash of triumph was in her eyes as she
answered, ‘‘Is it possible! And what about,
pray?”
“How can you ask? It must be that you
have seen—that you have noticed—that is,
that you—” Here our hero basely reached
across and pricked Hamlet with his knife—the
conversation was progressing altogether too
rapidly. The:horse made a sudden spring for-
ward, almost unseating his rider. It was
some minutes before she could quiet him so as
to walk side by side with the tutor’s horse once
more. As soon as possible, however, she re-
newed the conversation.
“Mr. Greene,” she began again, ‘‘ you were
saying you had a—a proposition.”
“Yes,” he replied; ‘I had been intending
to speak to you for some time—indeed, for the
last half-hour.”
“And pray what is this momentous proposi-
tion that has so long occupied your mind?”
They were fast approaching the town, and she
was determined to bring matters to a crisis.
“Well, the truth is, Miss Ida, that I—am—
in—love!”
“Ha! ha! ha! who would have thought such
a milord as Mr. Greene capable of the weak-
ness of falling in love?” She spoke laughingly;
she could not keep the “flush of satisfaction
from her cheek.
“And I thought that I would ask you,”
without heeding her interruption he went on,
and then stopped point-blank. ‘‘ Whew!” he
whistled to himself, ‘‘ what shall I say next?
I’m in for it now!”
She looked at him with a smile by no means
discouraging. ‘‘Thought you would ask me
what?’ she persisted.
“ Thought I would ask you if—if—that is, I
would like to know what you thought of my
marrying—your cousin Jessie.” =
Miss Cressy pulled up her horse with a jerk.
Luckily he saw the storm in her eyes before it
burst, and he -was ready with his penknife
again. He pricked Hamlet once more, this
time quite emphatically, and the high-spirited
steed sprung away and Miss Cressy was unable
to stop him again until she reached their Ges-
tination.
Not one word did she vouchsafe Bertie’s tu-
tor during the ride home, but that gentleman
consoled himself with love-draughts from the
eyes of Jessie Wild. The next day he asked
and obtained Squire Cressy’s consent to an en-
gagement. As for Miss Cressy, she had al-
ready been consulted,
ae
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&
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BHLLES AND GHAUX.
[January 31, 1874,
SATURDAY, JANUARY 31, 1874.
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abled to give, in our weekly sixteen pages,
an unusually great amount of matter.
All illustrations which we shall introduce
to these pages will be from designs by the
best American artists and engraved by the
best engravers. While not professing to be
an “illustrated” weekly, each number will
be graced with cuts that are added beauties
to the paper.
Sunshine Papers.
TURNING A NEW LEAF.
HERE is a book that every one reads;
- young and old, rich and poor, Pagan and
Christian, male and female, from the Hotten-
tot to earth’s mightiest potentates, dwellers in
Gotham, and the brightest intellects that cen-
ter about the Hub of the Universe. You affirm
that such a sweeping assertion can not mean
the Bible, Pilgrim’s Progress, nor Uncle Tom’s
Cabin, which three, combined, form the most
widely accepted of theological libraries. I de-
clare that I do not refer to the Cook-book, or
Book of Etiquette; though the latter, in its ex-
tended circulation, will, doubtless, soon reach
the benighted Hottentot and enable him to un-
derstand the abominations of modern society ;
and the former is generally believed to be in-
eluded in Part IT. of the theological studies of
Sanh a lng
shi
Bostonians. But—the book that every one reads
is the Book of Life. Some complete the vol-
ume very quickly, leaving its pages unsullied
and almost unread; others are many years
reading it, and the book bears tell-tale marks of
the usage it has received. It is an illustrated
book, but there is no sameness in its pictures.
They are lights and shades, chasing upon each
other swiftly, as our eager fingers flutter back
the leaves. On one page, the merry Christmas-
tide, we find pencilings by loving hands in
brightest coloring. Over them, we grow joy-
ous and light-hearted; our laughter echoes
gayly, and we hear the glad chiming of Christ-
mas-bells. Fain would we linger long over this
picture, but time hastening onward forces us to
turn the leaves, one by one, until we reach a
chapter ended with—New Year Eve, The
coloring of our thoughts grows sober here, We
think of this finished chapter, recalling a bit
of landscape it has described; a soft touch, a
lingering glance, a caress it has recorded; a
meeting or a parting;
‘‘ Sins committed while conscience slept,
Promises made, but never kept.”
Hatred, battle, and strife—and ‘the spirit
grieves over a wasted life.” Oh! to read this
chapter once again! But we may not, for, on
the morrow, we must ‘turn a new leaf.” We
smile, and yet how sadly, over the memory of
new leaves turned. How many New Year
mornings have dawned, recording the vow,
“to-day I will turn over anew leaf.” How
affectionately you greeted father and mother
upon that morning; how carefully you con-
trolled your lips that you might speak no un-
kind word to the little ones; how earnestly you
strove against inertia, deceit, and impatience ;
how conscientiously you recommenced the per-
formance of neglected duties. The first page
had a few blots; but, as you turned leaf after
leaf, the stains increased, and, ashamed. of the
record, you ceased from striving to keep the
pages clean, until, with another New Year, you
again ‘‘turned a new leaf.” The New Year is
come, and our leaf is turned. Girls, would you
make the pages of this new chapter a worthier
life-record ?, Then remember the purest, truest,
noblest womanhood is alone attainable through
self-conquering. Triumph over inclination ;
put aside with a firm hand, frivolities that will
interfere with nobler pursuits; resolving that
you will not belong to a great class of nonenti-
ties, aim to fill some high and worthy place in
the world’s arena of work and strife | Remem-
ber that temptation resisted, redeems us from
inanition; strengthens, purifies, and betters us.
Let each failure recorded upon this fair, new
page of your life, be but an incentive to more
earnest striving. Thus, true to yourselves, you
will be true and loving to your fellow-men;
and, perhaps; like Abou Ben Ahdem, find that
among ‘‘the names whom loye of God hath
blessed,” your name hath ‘“‘led the rest ”—
when you turn the last leaf of the book we
read, A Parson’s DAUGHTER,
YOUNG MEN IN LOVE.
When a young man falls deeply in love,
the acquisition of the object of his affec-
tion becomes to him the chief object of exist-
ence—the first requisite to his happiness. Per-
haps, for the first time in his life, he begins to
scan himself, to consider carefully his own
mental and moral condition, and to ask of him-
self, seriously, the very momentous question :—
‘Who and what am I?”
The answer which self-examination compels
him candidly to give is not always satisfactory.
He is compelled to reflect that but for mis-
spent time and neglected opportunities for im-
provement he might have been far different
from what he is, and far better.
If he happen to have rivals—and what lover
ever yet was without rivals, either real or im-
aginary, and both kinds answer the same pur-
pose?—then he involuntarily turns to compari-
sons between himself and them; and he la-
ments that greater industry and greater effort
on his part, during his previous life, had not
made amends for the deficiency which puts him
at disadvantage. Every accomplishment which
he does possess he now learns to prize at its full
value; ho wishes he had more and greater
ones, and he strives as he never strove before
to improve himself.
With the intensity of desire to win the ob-
ject of his love, a corresponding distrust of him-
self is almost alwaysa sort of twin-sister ac-
companiment, This makes him timid to pro-
pose, while his apprehension of successful rival-
ry goads him to take the uncertain chance. ‘I
love a young girl, but have never told her so,”
writes a young gentleman of twenty; ‘‘ at pre-
sent I am afraid to do so, and at the same time
afraid to wait.”
What would not this young man give, at this
moment, to be sure that he would win the cov-
eted prize? And how thankful he feels for all
that he has ever done to make him worthy of
having his love reciprocated.
‘Young men who are in love can not do bet-
ter than to devote themselves assiduously to
the acquisition of such qualities as render men
deserving of respect and affection. Those not
yet in love, but who soon will be—and these
two classes comprise all the young men in the
country—should do the same. Thus Love be-
comes, as we believe Nature designed it to be,
the great promoter of excellence.
RECREATION.
Pliny the Younger was fond of recreation.
In one of his letters he says: ‘“ Sometimes
I hunt; but even then I carry with me a
pocket book, that, while my attendants are
making preparations, I may engage in some-
thing profitable to me in my studies; and that,
if I miss my game, I may secure my thoughts,
and not have the disappointment of haying
caught nothing.” Horace wrote verses for re-
creation. Cesar alleviated thefatigues of war
by writing his Commentaries on the spot where
he fought his battles. Napoleon tried to rival
the Roman in authorship in a similar manner ;
but he had the good sense to burn his manu-
scripts. It is the poet’s amusemeut to indulge
his ruling passion in the language of melody.
The mathematician recreates himself with
solving a problem ; the historian by settling
points of chronology. The former is in ecsta-
sies when he detects an error, and the latter is
transported with the purity of his virtue when
he exposes a wicked anachronism, They may
be both triflers; but they are industrious triflers.
They may chance to benefit society. They are
almost sure of doing no injury. The moralist
amuses himself with his consummate curiosity in
deciding between the treatment of guilt as it
is dertemined in the conscience and in a court
of justice. The naturalist, more fond of plants
and insects than of dialectics, makes no case of
conscience in dissecting a plant or phlebotomiz-
ing a butterfly. The one, no doubt, thinks that
he is making rapid strides in the philosophy of
the mind; the other in the insect economy.
Neither is idle; and how little soever either
benefits society, the curiosity of both is inno-
cent, and may lead to useful discovery. The
farmer and merchant and mechanic are en-
titled to their recreation and amusement. They
enjoy them, for the most part, in domestic life
—in the tattle of wives and the pratitle of babes.
Their cares generally end with the day, and
they acquire a new relish for the pleasures of
the family circle. These should not be devoid
of instruction. The young should be made in-
quisitive. The old should become communica-
tive. Neither of the occupations is unfavora-
ble to morality and religion, The farmer sows,
hoping that God will give the increase, The
merchant adventures, knowing that the same
Being commands the winds and the waves.
The mechanic labors, conscious of his depend-
ence on Him who gives life and strength.
These reflections are calculated rather to di-
minish than accumulate cares, and they are
ever the refuge of the wise.
The grand source of innocent amusement
and recreation is social and rational conversa-
tion. It is the most natural, improving, and
refined source. Every one should contribute
his share of good humor to sweeten the social
repast, To improve an opportunity so favora-
ble, each ‘should feel obliged to enrich the en-
tertainment with snch instruction as he can im-
part. No sluggishness of body, no mental in-
dolence, no obtrusive cares, no whining com-
plaints, no malevolent slanders, should gain
admittance. We have enough of inactivity
and disappointment and care in the course of
life, without infesting our cheerful meetings
with spleen and ill-humor.
Happiness consists as much in being always
usefully employed as in freedom from anxious
cares and unreasonable solicitude concerning
the affairs of life. It is desirable that every
man should be enabled to subsist by his profes-
sional pursuit, without being perplexed with
extraneous cares. He should be placed above
them. In mechanical employments they will
most excel who attend to asingle art. It is
from perverse attempts to blend branches
which have no strict connection that we find
so many half-taught artists. So in literary
professions, we cannot expect those to excel
whose time is divided by a multiplicity of pur-
suits,
The Letter-Box.
In adding the ‘‘ Letter-Box” to the “ BELLES AND
BEAvUx ”’ we are desirous of obtaining the confidence
of readers upon all subjects that may seem doubt-
ful or puzzling to them, and of giving to them,
through this medium, such advice or direction as
may serve to interest or guide them. It is not in-
/tended to confine ‘tanswers” to any particular
character of inquiry. The range should, and will,
be unlimited. :
The matron may write to us upon all subjects
connected with household management—the care of
children; the affairs of the kitchen and pantry, the
poultry-yard or vegetable garden; the flower-beds
or window plants; or, indeed, any of the many ques-
tions that come up daily in the home circle.
The school-girl will find us ready to give her infor-
mation upon any ree question in her studies,
her compositions or division of time, or upon any
other point in which she can not obtain advice from
a judicious friend near to her.
he young lady will find our pen at her service re-
arding toilet matters, fashion, or etiquette, the
oudoir, dressing-room or drawing-room; and, too,
upon such affairs of the affections as she may find
it easier to write than to confide personally even to
a dear friend.
And we are equally ready to tell the gentleman in
a quandary, what seems to us his best course to
ursue. e can give hifh the ‘latest New York
ashions”’ in matters of dress, etiquette, calling,
and eyen courting! Beaux as well as belles can ad-
dress us in confidence upon all matters that are
Pegex for inquiry.
© one need hesitate to write, from the old to the
very youngest, as we are desirous of ee for
the benefit and best interests of al? who want tho
views and advice of the editress herself, or such
information as she can gather for them from reli-
able sources.
Correspondents may rest assured that their let-
ters will be held in strict confidence, while under
initials they will find full and minute answers to all
queries in this their “ Letter-Box” as well as our
own.
It will readily be seen that a Rey, conducted
and conscientiously governed department of this
nature, must extend a wide influence of utility and
interest for the parties it is designed to reach,
Being wholly impersonal and disinterested, the ad-
vice will never have the bias (often unconsciously
given) of the counsel of personal friends.
The rules and usages governing society in New
York will be given for the use of those at a distance
from the metropolis—a feature that must become
very useful, conducted as it will be under our stew-
ardship.
No one, however bashful, or uninformed, need
hesitate to use the ‘‘ Letter-Box.” To make it one
of the most practically available and interesting de-
partments, that any paper can offer, is our purpose,
In the, absence of queries, in our first issue, we
will give a few hints of special and seasonable inter-
est to our circle of expectant readers.
Our ‘‘belles,” and especially those who are at a
distance, where they can not see, as we do, the
constant caprices of fashion in our streets and par-
lors, the variety of goods offered in our at em-
poriums, the changes of social rules and observ-
ances in our drawing-rooms—in short, the thousand
changes that our constant observation detects in
streets, shops, parlors and boudoirs, may value a
few hints and suggestive facts.
To the belle, therefore, who is thinking that her
midwinter bonnet or hat has become a pressing ne-
cessity, we would say that many of our most fash-
ionable and wealthy ladies are making and trim-
ming their own hats! Fashion's caprices in the
matter of head-gear allow a wide range, this sea-
son, to the amateur milliner, Quillings of silk set-
ting very high, with lace edge or plain, are worn.
Long ends of ribbon contest the palm with short,
wide ends, and no ends at all. Any one owning a
long, curled feather can have a stylish hat in the
hight of the fashion, by simply confining the end
with a knot of silk velvet or ribbon, and large
buckle in front, and allowing it to curl over the top
of the hat, the tip falling behind. A small cluster
of flowers in the hair, on the left side, showing
under the edge of the hat, is also fashionable.
Fashion, too, sometimes economical, is reviving
again the combination suit, made of two old dress-
es, or an old dress with new material of a contrast-
ing color added. These are often in two shades of
one color, but where both dresses are old, oftener
contrasting. For instance—two silks, one black,
the other dark-blue, may be made into a stylish
dinner dress. The front of skirt may be plain, of
the best of the blue silk, gored, and trimmed w
each side by a heavy cord of the black silk edge
with narrow black lace. The back of the skirt cut
short and finished by a long, trailing Spanish
flounce of the silk, headed by a standing bias ruffle
and bias fold of black. Waist tight, with stylish
sleeves of the blue silk, with a sleeveless jacket of
black, which has long, postillion ends behind, trim-
med, sleeves and ends with black lace. Standing
ruff of black silk lined with blue, and a high ruffle
of white lace. Ruffles of the same at the waist.
For walking-dresses, trim the skirt with the same
material as the polonaise or redingote, and make
pockets, cuffs and revers of the skirt material for
the overdress.
For a large fashionable wedding in Brooklyn late-
ly there arose a great discussion as to the requisite
number of bridesmaids and groomsmen. This
should be governed in a great measure by the num-
ber of guests invited or expected. In a largo
drawing-room reception, or in a large church wed-
ding, six or even eight bridesmaids and groomsmen
may be permitted, while in a small room more than
three will
ance that is very undesirable. Feeling as well as
fashion should govern such matters. Where the
bride has only one or two intimate friends whom
she desires to act in this capacity, fashion should
not force upon her a number of mere acquaint-
ances or comparative strangers. At a very fash-
ionable wedding, in Philade Ye lately, the three
bridesmaids were sisters of the bride and groom,
and two of the groomsmen were brothers, the third
aw a very intimate friend. It may seem like too
much of a family party, yet there is a natural de-
sire to have the nearest and dearest in this capa-
city. We thought that arrangement not only very
proper but an eae worthy of imitation, where
imitation was possible.
‘“*T am so tired of bombazine and alpaca,” a
lady in deep mourning writes to us from the coun-
try; ‘‘what do New York ladies wear?’ We reply:
They vary these fabrics by fine French merino,
worn in the deepest mourning, fine delaine, empress
cloth, and for mourning a little lighter both Irish
and French poplin, brilliantine and ottoman cloth
are worn. ine mohair, with trimming of mourn-’
aa silk, is also worn, though not in first mourning.
All crepe trimming for deep mourning is in one deep
bias piece. Double folds, or alternate folds are only
worn when the mourning is aaaeoa a,
A lady, whose letter was shown to us, writes to
inquire about a skating costume, most proper and
requisito for this season of ice and snow. We give
the following instructions, viz.:
There is no dress in which taste may be displayed
more freely than in the skating costume. The cor-
respondent gives us no idea of her own style of ap-
pearance, so she must be contented with general
directions, and be governed by her complexion and
hair in the choice of color.
The first requisite is a dress that gives perfect
freedom of action, and combines warmth and ele-
gance, Any of the winter materials are suitable,
velyet being the richest, though cloth, or any pretty
woolen fabric will make a pretty suit. The best
trimming is fur, sable or ermine, for a velvet suit,
mink for cloth, and lynx or squirrel skin for cheaper
fabrics. Silk velvet makes a pretty trimming for
woolen goods. ?
The dress should haye a full skirt, short enough
to clear the ankles, and fitting the waist and arms
closely, with no loose ends to impede or harrass in
rapid motion. The hat should also be of turban
shape, closely trimmed, and the hair arranged in a
compact braid or coil, The crimped hair falling
loosely, and long curls, though they are extremely
picturceaue and pretty, are a serious annoyance by
lowing across the eyés at inconvenient times.
‘The boots should be of kid, high on the ankle, and
sufficiently loose to allow perfect freedom in the
motion of the foot, and care should be taken that
the skate-straps do not impede the circulation.
Gauntlet gloves are most suitable, unless the
dress has a tight cuff of fur at the wrist, the pret-
tiest finish possible. If a muff is carried, attach it
by a cord round the neck, and have it quite small,
and of fur to match the dress trimming.
The best colors are garnet, black, brown, crim-
son, navy blue, dark peace and olive, trimmed with
the same or contrasting colors. Scotch plaid may
be worn, but should be subdued by dark fur or
black velvet. !
For a blonde a dress of navy blue velvet with er-
mine at the throat, wrists and skirt of the polonaise
or basque, blue velvet turban hat with band of er-
mine, ermine muff and black kid boots, is a becom-
ing skating Gress. A cashmere or poplin of the
same color, with squirrel skin fur, is eoutniag toa
blonde and less expensive.
For a brunette, garnet velvet and sable or mink
is suitable, or a black velvet with ermine if the
complexion is clear and soft.
Tho best materials are velvet, cloth, poplin, cash-
mere, French merino, broadcloth, velours and em-
eee cloth. Silk, if worn, should be very heavy,
ut is the least suitable material. Fur ‘a Ate trim-
ming best adapted for beauty and comfort, though
velvet, braiding, embroidery or gimp may be worn.
Many of our fair readers, doubtless, are like a
young lady in Rochester, who, having a slight ac-
quaintance with us, wrote to ask if her time will be
wasted if she embroiders or braids a winter wrap,
as this style of trimming has been already worn
two or three seasons. ‘To which we here answer:
Embroider or braid a wrap by all means, and b:
using your own time in this way, you secure a hand-
somo and fashionable garment at a comparatively
trifling expense. The latest importations of hea’
wraps are elaborately braided and embroidere
some of the most beautiful having braiding and
heavy silk embroidery combined in one pattern,
with'a very rich effect.
The redingote is made in heavy material, as
ladies’ cloth, velours and velvet, and richly em-
proidered upon the skirt, cuffs, collars and pockets,
One, a recent importation, which was shown to us,
was of fine camel’s hair cloth, of alight coffee color,
embroidered in floss silk a shade darker, in leaves,
the veins, tendrils and branches being a shade darker
still than the body of the leaves. 6 pattern was
about eight inches deep on the skirt, the collar,
cuffs and pockets having a pattern shaped to them
and covering them.
The belt was a narrower pattern, like the skirt,
and a sash of the cloth lined with silk, was embroi-
dered on the ends in a graceful group of the leaves.
Braiding is also extensively used in winter wra 8,
and has the advantage of requiring cheaper mai
eo ae less time, where the garment is to be made
at home.
ive the bridal party a crowded appear- «
eae: sins
JaNuARY 31, 1874.]
GELLES AND BEAUX.
ALIDA BARRETT;
or,
fe died LD OO de |, ot Ng
plea Dahl: inched Maan SL
IBY Mer S pees Weleda
AUTHOR OF “THE COURT OF THE REPUBLIC,” “WOMEN OF THE
AMERICAN REVOLUTION,” “THE BRIDES AND WID-
OWS OF THE BIBLE,” ETC., ETC.
CHAPTER I.
THE YOUNG SEAMSTRESS.
Aw attic room of small dimensions, with
scanty furniture very neatly arranged, was
the home of Alida Barrett, a young girl of
eighteen, who had been for some months one
of the ill-paid toilers for bread in the metro-
politan city. Her surroundings, comprising
her simple possessions, were of the rudest des-
cription. There was a movable press or cup-
board, closed; a bro-
ken looking - glass
hanging beside the
dormer window; an
uncovered oak table,
three chairs, and a
washstand on which
stood a cracked ew-
er and basin, A
shelf in one corner
‘contained a band-
box, and a shawl
and cotton print
dress hung on pegs
beside it. The nar-
row bedstead held a
clean flock mattress,
covered with a thin
blanket and patched
coverlet.
The girl was sew-
ing by the table, on
which stood a single
candle. She was AN
pale, but her deli- AWN
cate and regular \
tity
Yi
features would have
given her, to any
judgment, an un-
questionable claim
to beauty of a high
order; and, as she
looked up to note
the rattle of sleet
and ice against the
window - panes, the
clear blue eyes that
lighted her blonde
complexion were
seen to be of exquis-
ite loveliness.
She had spread a
clean sheet on the
earpetless floor to
protect her work
from the slightest
danger of soil. It
was a rich purple
velvet dress, with
silk linings, and
trimmings of black
Brussels lace. The
girl’s white, slender
fingers flew over the
lustrous material as
she drew the needle
through its folds,
showing the skill of
a practiced dress-
maker.
The candle burn-
ed low, and a shim-
mer of cold moon-
light came in at the
window, dim as it
was with driving
snow. The young
girl shivered and
leaned back in her
chair, letting her
work fall in her lap.
Just then a neigh-
boring church clock
struck one, and she
shivered wearily
again.
Her task was fin-
“She shall have it early in the morning.
Tell her so.”
“Twill. Good-night, Miss, and thank you.”
* Good-night.”
The girl fastened the door after Jane, put
out the candle and knelt to repeat her prayers.
Then she retired to her humble couch.
The clock struck seven next morning before
Alida awakened. Rousing herself quickly, she
put on her dress before kindling the fire.
The water had a thin crust of ice over it,
ished. Deeply sigh- eee
ing, she rose, shook
out the splendid
dress, stopped a moment to admire its rustling
richness, then hung it on the peg over the
shawl. There was no more fire in the little
stove, the room was cold; and she hastily
made preparations for bed.
She had just finished these, when there was
a tap at the door, and it was softly opened.
“Oh, Jane, is that you? You may come
in,” she said, in a soft, sweet voice that
matched the tender loveliness of her face and
form.
“T only looked in a moment,” replied the
woman, a waiting-maid to one of the lodgers,
“to see if I could light my candle; it was
blown out as I crossed the hall, just now. I
thought you might be up,” she added, lighting
hers by the almost expiring candle on the
table. _
“Oh, yes; you can light it. I am going to
bed now. Is Mrs. Jackson out?’ asked Alida.
“She has just come home,” Jane answered,
‘Then will you tell her, please, that I have
finished the dress?”
“Indeed, she will be glad of that same, for
Iheard her saying that she must send it to-
morrow to the establishment,”
THE CANDLE BURNED
—>>>>—>>>——Tss—
and the window-panes were covered with a
frosty tracery; but the sky was clear without;
and when the flame blazed up in the little stove,
the room had a cheerful aspect.
Alida performed her ablutions with cold wa-
ter, and in defiance of the cold air; then took
from the corner of her cupboard a small tray
on which were placed her cup, saucer, plate,
etc. She put some tea in an earthen pot, hay-
ing put on the fire the saucepan that served for
a tea-kettle, and placed rolls and butter on the
table.
Then she read a chapter in her well-worn
Bible, and knelt in prayer; not daring to enter
on the duties of the day without imploring the
protection of the benignant Power to whose
guidance she looked at all times.
The room was of a comfortable temperature
when she sat down to her breakfast of toast
and tea. But she did not linger in enjoying it.
Having washed and put away the things,
she carefully folded the velvet dress, put on
her bonnet and shawl, and went down-stairs.
At the door of the front room on the first
floor, she stood still a moment and then knock-
ed timidly,
A querulous voice called out, ‘‘Come in,”
and as she opened the door, continued its
croaking in complaints of Jane’s slow move-
ments and inexcusable carelessness.
“Tt is not Jane, Mrs. Jackson,” said the
young girl, and then she saw a head lifted
from a nest of wrappings on the sofa by the
fire.
An elderly woman was lying there, very
much en deshabille. The bedroom door was
open, but both rooms were warm, for a glow-
ing anthracite fire was in the grate, and the
sun came in at the front windows. A stand
near the sofa bore a tray, on which was a
tempting breakfast, untouched as yet.
“Oh, is it you, Miss Barrett?’ cried the wo-
man, who had half raised herself, sinking back
upon the pillows. ‘‘ Come to the fire.”
“T have brought the dress,” said Alida, de-
positing her bundle upon another table.
“You have finished it? Well—that is nice!
I am very much pleased with your punctuality.
Let me see it.”
The dress was unfolded and shaken out, and
was critically examined by Mrs, Jackson,
LOW, AND A SHIMMER OF COLD MOONLIGHT CAME IN AT THE WINDOW.
She had no fault to find. By this time Jane
had come in, and she was directed to bring out
of a closet a large paper-box, in which, after
Alida had again carefully folded the dress, it
was placed, and covered with white tissue-
paper.
‘ When this was done, the young girl tim-
idly presented a folded paper she held in her
hand.
“What's this? Your bill—eh?”
son opened the paper.
«Three dollars and a half—
ing-silk?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
‘« And cut the body, and basted some of the
seams! You had only the sewing and the skirt
todo! It is higher than—well—you have done
the work neatly, and I won’t say any thing.
You want the money, I suppose?” ;
“Jf you please: I have to pay my rent this
morning.”
“Jane, get my pocket-book from the pocket
of my dress.”
The money was paid; and, at the lady’s re-
quest, Alida receipted the bill. .
‘Now, will you do me a great fayor, my
Mrs. Jack-
I found sew-
dear? You see I am prostrated by .sickness;
I am, in fact, unable to sit up more than a few
minutes at a time. And Jane must attend the
door and receive messages. This box must go
to Mr. Meek’s establishment in Broadway. I
promised it should be sent last evening, but
you know I waited for you. You must make
my excuse. You can carry this to the corner,
and—here is money for the omnibus, and ten
cents over for your trouble. You will take it,
to oblige me?”
“T will take it.
first.”
While she was gone, Mrs. Jackson was help-
ed up to her easy-chair, had a shawl thrown
over her shoulders, and made out her own bill
for the dressmaking. This she put in a sealed
envelope. She claimed seventeen dollars and
some shillings ‘‘for making the dress,” includ-
ing a few extras, such as thread, silk, hooks
and eyes, etc.
When Alida came back the box was ready
for her, tied up with thick cord. Mrs. Jackson
invited her to take a cup of coffee, the steam
Let me go and pay my rent
of which, as it stood before the fire, was very
‘ appetizing. The girl
thanked her, drank
a cup of the tempt-
ing beverage, and
ate one of the
French rolls offered.
She needed the ex-
tra refreshment, to
encounter the biting
air of March.
Then she hurried
out with the box,
having received the
directions, with in-
structions to bring
home to Mrs. Jack-
son the amount of
her bill. At so ear-
ly an hour the om-
nibuses were not
crowded going up;
and there was room
for the box and her-
self,” |
The girl alighted
a block or two from
the elegant estab-
lishment of ‘‘ Meek
& Co.,” where la-
dies’ dressmaking
was done on a mag-
nificent scale at
prices to corres-
pond.
As she alighted
from the omnibus,
her shawl caught at
the side of the steps,
and the box was
jerked violently
from her hand, fall-
ing into the street.
Alida gavea
scream of terror.
She was more con-
cerned for the box
than herself; and
the horse belonging
to a dray had his
foot uplifted to tread
upon it. There was
a dire confusion of
horses and vehicles,
and one of the driv-
ers shouted to her,
with a brutal oath,
to get out of the
way.
The girl was in
peril; but she would
not leave her charge
to be trampled and
crushed, perhaps ut-
terly spoiled.
Just then a young
gentleman saw her
danger, rushed into
the middle of the
street, caught the
drayman’s horse by
the check-rein, and
forced him to one
side; then he snatch-
ed the box in one
hand, threw the
other arm round the
young girl, and
placed both in safe-
ty on the sidewalk.
“You might easi-
ly have been run over,” he said. ‘‘ You must
be more careful, I warn you.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, sir!” exclaimed
Alida. “I was afraid of this!” She almost
hugged the box as she looked up to express her
gratitude to her preserver.
She met a look of earnest admiration from
the finest eyes she had ever seen. It was a
young man of about three and twenty, well-
dressed, and with an unmistakable air of fash-
ion. His complexion was dark; he had brown
eyes and luxuriant black curling hair and
beard. He stood gazing, as if enchanted, on
the pale, pure face. lifted to look at him.
Alida trembled excessively. With a bow,
she moved on.
“Stay; you have too much to carry, in this
heavy parcel. Where are you going with it?”
“Only to Meek & Co.’s, in the next street,
Bi
‘‘T will take it there, and you too. Step in.”
He pointed to a low phaeton standing by the
sidewalk, the driver of which stood holding the
reins.
“Oh, sir, you are very good! but I would
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CGELLES AND BHAUX.
[January 31, 1874.
“Rather not go in my carriage?” repeated
the young man, with a light laugh. ‘‘ Well—
as you please. Shall I carry the parcel for
you?”
“Oh, no, sir!” cried the girl, crimsoning un-
der his look, though his tone was perfectly re-
spectful. ‘I thank you, sir, just as much.”
She tripped on rapidly, without a look be-
hind her.
The young man gazed after her a moment,
then stepped into the carriage and was driven
away.
Alida made her way without further mis-
chance into the sumptuous establishment of
Meck & Co., and to the back part of the
building, where she asked for the forewoman.
She was directed to walk up-stairs.. There
she found herself in a spacious room, full of
women at work. A man was seated at a large
table covered with patterns, with a folio vol-
ume open before him, making entries, and ex-
amining bills, which he put on file as fast as
they were disposed of. Several women stand-
ing at the table were looking at patterns and
fashion plates, and consulting together; and at
the end of the room others were fitting parts
of dress over lay-figures. A room adjoining
was devoted to those customers who came to
be fitted. The buzz of sewing-machines was
audible on every side.
Alida sat some time observing this busy
scene, before the forewoman had leisure to at-
tend to her. It had a curious interest for her.
She had always thought she could make what
seemed a fortune to her, if she had possession
of asewing machine. She did not covet em-
ployment in such a Babel; the divers tongues
would have bewildered her. She better prized
the retirement of her little home; but she
would have liked plenty of orders for work at
remunerative prices.
She had made the dress she brought; but she
knew that neither the proprietors of this fash-
ionable establishment, nor their stylish cus-
tomers, would pay her what was asked for the
making.
The forewoman came at last, opened the
box, took out and inspected the dress, and
looked over Mrs. Jackson's bill. This she took
to the man at the table.
Alida started as she heard the amount
named. ‘‘ Seventeen dollars!” and almost ev-
- ery stitch in the garment was the work of her
own fingers. Her toil for days and nights—
how poorly paid, while the woman who had
given her the work reaped the reward of her
labor!
But she dared not complain. She knew that
even the mention of her agency would be loss
of work and ruin to her. She listened, how-
ever, with pleasure to the approving remarks
she heard passed on the work. It was evident
that Mrs. Jackson was esteemed a valuable
hand.
It was not the first dress, by many, that
Alida had made for her; but she had never be-
fore seen what satisfaction they gave. Was
it possible she could ever aspire to such emolu-
ment? ,
The dress was packed in another box and
duly labeled with the name and number of the
celebrated establishment. The forewoman
came and asked Miss Barrett some questions,
with her answers to which she appeared well
satisfied. Then she said:
“We are short of messengers this morning,
and the lady’s directions were explicit to have
the dress sent home as soon as it was finished
and by an early hour. It should have been
done last evening, and then we could have
sent it conveniently. Will you take it if we
send a boy to carry the box for you?”
Alida hesitated.
“Tt will oblige us very much, Mrs. Jack-
son would have gone herself, but she is ill, as
you say. We know you very well—through
what we have heard her say—as a trustworthy
young person in her employ, able to under-
stand any directions she may have to give;
and we have no doubt you will do the errand
properly.”
“Where is the place?”
“This boy will show you where Mrs. Burke
lives. It is a long distance; but you can take
the Highth avenue cars—the boy has change to
pay the fares—and you will not have very far
to walk. I would have you understand that
this is Mrs. Jackson’s duty. She usually goes
home with dresses, or pays our messenger for
taking home the dresses made by her, so that
she can attend to alterations.” r
“JT will go, ma’am,” said the girl, rising.
“Take this envelope; it contains our bill.
Mrs. Burke generally pays on delivery; she
will do so, and you can deduct the amount of
Mrs. Jackson’s bill, receipt it, and take it to
her. Our receipt is made out, the boy will
bring the money to me, Are you. ready,
Mike? Good-morning, Miss Barrett.”
The boy—a young one—took up the corded
parcel and carried it with less difficulty than
might have been anticipated. As they passed
out into Broadway, the young girl cast a fur-
tive glance around: her, as if she half expected
to see in one of the gay equipages rolling past,
‘the handsome young gentleman who had ren-
dered her a service scarcely an hour before,
CHAPTER II.
THE BANKER’S WIFE.
On a piece of elevated ground, sloping to the
lordly Hudson, just above the avenue nearest
‘the water, there was some years since an orna-
mental villa, The avenues and streets were
not at that time laid out, though surveyed and
registered’on parchment and duly preserved in
the plan of the city.
The house was a very handsome one, built
solidly of wood, painted brown, and in a rather
ambitious style of architecture, It had exten-
sive wings, a tower, and beautiful grounds
sprinkled with shade-trees, the product of pri-
meyal woods. > tens A — —_—__
moon that walksthe stars a - mong. Love it was that tint - ed ev - ery thought with gold; Love it’ is doth bright-en all hearts, young and
colla voce. mm dolce.
Pop tf tr ir
accel. un poco. rall. allargando. ten.
from love they sprung! Love it y doth light - en all hearts old and young!
“¢
Hap-py, joy-ous days, all
animuto.
colla voce.
tet
ee
When manhood came, then came the love of country ;— And now I fast approach the unknown ocean,
The love of this, my own dear native land |— Towards which pale death doth hurry us along,
Her vine-clad hills and vales, her snow-capp'd mountains,— My heart still beats as warmly as in boyhood,
Her limpid streams, and beauteous sunlit strand |— ‘And love is stil the burthen of my song !|—
To that another, greater love was added— My children to my heart I press with rapture,—
A love that raised my soul to Heaven above !— My grand-children are nestling on my knee !—
The holy rapture of a wife’s affection,— My y Fea grey hairs seem silvery angel’s pinions,
The joys of pure and priceless wedded loye |— ‘And all around still breathes of love to me !—
Love it was that tinted, &c, 4 Love it is that tinteth, &c,
i ls vin Sl ac at