WSR Co,

 

Kutered at the Post Ollice at New York, N. Y., at Second Ciass Mail Rates.

Published Every

thy ieee

BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,

No. 98 Wiiu1am Street, New York.

Copyrighted 1880, by BEADLE AND ADAMS.

December 30, 1880.

Complete in this Number.
Price, Ten Cents.

 

 

Divorced But Not Divided -
oR,
HIS GUIDING STAR.

BY ‘‘A PARSON’S DAUGHTER,”

AUTHOR OF ‘‘ THE PRETTY PURITAN,” “‘ THE PAR-
8ON’S DAUGHTER,” ETC.

CHAPTER I.
CHRISTABEL’S ELOPEMENT.

All of us have cause
To wail the dimming of our shining star.

SHAKESPEARE.

“CurisTaBEL! Christabel!”

Christabel stood just a step above the pave-
ment, her pretty girlish figure, in its winter
wrappings, outlined against the lighted win-
dows at her back. Below her, the walk lay hid-
den under a downy fall of snow; above, the
drear winter-night sky was invisible, so thickly
was the atm ere filled with the slowly-cir-
cling, lazily-falling, white flakes of the thicken-

ing eh =

he girl’s attitude had changed variably

within the few minutes that she had stood
rched like a truant bird, wild and alert, upon
estep just off the street, in the ruddy shine

 

from the windows. At first it had been an at-
titude of surprise when she had let herself out
into the storm, followed by.one of expectancy,
which increased to anxiety, and, lastly, eae
to indecision. And then— softly, cailingly,
through the gee silence of the city streets
and the hushed fairy-like voicefulness of the
snowfall, sounded the cry:

“ Christabel! Christabel!”

Instantly the girl sprung upon the walk and
through the lightly-piled crystal covering of the
avenue, until she stood upon the opposite pave-
ment, looking into the face of the speaker—the
handsome face of a man graceful of figure as he
was attractive of feature.

“ You are late! Every bit of ten minutes
late! And I’ve half a mind not to go!” Christa-
bel exclaimed, poutingly, shrugging her shoul-
ders and drawing back, coldly, as her compan-
ion’s hand was outstretched to place hers upon
his arm.

‘‘Oh, Christabel! ‘You would not be so cruel!
why, I would wait hours for you, and then be
too appy to gain one glance from those sweet
eyes to think of murmuring that 1 had been_de-
tained. I tried to be exactly on time. You
must know, pet, that I am only too happy to
hasten to your presence.”

Notwithstanding the whispered protestations,
Christabel kept her head averted and continued

to pout.
ay think you did not care to have me go very

 

much, after all,” was her uncompromising re-
joinder.

‘“‘Christabel, how can you say so? Would I
ask yee to risk so much unless I cared, very
much, to have you with me? Come, dear; we
are wasting the time standing here in the snow,
when we might be enjoying our ride. Do come,
Christabel! The sleighing is splendid!”

The gentleman put out his hand, and the girl,
yielding to his entreaties, allowed herself to be
drawn toward him, and, clinging to his arm,
hurried down the block. At the first cross-
street they turned; and through the shadowy,
snow-filled dusk there sounded the gentle jingle
of bells, and a sleigh glided toward them over
the icy track that underlay this new and softer
outbreak of winter storminess.

‘Here we are! One moment, little girl, while
I see that no snow has drifted under those robes.
—Now!”

Christabel was lifted lightly into the sleigh;
her companion sprung iv, after, tucking
the robes closely about ber and, snatching a
kiss from her red mouth despite its owner’s in-
dignant little protest. And away the horses
dashed, their bells swinging out music which
scores of other bells took up and echoed all
adown and through the night air, the snow flying
like the spray of astormy sea from their speeding
hoofs, and whirling in soft clouds against the
faces of the riders. Whiteness above and be-
low, and all about them, and the sounds of blithe

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GHD EMILED BACK, AS SHE LEST MIM, FEELING THAT GHB UNDERSTOOD THE CONTENT IN HIS ANSWER, AND VAGUELY GLAL

 
2 DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

 

 

voices and ringing laughter shivering the night-
timo silence. And above ajl others, clear and
sweet as daintiest peals of silver chimes, rung
out Christabel’s gay, joyous young voice:

‘Oh, this is splendid! splendid!” she cried, as
they. flew on and on through the snowy gloom
and passed many a merry party to the ma
rhythm of the dancing bells. ‘‘I am so glad I
came! This is so much more fun than being
driven prosaically about the park, with mamma,
of a daytime.”

“ And is that the only reason why.
glad to be here, Christabel?”’ question
cort, folding his arm about the girl.

“Of course not—I—I— Let me go, please.
I can talk to you so much better,” struggling
against his embrace. half-frightenedly.

“No! No! dear! You can talk to me nicel:
now. You are not afraid of me, Christabel?
Tell me why you like to be here, sweet one?”

“You ought to know, I am sure, that it is be-
cause I am‘with you! Now let me go, please,”
she pleaded, half-smiling—half-pouting.

‘Not I, indeed! Why should I? Do you
think I am to be contented always with a touch
of your hand, a glance of your bonny eyes, a
ten minutes’ stolen interview with you? -No,
Christabel, for I love you! I thirst to kiss con-
tinually this perfect mouth, long to hold always
thus near to my. heart this sunny head. Tell
me, truly, Christabel, dear Christabel, that you
take me for your loyal lover! That you accept
my betrothal vows and pledge me yours!” he
entreated, ee still retaining her in his
=m clasp and half-smothering her with

K1SSes.

Brief and unsanctioned by etiquette and dis-
cretion as had been their acquaintance, and fas-
cinated as Christabel had shown herself from
the first with this man—debonair, beautiful and
of passionate address, he had yet found her will-
ful and hard to please. But her very willfulness
and half-insolens imperiousness charmed him;
and he had determined that though only by
love, and through love, could he win this'girl
for his wife, yet, so would he attain his desire;
and that this night, if possible, should secure to
him the prize.he coveted.

And fate conspired tofavor him. To Chris-
tabel love-making was something new, and
novel, and inexpressibly flattering and sweet.
And there was the ring of truth in her lover’s
declaration. His voice carried the conviction
of his earnestness to her heart. It was de-
licious to have an actual proposal and a real
Jover—handsome and sub-rosa. The very rash-
ness and romance and secrecy of it all fascina-
ted her; and she abandoned herself to her com-

anion’s emBrace—ceasing to beg for her free-
om; whispering instead her pledges to love and
marry him. ?
‘“‘Sweet Christabel, you make me inexpres-
sibly happy! Never man had so fair and.ador-
able a betrothed! You cannot guess how proud
I am of my treasure!” whispered her lover, as
he lifted the girl from the sleigh upon the piazza
of a brightly-lighted hotel, and led her into the
warm, cosey parlor, and turned the fair, glow-
ing face, bewitching in its half-shyness, half-
coquettishness, toward his own.
nd Christabel certainly was proud of him.
His figure was so tall and lithe, his profile so
handsome, his flushed face—with the fair hair
carelessly tossed above it—so attractive, bis
tender, gallant ways so captivating. She sat in
the red firelight watching him, and win,
momently more in love with him as she recalle
bis eager avowals, his ardent embrace, his soft
tones and bold kisses.

Turning from giving his orders for their sup-
per, the young man intercepted that charmed
glance, and heart and pulse beat joyously.

He sprung to Christabel’s side, and knelt at
her feet, and prisoned her hands in his, and
drew them about his neck, and so held her, with
her flushed, lovely, girlish face drooped low to
his, and his deep-gray eyes searching her violet-
blue ones. It was only for a minute that the
truant lovers thus mutually ony heart to
heart; but it was a minute of their lives that
each remembered for all time; that survived
the most furious tempest, the maddest tri-
umphs, the sweetest joys, of their futures. Al-
ways in memory’s picture gallery, from which
other scenes quite faded away, that one remain-
ed, distinct and changeless for each—the small,
bright, strange room, with thered fire crackling
upon its hearth, and the snow crystals tinkling |
musically against its windows, and they two, ,
alone in the light, the hush, the warmth, surren-
dering soul to soul; for with all the making and
the marring of their future the record ot that
single hour was irretrievably interwoven. J

“ Christabel,” her companion exclaimed, mo-
mently, ‘I want you to ratify _— promise to
become my wife, very soon! Why should we

wait at ef darling? Why not be married to-
want and be as happy, always, as we are this
our :

“Oh, no! no!” cried the girl, in affright. ‘‘ Not
yet. Not now!”

holding ber i

fair bair with gentle, soothing touch, and

; ping kiss after kiss upon her startled, troubled
ace. ‘‘We must marry soon, or I feel sure:

ou are
her es-

 

of it

‘tothe commencement of her new.

that something will separate us; and how can I
lose my treasure? Christabel, do not you know
that you are dearer to me thanlife? And if you

love me, little one, why should you refuse to.

give pounclt to me now, more than at any other
time? We will go directly from here to a cler-
gyman’s, and he shall make us the two happiest
people on earth.”

“But papa and mamma—what a scene there
would be! Oh, I should not dare to face them!”

“You need not, pet. Allof my future will be
devoted to loving and caring for you. And do
you think I would let you be frightened or an-
noyed a ony unpleasantness? No, indeed, Chris-
tabel! I will face the scene for you, in the morn-
ing, and tell your parents the truth. I shall be
proud to confess that I worship you, dearest.”

“But not to-morrow! not to-morrow! Fa-
ther would be in such a passion—so frightfully
angry at us! Wait, awhile, until he feels like
forgiving us.” a

Her lover smiled—a flitting, half-incredulous

smile. Though young in years, he was old
enough to know the ways of the world, and the
implacableness of wealthy fathers whose daugh-
ters marry poor young men. He was not at all
sure that they would ever be forgiven; but if
he could only make Christabel happy it was all
he cared. He did not trouble her with his
doubts, but caught eagerly at her tacit consent
to his plan.
“ Just as you say, pets of course you know
best. I will be pace by your wishes as to the
future, if you will be guided by mine, now. We
shall get back to town by midnight, or a trifle
after—quite early enough to find a clergyman,
and we will be married, Christabel?”’

‘Shall we not get home until then? Oh! I
had no idea it was so late! Cannot we hurry?”
said the girl, excitedly, debating the rashness
of concurring in her lover’s plans,

“Tf you wish, Christabel. Do you wish it,
dear?” he asked, rifling her lips of kisses.

**T don’t know,” she whispered, yieldingly.

“Don’t know? Do you not know, pet, wheth-
er you love me? Whether you mean to marry
me? Isit yes, or no, Christabel?”’

“Tt is so late, now, I suppose I shall ma
you. I have no choice,” replied Christabel,
committing herself a trifle disconsolately, as she
concluded that this was the easiest way of fa-
cing the consequences of her indiscreetness.

A frown gathered upon her lover’s handsome
features, and he drew himself up, proudly.

‘*] cannot be answered so, Christabel! If you
do not come to me from love, don’t come at all!
You and I are both young, but I, at least, am
old enough to know that despite anything I
may have said flippantly to other girls, I say in
all seriousness to you—Christabel, you are the
one love of my life! But, for all that, I would
not have you—an unwilling wife. Iam a worth-
less young fellow enough, Heaven knows; bot
you can make of me what you choose! T will
seek to be whatever you desire! For myself,
alone, life holds not much ambition; but,for your
sake, I can attain any great end, while youcare
for me and clingto me. If you can come to me
for love’s sake, freely, I hope you will never re-
fart it, Christabel. Can you so come, dear?”

is voice and face softening into tke old boyish
entreaty. 3}

Christabel put her hands in his, very gravely.
There were tears in her great, startled eyes.
He took her in his arms, and kissed them away.

“What is it, little one? Did I frighten you?
Did you think me cross?’

“No,” said the girl, with a long breath; “it
was not that. Ihardly know what it was.”

She could not explain that startled, saaoety-
prophetic feeling with which his words had elec-
trified her, exciting her heart to a sad, indefin-
able pity for their futures; so she put the sense

rom her: and they sat at supper gay as
any two merry, reckless children, thoroughly
enjoying their own rashness and folly. And
neither dreamed thatfor one moment a faint
stirring of the real manhood and womanhood
within them had brought them within the influ-
ence of a glory that might have gilded their

lives.

Ah! that they could have gras that fleet-
ing moment and worked the golden vision it
foreshadowed into a happy reality! For in the
man’s nature were latent possibilities that bis
heart-life would either grandly develop or irre-
trievably curse. And, alas, his love had staked
its hope and faith upon an unstable, coquettish
child, whose soul lay utterly beyond her pre-
a in the slender spathes of contin-
gencies! _ : :

The great bells were swinging forth the
strokes of midnight, and the stars had come out
in the purple gloom of the heavens and smiled
serenely down 9 the sleepy, snow-wrapped
ae, when the sleigh which had carried Christa-
bel from her old life, forever, brought her back
Her lover
—- out to her the cleared sky and its shin-

ig orbs as omens, to them, of good.

Again that strangely prophetic yet va
dread of the future a over Christabel. She
shivered, and clinging to ber companion’s arm,

“Don’t say that! For oh! if they should hide
-their faces again!” seu ae Pied ives

 

He laughed at her nervousness.

“You are my star, Christabel, and will shine
for me forever!” and with tenderest words and
caresses he soothed her until the sleigh stop

before a house he knew. In an instant he had —

dashed up the steps, and his vigorous pull at the
bell soon gained him admittance to a hasty con-
ference within.

Despite her bravery, her recklessness, her fond
fancies, Christabel’s heart beat frightenedly,
while she awaited her lover’s return, thinking
of the rash step she was about to take. But her
companion’s return speedily broke in upon her
meditations.

‘« Itis all right, darling; come!”

He lifted the girl in his arms, ran with her up —

the snowy steps, and put her down in a narrow
hall, whither he led her into a dimly-lighted
parlor—seeming very small, and poor, ard ugly,
to the daintly-reared child of luxury. But she
had little tirae to think of surroundings. There
was a hasty ceremony, the signing of a paper
and she was borne back to the sleigh—Mrs, Jules
Letronne.

Brief as had been their stay within doors,
when Christabel found herself once more in the
open air, the sky was again overcast and the
smiling’ stars bad withdrawn their gentle faces.

‘*Oh! see!” she cried, reaching out her arms;
“it isas I feared! The stars bave deserted us
When will they ever shine for us again?” .

And despite her young husband’s fond first
kisses, the girl dropped. her face in her hands
and sobbed.

 

CHAPTER 1.
SOBER SECOND THOUGHTS.

Fickle as a changeful dream;
Fantastic as a woman’s mood.—

‘‘ CHRISTABEL, little wifie, what is it?”

Never bridegroom looked into a bride’s face
so woeful as Christabel Letronne’s when her
young husband came home to her, the third day
after their marriage, and with tender question-
ings sought to take her in his arms.

For two days Christabel had had no time for
sober second thought; no chance to get lonely
and homesick. Jules had devoted himself to
fond, caressing care of her, ordering dainty
meals from the best hotel near, and making
himself a slave to ber aur ina eee
adoring manner that fed and flattered the girl’s
romantic fancy. True, their room was horribly
plain compared to any to which she was accus-
tomed, but he had filled it with flowers and
fruit, and promised to remove to finer apart-
ments assoon as the expediency of secrecy was
over and their marriage had been declared to
her parents.

His Bohemian life had not tended to teach
Jules any habits of economy; when he had
money he spent it freely; and only when it was
gone did he set about accumulating a fresh sup-
ply. But the expense of the pleasures in which

6 had indulged Christabel soon necessitated his
aying some attention to the metheds by which
e earned his livelihood—partly with bis pen
and partly ae connections with the the-
atrical world, And thus it bappened that much
of the third day of pretty
honeymoon was spent in loneliness; and the re-
sult of reaction from excessive excitement was
desperate repentance of the step she had

taken,

“Oh!” she cried, again ard again, as the
reality of the change in her life became more
and more apparent to her, “‘ what have 1 done?
What have I done?” +f
She did not sob nor cry after the fashion of
many girls. But she deliberately set her old
life, and the promises it bad held, against her
new one and its probable future. She recalled
the incidents of her secret acquaintance with the
handsome young Bohemian, comprehendin
fully its folly and calculating the slenderness
the chances that her proud, stern father would
forgive her indiscretion and its rash conclusion.
She knew now that she was not prepared to ac-
cept with any equanimity the loss of that wealth
and station which had been so utterly a part of
her life that sbe had not realized what exist-
ence in an
taught by this strangely new experience; and

the girl’s heart cried out after the flesh-pots of _

Egypt. : j
© What is it, darling?” Jules asked, again,
when he looked into the troubled, unhappy face,
so changed since he had pressed his good-by
kisses upon it a few hours before.

With a petulant motion, the girl refused togo
tohisopen arms, | 2

“T am £0 lonely and homesick!” she exclaim-
ed, passionately. ;

in a moment the husband drew the
head to his breast, and, with strong arms folded
closely about the girlish form, rained
ing caresses upon her face, as, for a time, revived
Christabel’s fickle affections.

“My little darling! M: wife,” he

murmured, as he drew Her dcwn upon his = =

and laid his handsome, boyish face

tear-stained one. ‘It was cruel to leave you
all by yourself—cruel! I wish I could help it!
And my pet is homesick? No wonder, when her
- Jules has 60 little to offer ber but his love. Oh,

s. Letronne’s”

other sphere cculd be like, until

s,

 

 

 
 

 

 

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED. 3

 

Christabel! Christabel! perhaps I ought not to
have let you give yourself to me—but I loved
ou so! How could I heip it? It was dreadful
know that you cared for me and then to let
you drift forever out of my life, leaving it
wretched and accursed! Christabel, be com-
forted, darling. You will be happy with me in
time, for you love me, You do love me!” he
finished, imploringly.

The girl pressed her lips to his feverish cheek.

‘‘T do love you, Jules,” she whispered, softly,
thrilling his heart with rapture.

And, for the moment, she did, truly. His
idolatry of her was so unbounded. His every
emotion of body and soul so completely center-
ed upon her. Faintly, girl though she was, she
comprehended that she had become the motive
pore of this man’s existence. Under these in-

uences, she found some instinct within her
that was imperceptible under other circum-
stances responding to his passionate love-call.

“My dear, dear wife!” he rejoined, caress-
ingly. ‘‘ God bless you, little one, and help me
make you as happy as you deserve to be! I
know that this life is very different from any-
thing to which you have been used; but it shall
all be changed some day. You remember that
I said I would be anything for your sake? SoI
will! Keep on loving me, sweet wife, and I
will win for you wealth, ition and fame!
You shall never be ashamed of your husband,
dear! This very day I have secured an excel-
lent position on a daily paper, in addition to my
other work; and that is only the beginning of
the good which 1 mean to accomplish, in or-
der to make eee life bright and beautiful.”

And still kissing her, and toying with her
shining hair, and frequently sweeping her soft
little hands against his silken mustache, Jules
glowingly painted for Christabel their future,
and answered her inquiries concerning his past.

But it hurt him that when in connection with
his early boyhood he spoke of his actress mo-
ther the girl involuntarily shrunk from him.

“Christabel,” he said, quickly, *‘do you love
me any the less because my mother was an ac-
tress?”

‘“No,” replied his wife, constrainedly; but,
despite the answer, the caste prejudices with
which she was imbued—born as she had been of
high degree and taught to pride herself upon
the purity and aristocracy of her lineage—made
themselves ap nt in her tone and manner.

“Yet vou knew J had been an actor!” ex-
claimed Jules, a little bitterly. ;

‘But that is quite different!” cried the girl,
drawing nearer him again.

“T fail to see it. Men and women, alike, are
what they make themselves; not what they are
made by any accident of birth or circumstance,
Do you consider yourself, Christabel, better
than me because you were born rich and I

r

The girl’s frank eyes drooped a trifle and her
face flushed rg a

‘* Not exactly because of that; but I suppose
it is better to come of a high family than not to
know who were one’s ancestors, or that they
were of low origin.”

It was years before any woman knew how
cruelly that answer smote the young man—at
first with pain, only, that she whom he so loved
looked down upon him; but the remembrance
of it afterward came to him with a sense of
shame and self-hatred that tempted him to
drown it all in depths of degradation.

Even thoughtless Christabel realized that she
had hurt Jules. With real self-reproach, she
sought to kiss away the pallor that briefly over-
spread her husband’s face and soothe him with
caresses, }

‘‘Jules, are your parents dead?’ she question-
ed, : :

‘My father died when I was an infant.”* |

“And your mother—is she dead, too?” said
Christatel, persistently curling a lock of her
husband’s beautiful hair over one white finger.

‘“No; butas I never got on well with my step-
father 1 commenced early in life to shift for
myself.”

‘Jules, I want your penknife, please, a mo-
ment. And where is she?”

“ What are you going to do with the knife,
Christabel?”

“ Never mind!” with a toss of the pretty head.
“ Give itto me, rightaway! Wheredid yousay
your mother is?”

“T cannot say, exactly. She is always mov-
ing from place to place with her husband. Chris-
tabel, what have you done?”

“Cut off a lock of your hair,” she laughed,
triumphantly, holding up the clinging tress.

“Then I will take one of yours.

“Oh, renee quite welcome,” retorted the girl,
shaking her splendid hair about her shoulders in
a yellow shower.

‘ Jules,” she questioned, keeping to the sub-
ject of conversation, despite their play, ‘‘ what
1s your step-father’s name?”

‘ Jules Letronne,” briefly. “

There came a bewildered expression to the
proud young face, then one of passionate anger.

“‘ Then that is not your name, rightfully!” she
eried, defiantly. “‘Itisnotmy name, rightfully!
Have you not even a name of your own to give
me? _Or Lave you tried to deceive me?”

 

Again the girl stabbed him, as with shafts of
steel. But for the moment, he resolutely stifled
his own agony to quiet her hot outbreak, and
dismiss the flaming color from her cheeks and
the haught; gleam from her darkening eyes.

“Christabel, don’t be so unjust, so cruel, to
me, dear! I was such a tiny child when my
mother married again that she gave me my fos-
ter-father’s name. It has always suited me as
well as any other. Jules Letronne—there was
nothing with which to find fault about that, so
long as I, myself, made it respectable and re-
spected; and I kept it, and never even troubled
to ask my title by birthright. But, since you
wish it, I will adopt my rightful name—and you
and I shall be the ones to make it worth the
bearing.”

‘* What is the use, now?’ said Christabel, half-
dissatified with her husband, half-ashamed of
herself, but trying to smile.

‘* Anything is of use that pleases you, my lit-
tle love,” he said, gently. ‘‘ Ah, Christabel, I
should have won a name for you, and a home,
and power to surround you with pleasure, be-
fore urging you to become my wife. But, I
feared to wait, lest I should lose you; and I could
not do that! But I only ask you to have a little
patience, darling, and | will defy fate to make
you perce’ ‘or, Christabel, if love has an
power at all, surely such love as mine for you
powerful enough to win and keep your heart!”

Once again, as upon that bridal-night, a swift
pity of them both, swept the girl’s soul like the
dying strain of agonizing music. She put her
soft hands upon her husband’s hot cheeks, and
drew his head against her shoulder, and whis-

red that she loved him, and they would sure-
'y be happy. Ah! could she but have been true
to the womanhood within her, so vainly striving
for birth, it might have been!

But when the next morning, Jules, in the best
of ee kissed his young wife, before parting
with ber for one hour, no attendant Fate warn-
ed him that that parting was to be their last—
that when he came back to the little cage whith-
er he had brought his birdling he should find «it
empty. And so the blow fell with all ible
surprise and bitterness. Only an hour’sabsence;
“ then—a etree ree E PPh

irst, a man’s large, stiff c’ irograp is-
tabel’s father’s—informing the ‘ ed Jules
Letronne,” that his villainous attempt to pos-
sess himself of a rich wife, the daughter of a
entleman, was utterly fruitless! The girl be-
ing much under age, and the whole affair one
of exceptional atrocity, the writer should im-
mediately take steps to procure a divorce for
Christabel; and would only spare her abductor
from punishment upon the condition of his im-
plicit silence concerning the whole matter.

Next, a few hurried, scribbled lines from
Christabel:

“My father has come for me, and I am going
home with him. Don’t be angry, Jules; it is better
so, for you have not even a home and a name fora
wife; and if you had waited for these we should
quite have gotten over our folly. My father’s ar-
rangements are for the best—I am sure. You will
soon forget me and marry some suitable wife. And
if you care for me, in the least as you say, you will
keep my silly freak quiet, and not disgrace me by
notoriety. CHRISTABEL.”

The young man read the note, over and over,
fully understanding it from the first, and yet
searching it, with awful agony, for some gleam
of hope, or one sign of sorrow. He seemed
transformed to another being, when with a ter-
rible effort at self-command he turned to a little
table and wrote, with as much anguish as if pen-
ning his own death-warrant:

“God forgive you, Christabel, for you know not
what you have done. Ishall wait until ae are of age
to have you come to me—though my hi
cries out that it will never be. It is ‘better so,’ if

‘ou did not love me. I would have a wife whose

eart belonged to the mere good things of life and
not to me, no sooner than I would stoop to such
depths of infamy as to disgrace the poorest woman
who treads the earth.”

He inclosed the lines in a note to the girl’s
father, scorning to notice the insults that had
been thrust: upon him by the nengity banker,
but demanding of the man who himself a
* gentleman,” if he had any honorable claim to
the title, that he give Christabel her letter;
sealed the envelope; called a servant and sent it
away; then turned the key upon the world that
ae = longer for him purpose, nor love, nor

0

Phen he glanced round the deserted room;
then went about it like some one grown old and
childish, and groped at the fading flowers that
had wasted their perfume for Christabel, and
touched the little toilet necessaries he had se-
lected for her with such tender care, and drew
his trembling hands across the pillows of the
lounge where a golden, silken thread betrayed
her fair head had rested; and, finally, knelt
there, and hid his pallid face where she had
lain, and so, kneeling for hours, motionless and
wholly unheeding sounds of house or street, or
the changing of lay to night, kept death-watch
with his dying soul.

CHAPTER Itt.
ELINOR ST. MARTYN.
A WONDERFULLY beautiful room was Mrs, St.

 

Martyn’s — parlor, and marvelously love-
ly was the woman who walked impatiently
about it, moving hither and thither as if scarce-
ly conscious of the motives by which she was
controlled. For, though there was not alto-
gether a happy look upon the face of the fair
owner of all the art and luxury collected within
the gilded walls of the spacious circular room
splendid with ebony, and lustrous gold-hued
satin, and shadowy clinging laces, she could
name no familiar good that she lacked, nor any
new interest that she craved.

Never was woman more absolutely her own
mistress, more completely a queen in society,
more regally omer ee among men than Elinor
St. Martyn. Freedom, power, riches and beau-
ty, all were hers; and yet she was conscious of
a faint, subtle discord underlying the seeming
harmony of her brilliant life; an incomplete-
ness too intangible for her to either explain it
or seek its remedy. Often it was wholly lost in
the whirl of excitement in which she existed;
again, it mocked her, painfully, in quiet times,
such as this stormy autumn afternoon.

She had tried various amusements. Fancy-
work; it wearied her. Reading; she was in no
mood for it. She struck a few soft chords upon
the per they displeased her. Even the 1are
marbles that surmounted the upright ebony
case of the instrument appeared less lovely than
usual to her fastidious eyes.

She pulled a cluster of white roses from a
crystal horn crowded with blossoms, and stand-
ing before a panel of mirror that reached from
floor to ceiling, held them against her. brcnze-
hued hair,

‘*Bah! how childish and insipid they look!”
she said, carelessly dropping them to the floor.
‘‘T will try the blood-red ones. No—I’ll keep
those for to-night. I’m tired of jewels! Taylor
shall send for more of them, and I will wear
only roses. The yellow ones will do, for now.
Yes, these please me. They are just a lovely
mockery ; ere is no passion in them. They
suit me; they are like my life.”

She stepped back to view the effect of the
light as it caught the soulless yellow blossoms
nestled among the wavy locks that crowned her
haughtily-poised head, and thus her glance fell
upon a mute, childish figure, with wondering
eyes fixed upon her matchless face.
at wy You there! You should knock,

“‘T did knock, if you please,” said the little
girl dropping her clear eyes to the floor in pity
of the white rosebuds lying neglected there.

“Then you should
swered.”

“IT am sorry I have displeased you,” said
Myra, gently.

‘You have not,” replied Elinor, smiling in-
dulgently. ‘‘ Iam only trying to instruct you
in good manners. Now, what is your message?”

‘Mamma says the laces have not come and
she can’t finish arranging your dress,” announc-
ed the child, quietly and precisely.

‘She must send for them immediately, then!
And tell her I wish some roses like these—plenty
of them,” said Elinor, breaking cff a deep-hued
flower from the spray of vivid blossoms and
no it to the tiny maid. “Now run,

yra.

‘“‘If you please, may I have those white buds
you threw away?”

‘Certainly you may, you midget. But how
do you know that I threw them away?”

“T saw you,” looking straight into the lady’s
face with grave, clear, innocent eyes. ‘‘ And
aa did not like them because they were ‘ child-
a Don’t you like children?’ rather wist-

ly.
‘Of course I do,” laughed Elinor. ‘I only
meant that they were not like me—not eppro-
priate for me to wear.”

‘“And why are the yellow ones like you, if
you please?”

fs ause,” said the beauty, rather hurriedly,
“they are the kind people praise, and admire,
but do not love.”

“Tm sure they’re not like you, then!” ex-
claimed Myra, confidently. ‘‘I should think
every one must love you!”

“Do you?” cried Elinor, quickly, half smiling,
yet with a shade of earnestness to which the
child’s heart xempopepe Say

“Indeed, I do! Truly! Truly! and little
Myra timidly caressed Eleanor’s white hands,
upon which a wealth of diamonds, opals and
to flashed.

he elegant woman impulsively folded her
arms about her servant’s child and pressed a
kiss upon the upturned face.

‘And I you, little one; end that is quite love
enough to satisfy me. Do not forget ycur er-
rand, Myra.”

“No, indeed, ma’am,” cried Myra, running
away with delightfully-flushed cheeks and hap-
py eyes, her white rosebuds held close to her

m.,

As the door closed upon the tiny figure, Mrs.
St. Martyn sunk into a chair before a window
and looked out, between its lace and satin dra-
peries, at the storm.

“Ts it love 1 want?’ Am I tired of freedom?
Do I covet ain?” she questioned, with
amused self-scorn,

ave waited until I an-
  

  

4

 

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

 

But despite the delicate irony with which she
assailed herself, there came a yearning, wistful
look into her splendid eyes.

“Love! Whose love? What love? Would
clinging arms, and trusting eyes, like that
child’

ments of which Iam ever conscious.

s, bripg me happiness? Would Griffis Gil- | ) ;
ruth’s? He arouses in me the warmest senti-/ isfied with but such an exchange, rs ae
He even | al

analyze its restlessness and discontent. But, be-
lieve me, Griffis Gilruth, you hold as warm a
place in it as any friend know, man or wo-
| man.” :
| “Then, for your friendship, will you refuse

| to accept my love, when I declare myself sat-

“1s it fair to you, Griffis?” she said, half-gay-

excites me to faint jealousy. I should not like | ly, half-sadly.

to have him drift out of my life. Is that love?

—Have lever known love?”

 

“Yes, for I believe, Elinor, that as yet you
have never loved; but one day you may—and

She mused and her head dropped upon her | then—”

hands. The wind swept the rain in heavy |

showers against the window. The afternoon
wore toward evening. Stiil she sat motionless
with hidden face.

Suddenly there fell a cool, firm touch upon her
interlaced fingers. She saw that she sat ina
—— glare. She became conscious that the

ay was closing with a cold but gorgeous sun-
setting. She knew that a man’s handsome face
bent above her. She felt that dark eyes, full of

‘* And then, if it should prove not to be love
for you, I will send for this ring,” she said,
laughingly, taking from her hand a band of Ro-
man gold, that served as a guard to a honp
of blazing gems, and transferring it to his.
‘Though mind! I do not doubt but that, in
time, you will return it from choice! But, Grif-
fis,” she continued, more seriously, ‘‘in the
meantime I must like you in my own way.”

He'smiled and kissed her hands. Impatient

witchery and eaters re piercing, entreat- | as he had been to win some surety that he was
i

ing yet compelling, seann
and discerned the tear-drops clinging to her
lashes. ‘

“ Griffis! Is it you?’ she cried, rising, and
speaking with some surprise but less of dis-
pleasure than the intruder had risked arous-

ing.

% Without doubt, madam! And are you won-
dering how I dare appear thus audaciously in
your presence? I knocked twice without receiv-
ing an answer; andI knew you were sitting
here, for I caught the glintings of the sun
against your hair, as I crossed the avenue: sol
entered. I am quite wiliing to be forgiven.
Elinor; and I’m giad I sinned, if sin it is; for I
have discovered what I have longed to know
since we sailed across the ocean together, and

ledged each other eternal friendship, one moon-
ight night, like a pair of pitiable school-girls.”

* Reserve your epithets for yourself, please,”
Mrs. St. Martyn remarked, smiling. ‘And
your disdain of the past; for I cannot share it.
That time, as far as you and I are concerned,
quite suited me. And now for your discovery?’

Without response to ber careless repartee, the
gentleman replied, simply:

“Elinor St. Martyn bas a heart.”

“You think so?” she said, with a gentleness
ote ap to any experience of her Griffis
silruth had yet known. ©

‘“‘Tam sure of it. Those tears proclaim it.
Elinor, what troubles you?” j

His manner was tenderly sympathetic, his
voice softly caressing in itsintonation. Hither-
to, when he had Jooked and spoken thus he had
been treated to merciless raillery and badinage.
Now he was answered with almost childlike
weariness and simplicity.

“Thave had the house kept very quiet, all
Cay, because Mrs. Allison is ill; and it has |
stormed so hard, I believe I have had the
* blues?!”

How lovely the onl looked, standing
straight and tall in her white draperies, the
haughty-spirited beauty of her fair, splendidly-
colored face softened to girlish ce and wist-
fulness, her eyes that were blue in the sunshine
raised to his, dark with shadows. :

“You mean that you were lonely, Elinor.
You have a woman’s heart, and it cries out for
something more to fill it than society’s excite-
ments and boundless freedom to follow your
own caprices. Your unlimited independence is
not — satisfactory. You desire love. Is it
not so?

“Yes, frankly, Griffis, I believe I need some
new interest in my life—perhaps love—of some
one or something. But I cannot tell what kind
of love nor whose.”

“In other words, I am kindly warned that if
I put my fingers in the fire you will not hold
yourself responsible if they are burned, nor
ise ge yourself to cure them. Excuse the home-
y simile. But if I ask no cure, hold no one re-
sponsible, make no pledges and claim none,
what then?’

“‘ It is best not to be a silly boy!” she answer-
ed, lightly. Then, with a sudden change, added
earnestly, a subtle bewitching tenderness trem-
Ling ere her clear musical tones: ‘For,
Griffis, believe me, I care for i very much, so
much that to deceive you, or have you deceive
yourself, would give me bitter pain.”

Used as Griffis Gilruth was to feminine co-
quetries, and to feminine homage, there was a
magnetism about Elinor St. Martyn’s invinci-
ble pride, her faint tenderness, her frank heart-
lessness, that excited him beyond any other
woman’s most seductive passion; that fired him

her flughed cheeks | more to Mrs. St. Martyn than the scores of

men who paid their homage at the shrine of the
besutiful young widow—he was no more anx-
ious than herself to proclaim to the world the
terms of their betrothal.

“You may trust me, Elinor,” he answered,
as, having suffered the caress, she placed her
hand upon his arm, walking slowly up and down
the elegant salon.

‘Yes, Ithink Imay. And nowI must pun-
ish you for your audacity in daring to pene-
trate to a lady’s private parlor and arouse her
from her sentimental reveries, by dismissing
you. Or,stay! I will be lenient. Will you dine
with me? Mrs. Allison will not be down and
company would be delightful.”

**l am sorry to refuse, but I came to ask a
favor of you, and must ca your answer to
the ladies at home. A sudden indisposition—
though not a sericus one—renders it impossible
for my mother to to Mrs. Jerrell, which
leaves Gertrude without a chaperone for to-
night. Will _ be generous enough to take
her in charge?”

‘‘ With pleasure. You shall save me a seat in
your carriage. My love to Mrs. Gilruth, and
say that [ will look after Gertrude es assiduous-
ly as if she were my own daughter,” repied Eli-
‘nor, accompanying herlover from the gathering
gloom of the room into the mellow radiance
that shone from opal lily-cups along the velvet-
covered corridor.

Griffis laughed.

a sae not sister sound more appropriate?”
i said.

“Not at all! You forget that I am not one
of the ‘ pitiable school-girls’ to whom you kind-
ly likened me.” :

*“Tought not to! You are so fond of remind-
ing me that there is a little difference in our
ages! Iam glad you do not look a day older
than Gertrude!” ke retorted, gayly, as te went
down the broad staircase, looking back to
where Elinor stocd watching him—a fair pic-
ture in ber flowing organdy and laces, with the
yellow blossoms lying against her hair.

‘As he spoke there sounded through the halls
the quick peal of the door-bell.

“TY hope it is 27 laces, ma’am,” remarked
Taylor, who had been lighting her mistress’s
boudoir. ‘I sent to Garson and Dane’s, but
they had directed the woman who took them to
repair to bring them directly to you.”

ut it was a note, instead, for Mrs. St. Mar-
tyn. Suchasoiled, crumpled missive that the
lady hesitated to take it off the silver salver
upon which her servant peounht it.

“For me, you say, Carl? And the messenger

has gone?
«Pes, madam.”

She took the envelope, upon which was writ-
ten “Mrs. Burdett St. Martyn,” in an odd,
cramped hand. Only a, few penciled lines in
the same unsteady chirograpky:

“T hear that you, Mrs. St. Martyn, are rich and

werful. Then you can undo a great wrong that
les heavily upon a dying woman’s s‘ul. Come and
hear my secret, I implore of you. Come quickly or

it ay too late! CHRISTABEL LETRONNE.
" East .— St.”
CHAPTER IV.
WHAT NEXT?
Standing with reluctant feet

Where the brook and river meet—
Womanhood and childhood fleet. ‘
. —LONGFELLOW.
“THERE! Tf do believe that is the last, stitch!”
The speaker retreated a few steps from the

 

with a mad desire to wrest from her haughty
lips some pledge that should bind her life to his.

Deaf to the whisper of Honor that bade him |
remember another tie, and the voice of Reason |
assuring him that his peerless beauty, with her |
frigid heart and imperious manners, would
never give him the love with which his more
impetuous nature could alone be satisfi

ering ber hands caressingly in
tioned:

“Yes,” she said, fran
ward

ied, he |
dropped his entreating ardent eyes to hers, gath-
i his, as he ques- |
“You confess to — me, then, Elinor?” destined to fill, for to-morrow I shall be sixteen
ly. “I have a way- | and I feel forty, at
heart that cannot name its own needs, nor! But with such

frame upon which some exquisite work was
a and viewed it with evident satisfac-
ion.
“How lovely they are!” she exclaimed, after
an admiring survey. ‘Ob, if I could only wear

| such laces! I wonder whether I ever shall. I

only know of one way, and Guardy protests
against my becoming an actress. Well, I sup-
pose I can afford to wait, and work, and study,
a little longer; though f do begin to get impa-

t to know what in_the world I am

least!”
freshness, and youthfulness,

|

 

and blithe ring, in her clear, musical voice, and
a face that was so charming in its girlist bloom,
and those brave fine eyes, only one who bad 1e-
ceived a deeper revelation than her form and
features gave of Helene Arnold’s daring, self
dependent, strange life would have believed the
declaration aught but meaningless extrava-
nce,

“Guardy laughs and pretends to think me a
child,” she said, as she commenced unfastening
the lace from the frame, talking aloud to her-
self in a fashion into which she had fallen frcem
being much alone. For the girl had no youth-
ful companions; indeed, in all the wide world,
but one friend—the tenant of the room next her
own; a man who seemed so old to her, because
of his thirty-six years, and grave manners, and
unfathomable purposes, that she had come to
call him “Guardian” an appellation oftencr
abbreviated to ‘‘Guardy,” as her deference
changed to real affection for the friend and
teacher.

‘‘Guardy laughs and pretends to think me a
child,” she repeated. ‘‘ Why, no one is quite a
child at,‘ sweet sixteen,’ and I—it seems as if I
never was one!” and there flashed across the
charming face a look of passionate pain, and the
blue eyes deepened to angry gray, as Helene re-
membered what a cold, loveless, cruel childhood
hers had been.

‘“‘Ah, welll” she continued, as she fetched
from a closet a box into which she proceeded to

carefully pack the laces, ‘*I have lived through .

it all—but for what? Here I am, at my six-
teenth birthday-eve, and no one to care that I
ever was born; no one but GQuardy to wish me
many happy returns of the day! Sometimes I
wonder how I can ever feel gay and happy
when I have so little time to study, and little to
eat, and little to wear, and hard work to earn
that, and not a soul interested as to whether I
ever get above it all.

‘‘Guardy would tell mse that I owe my spir-
its to my good health and excellent digestion;
but I could tell him—only I never shall confess
it, for he would just look grave and beg me not
to build castles in Spain—that it is the conscious-
ey within me that I am fated to fill a higher
sphere.

Pa There!” having folded away the last yard
of the costly laces. ‘‘Good-by, you beauiies;
and when you wreathe the form of your for-
tunate owner—is it balf as pretty as mine, I
wonder?’—and Helene straightened herself and
glanced frankly and naively at her reflection in
the small mirror—‘‘ whisper to ber that Helene
Arnold, who, to-day has strained her eyes with
working upon you in the horrid light, expects,
sometime, to wear costumes as elegant as her
own.

And having made this assertion, quite confi-
dently, the girl donned her shabby cloak and

hat and prepared to carry her woik to its des-
tination. , ;
“It is a good thing that it is clearing,” she

said, while she was drawing on her gloves, ‘‘ for
now I can walk. It is not so dreadfully far; I
shall get home by sunset.”

She took the box and left her room, locking
the door after her and pocketing the key before
taking her way down the three flights of stairs,
and along the gloomy and not very tidy hall-
ways to the street door. Then, as she found
herself in the open air, Helene’s thoughts flew
back to the theme which had occupied them
ever since the completion of her day’s work.

It was quite true that this girl’s oddly isolated
life was illumined by her ambitious dreams of
a brilliant future. Dreams that she knew most
persons would be likely to unite with her teach-
er in denouncing as visionary and romantic;
but to which she secretly clung with unfalter-
ing faith. ; .

Fine first ske could remember herself tod-
dling about the bare white floor of an orphan
asylum, and the finely-dressed lady patrons who
visited the institution weekly, sometimes bring-
ing with them little daughters robed in shining
silks and abundant furs, who shrunk with un-
concealed scorn from the children badged with
poverty and obscurity ry their graceless,
checked apparel, Helene had longed to be one
of ‘God’s children,” as she designated these
ee darlings of happy and luxurious

omes. .

As she grew older she stoutly refused to be-
lieve that the ‘‘ Father,” to whom in chapel the
orphans repeated in concert a daily petition,
was one with the God who could “‘ doanything.”
She did not want ee something to eat every
day, she remarked; but a pretty houre, and a
pretty oes and whatever she liked to wear
and read.

No one could tell whence Helene, orphaned at
her birth and from tiniest infancy an inmate of
the asylum, hed gathered her ideas of homes,
and ree and luxury; but all the same she
could not ‘be Jectured out of them. The’pro-
saic and not seldom harsh life, the solemn in-
structions of teachers and chaplain upon tke
duty of being industrious, humble and grate
ful, could not conquer her repugnance to the
sphere into which her birth had introduced
her, nor reason her into a docile and contented

ebild. ;
She had nothing to be thankful for, she com>

.

 

4

 
a

.

~

 

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED. &

 

 

—

fided to one of the older girls, whom sho knew
the best, for she held herself aloof from ccm-
panions; when some rich lady. adopted her—
phen she would be thankful, for she would bo
appy !
nd it was strange that Helerio was not se-
lected for adoption. She was pretty, and per-
fectly healthy, and there was no one in tho
svorld to care for and claim her. But, perhaps,
her undaunted, honest eyes and bright, brave
face were not so attractive to those who wanted
a little one to coddle and baby, as more infan-
tile and characterless countenances. Certainly
her flaxen hair and great, fearless, laughter-
haunted blue eyes and glowing complexion fail-
ed to gain her the good she craved; and after a
certain number of monotonous years had been
peor in the asylum, the charity child, Sydney
rown, as she was recorded upon tke books of
the institution, was ‘‘ bound out;” and became
a little maid-of-all-work to a mistress who had
not a thought concerning the girl that did not
turn upon the amount of labor she could get cut
of ber, by dint of harsh words and plentiful
abuse,

To Helene—with an ardent love of the beau-
tizul, an intense desire to study, an aversion to
everything dirty, degrading, and vulgar, that
rendered contacs with such a matter of abso-
lute torture to her, and a passionate longing for
friends and love that, in the bitterness of its
complete denial, sometimes threatened to mur-
cer the soul within her—this new life, of never-
ending drudgery in a third-rate boarding-house
kitchen, was a hundred times more hard to be
borne than the one she had left!

She had never a decent suit of garments; all
chances of self-improvement were denied her;
sxe could noteven wander cut from the noisy
manufacturing town among whe fields and trees
she loved; her only associates were of a low,
poorly-paid class of servants, and with them she
was expected to herd at night.

But to this she never would submit. To any
unoccupied corner of the crowded attic, the
child would creep, and curl her round, dainty
limbs upon the bare floor, while her plamp, pink
arms and sunny head rested upon an old trunk
or some discarded piece of furniture, in prefer-
ence to any personal contact with her fellow
bond-women. Until, at last, in sheer admira-
tion of her stoical courage, and a half-conscious
perception of her natural superiority to them-
selves, they secretly spread Helene, each night,
a little bed apart.

But one morning the bound-girl was missing.
It was in the summer that tho child left the
house, and people, and town that she hated, and
in the sultry gloom of midnight; and before the
June-time sun shone golden over the New Eng-
land landscape, her young feet had carried her
many a mile. :

Helene thought of that morning, now, as sho
turned from the narrow side-street upon ‘which
she lived, into New York’s great thoroughfare;
walking swiftly, to keep warm in defiance o
the ag blowing wind, She remembered
how like fairy-land it.all seemed to her—tho
verdant fields glittering with diamond drops,
the wild flowers shaking their perfumed cups
along the borders of the way, the gossamer
dew-webs lying daintily Sean wall and weed,
the tossing trees showering her warm face with
a soft mist as she sped along, the birds trilling a
mad chorus of joyous music from every sarub
and swinging bough.

She knew not where she was going, nor what
she should do; only that she had escaped from
her hated thralldom, and that she defied the
world to force her back.

After a time, she grow hungry and knew she
must ask for food. But supposs sho should be
questioned as to who she was, and where she

was going? Well, she had Jeft her old life, to

find for herself a new one; so she would take a
new name, Helene Arnold, she would tell peo-
ple it was; as for the rest it was impertinent for
them to ask questions; she was quite able to
take care of herself. Having come to that de-
cision, she went bravely to the broad door-sto .e

of the first farm-house, and fearlessly, but with '

a grace that seemed inborn to the child, asked
for something to eat. , }

She did not seem like a beggar, despite her for-
lorn attire. Her pretty face, and loose, sunny
hair, and great blue eyes, were fascinating in
any eek. The kindly housewife asked ner in to
breakfast—Helene could recall, even now, tho
woman’s pleasant face—but the girl refused tho
proffered kindness. She preferred taking a
piece of bread she said, as she wished to walk
on, She drank of the rippling wayside brooks.
She slept in the fields, under the walls, at night,
or, if it stormed, sought some rocky nook in the
nearest woodiand. She never failed to get food
enough; and an occasional old garment was
offered her that saved her wardrobe from com-
plete dilapidation.

And so, at last, after days cf wandering.
Helene found herself in a Connecticut city upon
the seaboard. It was not the first eae town
through which she had passed; but she had de-
cided to seek that vast metropolis of which she
had heard such wondrous tales, so that she was

et miles away frow the end of her journey.
Buy brave and yadaunted, she ded on

 

through the -paved streets, until the happening with thirty years’ driving, as you can say for

of ascemingly trivial incident fixed fora time

the undefined current of her life; and, mayhap,
shaped all its future.

In her path ske found a _pocket-book—small
and old but tolerably well filled with money.

Ah! what good fcrtune! The girl never
thought of spending it to lighten her travels;
but of what great help it would be to her_while
she searched for work and a home in New York.
But presently there came hurrying toward her
a plainly-dressed woman, with eyes searching
the walk; and it flashed across Helene that here
wes the owner of the money. There was a
re heroic struggle in the girl’s soul—then she

ed:

“ Have you lost anything?”

**-Yés, a pocket book,” cried the woman, anx-
iously, looking up.

“Is this it?”

Immediately the stranger recognized and
sense her property, and glanced at its con-
ents,

“You need not do that!” exclaimed Helene,
proudly. :

A smile crossed the woman’s face, then:

“You aro a good girl, Will you accept a
trifle? I wish I could afford to give youa nico
sum.

‘““A trifle would not do mo any good; and I
do not deserve to be paid for giving you your
own.

The speech surprised the woman.

“What would you do with much money?’
she queried, looking at Helene’s travel-stained,
homely garn ents.

“T want to get to New Ycrk and get work
there.”

“You!” with an emphasis of intense surprise,
as she viewed tho still childish figure. “Are
your friends there?’

“T have no friends, I am all clone in the
world.”

There was something in this frank but cour-
ageous avowal that struck a sympathetic chord
in the questioner’s heart.

“Tam on my way to Now. York now, but
have missed my train by my carelessness,” she
said, turning and walking with Helene; ‘so tell
me more about pepesle and what you intend
doing. Iam all alone in the world, too, Per-
nae we can help each other,”

elene naively stated her plans; and when
Mrs. Goodrich, as the panes. called herself,
took the next train for New York, the orphan
accompanied her.

For nearly Taree these oddly-consorted:
i

companions lived their workaday life together;
and then the friendless woman who had taken
pleasure in helping and teaching the. friendless
girl died, and once more Helens was alone in
the world, save for the friendship of her grave
masculine neighbor,

‘“‘ And now,” said Helene, as she trudged on,
intent upon her review of her life, “what
next?”

As she asked herself the question, she essayed
to cross Broadway, and midway from pave-
ment to pavement stepped where a tiny pool of
ramanee had already changed to ice.

Her foot slipped. ‘There was the roll of
wheels, the Fnaing of hoofs, a little cry, and
the girlish form lay prostrate and senseless
upon the freezing street.

\

 

CHAPTER V.
THE QUESTION ANSWERED.

Think it not hard, if at so cheap a rate

You can secure the constancy of fate,

Whose kindness sent what does your malice seem,

By lesser ills the greater to redeem.—DrypDEn,

“THE holy saints protect us!. Whoa, Prince!
whoa!” gasped the coachman Robert Donnelly,
with a vigoreus emphasis at marvelous variance
with his usual consequential drawl; and, hur-
riedly disposing of reius and whip, he precipita-
ted his corpulent aay in its rusty livery,
among the crowd closing about Helene Arnold,

For, despite the biting cold, the high wind,
the gathering twilight, and tho evident haste of
the drivers and pedestrians who  thronged
Broadway, there weremany who had witnessed
the accident and hurried to aid its unfortunate
victim, or render her position more pleasant by
the bestowment of unlimited stares.

Pressing through tho ranks of the sight-secrs,
toa foremost placo beside the insensible. girl,
appeared almost instantly the tall blue-coat-

figure of a metropolitan policeman, ready to
assume the care of tho injured person and
soundly berate the unlucky coachman; but
when So saw the cbese and shabbily-attired
figure of the driver, and the worn and rickety
coupe, his countenance changed, for not a
member of the Broadway Squad but knew
the turn-out of old Octavien Trefethen, the
wealthy Frenchman, whose granite home was
nota block away. And at the same moment
the carriage door was opened, and Mr, Trefe-
then’s thin dark face and glancing black eyes

appeared. ~
PRS What is the matter? What does this crow

mean?” he questioned, testily. \
‘Indeed. sir, I don’t see as how it came about.

never wad an accident happen to me before, keeper to speale

 

me, sir!” exclaimed Robert Donnelly, virtu-
ously.

“And what bas happened now?’ Cemanded
his master, turning from the servant and the in-
terested crowd to the deferential official.

“Tt is a young woman knocked down, rir.
But she does not look much hurt; has only
fainted, Ireckon. We will take her across the
street and get a doctor before sending her tothe
hospital.”

“A woman hurt! And you mean that it was
my horse that did it?’ cried the old gentleman,
springing nimbly from his carriage. And then
bis glance fell upon the pretty figure supported
ina man’s arms, and Helene’s pale face set in a
halo of bright hair from which her hat had fall-
en and the wind had caught in its frosty ficrce-
ness, and was drifting all about in golden clouds.

** Mon Dieu!” he muttered, almost breathless-
Wy, a swift tremor passing over his wrinkled

ace. But the strange irae whatever it
betokened, passed as quickly as it came.

“Tam very sorry that this has happened,” he
said, addressing the policemen, ‘and will be
responsible if the result should prove serious. In
the mean time I will see that the young lady
bas the best of care, Lift her into my car-
riage.

The official bowed assent to the imperative
mandate; and instructing his coachman to re-
sume his seat and drive slowly home, the mill-
ionaire re-entered his coupe and carefully sup-
porting the bright head upon his arm, he and

is charge were driven from among the staring
crowd to the spacious mansion near.

It was scarcely three minutes are the uncon-
scious girl was being carried into the comfort-
able home of her se f-appointed protector; and
yet that brief time, passing unnoticed and un-
couuted in thousands of lives, lay at the founda-
tion of Helene Arnold’s future. It was a period
of sharp internal conflict to the proud, stern
old man, who found a woman’s fair face near
his own for the only time in almost two-score
years. His first feeling of repulsion to the sun-
ny-haired fr conquered only by his severe

ustico and inborn courtesy, and the sardonic

itterness with which he was wont to regard all
things feminine, he fcund suddenly and severe-
ly combated by an indefinable sense of pity,
and nearness and tenderness, toward bis young
charge. And the turmoil of awakening interest
in another and gentler life than his own left its
impress upon his hitherto impregnable heert,
even in the short time since his assumption of
his new responsibility.

Mr. Trefethen’s housekeeper was a very ex~-
emplary and precise apes who in the course
of a long service in the home of her operer
had never been known to depart frcm her se-
renity of manner and speech. But, when in an-
swer to an imperative summons she bastened
into the warm, broad, carpeted hall to find the
coachman and his master bringing in a young
lady—a young Jady with closed eyelids, and

r

long lashes lying darkly upon # pallid face, and

masses of yellow hair floating loosely atout her
rigid form, she stood transfixed at the marvel-
a: Sight, her eyes dilated ard her Lands up-

“Mrs, Wallace,” commanded the old gentle-
man, frowning at her exhibition of extreme
amazement, “belp Donnelly take this young
lady up-stairs, and do all that you can to re-
store her to consciousness, She secms to have
fainted, I will send for a physician, instant-

iy
- Sails Of course—but—do you—” stam-
mered Mrs. Wallace, hopelessly incoherent and
perplexed.

“Oiel! Can’t you understand mc? The
young lady is hurt. Care for her. Do not
think of anything else! 1’/] do that!” cried Mr.
Trefethen, in a bleze of impatience. — -

Moved at least to action, if still at Icss as far
as comprehension of the case went, the house-
keeper relieved the old gentleman of his burden
and helped to carry Helene to a little recm ad-
joining er own, where, while she worked over

ho unconscious gil with kindly alacrity, she
learned from Rcbert the main ‘outlines uf the
accident.

“IVs a mystery to me how it happened,” she
remerked, as she deftly bathed Helene’s heed,
and instructed a bousemaid, whcm she hed rung
to_ her assistance, ,to chafe the girl’s bends.
‘Mr. Trefethen never lets Robert drive faster
than a dog-trot! Well, I pope she is oniy stuo-
ned, poor thing; end not badly burt.” )
The arrival of the physician soon settled all
anxious doubts; and in IJcss then an hour Mrs.
Wallace, kaving rendered all possible services to
her patient, was at liberty to report to Mr. Trefe-
then, in the cosey room where the gentk man al-
ways took his meals, and now sat. comfortably at
his dinner, while a dapper, white-aproned waiter
lounged near the side window overlooking the
grounds that surrounded the house.

“Pray be seated, madame,” the o]d gentleman
said, courteously, arising and placing a chair
for her near his own. ‘“ Fritz, pour a glass of
claret for Mrs. Wallace;” and having shown her
these gallantries, Mr. Trefethen again guve his

' attention to his dinner and waited for the

¥
  

  

 

6

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

 

 

i
and the doctor thins it best not to awaken her.
“Cortainly not.”
“Then she is to stay here?”
** Until she is quite able to leave.”
Mrs. Wallace nodded assent.
e seve you any other orders to give, sir?” she

ed,

“You have not discovered the young lady’s
name nor address? No? Well, never mind at

petra See that she has the best of care, That
is all,

The housekeeper arose to withdraw.

Mr. Trefethen bowed, then added, sharply:

“Do not let her leave the house until Dr.
Rhodes has seen her again and given his permis-
sion! Fritz, Mrs. Wallace wishes to retire.”

Recalled to his duty, the lazy Fritz obse-
quiously opened the door for the housekeeper to
pass through; and the strange household set-
tled into its ordinary routine, from which it had
been briefly disturbed by the advent of the girl
who lay in a room above, wrapped in lethargic
slumber.

With the sunrising of the next day Helene
Arnold awoke to find herself alone, but tenderly
cared for, amid surroundings wholly unfamiliar
toher. At first, when she attempted to move,
she was dizzy and bewildered; but after lying
quict for a little she succeeded in controlling the
giddiness and summoning memory to her aid,
until a recollection of the accident flashed into
her brain and dispelled all perplexity. She won-
dered whether she had been much hurt, and
straightened herself, and finally slid out upon
the soft carpet; and the vertigo having passed,
felt that she was quite herself, with the exce;
tion of being a trifie stiff and bruised. So find-
ing her clothes placed neatly across a chair, and
all the necessities of the toilet in the small but
warm and well-furnished apartment, she pro-
ceeded to bathe and dress herself, meanwhile
absorbed by all manner of anxious, exciti
thoughts, concerning the laces with which she
had been intrusted, and her own whereabouts,

While dressing she peeped from the window
with its white shades, and laces within. It
opened out upon a carriage-drive and a high
iron fence inclosing a stable-yard, and revealed
the roof of a small conservatory, against which
Helene could diseern several clusters of bright
blossoms lifting their faces to be kissed by the
morning sun. There was a side street to be seen,
too, but not enough for her to identify the sur-
roundings. Having completed her toilet, and
satisfied herself by a last glance in the mirror
that the bright hair above the somewhat pale
but delicately tinted face was as prettily ar-
ranged as possible, Helene opened the nearest
door. It communicated with a room considera-
bly eae than her own, and evidonily lately
deserted by its occupant. Quietly closing this
she tried the next. It led into a broad carpeted
hall. After a moment of mental debate as to
whether she should leave her room alone, the
girl decided to wait where she was, with what
patience she could command, until some one
should seek her; and it was a great relief to her
when the soft rustle of garments without and a
gentle tap upon the door, were followed by the
quiet entrance of a middle-aged woman.

“Ah! You are dressed? Are you sure you
are quite able to bo up? Would it not have been
better to have waited until the doctor had
called?’ asked the new-comer, as serenely as if
this point had already been discussed between
herself and Helene.

“* Oh, no, indeed! I don’t need a doctor at all.
I am quite myself, thank you. But I should
like to know where I am?”

“Tn the house of Mr. Trefethen,” said the
lady, as simply and calmly as if every person
in the world must be familiar with that name.

“Yes?” responded Helene, vaguely, then add-
ed, hesitatingly: ‘* And you?”

“T am Mrs. Wallace, his housekeeper,” said
the lady, thinking what a very beautiful young
person this was; but, with rare charitableness,
thinking it kindly.

“Why, then it must be to you I am indebted
for such kind care. I thank you, most earnest-
ly. And now you will please tell me where I
can find my wraps and a package I had? I must
hasten to do the errand upon which I started
last evening.”

“The package issafe, my dear, and though I
would not for the world have your friends ren-
dered more anxious about you than they must
be already, I have Mr. Trefethen’s order not to
let you leave the house until Dr. Rhodes calls.”
Then, seeing that the girl looked irresolute and
somewhat mutinous, she added: “ Really, you
must have some breakfast. I will send any
message for you that you like,”

“Oh, [have no one to whom it is necessary
to send a message,” replied Helene; “ but my
piece contains very valuable laces, I was

king them to their owner last night. She was
te have had them in tims for a ball; and I must
hurry with them now.”

“The package isin my room. Iwill dispatch
it to its destination immediately, with an ac-
count of the accident which detained them, if
you will give me the address and your name.”

“T am Helene Arnold. The laces are for
Mrs. St, Martyn, No, — Fifth avenue.”

ntehy

oa I
“The young lady is better, sir, but sleeping j Lage
n rr. v ™~

 

CHAPTER VI.
PLEDGED—TO WHAT?
The mystery of mysteries !—Scort.

** CHRISTABEL LETRONNE!”

Mrs. St. Martyn stood staring at the note
with lovely brows contracted, a face perplexed
and undecided, and a look that was neither fear
nor eagerness, but a strange blending of both in
her splendid great eyes.

23 istabel Letronne!” she repeated, motion-
ing the servant to depart, and crushing the soil-
ed missive in her hand asshe commenced pacin,
the length of the fine corridor in vexed self-
communion.

‘‘ Who is this person? How does she know of
me? What is the motive that impels her to
make this demand upon my time and patience?
Is this an honest message? Or is it some scheme
to victimize me? Is there any code of right
which binds me to heed it?}—to tax myself with
asecret of wrong, perhaps crime? Suppose it
should become a burden upon my own life? Sup-
pose it is something that already affects me?”

No, im ible! Elinor found herself smiling
at the idea that this strange summons was any
communication that could influence her present
or future, or in any way concern her own life
and happiness,

‘* But shall I go?’ she questioned. ‘‘ Or shall
L keep myself free from the whole affair, and —
forget it—if I can?”

And, almost as she spoke, she walked reso-
lutely to a set of alarms in her boudoir and
touched one of the small knobs.

“I never yet was afraid to face a mystery. I
will solve this one!’ she said, without a thought
that she might find it unfathomable.

“Taylor,” she said, as her maid entered, “ tell
Carl that I want the coupe immediately.
Then come here and help me on with a street

“Surely you are not going out before dinner,

. St. ? said the usually silent maid
with kindly anxiety. ‘‘ Cannot you send me?”

‘No; it is important business that calls me.
I will have some dinner served here while I

Taylor carried the message, and Elinor se-
lected her plainest out-of-door costume, moving
about in a quick, excited fashion, quite at vari-
ance with her usual haughty grace and exquisite

be goa :
“T shall not be out late,” she explained, when
she had partaken of alight meal. ‘‘If the laces
do not come, get me ready the white brocaded
silk, over a ruby vel¥et train, to wear to Mrs.
Jerrell’s, I shall use the red roses for which
i sent—garlanis upon the skirt!” And with
hose instructions she ran hastily down to the
carriage.

It was a boarding-house to which she had
come, Elinor surmised, when she had alighted
in the shabby side street and the door of the
brick dwelling at which she rung had been
opened to her, revealing a cheerless hallway
and an untidy, staring servant.

‘“* Mrs, Letrong,” echoed the maid, settling the
visitor’s suspicions as correct, “you mean the
sick boarder, I s’pose. Ay, she’s in, she can’t
oa well git out unless she’s carried out. You
wi in the parlor, there, and I’ll send the mis-
tress.

And the fastidious Mrs. Burdett St. Martyn,
very much disgusted, and very much amused,
and altogether in a strange state of annoying
suspense and expectancy that she found herself
powerless to control, stepped into the room indi-
cated; evidently a discomposing a couple
at the piano, who, to appearances, kad been
paying more attention to a flirtation than to
music. But Elinor walked straight toward a
dully-burning grate-fire and stood there looking
down at the cheerless coals, leaving her silent
com ions a chance to scrutinize the back of
her seal-skin sacque, only, as they toyed—the
one with her music, the other with a paper he
had once discarded. ;

Presently there came into the room a middle-
aged woman, looking, like her servant and ber
house, decidedly shiftless; but with a not un-
pleasant face.

“T presume you are the lady to whom my lit-
tle boy carried a note from Mrs. Letronne,
awhile ago,” she said, advancing toward Elioor.
“Tam glad you have come,” she continued, in
answer to the visitor’s stately inclination of the
head. ‘‘ He was to wait, to come with you, but
did not understand; and the poor woman has
been dreadfully excited since. I do not think
she can live long, and she is awfully anxious to
see you. I have sent one of the children np to
tell her you have come. Will you go up, now?”

As Mrs. St. Martyn moved across the room
with her conductress, noticing neither the ad-
nee glance of the young woman at the piano,
nor the intent gaze of the man, another girl
came running hastily to the parlor door.

“You'd better hurry, ma! I guess Mrs. Le-
tronne is awful sick! ‘She choked so, she could
hardly speak to me.”

“Yes, hurry!” said Elinor, scarcely conscious
that she spoke, in the turmoil of strange excite-
ment that possessed her.

The sick woman’s was a back room, two flights
up, but tolerably largeand comfortable. There

wre

 

was an open fire, and a very cheerful one, burn-
ing upon the hearth, and the invalid sat mid-
way between it and the window in an old-fash-
ioned rocking-chair, lined with pillows and a
faded patchwork quilt. Beside her was a small
table on which were medicines, and a flusk of
wine. But there were no signs atout the room
of any employment that had occupied the tedi-
ous hours, nor of the presence of any constant
attendant.

Evidently the woman’s life was burning out
nots strangers and in loneliness. Fcrthat she
was dying no one could fail to believe, efter
once looking into the bloodless face and hollow
eyes, rendered more ghastly by contiast with
her brilliant wrapper.

‘* Ah! you have come, Mrs. St. a she
whispered, hoarsely, raising her eager, burning
eyes to the beautiful youthful face of her ele-
gant visitor. And then, with a motion of her
white, wasted hand, she conveyed a command
to her landlady to leave the room. 2

When the door had closed upon the untidy
figure of the mistress of the house, and Elinor
had been summoned by another motion of that
thin hand close to the sick woman's side, she
found her heart beating furiously with an un-
controllable dread of the coming interview. But
with an attempt to — her naturally superb
control she said, quiet. 7

“T do not understand how you came to send
for me, nor what you can have to tell me. But,
if I can be of any service to you, pray command
me.

‘““Will you pour mea little wine?” said Mrs.
Letronne, feebly. ‘

Elinor did as requested; and when the invalid
had swallowed the cordial, she commenced
speaking, whisperedly, but with desperate en-

r,

ergy:

ey am dying. When I found that death was
approaching I found I was afraid to go into
eternity without undcing a terrible vrong I
once committed. I camo to this city and
searched, and searched, for the person I had
sinned against; aggravating my disease by ex-
citement and suspense, and never giving up un-
til asuccession of hemorrhages prostrated me.
To-day is the first I have been able to think or
act, for nearly a week; but I know I must leave
my task wiiflatched, and I want to give it into
your hands! You wonder at that. It is be-
cause you are so rich and bave no cares. It
seemed to me that you would be glad to give
peace to a dying woman’s soul and set right an
act whereby an innocent person has been will-
fully sinned against. It was almost a week
ago—the day I was taken with the hemorrhages
—that I saw youina store. You brought some
laces to be repaired. Said one of the shop-girls
to another, as ycu passed out, ‘There goes one
of the richest women in New York! She hasno
husband, and no children, and nothing in the
wide world to think of but how to spend her
money and her time, so as to get the most plea-
sure out of them.’ And I looked at you; you
were very beautiful. reminding me of my own
faded loveliness, and I liked your face—I am
used to reading faces, and it is not a soulless
one! It was full of earnestness as well as pride;
and it was genial and brave! I asked your
name. They told me. You have haun me
ever since, until 1 determined to ask you to un-
do my wrong, and work out my salvation for
me! These poor people will not trouble them-
selves to do it. have no money to give law-
yers, and they can’t be trusted when one is liv-
ing, much less after one is dead. You are rich
and powerful. 1 have no one to whom I can go
with my confession. Will you finish the work
of atonement I have commenced?”

She bad spoken with feverish rapidity, until
a blood-red spot marked either cheek, and her
eyes shone like lamps. As she ceased, it seem-
ed that every oar of her wasting life was
concentrated upon the decision she waited to

ear.

“T will!”

Elinor St. Martyn’s answer was low and in-
‘ense, and given with a solemnity that promised
her devotion to the sick woman’s cause, even
though it forced her to imbue her hands with
the stain of past crimes!

“A thousand thanks!’ Mrs. Letronne ex-
claimed agitatedly; and sunk back in her chair
aud closed her eyes, wearily.

“Let me give you some wine, medicine—
something!” said Elinor, anxiously.

“No,” rallying again. ‘‘Ican finish. There
is my pcecket-book. There is money_enough in
it to pay all my bills and more. Keepthat!
And the papers, the proofs, the jewels, are in a
package. I gave it to Mrs. Lane for safe-keep-
inet’ wee out so much. She will give you
those;—no! I will give them to you with my
own hands! Call her, won’t you?”

Elinor summoned the landlady and made
known to her Mrs. Letronne’s desire; then went
back to the invalid.

“She will bring them, presently. Is there
anything you wish to tell me about them?”

“You must find Jules and give them to him.
They all belong to him—Jules Letronne—that
was what he wascalled. The papers, and the
letter I wrote him, will explain everything.
Ask him tof rgive—forgive me, if you find him]

 

 
face of

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED. 7

 

 

Sometimes I think he must be dead, itis so long
since he has communicated with me. But he
my have children who ought to know—”

he door was thrown open, and a woman,
pale-faced and distracted, entered. '

“Mrs. Letronne! Mrs. St. Martyn! I call
God to witness I am not to blame! I put it in
the closet in my room, in the chest where I kept
my valuables! Both were locked; but the
package is gone!”

Elinor put up her hand, in an attempt to
stop the woman’s frightened confession; but it
was of no avail to stay the result she feared.

“Gone! Oh, God! Gone !” wailed over Chris-
tabel Letronne’s lips, followed by a stream of
blood that quenched the last ember of her flick-
ering, fateful life.

CHAPTER VII.
WHICH IS PROPHETICAL?

“In many ways does the heart reveal,
The presence of the love it would conceal.”
—COLERIDGE,

Mrs. LETRONNE was dead. [Elinor had tar-
ried by the side of the Pes: rigid figure, with
the hectic spots slowly fading from its senseless
cheeks, until medical aid had established the
fact beyond doubt. Then, after a short private
conference with Mrs. Lane, she took her depar-
ture and was driven rapidly homeward.

It was a relief when she entered her fragrant,
luxurious hallway among the familiar faces of
her servants. She felt asif she had awakened
from some weird, vexing dream. And yet she
was not ae sure that the awakening found
her utterly the same woman, who, but a brief
time before, had defied mystery, and dared
fate, with almost childish craving for new ex-
periences and sensations.

“ You are tired, ma’am!” exclaimed her maid,
anxiously, as Elinor entered her dressing-room,
and sweeping some folds of ruby velvet away
sunk into her favorite lounging-chair. ‘‘Noth-
ing ill has happened, I hope?” questioningly.

“T hardly know, Taylor,” said Mrs. St. Mar-
tyn, with a shadowy smile, and a kindly fa-
miliarity, that she sometimes indulged. ‘‘Is
death an ill?”

“No!” in a tone of intense bitterness, that
scarcely arose avove a whisper.

Elinor lifted her troubled eyes with a startled
since that was kindly pitiful, strangely per-

exed,

Pn You can say so?” gently. ** And yet po
have some one beside yourself to live for! Poor
girl! You must have found life very bitter.”

_ Sheasked no confidence; it was not her way;
and her maid volunteered none. Yetastronger
bond of sympathy was cemented between these
two,women—each with a history lying in her
past, each young, each fair, each husbandless—
the servitor and the served, than ever before
since Elinor St. Martyn had given the friendless
mother, with her little child, shelter and em-
ployment in her splendid home,

aylor busied herself silentl,
over a heap of passionate-hue
ventured:

“You do'‘not look well enough to go out.
‘Won’t you lie down first?” .

_ ‘Oh, no! I am quite well. I have been a
little excited, that is all. Havea cup of coffee
brought here while I speak with . Allison
before I commence a

When Griffis Gilruth folded her ermine cloak

for a moment
roses, then she

_ about her, and led her down to the carriage

where her sister awaited them, there were no
traces upon Mrs. St. Martyn’s dazzlingly fair
ther fatigue or excitement. An hour
in her own home, where every imaginable lux-

and the swift, implicit obedience of obse-
quious servants contributed to testify to her
proud position, her abundant wealth, and her
exceeding power, had quite freed Elinor from
her first sense of horror in connection with
those peculiar events of the evening which had
inlaid a dark fragment amid the brilliant mo-

_saic of her life. And she was entirely herself

when she greeted Griffis’s sister with gay con-
stiletions and kindly inquiries for . Gil-
ruth,

““You have no idea, Gertrude, how famousl.
I intend to improve the privilege with which
am honored this evening, through Mrs. Gil-
ruth’s indisposition. I shallbe contented with
nothing less than seeing you the bello supremely
and infatuatedly admired by the lion of the eve-
ning. And you will please to further my tri-
umph by liking him, whoever he may be.

* And don’t you know?” laughed Miss Gilruth.
b si At present I have not a suspicion, my

lear.

“Why, a Mr. Lucien Gillette; an artist,
and—”

“Enough, quite enough!” cried Elinor, in
mock horror. ‘I foresee that my high am-
bition is doomed to ignominious failure. These
ee young ladies’ heads quite upside

own, :

‘But if he is the lion—the man you pick
out—” :

“He never will be! Never! I spoke inad-
vertently; I should have said the most eligible
taun of the evening.”

“ And might he not still fulfill your hopes?” —

cover anything amiss about my toilet.”

 

“What! An artist eligible? Why, Gertrude,
is it possible that your education has been so
superficial as not to have comprised the fact
that nearly all artists are poor?’ she asked,
tragically. ‘Griffis, here, will tell you,” she
went on, with a biting irony quivering in her
silver tones, ‘‘whatever else you marry
for—to marry for wealth! That the summum
bonum of matrimony is money, which can
cover a multitude of sins, and every evil under
the sun!”

“‘T cannot think of doubting your right. to
judge from your own stand-point, Mrs. St. Mar-
tyn; but you ought to be charitable enough to
believe that even in your world there may be a
little real love left,” said Gilruth, rather hotly.

Elinor laughed.

“Pardon me! Have you forgotten that there
are exceptions to every rule, and always present
company?” Then, very frankly, very gravely:
“T was recalling experiences and observations

ast;” and a far-away lookin her eyes and a
reary undertone in her voice betrayed their
relation to herself.

“ But,” persisted Miss Gilruth, scarcely com-
prehending her brother’s flash of wounded
pride and Mrs. St. Martyn’s gentle apology,
“* even if Griffis, and mamma, and you, who are
so admired that we debutantes ought to cherish
gladly any advice that falls from your lips, all
think a wealthy man most eligible, aren’t you
willing to admit that if one is handsome, and
talented, and—”

“Excuse ine, Gertrude, but these artists are
pale, and thin, and long-haired, and—”

“Not Nol’ No!” cried Miss Gilruth, gayly

clapping her little gloved hands, ‘‘ This one is
not! He is as handsome a man as you ever
saw |!

“To think [ shall have to take your word for
it, half an hour or so longer,” laughed Mrs, St.
Martyn, * But pray tell me how it is that 7
know so. much concerning this gentleman? I
feel that my present responsible position toward
a certain young lady renders it needful for me
to become inquisitorial.” ;

“T saw him in Goupil’s a few days ago,
Madge Saree pout him out; and yesterday
I met him at Mrs. Vincent’s breakfast.”

‘* And this painter’s name, you say, is—?”

‘** Lucien Gillette.”

“Gillette, Gillette, the man whose work is
now the sensation in art circles? Yes, surely?”

‘“Yes! There—Griffis! You see these artists
turn young ladies’ heads!” exclaimed Miss Gil-
ruth, with a shade of sarcasm,

Mrs. St. Martyn elevated her eyebrows,
slightly, and the expression of her face betray-
ed her thought that Gertrude was already hope-
lessly infatuated with the artist.

‘Nonsense, sis!” Griffis commenced, con-
temptuously. ‘‘ Don’t let your little head give
place to any folly concerning this Gillette. Ten
chances to one his fame is transitory. He has
gone up like a rocket and will come down like
the stick. But there are so many people of
Mrs. Vincent’s and. Mrs, Jerrell’s stamp, senti-
mentally given to the encouragement of rising
talent, and absurdly anxious to fill their parlors
with celebrities and geniuses, that he have
his day, like all the rest of the adventurers.”

Gertrude’s clear dark cheek flushed.

“Mr. Gillette is not an adventurer,” she re-
plied, with considerable warmth.  “ He is a re-
markably talented artist, all his critics ac-
knowledge.” j

“T fear the:case is beyond my management!”
remarked Elinor, sotto voce, as the party enter-
ed Mrs. Jerrell’s gay hallway.

“Oh! Gertrude is not the least in earnest!
Why, he is twice her age, and comes from no
one knows where!” retorted Griffis, with easy

ee ,

Mrs, St. Nae smniled.

‘* Foolish boy ”? she said to herself, as she fol-
lowed Gertrude into the dressing rooms. ‘‘1 see
it remains for me to take his sister in hand.
Though these geniuses have my sympathy, I
must say this lionizing them is rather hard upon
susceptible young ladies, and trying to anxious
mammas, ally, I begin to appreciate the
tribulations of maternity.”

“Mrs. St. Martyn, how perfectly lovely you
are dressed,” cried Gertrude, surprising Elinor
with a far-away look in her eyes.

“Am I?’ coming back from dreamland.
“This is a toilet improvised by my maid at an
hour’s notice, because I was disappointed in
some of the trimmings of the one 1 had designed
wearing.”

“You have a treasure! She is not French,
either, is she?”

“No, a young American wiiow. But she
suits me better than any foreigner I ever had,
Are you quite ready to go down?”

“Yes, quite ready, thanks; unless you dis-

“No; it is very pretty and perfect. How
charming you look with your hair arranged in
that simple style. Why bave I never seen you
wear it so before?”

“T am so glad you like it,” said Gertrude
laughing, and neglecting to explain that she had
heard Mr. Gillette praise that fashion of coiffure.
And the two ladies joined their e:cort and
the gay throng passing to the parlor where

 

 

 

Mrs. Jerrell and her daughter received their
guests.

‘Mrs, St. Martyn! Mrs. St. Martyn!” whis-
pered a hum of voices, as Elinor entered the
elaborately decorated salon upon Griffis Gil-
ruth’s arm, proudly as a queen coming into
the presence of her ladies and courtiers, and
superbly indifferent to the hundreds of eyes
scanning her royal stature and bewildering
blonde beauty. '

‘What a splendid couple she and Gilruth
make!” remarked Mrs. Jerrell’s bachelor bro-
ther, who, quite forgetful or neglectful of his
sister’s commands, was playing the agreeable to
a gentleman instead of any one of the fair guests
in whom the lady had attempted to interest him.
oo aoe may depend upon it that will be a match

e

‘* What is the gentleman’s name, did you say?”
asked his companion, following Elinor and
Griffis with his eyes.

“ Griffis Gilruth. He’is the only son of one of
our prominent judges, and brother to Miss
Gilruth, the dark young lady who is with
them!”

“ Ah! yes; I met her, yesterday, at Mrs, Vin-
cent’s breakfast.” 3

“*True! And of course you know the other?”

“T have not been presented, no. She is Mrs.
St. Martyn, I believe.”

“Yes, and the marvel of all New York. She
or her money--has broken more masculine
hearts than any dozen belles. But Madame
Grundy-says she is quite soulless, though I
don’t believe Gilruth thinks so. He is her fa-
vorite, if any one is, and it would be just like
such a woman to throw herself away upon such

“What does ‘such a woman’ and ‘sucha
man’ mean, in this case?” asked his companion,
with a grave smile.

“Well,” said Mr, Ralph Webb, witha comical
shrug of bis shoulders, ‘a woman who is mighty
rich, and independent, and has bad one husband,
old and ugly § and a man younger and poorer
than herself.”

“Then you think that if this Mrs. St. Martyn
was in love, wealth and poe would be of
little account to her?’ The questioner seemed
really interested.

“Oh! no,” said Mr. Webb, decidedly. “ Gil-
ruth is brilliant in his profession, for a young
man, and the family is wealthy and unexcep-
tionable.. But she has had some of the finest
fortunes of two continents laid at her feet—to
say nothing of coronets. Ah! they are coming
this way, and my sister is looking daggers at
me for mone you. Do you care to be
introduced? Yes? Rash man! to put yourself

the way of such fascination! Well, Pll make

the presentation and then wash my hands. of

you!” concluded the irrepressible bachelor, good-
umoredly.

A moment later Griffis Gilruth and his com-
panions stood fece to face with Lucien Gillette:
and the artist was bending gracefully above
Elinor’s hand, saying, in all earnestness:

“Mrs. St. Martyn, this is a lopg-anticipated
pleasure!”

 

CHAPTER VIII.
THE ARTIST,
“But what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.”

—TENNYSON.
“INDEED?”

Mrs. St. Martyn’s tone was coolly interroga-
tive: but as she raised her eyes to the fine hight
of the speaker, there flashed across her face a
swift, winsome change that won a responsive
smile from the artist—a smile that came and
went all too quickly, but that lent, for a mo-
ment, a wonderful fascination to his grave, al-
most stern face, and lighted his deep eyes with
a splendid brilliancy. And as he turned with
graceful interest to renew his recently-formed
acquaintance with Gertrude Gilruth, Elinor
could comprehend the secret of the girl’s ad-
miration.

“Certainly, he is a handsome man!” she ex-
claimed, mentally, while exchanging gay repar-
tees here and there with the friends gathering
about her, and dazzling with her smiles, and cet-
ting men’s hearts to throbbing covetously as her
dainty hand touched theirs or her silvery laugh-
ter swept her breath in fragrant ripples against
their faces, and seeming entirely absorbed in
pleasing and being pleased, though she never
once lost sight of the splendid figure beside Miss
Gilruth. sani

“A very handsome man!” she said again, un-
der her breath. ‘And his face haunts me!—
But not at all a man to care for Gertrude! Un-
less—” She did not conclude the sentence. She
was surprised and displeased to find that it oc-
curred to her witha pans of pain that this artist,
so grandly beautiful of face and figure, might
prove a fortune-hunter, And she wasglad when
a partner led Gertrude to the ball-room. Pres-
ently she, too, moved away, and Lucien Gillette
was banished from her thoughts, :

But—Gillette? Through all the laughter-fill-
ed, fairily-flitting minutes, the whirl of the gay
crowd, the sweet incense of flowers and pulsing
8 DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

 

 

 

 

of music, the shimmer of silks and foam of
laces, the flashing of jewels upon white arms
and pearly bosoms, the congratulations of men,
the flattery of wo:nen, and the arch smiles of
pretty maidens, never once came between him
and a vision of Elinor’s perfect faco or tho
echoes of her clear, bell-like voice. The artist-
soul wi.bin him yielded passionate homage to
her loveliness, and not once afar did he lose the

low of tho blood-red roses lying against tho
dull splendid gleaming of her bronze-hued hair.

After a time his hostess sought him.

‘Come, Mr. Gillette,” she cried, putting her
hand upon his arm, ‘‘ you aren’t going to refuse
to dance, I hope?”

“T am at your command,” he answered,
smiling.

‘Then there is Miss Gilruth disengaged, I
think.” | She led him across the room, quite un-
conscious of the mischief sho was furthering, to
where the girl stool ptucking at her bouquet
and listening indifferently to the conversation
of a fair young Russian count beside whom her
chaperono had left her. ‘‘Gertrude, Mr. Gil-
lette would Jiko you to waltz with him.”

“Do you dance?” asked Miss Gilruth, naively,
glancing up with a flash of pleasure into the
artist’s smiling eyes.

“Theat depends upon you,” laughing.

Gertrude Jaughed, too.

‘Of course, just at this minute.”

**But you were surprised that I danced at
all?’ ho said, when Mrs. Jerrell bad carried
Count Krylof off to a more willing listener and
they were threading their way through the
crowd. ‘Why, may I ask?”

“T believe I imagined you cared only for
learned, rather serious people, and grave pur-
suits, and might think waltzing a foolish amuse-
ment and dancers frivolous. ou—”

“Well?” as she hesitated and raised her eyes
shyly, full of girlish n-irth and archness, to his,

ou impressed me, at first, as being dread-.

fully stern and hard to please.”

‘And you have gotten over the impression,
now? I am glad of that!” he said, softly, as
they two swayed into rhythm with the joyous
music. s

It was a quiet, honest declaration; but for
Gertrude there was a subtle witcbery in the
simple words, the grave eyes, the low, sweet
voice, that lent warmth to her glance, an en-
ticing glow to her dark, brilliant face, a de-
licious flush to her cheeks, lovely, tremulous
curves to her red mouth, a yielding, bees |

ace to her small, supple, rounded figure; an
fhe man would have been more than human had
the girlish beauty and abandon of his young

tner compelled no response,

‘“* What a lovely, excitable, joyous creature!”
was Lucien’s thought as he told her how he had
danced with the lithe, merry country maidens
of France, out under the star-filled heavens, and
waltzed to divinest music with graceful Italian
peasants among the fire-flies and the olive
shades. While he talked, Mrs. St. Martyn
floated by. She saw’ tho girl’s face, brilliant
and ionate as never before, and the man’s
smiling mouth and dreamy eyes. How could
she know that while he sought to interest her
protegee his own thoughts were far away amid
the sun-lands of Southern Europe? He glanced
up, suddenly, and saw Elinor with a start as if
some apparition had faced him. the gaze
that met his was chilling; the face immeasur-
ably proud. Yet it warmed with smiles an in-
stant after at some whispered word from her
partner—Griffis Gilrath.

From the ball-room, Lucien and Gertrude
— into the small apartment. beyond, where
ight refreshments forestalled the more elaborate
supper laid in the rooms below; and when Miss
Gilruth had finished her ice, and been carried
away by another pirtner, the artist deliberate-
ly sought Mrs. St. Martyn. ‘

We found her as usual, when she was not
dancing, the center of a brilliant little coterie.
Presently he gained a place at her side. She
showed no surprise when she noticed him there,
and he made no effort to share the Jeast of her
attention. But the conversation had turned

upon a matter of musical art, and Lucien was.

drawn into the discussion. His views were
soon discovered to be antagonistic to Mrs. St.”
Martyn’s; and Elinor’s admirers watched the
artist interestcdly, as the lady essayed to end
the argument by a witty and subtle defense of
her opinious, and merciless, almost contemp-
tuous satire of her antagonist’s. Mr. Gillette
looked amused; but when she — unwontedly
flushed and handsome—ceased speaking, amid
laughter and plaudits, he quite took her listen-
ers by storm, with his quiet, ready reply; be
met wit with wit as brilliant, and satire with
satire as keen, witha _— of manner, a fascin-
ation of address, and a calm self-sufficiency,
that were irresistible.

“TI acknowledge myself fairly beaten!” ex-
claimed Elinor, flashing around upon him.

He bowed. La ee and yet a subtle sense
of triumph gleamed in the eyes that met bers.

** And is she who is so great as to calmly con-

fess a defeat, also great enough to forgive?” he-

questioned, quietly. ‘‘ Will you honor me with
meet i your order of dancing, Mrs, St.

 

‘Every ono is promised, Mr. Gillette.”

“Ah? Iam sorry.”

He bowed with a courtliness that was knight-
Wy, a hauteur that was kingly, and moved away.

dark, winsome face smiled on bim as he pass-
ed, The smile and the face came back to him
when he had sought retirement and coolness in
Mrs. Jerrell’s little music-room that was half-
filled with tropic plants. But he repelled de-
fiantly the thought that recalled them.

“‘T have one ambition! One ambition! And
I will attain it!” he said, solemnly, looking out
through the lace and vine-hung window into the
crisp, starry autumn night,

“ And that is fame?’ asked a silvery voice ho
would have recognized ‘the world over.

‘*Could a man have a higher or nobler?” he
eeu turning Ee to stani face to

‘ace with Elinor St. artyn.

“How should I know?” she retorted, hastily,
wondering why those grave, deep-gray eyes 80
haunted her with some nameless likeness. ‘‘I
have never made men’s hearts a study.”

“Not from lack of opportunity, so Madame
Gossip says,” in a tone almost severe.

Elinor drew herself up haughtily.

“No! Not from lack of Ppporettty, with
acceptance of his meaning; ‘‘ but because I have
never believed it worth the trouble.”

“Then your life has held a great mistake, and
bar can scarcely have been happy, Mrs. St.

artyn,” he said, quietly, still leaning against
the laces and the vines. tall, and fair, and hand-
some as some god of the ancient days, with his
clear-cut features, his straight brows above
sweeping lashes and unfathomable eyes—now
dazzling with the smile come into them, now
dark with thoughts that defied translation, his
grave, fine mouth under its graceful mustache
the Saxon, sun-gold blondeness of his splendi
beard and abundant hair in magical contrast
with the clear, tanned brown of his face.

Elinor’s eyes gazed defiantly, then frankly,
into his a moment,

“Yes”—with a smothered sigh—‘ my life has
held a great mistake—perhaps more than one;
but I am not sure that it is not as happy, now,
as women’s generally are.”

* Happy in what?”

The words went to her heart with a keen,
stinging stroke that seemed to lay bare all the
utter purposelessness and emptiness of her exist-
ence. Ay! “ happy in what?” And then her

lance fell upon the flowers in her hand—Griffis

ilruth’s gift—and a sudden gratefulness for his
love—a yearning to care for some one beyond
all others in the world, and be so cared for,
swept across her.

Gillette did not wait for her reply.

“Pardon the question, Mrs. St. Martyn. I
see it troubles you. Do not answer it. I had
no right to ask it.”

She flushed a trifle, but his look brought that
winsome softness again to her face which had
so impressed him once before that evening.

“T wonder if you would take what had been
once refused you?” she said, changing the sub-

ject.
q “Try me, and see!” The intensity of his tone
almost startled her.

‘“‘T have a waltzat your disposal. The gentle-
man to whom it was promised has been called
away. Do you care for it?” she stood before
him smiling, yet half-dreading merited repulse
like a contrite child. '

“Very much.”

“Tt is not until after supper.” ‘N

“T can wait,” he replied, simply.

She smiled back, as she left him, feeling that
she understood the content in his answer, and
vaguely glad. It pleased her to be kind to this

/ man w.0 could never dare presume to play the

lover.

And later in the evening, Lucien Gillette held
Elinor St. Martyn in his arms as they floated to
and fro, and around, to the intoxicating music;
and likened her to a royal captive chained with
roses, as the passionate blossoms banding the
classic folds of her soft, thick white silk wafted
their odor against his face; and wondered if it
was true that she loved Griffis Gilruth.

“Mrs. St. Martyn,” he said, when the dance
was over, and he was escorting her back to the

lor, “has it not eocnrred to you that we
ve met before?”

A slight vibration of her figure and a transi-
tory pallor, did not escape her companion’s

grave downward glance. What had been in the |

question to cause them?

‘‘Have we?” she asked, quickly.
me where!”

But several gay couples joining them, Gillette
drifted away to other engagements and Mrs. St.
Martyn’s question remained unanswered.

CHAPTER IX.
A BIRTHDAY OFFERING.

Thine is th’ adventure, thine the victory;

Well has thy fortune turn’d the dio for thee.

Y 7 —Dryven,

Tue housekeeper brought the box of laces,

that had been preserved from the eentest ap-
pearance of harm, notwithstanding the vicissi-
ties through which it had peace and inviting
Helene to accompany her the way to tae
floor below,

“Pray tell

 

‘*T will dispatch Robert Donnelly with these,
instantly, and tell him to explain to Mrs. St.
Martyn, or her maid, exactly how the delay in
your delivery of them occurred. You do not
need to see her yourself?” questioningly.

‘No, but I must have a receipt, or note, bear-
ing her signature, in order to get my pay from
Garson and Dane’s, for none them.”

“T will see that it is brought you. Would
you like to walk through the conservatory while
Tam busy? I shall be at liberty soon, and then
we will breakfast.”

“Oh, thank ycu! Yes, indeed! How lovely!”
cried Helene, as Mrs. Wallace turned into a nar-
row hallway and threw open a door just cppo-
site Mr. Trefethen’s breakfast-parlor.

It was perfect joy to the girl to wander
among the damp, iragrant plants, and lock into
the hearts of lovely blossoms, and linger by the
side of dainty moss and trailing vines jeweled
with showers of drops. She flitted lither and
thither, blissfully oblivious to everything
yond her present delight, until the housekeeper’s
voice recalled her from dreamland.

“Oh, I could stay in there forever!” she ex-
claimed, rapturously clasping her hands, and
then laughing at her own enthusiasm, as Mrs.
Wallace met her at the doorway.

“What, without anything to eat?” said the
housekeeper, who was very practical. ‘ Well,
you. oughtn’t to. You look pale and faint now.
Come: everything is ready {cr Mr. Trefethen’s
breakfast, so we will get ours.”

“But you haven’t put any flowers on bis ta-
ble,” said Helene. ‘‘ Does he not like them?”

Mrs. Wallace was taken by surprise. ‘‘I am
sure I do not know.”

‘‘ And such treasures just in here! Why, if I
were he, I should have fresh ones near me every
time I sat down! Do let me gather some!”

The lady looked undecided, as she followed
the young stranger into the conservatory.

“Tnever touch the flowers, except to geta
few for my room, occasionally,” she said.
‘When Mr. Trefethen wishes any, he speaks to
the gardener. And perhaps Jobh would not
like us to touch them. a

“Oh, yes’m!” responded that individual,
startlingly, frcm sents the shrubbery. ‘Let
the young leddy pick all she pleases.”

He had noticed Helene among the flowers.
Her genuine admiration of- them had delighted
him; and he nodded knowingly and approving-
ly at Mrs. Wallace as the girl deftly severed
here and there a bunch of blossoms or spray of
foliage and clustered them in a charmingly ar-
tistic mass, It was only the work of a minute,
and Helene egain was at the housekeeper’s side.

* Aren’t they enchanting? Oh! they make me
80 happy! May I have a spray for myselt?”
“ene witchingly to the old gardener.

“Indeed, and you may, miss,” said the man
well pleased; and he cut her one of his choicest
clusters of “eh pis rosebués, and even the
practical Mrs. Wallace was moved to a touch of
sentiment by the winsome, glad young face, and
taking them from his hand fastened the fra-
grant beauties in the girl’s golden hair.

“There! Now, let me take the bouquet,” and
she crossed to the parlor and selected fiom a
cabinet filled with rare, odd articles of china a
tasteful vase for it, asking:

‘Where do you want it to stand?”

** Just here!” answered Helene, designating a

t where the pale morning shine fell athwart
the fine Jinen and glittering crystal of the mil-
lionaire’s lonely table. The flowers were placed
amid the sunbeams, just as Fritz entered witha
tray of smoking viands.

““Come,” said Mrs. Wallace. ‘‘ Mr. Trefethen
will be here preseutly;” end she hurried the
girl away to a large comfortable rocm where a
small table, near a bright fire, was arranged
with a breakfast for two. 3

“Are you never very lonely?” asked Helene,
oe entered. ‘‘Has Mr. Trefethen no fa-
mily?” |

The housekeeper looked mildly rurprised as
she motioned the young stranger to a place op-
posite the coffee service.
ae ae atall. Have you never heard about

m

‘*No,” said Helene, laughing. ‘Is hea very
great man? d am I very ignorant?”

Mrs. Wallace smiled at the girl’s naivete, and
launched out into quitea history of her em-
plover over the coffee and muffins.

“Why, of course I know this house!” ex-
claimed Helene, portly. “Pve seen it many
times, and thought what queer people must live
here, to have such a gloomy fence and _ forlorn

ard around such a fine dwelling. Is Mr. Tre-
ethen very old that he is so odd?”

“He is at least seventy.” ;

As Mrs. Wallace answered, there came a
knock at the door, and a waiter announced that
Mr. Trefethen desired to see mademoicelle.

“‘Me?” cried Miss Arnold, cpening wide her
blue eyes. .

“Yes, mademoiselle,” responded Fritz.

“Go, my dear,” said Wallace. “You
need not be afraid.”

‘* Afraid!” said Helene, disdainfully, to her-
self, asshe walked swiftly after the waiter to
the room where the millionaire sat at breakfast.
And yet, ber heart beat far faster than it was

 
«

jt,” she said

we

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED. |

 

9

 

 

vont to do, es Fritz throw open the door and
ushered her into tho presenco of a picreing-cyed,
elderly gentleman, scrupulously attired in a
velvef coat and richly-ornamented smoking-
cap, who aroso and greoted her with elaborate
courtesy.

‘Good-morning, mademoiselle! It affords
me much pleasuro to sco you well to-day,” ho
said, gallantly, handing the girl a chair near tho
bright open fire, ‘I hope you were not greatly
burt last night?’

“Ob, no, indeed; but very little,” replied
Miss Arnok!, sinking into tho design ited seat,
with tho graco that was characteristic of her
every movement. ‘And Icannot thauk you
enough for the kindness you have shown mo,”

“Té is nothing! nothing!” said tho old gen-
tloman, shrugging his shoulders. ‘‘I could not
do less, when my man had been so stupid. You
havo moro than repaid mo by tho bestowment
ef this dclicato litile attention,” and he waved |
his han toward tho vase of flowers.

‘But thoy are your own!” cxclaimed Helene,
with a ripple of laughter, all fear of the ‘‘pe-
culiar” and wealthy Frenchman vanishing.

“ Ah, mademoisello, but the thought to put
them here, and the artistic taste that arranged
them, were not even mine to command,” he
arsvered, with a profound bow.

_ that is not common, mademoiselle.

 

“T wished to do it because I so love flowers
and so seldom have any to arrange,” explained |
tho girl, simply. . :

‘You are poor, mademoiselle?” with a sweep-
ing glenco over her shabbily-attired figure.

“Yes, vory!” she answered, flashing with
swift, defiant anger.

“Ah! was Mr. Trefethen’s laconic rejoinder,
and ho turned to his coffee.

“V7ould you mind telling an old man how
long you havo been very poor, even if you think
it is an impertinent ee ” after a brief but
unpleasant silence. Despite a tone of sarcasm
in tho speech there was a ring of humor in it, as |
well, that found quick response. The girl’s hot |
cheek; dimpled, her darkened eyes lightened up |
sunnily. |
_ “‘ All my life!” she said, intensely, but smil- |

ing.
“Indeed? And has that been such an eter: |
nity?’ |
“You may not think so, sir,” with another |
outburst of laughter at this pleasant irony. ‘‘I |
am sixteen to-day.” : |
“Indeed? I wish ‘you many happy returns |
of tho day! Sixteen! Scarcely more than a |
cbild! Iam afraid your friends have been very
worried about you and I presume you are anx-
ious to get to them and receive their congratu-
lations?” |
“Thark you. I fear yours are the only con-
gratulations I shall have to-day. There is no
one to worry over me, and I am only anxious
to got at my work.”
“Ciel! Hear it! Anxious to get to work!
poet you no one to make this a holiday for |
‘ou |
we No one; and I cannot afford holidays,” said |
Helene; quietly. /
Mr. Trefethen
table.
“You don’t mean that you have no friends
and support yourself?” he questioned, shortly.
“¢'Yes, sir.’
“What do you do?”
“Mend laces and other fine work for large
,stores.”
“ Who taught you?”
“A woman who gave me a home when I
came here.”
“ Where did
Helene smil

turned quite away from the

‘ou come from?”

at the inquisition, but mention-
ed the povebecsoring town in New England
that had briefly been her home. :

“ And why did you leave there?” continued
her interlocutor.

“T was bound out, from an orphanasylum, to
a woman I hated, and I ran a Ran away
in search of freedom, and knowledge, and for-
tune!” she added, courage and defiance in her
resolute tones.

“*And you have found them?” The old gen- |
ee sharp features relaxed into a genuine |
smile. |

“ Freedom, — said the girl, proudly. |
“ And, thanks to one friend, I have studied and |
read considerable. But the fortune—well, that ,
is longer coming. Yet I mean to accomplish |
something beyond lace-mending, one day!” de- |
serminedly. |

“How, mademoiselle? Pray favor me with |
en outline of your plans.”

“They are not very clear. I think most of |
going on'the stage; but Guardy—” |

“Not No! You sball not! You shall not! '
I would see a child of mine struck dead before I |
would allow it!” cried the millionaire, with a |
startling outburst of passion, his dark, wrinkled |
face flushing excitedly. |

Helens looked at him in amazement.

“ But achild of yours would not need to do ,

ealmly. ‘‘Ido. And the profes-
sion cannot harm me if I am true to myself.”

Without heeding her, the old gentleman blunt-
ly demanded:

“What is your name?”
“Helene Arnold.”

 

| friend oe

Again his passion blazed ‘fiercely. ‘Helene!
Oufl: itis a wicked namo!
up! Is it like her you lock?
have scen in yours all along? No! No! You
aro different! different! but you have her name!
Who gavo it to you?”

The girl explained, concisely, how she came
to bear it.

“Then you are Mademoiselle Brown, Sydney
Brown?”

“Yos, but as there isno one to care, I don’t
choose to be called that. I hate Brown! It is
common!”

Mr. Trefethen’s eyes sparkled.

‘*'You are proud! Do you hate poor people?”

“No. If I did Ishould hate myself. I don’t
like what is common, and I detest what is
low |”

“Well, well, I will suggest a name for you
I have a
proposal to make. You are sixteen, to-day,
caner ioe no friends to give you a birthday
gi

“There is one person,” smiled the girl, ‘* who,
if he knew that it was my birthday, I think
would not quite overlook it.”

“Ah! And who ts he ?” sharply.

Miss Arnold spoke of her neighbor, and what
he had done for her, and Mr. Trefethen’s face
brightened.

‘“ Well, mademoiselle,” he resumed, “I am a
rich, lone‘y old man. Will you let me give you |
a birthday gift beyond anything your only
offer? Let me care for you, as my |
— daughter, for the next year? What say |
you?”

The girl’s red, cleft mouth half-smiled, half-
trembled in her tumult of rapturous surprise; |

| and her blue eyes were dazzling in their joyful-

ness.

‘Ob, it would be delightful!” she breathed, |
softly, fervently, and yet with a consciousness
that after all, it was but the transpiring of the
fate for which she had waited long.

‘‘And after you are seventeen, what then?’

keen
“

ly.
hes I may have discovered some congenial |
place and work in life,” suid the girl, brightly.

“Well, well, Sydney—Sydney Trefethen— |
misericorde! How that name suits her! Do |
not think of the future. I will arrange plans |
for that and confide them to your friend. Ask |
him tosee me to-night, just after dinner; and |
can you come to me to-morrow?” }

“Yes, oh, yes! And, Mr. Trefethen, you
must discover some duties for me if I am to ac-
cept your bounty, to let me pay you in some
degree for your kindness to me,”

‘Bah, mademoiselle! Do you think I shall
prison so bright a bird in this old cage? Now,
Se Good-morning!” and he gal-

mtly escorted her to the door of the apart-

ment. ‘‘Send your friend withcut fail, to- |

night, and my carriage shall bring you in the |

morning.”

And as the golden-haired waif disappeared, |

the old gentleman returned
papers, muttering: |

“To think I should do this!_ To think I should |
do this! Is it because she is like her ?”

And all that day Octavien Trefethen never
ceased to marvel that a beautiful face had won
a place for its owner in the heart that had so
long been steeled against any woman’s influ-
ence.

to his, morning

 

CHAPTER X.

A SELF-WILLED WOMAN.
“Yor if she will, she will, you may depend on’t;
And if she won’t, she won't; so there’s an end on’t.””
THE morning after Mrs. Jerrell’s party found
Griffis Gilruth dissatisfied with the world in
general, and most of all with himself; which |
was entirely a new experience for that gentle-

man,

._ Letters which had brought only pleasurable
anticipations to tho others of his family were
suggestive to him of annoying complications;
and forced him to face the disagreeable fact
that he had been the first of his line untrue to
the legend of loyalty, to honor, upon which the
Gilruth men so prided themselves. All of his
name had been handsome men and brave; wild
in many ways and loved of women and tender-
mannered; but not one but had held his ae
ed word more sacred than his love or his life.
And Griffis had broken his.

Long ago, when he was a child of six, and she
an infant in her nurse’s arms, Griffis Gilruth’s
troth had been plighted, by mutual wishes of
their parents, to the tiny girl-haby who repre-
sede: in her own little person the rights to two
of the finest estates in Germany and France.
The one she inherited directly from her father.
who had died without even seeing his only ebild
and the successor to his splendid lands and
castle-home; while through her mother—a
cousin of Griffis’s father—who was the only
@auchter of a large French family ot noble
blood and much wealth, the little Beatrix was
heiress to considerable landed wealth in France,
one after another of her uncles dying childless.

At twenty-one Griffis had been offered free-

You must give it |
ls it her face I |

ther, and just having seen Beatrix, a shy,
blushing child in aprons and short dresses,
brought from her sctiool to shake hands with
him, he carelessly and willingly gave his assent
to the compact. He regarded marriage as a
compact a man must form some time—a mere
matter of the judgmeut after he had tired of
playing the lover toa score or so of women—
and what more advantageous match could he
make than this one with his little French and
| German ‘second-cousin? But, after all, matri-
mcny seemed so very dim and distant, that the
girl soon ceased to be a reality to him. He
went his way as carelessly and pleasantly as if
there was no such person as Beatrix in all the
world; yet not with a dream of marrying any
other woman. He had never really considered
where his intimacy with Elinor St. Martyn
might lead him, until she stood lcoking into his
eyes with her wistful, yearning ones that only
time when he had surprised her in a mood like
to that of women who can love. Then he did
what it was so natural fora man to do in the
eens of a rarely beautiful woman whose
eart many have desired to share, and he onl
may~—succumbed to flattered vanity and ambi-
tious possessions, 5
And now, a few short hours after his outburst
of passion, and the understanding to which it
had Jed, he must needs be reminded of his bro-
ken honor, and foreign fiancee, by the announce-
ment that Beatrix and Mrs. Leuthold would
soon be in New York.

The tidings had come with the morning mail.
To the judge they were most pleasing. He de-
sired to see his only son settled in life, and
hoped that Beatrix’s visit would speedily result
in the consummation of the cousins’ long be-
trothal. Mrs. Gilruth, too, received the news
gladly, and looked forward to introducing the
ladies to New York society, and giving stylish
entertainments in their honor. While Gertrude
was elated with the anticipations of extra gay-
eties, and, perhaps, with the thought that she
would be likely to be under less strict surveil-
lance as regarded her acquaintance with the
handsome artist. Griffis, only, was annoyed at

| the thought of his betrothed’s arrival.

“Tam in a horribie fix, certainly,” he reflect-
ed, gloomily, as he ran up to his room. ‘“ It
would never do to return Mrs. St. Martyn her
ring the day after she gave it tome. I haveno
choice but to let matters take their own wav for

| awhile, keeping quiet my engagement to Bea-

trix, and, Micawber-like, waiting for somethin
to turn up. The amount of the business is,
hate to treak with Elinor! Of course I should
get along with Beatrix well encugh—Gertrude
says she is a gentle, docile little thing—better
perhaps than with the other, who has a temper
and will of her own that. old St. Martyn never
tamed; but when it comes to love—Elinor has
such a tigure, such eyes, such a face, with all
a woman's flesh-and-blood and fire about her,
| though she does seem such a marble statue! To
think of putting her out of one’s life, forever, to
ma a namby-pamby girl! Ana yet, 1 be-
lieve I was not wont to consider it essential that
one should be en rapport with one’s wife!” and
he laughed at his inconsistency.

Perhaps it was to test the quality of the re-
he felt for ber that Griffis stopped at Mrs.

t. Martyn’s on his way Gown town. Hescarce-
ly expected to see her, but purposed leaving his
card with a dainty cluster of flowers. To lis
surprise she was breakfasting, and sent for him
to join her in the pretty room where she sat sip-
ping her coffee. ;

‘Good boy! How nice of you to get here so
quickly! Did you meet my messenger?” she
asked smiling and holding out her band.

‘No; had you sent for me? I merely stopped
to Jeave these,” and he brushed her brow with
his lips as he stooped to lay the blossoms on her

lap.

Tainor looked a trifle annoyed, and impatient-
ly pushed her chair from the table.

“Thanks; it was kind of you to think of me.
Yes, I wished to see you upon a business mat-
ter. I want you to act as my attorney in a
transaction that requires immediate attention
and in which I am greatly interested. wil
you?” with a shade of anxiety not characteristic

of her.

Gilruth looked indifference that he was far
from feeling, as he answered:

“Ts not Atterbury eee lawyer? It would
not do to interfere with another men’s client.”

“Ves, Mr. Atterbury has managed my busi-
ness since the death of my father and Mr. St.
Martyn. But he is prosaic and peculiar, and I
do not care to have him take this matter in
hand. To tell the truth, Griffis,” laughing. ‘‘I
am afraid he will think it a foolhardy affair al-
together and consider it his duty to attempt to
advise and coerce me.”
; And you imagine I will do your will, blind-
Mee I am willing to try you,” she retorted, gay-

ly.

Mi And what is this rash undertaking, in which
you need a lawyer’s assistance?” - ,
‘Do you promiso to devote yourself to it?”

‘I promise to devote myseli to your interests,

 

dom from his betrothal, or personal ratification
of it. He wastraveling in Europe with his fa-

‘always, Elinor.”
But when Mrs, St, Martyn had narrated the
10 DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

 

 

events of tho previous evening, he exclaimed,
impetuously:

“And you expect me to encourage you to
commit_yourself further to this preposterous
affair? I never heard of such madness! I would
not have acnee you es of doing any-
thing so utterly foolish and rash! You must let
the matter drop immediately, Elinor, and I will
take steps to seo that your name does not get
abroad in connection with it!”

Mrs. St. Martyn trifled with her flowers while
hoe spoke, cnly a deepening glow in her cheeks
betraying tho attention sho was giving to his
imperious words. But when he had finished,
she glanced full in his face, with eyes haughtily
a and determined, and a chill, scornful
smile.

“You might have spared yourself the wasto
of so much breath and energy. I did not ask
for your opinion of my acts, but whether you
were willing to make a professional engagement
with me. lt was quite casy tosay no, Thero
are dozens of lawyers and detectives who aro
capable of taking the affair in charge. I pro-
ferred you becauso you had been so kind as to
intimate that you cared for me, and I supposed
you would interest yourself to prosecute the
matter thorougily and privately. I will deter-
mine ues some one else, immediately.”

Griffis had walked to the mantle and stood
leaning there and looking down at her. Fora
moment his eyes blazed and his lips were com-

ressed, ominously. Yet there was something
in the beauty’s very anger that attracted him.
He felt that he could never command her, yet
he longed to conquer her.

“Do you mean,” he said, presently, very
calmly, ‘“‘tbat you have fully made up your
mind to continue your connection with this af-
fair in direct Seton to any one’s or every
one’s judgment?”

“T mean that [have given my promise toa
dying woman; and will not break it, no matter
how unpleasant or even terrible ars the conse-
quences I am forced to face in order to keep it!”

“ Elinor, you certainly do not anticipate any
personal unpleasantness?” he said, seriously,
going and bending over her chair.

“Whatever I anticipate, I offered you the

_chance to learn the worst and to do for me your

I am sorry to be disappointed,” she an-
se carelessly, yet looking up at him witha
smile. ’

He changed his position, suddenly, took her
hands in his and bent above her face with eyes
passionate and full of compelling witchery.

f Queen Elinor, command me—if you love
me.

“You are unfair, Griffis, I will not buy your
services so.”

“Nonsense, my friend! If you are deter-
mined to prosecute the matter, I am the person
to assist you. But, seriously, Mrs. St. Martyn,
do you not think it rash to commit yourself to
the-unraveling of this mystery?”

“T think, and know, and admit, that it was
rash to engage in such a strange affair,” she an-
swered, rising. ‘‘ Know it, and appreciate it, a
hundred times beyond what you can, Griffis.
But I fully believe that it was a decree of fate.
by which I was controlled; and I shall. go on
with what I have undertaken. 1 cannot make
my life less happy than it is by helping to set
right a wrong done to an innocent individual.

So all that we need discuss now is how to soon-

est sift this affair to the bottom. I have ordered
my carriage andam going to Mrs. Lane’s im-
ar You will accompany me?”

“1 will,” assented Griffis, committing himself
to Mrs. St. Martyn’s p e without further
protest, ora dream of the future he was thus to
work out for himself.

“Thank you; I must ask you to excuse me,
now, while I change my dress; I shall not keep
you waiting over ten minutes.” ;

As she spoke a card was brought her upon
which was penciled, underneath the name, a
message, asking her for an immediate inter-

view.
“ Mr. Octavien Trefethen!” she exclaimed,
dropping the card upon the table. ‘TI shall
have tosee him! It must be a matter of im-
rtance which impels him to pry, a call—some-
hing about the-girl who mended my laces, oe
haps. Is it not enough that I forgave her fail-
ure to get them to mein time for the party?’
she concluded, hastening to her visitor and not
dreaming that she left Gilruth to unpleasant
meditations aroused by the name she had read.
Her interview with the elderly Frenchman
was brief, but the favor he had come to ask
seemed to Mrs. St. Martyn, at first, perfectly
astounding; and she was not quite sure when
she had promised it, and he had thanked her
elaborately and made an < “epee to re-
eeive her at his own home the next day, that
she had not assumed a responsibility that would
susgest to society that she had quite taken leave
of her senses. But Elinor was not afraid to def.
criticism, and the whole affair was so novel,

and—

“Well,” she concluded, mentally as she has-
tened to prepare for her drive, “I certainly
have enough new interests upon my hands now.

Truly, it never rains but it ponre! Ah! Myra,
child, I nearly over you. Why, how

 

pale you look! You do not rompenough. We
will ask mamma to get you ready for a ride
with me, if you are not afraid to sit in the car-
riage alone, or up on the box with James, while
I make a call.”

‘Oh, not one bit!” cried Myra, in happy ex-
citement. And when Mrs. St. Martyn joined
her young attorney, she had the little girl with
her, and Griffis put them in the carriage, asking
as he took his own placo:

‘* Well, Elinor, did my misanthropic relative
prove an agreeable caller?”

“He proved a startling one. He came to ask
me to wix myself up with another romance.”

‘“¢ Minor!”

‘Ob, you'll say more than that when I tell you
it!” she laughed. ‘+ He has adopted a daughter,
or ward, or protegee, or whatever you choose to
call her, and desires me to act as chaperone to
tho girl.”

‘*You will never do it?” cried Griffis, in dis-

gust.

“On the contrary, I shall! It will be so
novel, you see. Wonders never cease, Who
knows what startling results may be brought
about through the social debut of this adopted
cousin of yours ?”

CHAPTER XL

STRAWS.

“Take a straw and throw it up into the air, you

may see by that which way the wind is.”
—JoHN SELDEN,

Mrs. St. Marryn’s carriage stood before the
dingy boarding-house where Christabel Le-
tronne lay dead, and a little, white, grave,
childish face looked out at its open window,
when a man came down the walk—a tall man
with a handsome face somewhat hidden by a
large but not unbecoming slouch hat. Reach-
ing the stone steps he turned his attention to the
carriage. The coachman had dismounted and
stood in the sun at the head of his horses, and
the stranger crossed the walk and pleasantly
addressed the child:

“Whose carriage is this?”

“Mrs, St, Martyn’s,” answered Myra, grave-

ly.
Ti Ab! And she has gone inside?” indicating
the house.

** Yes, sir; she and Mr. Gilruth.”

“Gilruth! Judge Gilruth?”

“T don’t know; Mrs, St. Martyn calls him
Griffis.”

An unpleasant smile flickered across the man’s
lips. Ten he asked, insinuatingly:

‘And what is your name, little girl?”

“ Myra Taylor, sir.”

The questioner started, visibly; and gazed so
intently into Myra’s face that the child shrunk
back, timidly.

“Myra Taylor! Then you are not Mrs. St.
Martyn’s little girl?’ he resumed, persuasively.
‘* How comes she to take you riding?”

“Mamma and I live with Mrs. St. Martyn,”
said Myra, wishing he would go away.

“* What does ‘mamma’ do?

“She is Mrs. St. Martyn’s maid.”

“ Ob Y

Apparently satisfied with his investigations
the questioner turned toward the house and at
that moment a young woman came out of the
basement door and spoke a few hurried words
to him. It was scarcely a minute before she
disappeared again, and he, too, had walked

away.

In the meantime Elinor and Griffis were in
the room where lay the dead stranger. Accord-
ing to Mrs. St. Martvn’s command the body had
already been arrayed in a delicate white shroud
and placed in a plain rosewood coffin; and now
that the lines of her face, which at death had
been distorted by excitement and anguish, had
settled into repose, Christabel Letronne’s was
seen to be a beautiful countenance, and one that
bore the unmistakable traces of those ravages
made by a fiery spirit and passionate heart
which often add more fascination to a woman’s
looks than any beauty of color or contour. Her
fair profuse hair waved back from a marble-
white brow, and her lashes were singularly long
and silken. The mouth, too, with its waxen
lips, spoke even yet of its once curving loveli-
ness. ‘

To Griffis the face of the dead woman was but
briefly interesting, and only in a professional
way; but for Mrs, St. Martyn it held an inex-

licable fascination. She scanned its ever
ineament long and earnestly, adjusted xieuk
of the bright hair with tender grace over the
white forehead, and tinged at the side of the
coffined figure, thoughtful and sad, while Griffis
estioned and cross-questioned Mrs. Lane.

All that the boarding-house mistress could tell
concerning their lodger was soon learned. Mrs.
Letronne was from New Orleans. She was
ladylike and paid in advance. She went out a
great deal, and had a daily paper brought her
when she was sick, to read the personais.
day when she was going out she asked if Mrs.
Lane had a saf landlad

‘2. ly said that she
had no safe, but a strong chest that she kept
locked in a closet. Mrs. aed aeeaien
ed to have a package put in there, and that
it contained some important papers. The par-

\

/ \

 

cel was square and thick, tied with ribbon, and
sealed with wax stamped with the ring that
Mrs. Letronne wore. Mrs. Lane knew that the
packet was safe the day previous to the board-
er’s death, for she had occasion to get some
money from her chest and saw it there; but she
could not say at what time after that the closet
and chest had been opened, Mrs, Letronne had
been more or less a subject of speculation in the
family, and no doubt among the boarders; but
she had made no acquaintances, and no commu-
nications concerning herself or her business:
and Mrs, Lane and her eldest daughter, Dore,
had been the only persons who knew of the
package in the chest.

Miss Lane’s statement was entirely corrobo-
rative of her mother’s. She affirmed that nei-
ther of them had any idea that the a.
contained anything but papers, and t she
had mentioned its existence to no one, and had
no theories to advance except that her mother
had, somehow, been made the victim of an ad-
venturess. Miss Dora wasa rather stylish girl
and self- sed; answering the questions put
her by Griffis with an even voice and almost in-
different manner, her cool eyes meeting his with
no sign of unusual embarrassment or interest.

“Elinor, can ra take me directly to a detec-
tive agency? shall put the matter into the
best hands possible, and there is no time to be
lost,” announced Griffis, as he and Mrs. St. Mar-
tyn took their departure, his professional enthu-
siasm thoroughly aroused.

“Certainly; give your order to James,” an-
swered Mrs. St. Martyn, entering the carriage.
‘Well, Myra, bave you been lonely?”

“Not very. I wasa little frightened once.”

‘Why, dear?” /

‘A man stopped and spoke to me and asked
me about the carriage, and you, and mamma,
and me.”

‘“Where was James that he did not stop it? I
must speak to him to keep better watch over
you, and not let you be interviewed against
your wishes,” said Mrs. St. Martyn, ema.
Then, turning to Mr. Gilruth, “ Well, Griffis,
what are you thinking?”

“That at present this seems a mysterious case};
but I have my doubts as to whether we shall
not discover that landlady at the bottom of the
mystery.”

‘No, Griffis. She is certainly honest. It is
the daughter who knew more than she told, if
any one. Ido not like that. girl.” ;

“Ts that a woman’s intuition, purely?” ques-
tioned Gilruth, teasingly.

“Yes, a woman’s intuition, lye:

“They are said to be so infallible, I shall feel
constrained to keep a look out upon Miss Dora
Lane. NowI must soon bid you good-morning.
I will attend to everything concerning this af-
fair, ee and nothing shall be left un-
done that can help to get it out of its present
muddle; dismiss it a from your min
Elinor. You need rest. You have been, ani
are, more worried than yo care to acknowl
edge. ‘Try to forget it. 1 will see you this eve-
ning at tho opera, if not before.” *

“Try to forget it!” repeated Mrs. St. Martyn,
leaning her head against the satin upholstery
of her carriage, and drawing her hand wearil
across her eyes, when Griffis was gone. ‘If
only could! But 1 shall never be able to put thas
woman’s dead face out of my sight until I have
fulfilled the promise I gave her—to find Jules
Letronne, to undo the wrong she had done him!
What Me What wrong had he suffered at
her hands? hat had he—this Jules Letronne—
to a her—this Christabel Letronne? What
were they to each other? What is he—‘ Jules Le-
tronne—that was what he was called? Where
is he? Where are the papers, the jewels, the
proofs? Proofs of what? ‘Icould not go into
eternity without undoing a terrible wrong I
once committed. I bavesearched, and searched,
for the person I sinned against. Ask him to for-
give—/forgive me.’”

Every word that Mrs. Letronne had uttered
was engraven as distinctly upon Elinor’s brain
as was the woman’s haunting dead face, and
could not be lightly forgotten. They crowded
into her mind, and echoed in the air about her,
until she found herself in the same exbausted,
nervous mood that had assailed her for a time
the previous evening. But the little Myra’s =
sence was in some measure a relief toher. She
took the child from one shop to another, to show
her pretty flowers and toys and pictures, until
she found forgetfulness and pleasure in the lit-
tle one’s delight.

It was quite lunch-time when Mrs. St. Mar-
ph reached home with her happy regs and.

ismissing Myra with a kiss, hurriedly dressed
for that meal. At the table she found Mrs,
Allison—an elderly lady and distant relative
who had aczed as companion to the beautiful
ppd widow ever since the death of Mr. St,

“ Ab! Mrs. Allison, ae are so much better?

Tam glad to see you down, again,” Elinor sai
kindly, stopping to shako hands with the ?
eyed little woman.

‘Thank you, dear.”

Mrs. Sara Allison was a soft-spoken,
mannered old lady, who took genuine inforess
in Mrs. St. Martyn, and all Mrs. St. Martyn’s
DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

44

 

 

doings, and all Mrs, St. Martyn’s friends, but
was eexped ing’ x spars. of words. Perhaps, it
was that she s a trifle in awe of the proud,
brilliant society queen; certainly there was no
reat intimacy between the two, and the elder
'y might not have appreciated how much un-
expressed affection Elinor cherished for her.
lam going to increase my family, Mrs, Al-
lison,” said Elinor, brightly, when she had pour-
ed a cup of iragrant tea for her companion.
The person addressed looked as startled, and
colored as vividly, as if Mrs. St. Martyn had
or epaongs some matrimonial scheme in her be-

“My dear?’ she said in a tone tly excla-
matory, partly questioning, that she often used
when surprised.

“ Yes, actually,” went on Elinor, lightly re-
counting Sydney’s history and Mr. Trefethen’s
plans concerning her,

“Tam afraid it will be a source of trouble to
you,” remarked Mrs, Allison with strange pre-
science. ‘TI do not think thisraising young per-
sons above their stations is to be approved!’

“Nor I, pepe But if there is any un-
peer responsibility in this case it will fall on

. Trefethen, and not on me. Really, I can-
not see how the young lady can be a source of
trouble to me, aside from superintending her
manners and toilettes.”

2 Well, Thope she will not be, dear. I hope

“Mrs, St. Martyn! Mrs. St. Martyn!”

The door was thrown open, and Myra ran in,
pale and trembling.

“‘ Mamma is sick! won’t you come?”

Elinor hastened up-stairs with the child.

“Where is mamma?” she asked,

“Tn her room.”

“ And what made her sick?”

“T don’t know. I was telling her about my
ride, and the man who spoke to me, and she fe
over.

Mrs. St. Martyn found the dark-robed ps
of her maid lying senseless upon the floor. But
a spray of cologne and application of salts
speedily restor_d her to consciousness.

“Myra! Myra! Where is she?” she asked in
seeming oe as she opened her eyes.

‘*Here,” said her mistress, soothingly, push-

tho child into the mother’s arms.
‘aylor clasped tho little one close to her heart,
and Rissed her, again and again.

““What is the matter, Taylor?’ questioned
Mrs. St. Martyn, recalling the young woman
fully to herself.

“Only a passing faintness, ma’am. Did Myra
call you? Sho ought not to have doneit. It was
nothing,” sho said, hurriedly.

“Certainly you look ill. I shall not want
you before evening—tho dress can go; I will
wear something else—and you must lie down for
a few hours,” said Mrs, St. Martyn, generously,
but imperatively. ‘‘I willsend Myra to Mrs.
Allison awhile.”

‘Oh, no!no! Myra will be still. Let her stay
with me!”

Mrs. St. Martyn looked gnepeined.

“You are nervous,” she said, gravely. ‘‘ What
has happened?”

“Nothing, ma’am,” said Taylor, motioning
Myra to £2; and striving to appear calm.

Eiinor ed the little pe out of the room, while
the miscrablo mother buried her face in her pil-
Jows, moanin

" Why did f not tell her the trath? Perhaps
she wold havo pitied rather than blamed me.
There is nothing for me to do now bat go
away.”

 

CHAPTER XII.

FORTUNE—AND ITS CONDITIONS.
Thus her blind sister, fickls fortune, rei;
Aud undiscerning scatters crowns and c ee
—PoPz,
‘““@uanrpy! Guardy!” :
An impetuous rap, then the swift flingin
open of the door by the man within, and the al-
most breathless girl was caught in his strong
ore and her excited cry stifled against his
br shoulder.

“Where in the name of Heaven have
been, child?” he asked, after a minute, holdi
her from him and regarding her great dilat
eyes and hot color, while his own face lost
something of itspallor, ‘I only found a few
mivutes ago that you had been away all night:
and I think I have wn a year older since.
Helene, you met with no harm?”

““You shall judge, Guardy, dear,” she said,
brightly, drawing him to his arm-chair, the one
luxury his room contained. And kneeling with

irlish grace before him, she narrated minutel.
E mishap of the previous afternoon and ad-
vent into the Trefethen mansion,

‘* And you are sure i were not badly hurt?
That you are quite well enough to come away?”

sok the doctor’s permission tocome. But,
Guardy, I am to go back!”

“Back? Back where, Helene?’

“To Mr. Trefethen’s! Don’t look so puzzled,
Guardy, and so grave, while I am so happy!
You net bid me reject good fortane,

Her companion smiled, and drew his hand

ou

 

seraavingly across the girl's flushed, beautiful
cheeks,

‘‘Dear child, I have no authority to interfere
with your lite in any way,” he answered, grave-
ly. ‘And I certainly would not for an instant
counsel you against the acceptance of any real

A thousand times, Helene, I have wished
that it was in my power tomake existence more
bright and beautiiul for you,” and he looked
down with tender eyes into the girl’s fair face.
“Rut you have not told me what you mean by
your ‘good fortune.’ ”

‘Mr. Trefethen has offered to take me. as his
ward, and care for me as he would for his own
daughter, for a year, as a birthday present!
There! what do you think of that ?”

Her companion regarded her in amazement;
and, for a minute, insilence. He loved the girl
so well that it hurt him sorely to dampen her
high spirits, and spoil her beautiful vision; and
yet he could but conjecture that the acceptance
of such a strange offer would result in more
bitter misery to her than any she had yet
known. He understood her ambitious nature,
her passionate longings for a home and life
above her station, and he felt that for her to
spend one year in idleness and luxury, only to
be thrust back into sternest bbs and utter
friendlessness, would be like thrusting herefrom
Paradise into hell!

sé Guaray, you are not glad!” she said, wist-
oly. * You are not glad! Tell me why?’

She leaned her pretty dimpled chin upon her
hand and watched him, with heart that beat too
suffocatingly for her to quite conceal her anxi-
oy Satie gitl, what will you do when that

** Little girl, w you do when that year
Could you come back here, coutant

ed

ee face brightened.

“Mr. Trefethen said I wasnot to worry about
that, Guardy. And he wishes to see you, this
exening, immediately after his dinner-hour.
He said that by that time he should arrange

lans concerning my future that he would con-
ie to you.”

“ And you are to live in his home?”

“Really, I don’t know, he is so very odd.
ButI think not. I wished to be allowed some
duties, but he only laughed and said I need not
think he intended to prison so brighta bird in
that old eo

“T have heard of this Mr, Trefethen—that he
is enormously rich, and quite eccentric, so per-
haps this is not a marvelous whim of his, though
it does seem so to me,” said the gentleman,
speculatively. ‘Can = explain it, Helene?”

“Not fully; but I think he imagined that I
looked like some one he knew,” answered the
girl, ingenuously. ‘‘He said I had her name,
and that it was a wicked name, and I must
change it. Sydney Trefethen he called me—
and said it sui me well. Oh, he is very
funny! So gallant—like a young man. ought to
be—one minute, and so quick and cross the next!
But gu will go and see him?’

‘Certainly, Helene. At what hour?”

“ Between seven and eight. And now I must
run away—I haveso much to do—so much! Some
money to collect, my furniture to d of,
and my things to pack—and all to-day, for Mr.
Trefethen is to send for mein the morning.”

“Then you are really going away from this

r little place where you have worked and
been at home so long? you care at all, little
: There was a touch of sadness in the ker’s
voice that sent the tears in a hot to He-
lene’s sunny blue eyes.

“Care? Of course 1. care—to leave you!
How kind to me you have been! It makes me
sick to think how little I knew until ees taught
me. Oh, Guardy! Guardy! I shall love you
just as much, and best of all, wherever I am,
and all my life!” and she laid her wet face upon
his kindly-clasping hands.

And yet, for allthe girl’s passionate outburst
of grie! she knew only when they were quite
separated all that this man was to her.

“That is very kind of you to say,” smilin
tenderly; ‘‘but time brings many changes.
only pray that it may never cause yom to forget
that in me you will find a true friend, ——
all others fail you, I am glad that a bright
future is opening to you, for the time bas come
when I, too, must desert this place where I have
hoped and toiled.”

‘Ihave been fearing that ever since you com-
menced getting rich and famous.”

“How delighted I should be, if those flatter-
ing words were true, Helene! But I do hope
the foundations of competency and ing suc-
oe ian the !” she said, ly. “Wh

ow they are!” she » gayly. y,
Mr. ‘Trefethen recognized your name the mo-
ment I mentioned it. I assure you it was quite
an open sesame for me to his faith! And now,
Guardy, mind! you must make him promise,
to-night, to let me repay him in some way for
what he proposes to do for me! Don’t forget
that!” looking back through the half-closed door
with an earnest
zonns te nes she left alone in bn snengpel

ynishe ng, ——— thought that

lonely Sid saitfoonteice a te indeed very bed
if he could not be repayed for all he mightdo far

 

Helene’s welfare by an occasional grateful
lance from those brave, laughter-filled eyes.
hen he wondered whether it was possible that

Mr. Trefethen had discovered in the girl’s pretty

face a clew to a parentage at present unsus-

pected, and which gave her some legal or moral
claim upon him. Could her good fortune be thus
accounted for, or had the fickle goddess of the
horn of plenty chosen the friendlcss orphan as
a favorite upon whom to lavish strangely bright
fts, in mere whimsicalness? Ai d thusthe man
ell to reviewing his own life—his dreary, des-
pised, sorrowful life, with its score of wasted

ears, that had held no success until now that

e looked upon his manhood’s rapidly-advancing
prime, snd even yet held not the tiniest silver
cloud of promised ‘happiness. Was he ever to
conquer the malignity with which Clotho seem-
ed determined to spin the thread of his life and
win from her at last a golden guerdon?

“‘Bah!” he said, disdainfully, rousing himself
from‘his dreamings. ‘‘Is this the way to win
the goal for which I strive and run? I have no
minutes to waste in idleness. Faster, faster,
every day, speeds the time in which a fortune

name must be mine!”

And he set himself resolutely at work, while
the beautiful waif for whose sake he had been
wont to daily rob himself of some of the precious
hours he would otherwise have devoted to
wrestling with his mad ambition, his Herculean
perpeesss had reached golden fortune just

hrough the magic of her face.

But that night, for her sake, he sent in his card,
Mr. Lucien Gillette, to Helene’s new guardian,
and was soon talking of her with Mr. Trefethen.

“ She is pretty! vely! She pleases me!”
said the old Frenchman, tersely, in sole explana-
tion of his interest in Helene. ‘‘ But we will
call her Sydney, now, if you please, Monsieur
Gillette. She looks upon you as her guardian,
I believe?”

“ She has dubbed me that,” replied the artist,
smiling, ‘‘ because she has studied with me, an
had no other friend. I have no claim upon her,
nor she upon me.”

“Tt is as she.says then—she is a charity
child?”

“T think her history is entirely true. She is
a remarkable girl. ith all the work she does
to earn a scanty living she has contrived toread
and study much. I consider her intellectual
powers considerably above the average.”

“Yes, remarkable! Brave! sparkling! Co-
quette !” assented the elderman. Then be look-
ed up, his eyes twinkling. ‘This is what I
mean to do for her—give her a year in which to
get married!”

Lucien started.

“Surely, you will not tell her that!” he ex-
claimed, almcst sternly. ‘That child!”

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.

*She’s no child! One month in society will
make her a woman—not to be outrivaled by any
belle. French girls ma young, and she can
do nothing better, the pretty thing, alone in
this great city.”

“You don’t mean, sir, that you propose to iv-
troduce that girl, who has never seen other life
than in an asylum, a kitchen, and a garret, di-
rectly to the jashionable world? I never heard
of such a thing!”

The artist’s surprised, dissenting face seemed
only to please Mr. Trefethen.

“That is what I have been told befcre, to:
day! But I shall doit! She shall take society
by storm with her fresh, frank, ee ways!

0 artificial training shall spoil her!”

“ And yet, you would spoil the purity of her
soul, by setting her the cegrading task of seek-
ing a husband to stand between her and return
to poverty?”

“ Not 0! Not so!” cried the old man, testily.
“The husband shall seek her! I shal! tell her
nothing,.except that she is to be happy.”

“And if the husband does not ceek her?
There are few demands for penniless brides.”

“She shall not be penniless. [ have given
her my name, and the day she marries I will
settle a fine fortune upon her. But if, at the
end of the year, she has no betrothed, and she
wishes it, I will make ber heiress to everythin
that I ss, except my estates abroad, an
she shall never marry!”

“You mean that a promise to that effect must
be the conditions upon which you will make her
your heiress?”

‘*Yes! And I take her, now, upon these con-
ditions—she not to know of them until I choose
= er them toher! What shall ycu say to

er

“Nothing. My lips shall be sealed. I hope
the girl will be hago It is alll can do. I
dare not take the responsibility of standing be-
tween her and the chances you offer her.”

‘Then you have never intended marrying
her yourself?” said the Frenchman, suddenly.

“TP Gillette’s voice was fairly tremulous,
It was such a new, strange, startling suggestion.
“Oh, no! No!”

“Well, well, she will be in good hands,
There is - eee eee ar to take her
into society than . St. yn.

“Mra, 4 ye

“Ah? I see you know her?” Theold gentle
man’s keen eyes had not lost the indescribable
‘He who knows nothing can rev

42 -

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

 

fook of »mingled.pleasure! and) repulsion) with |

which his visitor had) repeated: that:,»name.

“ And do you know Gilruth—young -Gilruth?”’

he added, instantly after, with voico hard:and

sharp and cutting as some slender deadly instru-
¢ Rites

ment.

“Slightly, yes, both of them.”

jones say ho will marry her... Do you think
sO

““T have no idea,” returned. the artist, with
well-bred indifference. ‘‘Havo you anything
moro to say to mo in regard to Miss Trefethen?”

‘“Only that I shall send her to, Mrs. St. Mar-
tyn’s, immediately. . You will go there some-
oe That dey ve ash te Mrs. St. M ”

at depends quite upon Mrs. St: Martyn.

“Not so, monsieur. It depends upon Made-
moiselle Trefethen; and she will never forget

U1.

““T should be sorry to think so, And, now,
for her sako, I must ask how she can repay ‘you
for your favor?”

se heing a success!” snapped Mr. Trefe-
then. ‘Sho must not disappointme! Shemust
be a success!” i

So Mr. Gillette took his departure—marveling
how strangely destiny was weaving the woof cf
many lives through the handsof this queer, old
man who had gathered up tho threads and offer-
ed fortuno upon such strange conditions to the
foundling: and questioning:

“Will she be a success?’

 

CHAPTER XUTL
MRS. LANE’S GENTLEMAN BOARDER.
Iset it down,
That one may smile and smilo and bea villain,
—-SHAKESPEARE,

Mrs. Lann’s boarders, male and female, con-
sisted mostly of people who worked out all day
—shopwomen and salesmen—so that luncheon
was rarely frequented by them.  For.a ‘few
weeks previous to the death of Mrs. '‘Letronne,
however, that lady and a. gentleman boarder,
Mr. Casey Canton, occasionally :a at
that meal, at which Miss Lane presided; always
attired with considerable jaunty stylishiess.
Which, considering that Mrs. Letronne’ was a
mysterious, grave and uncommunivative woman
while Mr. Canton was of pleasant address, and
a strikingly hanisome man, it was safe to :as-
sume was due more to a desire to pleaso the:eye
of the latter personage than to any wish to fas-
cina e Mrs. Letronne. \

The Frenchwoman bad rarely lingered: lo
at the table; a habit into which Miss Lane:a
Mr. Canton seemed to have fallen from: mutual
enjoyment of each other’s soci¢éty, and to which
they made no exception the day following Mrs.
Letronne’s death, when the gentleman came in
and found Dora awaiting bim with a temptin
luncheon of. delicately-broiled: ham,  poach
eggs upon toast ard smoking chocolate, i

‘Ah! are we all alone to-day?” he asked,
seating himself complnanttlys and tossing ‘back
his luxuriant black hair from his flushed face.

“Yes,” replied: Miss
pour his chocolate.

» “And the inp rash she buried?” speaking
clearly and carelessly.

“Mrs, St. Martyn has arranged to have her
taken to a receiving-vault, this afternoon.”

“Tndeed; for what?’ with seeming idle 'cu-
niosiy.

“Tf they succeed in finding the missing pa-
pen and who she is, they may ‘wish: to bury
er in some particular place, I Ce. OF
A slight smile—a smile that held stran;
meaning—appeared around Mr. Canton’s -

some mouth.

“ And think you there are any chances of | the
papers being found?” he asked, lightly.

‘‘ Detectives are coming here—may be here at
any moment,” was Miss Lane’s answer,' her
brilliant eyes meeting her companion’s with
stead vpecening gaze. i

ow“ e

“Shall you be here??, she questioned, ina
hushed, anxious i'd

‘Why not?’ said Mr. Casey Canton, =
Then, without. waiting for her to answer,
went. on, not speaking with any evident at-

Lane, commencing to

_ tempt at secrecy, but in rapid, level: tones that

it would have been -difficult to distin out-
side of the room. ‘No, I shall not here; I
am going away.”

‘‘ Where?” asked the girl, with a little catch,
of her breath, the color paling in her glowing,
velvety cheeks.

“In utter ignorance there is perfect safety.

nothing,” re-
plied the man, sententiously.

“Don’t you mean to me, Casey? I must
know!” she exclaimed, passionately. >

**Have you no faith in me, beauty?” he ‘said,
reproachfully, pushing away his plate and Jean-

ing near to her with tender eyes. ‘‘ I trust you,
implicitly ; my safety isin your hands!” wer

Yes! And you know, Casey, that 1 would
ten thousand times rather injure myself than
you, as long as you are true to me!” the girl
muttered, intense passion in face and voice,
a lurid passion that was as full of fierceness’

-sweetness. i

“‘ And you know, Dora, darling, or erightato

 

know; that I’shall always be true!” Canton an-
swered, with melting tenderness. ‘‘My fate—
both! our fates;depend upon you. I am about
to undertake:a ae but brilliant schemo.
If Lam successful, I shall make you ono of. the
richest: women in New York. In the meantime,
however, everything isin your hands.’ -Youmust
act with great nerve’ and caution, and the less
you know of my proceedings for a few weeks,
the better; and there must bo absolutely no
communication between us.”

Tho girl’s face grew whiter and ‘whiter. ‘TI
suppose you know best,” she said; ‘and you
ean trust’ all: here to. mo. But remenber,”—
with awful desperateness—‘‘ if you are ever ur-
truo to me, I will kill you, Casey!”

He laughed, and caressed her cheeks with his
slim, handsomé hand.

‘(I thought’ you were going to say you would
givo me into the clutches of the law.’

“And myself, too? That would not be half
punishment enough!” © \

‘““What an vinsatiato enemy Rm would be!
But I donot fear you, Dora.’ nd he pressed
her ‘passionately in his arms, a moment, as he

arose.
' “Yowaro going now? she whispered, cling-
ing td him.

** Yes, to settle with your mother. Calm
yourself, beauty. This will not do.”

With an éffort, the girl unclasped her arms
from about him, and faced him firmly. ‘‘ You
mean to tellmother that you are going?”
eg tage There must be no secrecy about

at.2oi in

“And then what? Tellme your plans, at
least?) ‘What have you gained by—” A motion
of her:companion’s finger silenced her.

‘* A secret,” he said, speaking rapidly, ‘‘ about
the dead woman’s life that will enable me to
claim a'splendid fortune.”

“Casey! Dare: you attempt it?’ The girl
_— almost breathless, yet she smiled, triumph-
antly.
os i is. a‘bold stroke, { know. But I dare at-
tempt anything that will enable me to pets my
beautiful Dora amid thetopmost New York so-
ciety; ‘where, with that charming face, she
rightfully belongs.”

“Oh! if you might succeed!” cried Miss Lane,
withia fervency that showed how enticing to
her was the dream of wealth. . ‘‘Upon what
ground will you make your claim?”

if m the ground that I am the son and
rightful heir of its present possessor; which, in
a few weeks, I hope to:prove, beyond a doubt.

to the father I intend adopting. ou see how
trust: you, beauty, with my secret.” ‘
The girl drew herself up proudly. | “You

know,” she said, indignantly, ‘‘ that tortures
could not:make me betray you! But, Casey,
su this man should hot believe you?”

‘There are'several ways of dealing with that
difficulty,” said Canton, coolly. ‘* What bluffs
me most is to know what connection the woman
who was here this morning has with the affair.
But there are ‘sleuth-hounds in New York that
her ladyship and her dainty counselor know
nothing about, who are as sure on a trail as any
detectives they may employ.) Whatever her
stakes are, I will play higher, and we shall see
who. will: win!” :

‘* You must!” aspirated Dora.

“You say so, beauty? Iwill! But I must
not tarry another minute. Good-by, my heart!”
again catching her in a brief, close embrace.
““Good-by, Miss: Lane,” in a clearer, indifferent

tone: «- ;
“Stay! One instant, Casey!” she whispered.
$ When shail I see you a ain

» ‘ Look out for a red chalk-mark on the door-
step, three mornings in succession, commencing
upon a Saturday. The first mark will be the
figure one, the second figure three, the third

figure six. The afternoon of the third day meet

me at the Block House in Central Park at sun-
down. Enter by the private entrance we used
when we went up there last Sunday. Look for
the marks yourself, and sweep them quickly off.
- may be from five to twelve weeks. Not over
at. by:

‘““Going away?’ exclaimed Mrs, Lane, in as-
tonishment, when Mr. Canton asked for his bill.
‘*Tam sorry! Dora know it?”

Mrs. Lane had really boped that her lazy,
vain, self-willed daughter would make a con-
quest of their gentleman boarder, who had paid
his bills so promptly, seemed always well pro-
vided with money, intimated that he was a
broker doing a thrifty business and inclined to
pay considerable attention to the eldest Miss

De. :

“ Yes; I just told Miss Dora,” replied the gen-
tleman, courteously.’ ‘‘ Important business calls
me West; but if I again come East I hope to
in Thank wale said his landlad ith

is landlady, as w
a stubby Saal ‘ob lead pencil she made out the
bill, which Mr. Canton hastened to pay.

And a few minutes later the bandsome board-
er, with a slouch hat set jauntily upon his dark
hair, and a valise in his hand, @ a careless

-by to his landlady, and left the little brick
rding-house where he had, to use his own
mental conclusion, ‘struck a streak of luck ;”
leaving behind him the devoted girl whose very

Petharertoas~

 

best and very worst passions he had oe up-
on, until he had’ converted her into his helpful
tool and helpless victim.

‘*1f lean only prove my identity to the gov-
ernor,” he meditated, as he hastened toward a
disreputable down-town portion of the city, ‘I
shall beall right. And if he doesn’t take tome,
then there is another way to claim my name
and fortune! Ha! ha! How odd it will beto
live in clover the year round! I will succeed!
That old man shall never stand between me and
wealth! But the first step will be to get the
lead on this other scent!”

It was in pursuance of this measure that Mr.
Casey’ Canton made ‘his way to a very dingy
down-town office and asked for James Sharp.
After a few preliminary questions by the at-
tendant in charge of the outer rcom, whose
name might very aptly have been ‘‘ Sharp,”
too, the visitor was ushered into the presence of
a tall; flashily-dressed man, who was well
known to a certain class of professional birds of

prey.
““What can Ido for you?” asked Mr. Sharp,
promptly. .
Canton told his errand, very briefly, while
the man listened with impenetrable face.
‘What security can you give?” he demanded,
when his client had stated his need.
‘““This,” tendering a ring of magnificent dia-

onds.
“Well, this is solid, anyhow,” said Mr. Sharp,
after examining it carefully, a moment.

*“But I must’ be allowed to redeent it.”

“Certainly,” said Sharp, indifferently.

After a few minutes more of conversation
Canton proceeded elatedly to a dingy second-
hand clothing store; and leaving there, arrayed
in very different_garments from those which he
had previously worn, he went directly to one of
the large Sound steamers.

m

 

CHAPTER XIV.
CLEWS.
Lol Often do the spirits
of rt events stride on before the events, .
And in to-day already walks to-morrow.
, —CoLERIDGE.

“WHat have you learred?” Elinor asked, as
Griffis came into her box after the first act in
Il Trovatore. i

“Not much,” he answered, taking a seat at
her side in time to hold the lover’s place against
the callers who followed him into Mrs. St. Mar-
tyn’s presence. ‘‘ You go to the Landalls’ Ger-
map, to-night?”

sas = Shall I give you a place in my car--
Triage ,
riffis nodded his head, and Elinor turned to
greet lier visitors with that graceful abandon of
reclinant motion, and upward glance, peculiar
to her thcugh so seldom seen to perfection in
women of Northern climes.

** Ab! Count Krylof,bas our new prima donna
yea you? Or did Colonel Russell drag you

ere

“No, madame, I came willingly, but not at-
tracted -by a stage queen,” said the Russian,
brokenly, leaning over the beautiful woman
with his ardent heart betrayed in his eyes.

“That is right. Exonerate ne, Ivan,” laugh-
ed the colonel. ‘Say that it was I who was
dragged here, having heard IU Trevatore once
for every year of my life, and flirted with
Leonora in London, and preferred a game of
cards at the club.”

“Cards and’ the’club! Bah! Colonel Russell,
I believe those are all you care about!” ~ .

“¢ And I believe an are right, Mrs. St. Mar-
tyn,” he said, steadily meeting ‘the eyes of the
woman whom he had Joved desperately and
vainly. I wish I could teach these younger
men that there is nothing better worth caring
about.”

“For shame! You a man, to say that! Is
there but one thing in life worth living for, and
when that is lost is all Jost? Rather teach your
friends not to ery—child-like—for the moon!”

“The moon, unearthly, fireless, cold, can
searcely be a judge of the hearts of mortals,”
was the sarcastic reply.

Elinor turned haughtily away, and taking her
lorgnette gave her attention to the audience
below. © ae she put down the glass with
a little start; then raised it to her eyes again
and glanced long in one had Russell’s
voice calling the attention of his friends to the
same part of the house aroused her from her
absorption: :

““Jovel There is Gillette, the artist, with x
ee Hebe! Under the balecny—second
row

Mrs. St. Martyn had been regarding the rir)
with a vaguely Unpleasant sensatin since frst
she had diecovdled her at Lucien Gillette’s side;

‘and was forced fo admit that her face was one

for lovers of beauty to rave over; perfect in

contour, full of youth’s dewy freshness, and

alight with pleasure and enthusiasm. ;
“Who is she, I wonder?” remarked the colo-

nel. :

‘““Why. wonder?” retorted Gilruth. “His
wife, perhaps, or some one he has picked up, ar-
tist-like, with a view toa marrying and econo
mizing on models.” ’ =
his.

 

DIVORCED BUT NOT ‘DIVIDED!

SS eer a nse a cd aS RD Ras VT GP Oe DAUR TY Gene

48

 

 

Ivan Krylof shrugged his shouldets, con- |
eat

*“Do artists do that here?” he asked, cynical- |
ly: “I thought, as a rule, their art was their |
passion and a wealthy wife their ambition.”

**T presume American human nature must be
very like Russian, you comprehend it so well,”
said Griffis, joining in the colonel’s laughter.

But Mrs. St. Martyn flashed on the young
count a look of disappointed surprise.

“Ht tu Brute?” she said, in a passionate out-
ery against the words she had heard, though
she could not guess how Pereeyeringly she
should remember them, nor how bitterly they
would wound her. j

She was glad when the curtain went down
upon the last actof the opera. The evening had
not been as enjoyable as usual, and she was
glad when she found herself shut in the carriage
with Griffis.

**Now,” she asked, wearily, ‘‘what have you
to tell me?”

Instead of answering, Gilruth took her hand
and looked tenderly in her face.

“You are not yeurself to-night, Elinor?”

““No; I am tired. I should not‘ go to this
German if it were not that I prefer being with
you to thinking at home, alone.”

“Thanks; but why will you let this affair
trouble you?”

“T wish I could exactly explain ‘to you, Grif-
fis, and._so ease my own mind; but I cannot. ‘I

rew tired of existence as it was, and now I
find myself dismayed at the new elements I
have introduced into it; and equall
at my own weakness. But enoug
You sail you had learned something.”

“Yes, that Mrs. Letronne has been making
inquiries among theatrical people concerning
the man she wished to find; and that she, her-
self, has been an actress and performed at
various times in Nev York th an actor
named Jules Letronne who was her husband,
and is now dead.”

“Then it is ber son Ihave pledged myself to
find! ‘This’ was his mother!” said Elinor, in
startled tones. .

“Tt would seem so, from the coincidence of
the names,” assented her com panion. ‘Is that
such an exciting discovery?”

“Tt narrows the limits’ of her identity and
It might have been a husband, brother,
son, or cousin, whom she was so anxious to fin
for aught we knew. You learned nothing in
regard to him?”

“Only that the last time his mother heard
from him he was in New York, and going
abroad. He did not say’ where. I judge that
tney were never very communicative, or she
would have inaugurated this search before.”

‘“ How shall you prosecute the search for him?”

“She has advertised in Boston, New York
and European papers for him. We must do the
same and for furtherinformation regarding ber,
also. And Ihave senta detcc:sive to Naw Or-
leans to discover what friends she had, and all
that is known of her there. But asfar as appre-
hending the robber goes, we have made no herd-
way. There is nothing upon which to hold Mrs,
Lane, even if you wished to appear against
her. And unless they knew that the package
contained something more valuable than mere |

apers, which we cannot prove, it must have
batt taken by some person other than one of
the Lane family; some person who knew the
identity of Christabel Letronne and had some
interest in interfering with her search for her
son—if such he is. Tae most rigid cross-exami-
nation, under oath, has not shaken Mrs. Lane’s
testimony, nor her daughter’s, that they knew
nothing of Mrs. Letronne’s history, plans, busi-
ness, nor the contents of the stolen package
aside from her own assertion that it containe

apers.

“How about her boarders? Must it not have
been done by some oue in the house?”

“Not necessarily. If Mrs. Letronne’s secret
was an important one, and suspected by some
other person vitally interested in it, it was a
desperate but not novel measure to effect an en-
trance into the house.”

‘Butit the robber was not an inmate of the |
house, he or she evidently knew just where to
lay hands upon the coveted package: and that
knowledge could only have gone abroad through
the Lane yA,

“Or Mrs. Lotronne herself.”

‘True; but less likely. And I believe that |
Dora Lane could help to solve the mystery! If
she had nothing to do with the robbery she |
knows who did it!”

‘*But we have no proofs!” |

“No; but I have a clew which I am inclined |
to think is nota slight one,” |

“You, Elinor? Since this morning?” |

“Yes. I struck it in my own’ house, and |
while dressing for the Spare é It involves a sad |

0

history; this world is unsuspected ro- |
o moralize, Elinor!” Griffis ex-

mances!”
“ Don’t sto
i half in curious im tact hens
rs. St, Mar- |

t

claimed, y

half in déeee 2 dissipate from
peculiar shadow that was clouding |

its loveliness. '

tyn’s face a
“Well, since you will be practical, listen.
Last right, when | entered Mrs, Lane’s parler,

 

dismayed |
of that,

 

| concerning him.

@ young woman sat at the piano—Dora Lane, I
think—and a man was bending over her—a' tall
man with black hair—in such an attitude that
the impression made upon me was that his arm
had been about her, and I had disconcerted
them. I walked to the fire, and left the’ room
without glancing that way again, and quite for-
got the incident. Then do you remember that
this morning, when we came out of Mrs. Lane’s,
Myra said a man had questioned her about the
carriage, and her mother, and herself, and me?”

‘No; { paid no attention to her.”

“Nor T, much. It_is natural for people to
talk to children, and Myra is exceptionally in-
telligent. But while at luncheon, she came to
me in terrible affright because her mother—my
maid—had fainted. She was telling her about
her ride, and the man who spoke to’ her} she
said, ‘and mamma fell over.’ Still neither the
child’s answer, nor the mother’s nervous dread,
when she recovered, at having Myra taken'from
her sight, sug; ested anything tungible to me,
I bade Taylor lie down; butshe still looked pale
and ill when she came to dress me. To interest
her, I told her of my possible need ‘of another
maid, one for Miss Trefethen, and ‘asked if she
could recommend any person. To my surprise
she said she hoped I would look for two maids,
as she wished to leave immediately. I was dis-
pleased, and spoke severely, and the girl burst
into tears. Then it occurred to me that she was
in some trouble, and that I might beable to help
her. To be brief, I succeeded in winning the
= thing's confidence and she revealed ‘to''me

er past. A respectable girl from New En-
pas , Jennie came, much egainst the wishes of

er widowed mother, to New York, to act as
maid and seamstress for a lady who had board-
ed in their village, and taken a fancy to ber.
Young and pretty, the girl became the victim
of a street flirtation, and was married toa gam-
bler—if nothing worse. Just after her child
was born, and named for its father, Myra Tay-
lor Horne, Jennie’s existence was discovered b
a woman who claimed to be Taylor Horne’s
wife, and whom he acknowledged as such,
There was a terrible scene, and Jennie Jeft him,
and fainting in the street was sent to a hospital,
where she was very ill. When recovering she
wrote to her mother; but received ho answer.
She made some friends, however, who’ helped
her to earn a living, and after a time she sought
her old home and found that’ her mother had
left it months before. Her only other relative,
a niggardly uncle, knew nothing of ‘his sister’s
whereabouts, and refused to aid or countenance
Jennie, She returned to New York, put her
baby in an asylum, succeeded in securing an-
other position as maid, and was getting’ on nice-
ly until one day met by her quondam husband,
as she was coming out from a visit: to the usy-
lum. He guessed the child was there, dogeed
Jennie home, and extorted money from her by
threats regarding Myra. She got a place where
she was allowed to have Myra with her, but he
learned who was her new employer, and extort-
ed more money. The family with whom she
was then living oat caa to be going to Europe,
and without a maid. They gave her a fine re-
commendation. Sle carefully changed the name
in it from Mrs. Horne, what she had so far called
herself, to Mrs. Taylor, and answered my ad-
vertisement. I was interested in her, thought
it would be a good deed to'give a home toa
young widow with a little child dependent u

er, and have always found her an excellent
womau.” ,

‘Yet she deceived you?”

‘Yes, but compelled. by a mother’s loving in-
stinct to serve her child. I trust ber fully. It
was her fear that I-would never forgive her de-
ception, and her youthful error, that kept her
from confessing all when her new trouble came.
For her peace has been disturbed again. She
firmly believes, from her child’s description,

| that the man who talked with Myra, was yra’s

father.”
“And can a. child’s description be relied
upon?” ;

“Hers, yes, I think. She clearly described:

him as a tall, nice-looking man, with black hair,
who acted as if he knew her when she said her
name was Myra Taylor. And the child knows
nothing of her mother’s history, and thinks her
father dead. But, what.interests us more, aré
Myra’s further revelations. The man asked
who was in the house—and if Mr. Gilruth was
Judge Gilruth,..Then a young woman—‘ a pret-
ty woman with red cheeks and red dress,’,My-
ra says—‘ came out and spoke to him, and_ran
right in again, and he walked away. fast.’ If
this man was Myra’s father, we know his char-
acter; certainly, he is the man who was with

ora Lane last night, and it was she who spoke
with him, and sent him away from the house
while we were in it, this morning. I hope that
through this clew we may discover the man the
dead woman sought, or at least the mystery

“Tt certainly is a clew that I shall act upon,
immediately. But. since you_seem so anxious

to find this Jules Latronne, IT must warn you’

not to put too much dependence on this ress
clew. Seeing how things are developing, I must
repeat what
had aeyor become mixed up with

passionate heart-cry

 

have before said, that I wish you’
the affair.

What et you to heed that woman’s mss-
sage inor?? ;
‘Can you expect a woman to dissect all her
impulses, and analyze the vague motives under-
lying all her whims?” asked his beautiful com-

panion.

‘‘Hardly,'I suppose, or I certainly should de-
mand an analyzation of the motives that
prompted you to undertake the charge of my
cousin Trefethen’s ward. That is another act
nearly allied in preposterousness to promising
to unearth a dying stranger’s secret.”

“Not so. Your cousin affirms that his pro-
tegee is charming. Certainly, he is bound to
present ‘her to society, and to settle a fortune
upon her, and asks it as a favor to him that I be
her chaperone.” He was a friend of my father’s,
and of Mr, St. Martyn’s, and I can scarcely re-
fuse him, since it is true that I can do her jus-
tice ‘that ladies with marriageable daughters
would be likely’ to withhold. And, though he
has given her his name, he cannot keep her with
him. But Ihave assured him that if she is’ in.
any way a discredit to him, or to myself, 1 shall
immediately give up the care of her.”

‘““And doubtless that will be in less than a
week!” said Griffis, contemptuously. ‘The
whole ‘affair ve: ges upon insanity on bis part;
to introduce into society a girl who has neither
birth nor education'to recommend her! A vul-
gar, ignorant, untutored child!”

‘“There!” laughed Elinor, ‘spare the young
lady further criticism until you see ber! Yor
may be proud to claim relationship!” she added,
ones

“« And how soon shall I have that superlative
pleasure?”

“Within a week, at most. To-morrow I,
myself, shall see this prodigy, and arrange my
plans:concerning her, of which I will keep you
advised, knowing how much interest you take
in her!”

Gilruth laughed; then said with a touch of
that delicious tenderness that suited bis me-
lodious voice and Cark bewitching face so well:

“Is it»an ill omen for me, Elinor, that you
are‘finding it necessary to turn your attention
to'so many new interests, in order to make life
endurable?”

“No,” with sudden charming warmth, “for
they have no share in the part of it you fill, nor
detract'aught from it.”

And tbat evening Griffis Gilruth led the
dance without one thought of Beatrix!

 

CHAPTER XV.
TWO PICTURES.
Caracci’s strength, Corrergio’s softer line,
Paulo's free course, and Titian’s warmth Sears
: —Porn.

Praise of the wise and good !—it is a meed

For which I would long years of toil endure,

Which many a peril, many a grief would cure.

—Sir 8. E. Brypers.

“*@ILLETTE, my dear fellow, allow me to con-
gratulate you! e have received an offer of
eight thousand dollars for ‘Maidenhood!’”

jicien “Gillette had entered the art-rcoms
where his latest painting was on exhibition,
and, just without the er of the inner
sanctuary where hung the picture, stood
aniazed at the greeting given him by the man
of business, _

ight thousand dollars, Mr. Lamar?” he re-

ted, incredulously. It was a price beyond
he highest figure of which he kad dreamed, but
be added, simply: ‘* Of course I shall be satis-
fied with that.”

“Nonsense, man!” said Lamar, the head of
the firm to whose agency Lucien consigned his
paintings; ‘‘ the companijon-piece has not been
ufivailed yet—it awaits your approbation of the
pare Pb there is no doubt that on will

‘o wild over it! To my own taste it is rather
somber; but several good critics studied it
last night and pronounced it well-nigh perfect.
The’ two will bring a higher price together, and
they really ought not to be separated. By the
way, I should ‘not ‘be surprised if we had a
Sedna in ‘there now,” indicating the studio.
‘*Certainly the lady is fascin: ted with the first
inting, and is not likely to stop at any price
f she takes a whim to possess the pair. Though
I'm not sure'that we sball not do better to auc-
tion them off next month, just previous to the
holidays. Think it over, Gillette:” and the
art-dealer passed on, smiling complacently, to
talk to a customer.

“Oh! if this ees be but the beginning of
the’end for which [have toiled!” was the artist’s
as he parted the heavy
maroon ‘curtains and [admitted himself to the
presence of the creations of many weary
months, The room was light and quiet—ths
chairs and’ divans mostly occupied by gentle-
men of the press or painting-rooms, brought
thither by the rumor that the picture which had
elicited the whole city’s admiration was oe
mented by a companion piece as splen idly
solemn as the other was airy and brilliant.
few ladies were present, however, and just
before the painting—“ Maidenhocd "—Cc¢ ly:
wrap]
eien ae recognized as Mrs,

The erowding of the

in contemplation, sat a figuro that Lu-
t. Mertyu’s.
gentlemen about Hae,

 
14

 

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

 

 

new-comer, with words of warm congratula-
tion and requests that he would hasten the un-
vailing of Lis latest work of art, attracted the
lacy’s attention; and the artist soon made his
way to where she sat. She bowed, and arose
and stood beside hina; but the smile with which
she greeted him was strangely troubled and al-
most haughty.

“Well?”

The simple word uttered in a low,commanding
voice—a tone that Mrs. St. Martyn’s most in-
fatuated adorers had rarely dared to assume—
compelled an instant comme

‘*T have seen this face before! Whose is it?”
The speaker looked at the great sunshiny can-
vas where, under a blue Italian sky and in a
goles southern atmosphere, a maiden, won-

rously alive with youth’s most _ bewitching
graces and radiant with life’s earliest bloom
sported in a garden crowded with fountainsand
flowers that seemed to fill the'very room with
silvery tinkle of drops and passionate odor of
bloom. The air was flecked with butterflies—
great brilliant-winged creatures—and one eeoge
fied and bruised itself between the girl’s high-
ifted tingers, dusting the dainty jeweled hand
with its gorgeous hues. And the beauty only
laughed, and stretched out her other hand to

asp another prize; while from a flight of steps
ue below her, a youth turned scprawtuily
trom her bright presence. His face was .pale
and lined with anguish, his lithe form eloquent
of eet and ee and the chain of
withering roses, knotted with violet ribbons,
that hung loosely about his neck, with the harp
left broken at the maiden’s feet, and the. rib-
bons missing from her costly dress, told all too
plainly the story of careless, heartless coquetry.

‘* Which face?” said Gillette, steadily.

“The girl’s—I meant!” answered. Elinor
meeting his intent eyes with a slightly startled
expression.

“Tt is that of a young lady who is about to

enter your homes, I understand,” a quizzical:

smile breaking across his face.

“‘This!—this!—and your companion of last
night—is Sidney Trefethen?”’ ere was an al-
most impalpable intonation of displeasure, even
of fear, underlying the exclamation of astonish-
= ‘* What is she to you?” she ended, impe-
riously.

The artist’s clear gaze met Elinor’s in calm
surprise,

i No more to me, than to you,” he said, qui-

etly.

Mrs. St. Martyn’s eyes drooped. ‘* Then you
are the frieid she called her ian. r.
Trefethen spoke of him, but mentioned no name.
How could I surmise it was you?’ with almost
childish penitence in the soft, silvery voice,

“—That instead of dwelling in a palace and
usin your brush and palette for pleasure, you
lived in an attic, and painted to gain your daily
bread?” he supplemen il, in airy irony.

“No; for you have painted with some object
other than that in view,” with anlot earnest
voica, reproving his bitter outbreak.

“You are right,” he sail, solemnly.

_ ‘And the attic where this picture came into
being must vee artake somewhat of the
fame of the work of art whose birth it wit.
nessed, as surely as the girl here painted will be
forever honored, shining out from this canvas,”
she went on.

‘Thank you, Mrs, St. Martyn!”

Why did there seem a cruel, cold mockery in
his voice? Elinor had no time to analyze the
ditting impression. The gentleman’s next sen-
tence demanded a reply.

** Then you like the work?”

% is But this Sydney—is she quite
like this? Is this allegorical?”

‘ Allegorical, yes; but, certainly, Sydney
holds no share in the story. I have not even
quite reproduced her face. She is as nobly true,
and proudly honest, as this maiden. is cruelly
selfish and deceptiv,”

‘“‘Then the romance is a true one?” the lady
asked, with intense interest.

“True? Has it not been true a thousand
times since the world was? I gave it to the
public, supposing that most ple knew the
story, even though it had been left for dreamers,
like artists, to put it on canvas,”

‘‘'You have a poor opinion of our sex,” with
@ faint smile, turning from him to the sunny,
glowing pic‘ure.

‘*Your sex, Mrs. St. Martyn, has not given
m3 reason to think better of it,” he said, with
slow coldness,

Then the life of this man, whose genius was
as superb as his physique was splendid, had held
a@ romance. Was it tuat that bad given the se-
riousness to his features, the deep gravity to his
eyes?

“But,” he went on, “will you see what jus-
tico I havo dono it, that has doneme none? Do
you cars to look a5 Maidenhood’s counterpart?”

“ Ab! do I not?’ shosaid, gayly. ‘I amall
anxicty!”

And she waited with on excited sense of im-

vtience and strained expectancy, whiie Lucien

irectad an attenant to unvail the painting.

** Tomanh od!” was all the artist said, as
tho lar-e canvas hung revealed, and the visit-
ers gathered oagerly around,

 

It pictured. a leaden sky, a dark day, a balco- ,
ny hung. with dripping vines, so real in their
damp luxuriance that the wet, leafy odor
seemed floating out against the faces of the si-
lent spectators. Upon the balcony, back of
which was revealed an apartment, somber in
its-gloom, but oriental in its wealth of luxuries,
stood a woman robed in sober garments,
whose dull. hues were only relieved by the
baigataces of gems that banded throat and

, and the hair, with a glint of gold in it,
at which the wind tore fiercely. A man p:ssed
below—a traveler, his face turned toward hers,
and with a wondrous joy upon it; for one fair
hand of the woman’s was pressed passionately to
her heart, while her suppliant form, her extend-
ed arm, her face in its powerful revelation of
love, all entreated him to accept the lite that
luxury and pleasure had never filled. And up-
on both splendidly-painted figures fell the grand
crimson, glow of a sunset bursting through
storm-clouds—the one shatt of brilliant color in
the painting.

For a moment every one stood spellbound, so
startling was the contrast of sober Womanhood
tothe other picture—all sunshine, and color,
and airiness, But gradually the group came to
feel how the latent misery in the one picture,
and lack of completeness, found ample repara-
tion,and splendid mastery in the other; and the
critics crowded around the artist with hearty
shakes of the hand and honest commendations.
Not until. the furore of excitement was over,
and many visitors had left the studio, did Lu-
cien turn with triumphant eyes to Elinor, to
hear the bold question:

‘« Will you tell me, Mr. Gillette, what woman
you had in your mind when you painted this

second picture?” She spoke with her eyes still
fasten

upon the figure that portrayed such
utter yore in the abandon of its supplicating
attitude, the beautiful face glorified by a love
almost more than human,

“You, Mrs. St. Martyn.”

She started back asit the steady, low-toned
reply had. been an insult, her color rising to
cheeks and brow.

** You did not suspect it?”

“ce Yes. ”

‘But, what is honor for a poor woman, and
unknown, done by a poor man, is not honor for
Mrs. St. Martyn I comprehend! My excuse
must be that you once gave to me, in the gra-
ciousness of your womanhood, a word of praise
pas ae pest a help we me eeer mine, Ga Ea

could only repa ma you the opposite
of this fickle, Sear girl.”

“You persist in misunderstandin
said, with simple dignity, ‘‘ard I
claim to not understanding you.”

‘You mean that you really pardon me for
painting you?”

“T have nothing to pardon. I felt, more than
I discerned, the resemblance of that woman’s
face to mine, for it is grand beyond any I have
ever seen, Even had you mado the likeness
what all the world might have recognised, I
should not have quarreled with a freak of

enius, because that genius was poor and un-
oe Pray tell me where we havo ever
me

“In Italy, on the hills beyond Naples. - You
were walking alone, and lost your way. You
found me lying on the grasses, sketching the
bay and the Quay, and appealed to me for in-
formation; and finding I spoke your native Jan-
guage you took considerable interest in my

wing and hoped I would be an honor to my
country.”

“JT remember, now, indeed! And that I
almost regretted Peeeng 5°, you seemed such

me,” she
y honest

a strangely shy and repellent senna tae ” with
pleasant laughter, ‘‘How could I have been s0
mistaken? But I must say good-morning to

you, and ask you to come and talk of Italy with
meat my own home. I receive daily, from two
to three, at my luncheons,” she added, as he put
her in her carriage.

He bowed, his eyes smiling his thanks, and
Elinor leaned suddenly forward.

“T want those two ees Mr. Gillette.
Tell Mr. Lamar to name his own price.”

“No! No! I cannot take your money for
them!” sid the artist, fiercely; and strode
hastily away.

CHAPTER XVI.
EN ROUTE TO SUCCESS.

‘When found, make a note of it.—DickEns,
“No, not her money! I cannot take her
money!” Lucien Gillette repeated, as Elinor’s
carriage whirled away and he walked slowly

up-town. ;
When first he appeared in New York, Gillette
had used the fine letters of introduction he
brought with him only among art-dealers. As
his graceful and even brilliant little sketches be-
came known and sought after, he ually
made the acquaintance of other artists, gaining
their liking by bis grave, fascinating manners,
and their admiration for his stern devotion to
work, while the utter privacy and recluseness
of bis life, his indifference to pleasures, and his

 

rsonal reserve, piqued their curiosity and held
Their interest, h the proud dignity with

a

oti.

which he repelled any intrusive speculations
concerning He reivete life—its past record or

| its future ambitions—was impregnable, bis re-

serve by degrees wore off. He was proposed for
a member of a stylish club where he soon made
warm friends. But it was not until he had
completed his first large painting, that piece of
work which had gained him such rapid fame,
that he assented to the importunities of his
favorite club acquaintance, the wealthy and
good-humored, bachelor, Mr. Ralph Webb, and
see himself to be presented in the social
world.

And certainly his entree therein had been a
success. Invitations poured in upon him. He
had genius if not money, and was a desirable
partner for the dance if not for life; so all wo-
men smiled on him save anxious mammas who
had susceptible marriageable daughters upon
their hands. But, notwithstanding the intensity
with which he had enjoyed his few appearances
in fashionable salons, he felt that for him to in-
dulge often in such pleasures would seriously
interfere with his great ambitions; for he
dreamed continually of those delightful hours.
Even now, as he walked along Broadway to-
ward the neat studio he was BEng 3B within
easy access of his club and his new lodgings, his
veins thrilled less with excitement at thought of
the added celebrity the day had brought him
than with the remembrance of one wal.zin Mrs.
Jerrell’s ball-rvom.

Gillette had used bis brush for the last timein

the attic painting-room where his two splendid
ictures had eprung into being with see Oey
refethen for a reality and Elinor St. tyn

for a memory; and deserted, also, was the little
room next it, where the charity-child had work-
ed, and waited, and dreamed, through four
years of her life; a short life counted by lus-
trums but long in the courage and endurance
owe developed and the achievements it had

eld.

While in the asylum, Sydney had attained
the highest rank possible in its school, and had
advanced far beyond any of the other scholars
in knowledge through the private aid of a
teacher who had hated to repress the child’s
fondness for study. Then had come her wretch-
ed ya deers as a servant-maid, ending with
her bold search for freedom and self-sustenance.
But no sooner wasshe established in Mrs. Good-
rich’s lcdgings than her love of books asserted
itself. She eagerly perused the limited amount
of reading matter owned by her lonely friend,
and then expended much of her small earnings
upon a neighboring circulating library; every
moment that she could spare irom needlewor
and household duties being spent in poring over
volumes of history, fiction, poetry, and biogra-
phy. And POmereE a fine memory the girl
succeeded in accumulating a wonderful amount
of information despite the swiftness and lack of
method with which she read.

When Gillette, a poor, plodding, unknown
artist, fitted up a studio next to the room where
Mrs. Goodrich and Helene lodged, he speedily
became interested in his \ oung neighbor, vs hose

aceful manners and brilliant teauty rendered

er such a startling contrast to ber plain, elder-
ly, consumptive companion. After a time he
made the acquaintance of the two, and his ad-
miration of Helene deepened when he learned
her history, and discovered Low wonderfully
superior was ker intellectual development to
girls of her age, and under what adveree cir-
cumstances her self-inyprovement bad progress-
ed. He offered to superintend her reading, and
obtain her a membership of some better Dosa
proposals gladly accepted by both women; by
the younger in mere joy at being enabled to
add to her mental achievements; by the elder,
because she pees confided to Mr. Gillette
that she could not live long, and d¢sired to see
the friendless girl as well fitted as possible to
care for herself,

Helene was not quite fifteen when Mrs. Good-
rich died, and the only relative of the lonely,
reserved woman, her brother, came and carried
her body toa resting-place in a quiet New Eng-
land cemetery, grumbling atthe expense made
him by a woman, who ‘ hadn’t never dore any-
body any good” But the girl lived on in her
attic lodging, working hard to pay ber rent,
and obtain, daily, enough milk and bread, or
rice, or oat-meal, wherewith to satisty her bun-
ger; and pursuing, under the artist’s supervi-
sion, a thorough course of historical and scien-
tific reading, combined with books of travel and
essays, and tastes of the best fiction and poetry.
Lucien could not limit her to any one study, it
being utterly futile to surmise what the girl
would become. Her own ambition was to go
upon the stage. But though she was, in life’s
experiences, so much wiser than her actual age,
and ready to brave bitter adversity and toil to
accomplish her ends, her guardian, from time
to time dissuaded her from forming any settled
plans concerning ber life, urging that she was
yet a child, and need not be in haste to decide
upon her future. He had hoped, indeed, that in
time he might find for her generous friends and
a suitable home. For he for her tenderly.
If she had been hia daughter, Gillette thought
Me could scarcely have loved Helene better, and

pained bim to think of letting the young
aS SCAR A eevee cach DOS cab UA TSN ane Ro SO

15

 

 

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

beauty drift through life with no sincere friend
to advise, no honest love to shelter her.

But, at last, that mysterious agency which
the good look upon as the working of Provi-
dence, and the godless ascribe to Shatice: and
both call Fate, had taken Sydney Trefethen’s
future out of Lucien Gillette's hands; and he
could not cease wondering whether the destin
marked off for her was more a matter of glad-
ness or regret.

Certain me Sydney, at that moment listening
to Mr. Trefethen’s halt-cynical, half-kindly
hints concerning her entree into society, would
have indignantly rejected the latter hypothe-
sis. Life looked very rose-hued to her now.
Poor, lovely Sydney! She had known many a
physical trial, and endured it like the offspring
of some Spartan race; but the exceeding bitter-
ness of heart-sickness and mental anguish she
had yet to learn,

‘here, petite! See how brief a synopsis of
my lecture you can give me,” concluded the el-
millionaire, after a half-hour talk, alter-
nately gallant and imperious according to the
changing of his moods,

Sydney laughed merrily and commenced to
tell off the points upon the pretty fingers that
needlework had little injured. .

“T am to consider myself the same as your
daughter. I am to call you father. Iam not
to be in any way dependent upon Mrs. St. Mar-
tyn. I am to dine with you twicea week. I
am to be happy and—well—I know you want
me to be an honor to you, and I hope I shall be!
No one shall say I am a discredit to the position
in which you are so kind as t) place me!”

‘*Brava!l Now, if you Prac will you go to
Mrs. Wallace’s room until I send for you? I see
Mrs. St. Martyn’s carriage, and I wish a few
words with her alone.”

Sydney hurried to the housekeeper’s parlor
and waited there in a fever of excitement until
she should be summoned to meet the lady whose
home she was henceforth to share. It seemed
hours before Fritz brought the message that
Mrs. St. Martyn wished to see her. She walked
swiftly back along the corridor, and into the
great parlor the waiter designated, and stood
alone in Elinor’s presence. :

rs. St. Martyn sat where Mr. Trefethen had
left her, it being his whim that his protegee and
her chaperone should make each other’s ac-

uaintance unintroduced; but as the girl entered
the apartment she arose and took a hasty oe
forward, and, with a grace as unstudied an
girlish as Miss Trefethen’s own, took the youn
stranger’s flushed cheeks between her hands an
press a warm kiss upon her fair brow.

“ Thank you!” said Sydney, with bewitching
dignity and pleased smile.

‘he lady dropped her hands and started back.
her fine eyes scanning Sydney’s face. It would
have been hard to teil which woman most ad-
mired the other, save that in the younger’s re-
gard was no mixture of sentiments. er @
Peer of the elegant Mrs. St. Martyn’s

uty was honest andunconcealed. While the
eyes that searched the orphan’s face held
eu ae emotions.

“Well?” said Sydney, after a moment, with
a little ripple of laughter. “Do I fri;

ighten
you?”

“Do I look frightened?” replied Elinor.

_ Almost, yes; as if you had seen a wraith.”

“And yet one could scarcely accuse you of
resembling such an_unsubstantial creature,”
smiled the lady. ‘‘But you remiad me of a
friend.” Then changing the subject, she asked,
eee ‘*Why has your dress no trimming
upon

Sydney flushed resentfully, as she always did
under singularly personal questions,

‘* For several reasons,” she replied, gravely.

“Would you mind telling me what they are?
They may help me to become acquainted with
some of your tastes,” said Elinor, gently, re-
satin with pleased glance the beautiful

its absolutely plain dark dress.

“T could not afford a dress often, and needed
to conform it to my means and style; and no
amount of trimming could alter the cheapness
of the goods. On the contrary, it seemed to me
that Restos plainness invested it with a certain
dignity, and a pees fit lent to the garment
the grace of the figure. Then, material and
time were saved; both of which items meant

' much to me.”

“Ts3e you have a truly artistic taste, com-
bined with the right kind of pride, and I sur-
mised as much. You must know that, in
rae Mr. Trefethen to take you into the
most fashionable society in our large city, I
have undertaken an unheard-of experiment, but
I believe you will belp me to make it a success,”
said Mrs. St. Martyn, with real confidence.
And then she gathered from Sydney’s own lips
a brief outline of her life, her studies, her read-
ing, and what she had learned, from books and
observation, of those customs and accomplish-
ments that it was necessary she should know in
order to prevent herself being pronounced outre
among refined people.

“You have considerable to learn, perhaps,
but. very little that you cannot readily gain by

notieing the people with whom you will associ- -

ate, And now, if you will boo kind as to get

.

 

on your wraps, I should like to take you imme-
diately to your new home,”

‘““And what does Madame St. Martyn think
of my heiress?’ asked Mr, Trefethen, coming
into the room as Sydney leftit.

“Tam pleased with her, Mr. Trefethen. Very
fo Waif though she was, she could never

ave sprung from low ancestry. Shehasall the
instincts of a gentlewoman, the tastes of an
artist, and a quickness and ee of intellec-
tual perception that are remarkable.”

The old gentleman was delighted with his vis-
itor’s enthusiasm.

“She has been trained by an artist,” he said,
meaningly.

“Yes, and a fine man; but he is not responsi-
ble for the pus high-strung nature, and inborn
pride, and fine mental powers,”

“ What masters will she need?”

“*Conversationally, she is more proficient in
French than half the girl graduates, but I think
she might study it still and take music; perhaps
a few finishing lessonsin dancing. She cannot
do more in view of the demand that will be
aan upon her time as soon as she ‘comes
out,

‘* And what plan do you propose to pursue in
regard to her debut ?” .

“or one week I shall keep her in strict se-
clusion. Then I will bring her to dine with you.
And, after that, you must come to a ‘ breakfast’
with us, to which I shall invite a select com-
pany. After which I intend giving a series of
petyae balls, at the first of which Sydney shall

formally presented to society.”

The Frenchman nodded his assent to this plan,
and concluded the conference with the intima-
tion that he should invite a few persons to dine
with Sydney and her chaperone at bis house.

“Perhaps Mrs. St. Martyn will kindly sug-
gest half a dozen names,” be added, gallantly.

“T should mention the Gilruths and Mr, Gil-
lette, only,” said Elinor, smiling, ‘“‘ since Sydney
will be rather on trial.”

‘‘Very good, madame,” assented Mr. Trefe-
then, just as his daughter joined them. ‘Ah,
ma petite, you are really off for fairy-land?
Bon voyage !” ‘

For answer, the girl eloquently extended her
hands to him, and her pk pe parent, taking
them in his, bent with stately grace to touch his
mustached lips to his protegee’s forehead.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE DEBUTANTE.
She ne’er saw courts, but courts could hav> outdone

With untaught loves, and an unpracticod heart;
Her nets the most prepared could novcr shun,

For Nature spread them in the scorn of art.

—Simr W, DAVENANT.

Mrs. St. Martyn’s protegee pleased her,
rarely, so pure and fastidious were her tastes,
so bewitching her girlish dignity and pride, so
instinctive her high, well-bred manners; and
these, combined with her bright beauty, her ex-
quisite grace of motion, her superio> intellectu-
ality, and the charming freshness and natural-
ness of her ways and speech, gave promise of
enabling her to kold her own with any of New
York’s young belles.

With only a week’s experience of luxury, Syd-
ney sat in her pretty boudoir, while her maid
put the finishing touches to her lovely toilet as,
perfectly mistress of herself and circumstances,
and as delightfully at ease, as if she had never
slept upon tbe sodden earth, and eaten the
bread of charity along the summery highways.

“That will do, Bertha,” rising and surveying
herself in the great dressing-glass. ‘“‘I am go-
ing to Mrs. St. Martyn. Bring my carriage-
cloak to her circular parlor.”

Elinor had been softly playing one of Men-
delssohn’s Songs Without Words; Lut sat, now,
at her piano with F teeens hands resting idly
upon the keys, thinking of Lucien Gillette. She
had not met him since the morning that his
latest painting had been unvailed, though every
luncheon-hour she had thought to see him. And
the longer he stayed away the more persistent-
ly his last words recurred to her:

“T cannot take your money for them!” Had
she offended bim? Or was it pride? Or—

There came a little tap at the door, and a
bright figure flitted into the room,

‘Will I do?” Sydney cried, with graceful
courtesy.

“Perfectly! Youarea picture. Mr. Gillette
ought to paint you now!” i

“Ah, yes! Guardy will like this dress! Oh,
how I long to see him!” her face gathering a
real shadow. ‘It seems as if all my happiness
lacks its best completeness without him to share
it!

Elinor regarded the girl intently. ‘‘ Can it be
possible,” she asked herself, with a little throb
of surprise and displeasure, “‘ that she loves that
man? After all,”—remembering Gertrude’s in-
fatuation—“ what more likely? And,” making
the decision very suddenly, but very deliberate-
ly, ‘‘ after all it would be a desirable match.”

“«-You must ask him, to-night, to come often
to see you,” was Elinor’s rejoinder, aloud, as she
arose to prepare for their drive.

Mrs. St. Martyn and Sydney were the first
arrivals at Mr. Trefethen’s, and the girl flitted
about the great somber parlor, rearranging the

 

flowers with which the gardener had stiffly
er it. seeps

‘Is my purpose regarding Sydney soextraor-
dinary as you at first regarded it? asked Mr.
Trefethen, Jowering his tones, as the young
lady at the further end of the room trained
some smilax vines all about the standard they
overflowed.

“T must confess that it is not,” smiled Mrs.
St. Martyn. ‘She seems born to her present
position. Ah! Mr. Gillette!”

“Oh! Guardy !” cried Miss ‘'refethen, in sub-
dued excitement. And only waiting till the
artist had exchanged greetings with his host
and Elinor, the girl came swiftly to meet him,
placing her hands frankly, joyfully in his, her
eyes shining with affection and happiness.

“Well, little girl?’ His glance swept down
over her costly costume, the jewels upon hands
and wrists, then up again to her flushed, dim-
pling face, and ho added quickly, tenderly: ‘I
congratulate you, Sydney! May you always
look es beautiful an baPLy as now!”

Griffis and Gertrude Gilruth missing the
words, yet caught a glimpse of the tableau,
never to forget it—the splendidly handsome

inter, bending with loving eyes and tender

‘ace, above the bright, bewitching girl, whose
ot unique costume of marine silk slashed
with gold color, revealing by its half-short
sleeves and square-cut corsage her white throat
and rounded arms, set off finely the pure pink
and white of her complexion and her shining

hair.

“And this is my cousin Trefethen’s ward—
the same we saw at the opera with Gillette!”
exclaimed Griffis, in a low tone to Elinor, “I
confessIam utterly confounded. You never
trained her to such perfection in a week!”

Mrs. St. Martyn laughed, musically.

“Did I not say you would be proud to claim
relationship? Yes; this is the orphan of whon: I
told you. But all that is so admirable about her
isinborn, No amount of conventional training
could improve her. Mr. Trefethen was not so
nearly insane as you thought.”

“No,” admitted Gilruth. ‘But how comes
she to know Gillette? What was she doing at
the opera with him?”

“He has been a friend and teacher to her for
some time. He took her to the opera asa birth-
day treat.”

“ And will find out that he is in love with her
now?” “

“Tt would not be surprising,” rejoined Elinor,
ae

“And it would be a very fitting match I
should say,” remarked Griffis, complacently, as
he turned away to speak with his father and
their host.

“T can scarcely comprehend this fancy of

curs, Mr. Trefethen,” Judge Gilruth was say-
ing, suavely, to his cousin. ‘‘ Do you think Mrs.
Leuthold will approve it, or Beatrix feel quite
pleasantly about meeting this young woman
whom she will be apt to regard as a usurper?”
ae Trefethen’s eyes betrayed repressed irri-

on.

“ My niece can scarcely regard my daughter,
my a daughter ”—emphasizing the words,
en y—‘‘as a usurper! My, part of the

'refethen estates in France, atrix will of
course inherit. My personal property in this
coy 5 shall dispose of as pleases me; and I
understand, thoroughly, how to punish any one
who shall so far forget good-breeding as to
slight my ward!”

“It is impossible that any one could do that,”
said Griffis, gracefully. ‘Miss Trefethen is a
charming lady.”

“ Certainly! certainly!” assented the judge,
and the announcement of dinner terminated the
ote unpleasantness upon which the trio had

‘“‘Quardy, aren’t you coming to see me soon?”
asked Sydney, when the guests were about mak-
ing their adieu.

‘I shall come to Mrs. St, Martyn’s ‘break-
fast,’ yes.”

“Ah, but that seems so far away! nearly a
week! ‘You must come to luncheon sooner; 1
am so lonely without you!”

“ Are you not happy, little girl?” “

“taPRY oh, yes! But I miss my father con-
fessor! Then I want to hear all about yourself,
and the new home and studio!”

“Mrs, St. Martyn will bring you to see that,
I Boh turning to Elinor, who was coming to-
wi hem

t .
“To your studio? Ishould be pleased to do

“ And the pictures, Guardy,” continued Syd-

ot: “Aren’t you lonely, with them gone?

at do you work on, now? Have they been
sold?”

“a Yes 1”

“Ob! Who bought them?”

“Mr. Trefethen. He concluded the purchase
of them to-day; so my agent told me.”
“Oh!” with prolonged emphasis.

that nice, Mrs. St. Martyn?”

“Tecan scarcély agree with you,” answered
Elinor, gravely. ‘‘I was so anxious to possess
them myself, that it will be a matter of serious
regret to me to have them hang in any other

perlor than mine, Cannot you persuade My,

“Ts not

 
 
  
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

46

 

Gillette that I shall consider it a great honor if |
he will make me a copy of ‘* Womanhood” at |

any price?’

“ Of course he will!” laughed Miss Trefethen.
“Why should he not? Why did he not sell you
the pictures?”

Elinor’s eyes met Lucien’s and seemed to re-
peat the question, but there was a look upon the
artist’s face that startled her. She coutd not
define it, and hastened to change the subject;
but, more than ever Gillette’s attitude toward
herself baffled hor. And it was not until the
morning of her “breakfast” that they again
met, despite Sydney’s expectation of ‘an earlier
visit from her friend.

That entertainment was a pleasant affair, and
settled beyond doubt that Miss Trefethen’s en-
trance into society would prove a success. The
girl’s beauty and liveliness found friends for her
rapidly, while Mrs. St. Martyn’s chaperonage,
and the rumor that steadily gained ground that
she was not only the adopted daughter but the
heiress of the eccentric old Frenchman, gave her
prestige.

“Really, Mrs. St. Martyn, you have taken us
all by storm with this protegee of yours,”
laughed Ralph Webb. ‘‘ And, oddly enough, I
cannot rid myself of the impressioa that I have
seen her before; and find myself trying to re-
member where.”

5 a entne I can assist your memory,” re-
marked Mrs. St. Martyn, with smiling compo-
sure. ‘‘Have you not seen Mr. Gillette’s pic-
ture, Maidenhood? Miss Trefethen’s features
and beauty are reproduced there, though not
quite her expression.”

‘Of course! How stupid of me not to think
of that! I recollect perfectly the young girl in
the painting, and that her style is identical with
Miss Trefethen’s.”

“TI understand that Octavien Trefethen has
paid twenty thousand dollars for the pair of
pictures,” observed Colonel Russel. ‘‘I pre-
sume Gillette thinks his fortune made. But the
old gentleman must have bought them from
some strange whim—perhaps the resemblance
of the faces to this little beauty he has adopted;
no one else would have paid such a sum. I can-
not agree with the bravos of the public, and the
flattery of the art-critics, that proclaim those
two paintings such masterpieces.

““No douvt your artistic discrimination is
very nice, colonel; but I have been foolish
enough to offer more than ten thousand dollars
for a copy of the second picture of the pair,”
said Elinor’s clear, cool voice, ‘It was a mat-
ter of deep regret to me that I failed to secure
the paintings,”

“Ma foi! This Gillette has friends!” ex-
claimed the colonel, with a light laugh.

‘And never man deserved them more!” re-
plied Mr. Webb, warmly.’ “ Years ago his ev-
ery prospect in life was blighted. ‘Instead of
dreaming over his betrayed love and_ship-
wrecked hopes, like a sentimental idiot, he de-
termined to fight fate and bis own heart. With-
out money, influence, or friends, he started upon
his new career. There was no one to encourage
him—not one in all the world to smile with love
and pride upon him if he mastered circum-
stances, and developed genius, and conquered
fate, as other men’s mothers, and sisters, and
sweethearts smile upon them for any good

-achieved; and yet he persevered in bis under-

taking, and stands before the world a man to
be honored. He has acquired a rapid fame at

» the last, but not undeserved; for he has toilad

long and faithfully at his profession, and en-
dured physical privations of which wa canno$
dream, before he reaped the smallest recom-
pense for his work; though his genius, by teaca-
ers abroad, had long been conceded.”

“ Quits a romance!” said Griffis Gilruth, light-
ly, while Elinor’s cheeks and lustrous eyes be-
trayed her intense interest in what she had
heard.

“Yes, quite!” retorted Mr. Webb, placidly.
“« And I have told you actually all that [ know,
so aoe me any questions, please,”

‘“Why that adjuration? Mrs. St. Martyn is
the only lady who has heard your story, and
we know that she is superior to the foibles of her
sex.

‘**Do we?” asked Colonel Russell, in a mean-
ing undertone, ‘Did you not notice how her
eyes flamed, and her color varied, while Webb
discoursed this paragon, Gillette? Such be-
trayals of interest are new for the stately lady.”

‘‘ Mrs. St. Martyn is ina position where she
can well afford to take an interest in struggling

enius, and assist it, if she chooses wiihcat
laying herself open_to any supremely foolish
par ap E replied Griffis, coolly dismissing the
subject.

But the annoyance the colonel’s woras had
engendered was not as easily disposed of: it
being increased. later, when, after the other
guests had departed, and Griffis had indulged in
a delicious half-hour of flirtation with Sydney,
the couple found Elinor and Gillette in Mrs. St.’
Martyn’s favorite ebony and amber parlor, con-
versing as genially as old friends; Elinor’s atti-
tude—her head lying against the jetty velvet
that bordered the back of a low luxurious
lounging-chair, and hands folded idly in her Jan
wrésprescing perfect rest and conteutment;

\

| devotion to her in his eyes at least.

 

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

while Lucien sat easily among the satin cush-
ions of a Turkish lounge, one arm thrown lizht-
ly about little Myra, who nestled at his side.

“Why, Myra! I’m jealous of you!” exclaim-
ed Sydney, laughing, as she entered the salon.

‘““You need not be, little girl,” responded Gil-
lette. .

How tenderly he called her that; and how
happy his face was as he made 4 place for her
at his side. Elinor’s heart gave a passionate,
rebellious throb. Why was this man so loved?
And why did she seem more alone in the world
than the tiny Myra and the beautiful orphan?
She turned to Griffis with a mad desire to read
Instead, he,
too, watched the happy group upon the lounge,
half-piqued that the girl who had coquetted
witb him deliciously a moment since could turn
to this man with such warm affection and utter
forgetfulness of any other.

linor’s rising wasa sign for the dispersing of
the party; and her manner, as she shook hands
with the artist, was quite changed from that
which had so charmed him as they sat and look-
ed in each other’s eyes and talked like near com-
panions. Again she was the splendid, wealthy,
haughty Mrs. St. Martyn.

“Sydney, will you go down with Mr. Gil-
lette? I think he will excuse me—I have to de-
vote a half-hour now to business, if my coun-
selor can spare me that time.”

“Certainly,” said Gilruth, seating himself,
but with perceptible indifferenco in his tone.

“ Something is the matter with the boy!” ex-
claimed his companion, en archly. “Is
he grieving because I sent his pretty cousin
away?”

‘** Nonsense, Elinor! It only annoys me that
T am always disappointed in what I am con-
stantly seeking to discover—that I am any more
to you than any other man!”

“Not jealous, Griffis!” Then suddenly aris-
ing, and standing before him with grave face
and clasped hands, she said, calmly: ‘‘ You
ought to know you are more to me than other
men, for you are my betrothed husband!”

In an instant Gilruth’s arms were about her
waist, and his passionful, warm brown oyes
looked into hers.

“My darling Elinor! My queen!” he said,
pressing a few slow, burning kisses upon her lips
and brow.

The beauty submitted to the caress rather
than returned it.. There was no answering emo-
tion, only a half-kindly acceptance of the pas-
sion he wasted upon her.

‘There, Griffis!” kissing him, at last, as calm-
ly as she would have kissed Sydney. * Now let
us turn our attention to business. Surely, you
have some news for me, to-day. I sicken of
this suspense.”

‘So little, and so little promise of obtaining
more, that there might almost as well be none.
That Canton has completely escaped us! I fear
we shall be obliged to drop the whole affair, un-
less we hear from some of our advertisements
soon. AndI shall be glad. I do not lke you
to be worrying over it.”

“Tt must not drop!” said Elinor, imperi Cunly:
“With experienced detectives, surely we ought
See baffled. What have you learn-
ed?

What further of Mrs. Letronne’s history had
been discovered, was soon told. With a provi-
dence unusual to their profession, she and her
husband appeared to have accumulated a com-
fortable little fortune. The latter had died in
California, after which Mrs. Letronne went to
New Orleans, where she lived a comparatively
private life, frequenting the theaters, and talk-
ing politics with the city cfficials who came by
degrees to make her rooms a rendezvous. She
was said to be a brilliant conversationalist, and
devoted al] her talents to political intrigues.
But her health was delicate, and at last BSR -
sician confessed to her that her lungs were bad-
ly diseased, and she must.soon die, From that
time she lost interest in politics and her political
associates, became gloomy and reserved, and
suddenly gave up her rooms, drew considerable
money, and started for New York. Onceafter,
she telegraphed to a gentleman in New Orleans
for money.

“That is the extent of the information we ob-
tained there. Not the people she lived with,
nor one of the political comrades she gathered
about her, knew more of her history than we
do now. I have sent an agent to California,
but I fear with like ill success.”

“ And the Lanes?”,

“ Miss Dora has been kept under strict espion-
age. But her ways are serene and above suspi-
cion. If you still wish it, I will have one of m
men secure board there, though, reaily, I thin
your dislike of that girl is groundless.”

“T do wish it!” said Elinor, decidedly.

 

CHAPTER XVIIL
A LOVERS’ MEETING.

Is thy faith as clear and free as that which I can

pledge to thee?—Apr.arpg A. Proctor.
Upon the deck of a western-bound European
stenmer a lady, leaning upon the arm of a fine-
looking escort, bravely faced the keen cold of

tac pussbiny but frosty January weather,

 

 

 

She was young, and of medium hight, with a
plump figure and healthy complexion that
American ladies would hardly have coveted
her carriage replete with youthful dignity, and.
her manners full of simplicity and unaffected
maidenly grace. The man at her side wasa
handsome fellow, with English side-whiskers
and drooping mustache aud rather closely-cut
hair of tawny fairness, whose heavy ulster and
steamer cap were most becoming to him; and
Beatrix Leuthold was by no means the only
lady on shipboard who liked to have Mr. My-
ron Rossiter’s strong arm for a support when
she ventured upon deck, or who was pleased to
play accompaniments for his clear tenor sing-

ing.

Sto Rossiter was one of those aucecious,
imperturbably good-humored, fascinating men
who steal into every one’s good graces without
any one being quite able to tell how it came
about. He sung nicely, played cards well, was
an easy and witty general conversationalist,
took pains to make people comfortable, and was
gallant and ingratiating in a score of little
ways. Moreover, he dressed well, and had

lenty of money, without putting on airs about
it; and was handsome and jolly. And through
a young lord, with whom he was traveling, it
got about that he was the hero of a consider-
able romance—was going to America to seek a
reconciliation with a lady, handsome and
wealthy, whom he had married in his youth,
but from whom he had been separated man

Gre awakened general interest in his

ehalf. :

There were frequent card-parties arid little
musical entertainments gotten up during the
long evenings spent on shipboard, the number of
cabin-passengers being limited and a delightful
sociability. prevailing; and as Mr. Ressiter and
Miss Leuthold were discovered to haveconsider-
able vecal ability, they. were thrown much into
each other’s scciety. But the pleasant steamer
associations were drawing speedily to a close.
The voyagers were rapidly approaching their
destination, and Beatrix, teking her lest prome-
nade upon deck, plied her ccmpanion with
questions concerning the strange country to
which she was going. He smiled at her interest-
ed and persistent inquiries.

“You forget, Miss Leuthold, that I lave not
been in the United States for some years. Iam
almost as much a stranger to New Youk scciety
as yourself; though there are a few names that
I am not likely to forget.”

“Ah, yes,” said Beatrix, gently, remember-
ing the rumor she bad heard concerning Mr.
Rossiter’s past. ‘I hope it will be a plezsant
home-coming to you—and a succeesful one!” she
ventured. .

“Thank you. It is the best you cap wish.
And what shall I hope for you?’ he added,

eayly. :
eatrix’s bright color deepened.

“Wego upon a visit, merely,” she replied, in
slight confusion.

“ But to friends who wait your ccming, glad-
ly. You aresure cfa warm welccme, perbaps
of one especially eager. You can scarcely un-
derstand the dread with which a sche Tassion,
assailed by doubts and uncertainties, locks for-
ward to trying a test that may give hay piness,
or must fcrever make miserakle.”

The girl answered, roy thoughtfully:

“ Perhaps I understard you tettcr then you
imagine, thcugh it is true I go to the Lcmcsof
relatives, an uncle’s and ccusin’s, and entici-
pare ne. plea:ure; for who can read the fu-
ture r

‘“You have met these relatives before?”

“Yes, my cousins;” with another vivid blush.

Rossiter smiled pleesantly, kindly; he vas so
much older than his irgenucus ccmpanicn.

“ And you dream of cre wko will meet you
at the pier, in the morning, with all a lover’s
impetuosi iy?” be said.

“T have had no experience with a Jover, yet,”
replied Beatrix, naively, ‘‘so I shell scarcely
know whether he exhibits ‘a Icve1’s impetuos-
ity’ or not.”

“Your heart will soon enough tell you that,”
remarked Rossiter, dryly.

“But he mayn’t come at all,” persisted Miss
Leuthold. ‘‘I believe mamma decided to go to
my uncle Trefethen’s first, after she received
his letter in London.”
ya Octavien Trefethen, of New

or. \

“Yes; do you know him? He is mamma’s
eldest. brother. He has been in New York many
years.

“Thave seen him. I know of him—yes,” an-
swered her escort, quietly. 3

‘‘And do you know my cousins, Judge Gil-
ruth’s family? ; :

“TI have heard of oe Gilruth, I cannot
oan any acquaintance w th him. He has chil-

en

“Yes; my cousins, Griffis and Gertrude.”
“And you are very fond of them?” laugh-

ing.
‘Oh, yes! Very fond of Gertrude,” respond-
ed Beatrix, quickly.
There came a peculiarly amused and satisfied
eleam into the gentleman’s bold, attractive eyes,
Shrouded iu uncertainty ae were his own heart

 
DIVORC

 

hopes, it’ was not strange that the young lady’s
innocent betrayal of her happier ones should in-
terest and please him.

“Shall you stay long on this side the At-
lantic?” Beatrix hastened to ask, to get away
jae the too personal turn the conversation had
taken.

‘‘Yos, I shall probably stay here, now, any-
way,” Rossiter answered, with a puzzling ex-
pression upon bis faco, ‘‘ Don’t you think you
ough to be going below? Not that Iam in haste
to terminate our promenade: but Ihave your
welfare to consider, and it is getting breezier.”

“And nearly every one has gone down.
Mamma will be worrying about me. It is a
wonder she has not sent the maid. Ah! Here
she comes, now!”

“ Mamma,” said Beatrix, earnestly, that night,
**do you think our cousius will come to the ship
to see us, in the morning?”

“We shallarrivo so early, I scarcely think
any one but Griffis will bo likely to come, love.”

ut Griffis was not thero; until hoe sat at
breakfast, and read that the steamer had been
“reported off the Hook,” be did not remember
that his ccusins were that day due. Griffis had
so much in the way of business, and society,
and flirtation, to oceupy his mind and attention,
that perhaps it was not a portent of ill that bo
should forget the exact date when his foreign
JSiancee should arrive in New York.

Mr. Trefethen’s carriage and housekeeper met
the ladies, and they were driven as rapidly as
possible along the crowded streets to his granite
mansion,

“This is your uncle’s home, Beatrix,” said
Mrs. Leuthold, as they rolled witbin the iron

tes; ‘‘and there he stands waiting tomeet us,

ow changed he is!” “

. “Ah, my dear sister, I am charmed to seo
you! Welcome to my home! And thisismy
niece, Beatrix,” holding out bis hand to Miss
Leuthola. ‘i can scarcely comprehend this
scene, Hore is my pretty, young sister come to
me transformed into a mother of a young wo-
mavas large as herself, if not quite as old.”

“‘Toere are, indeed, wondrous changes to be
contemplated when meetings take placo after
so many years of absence,” replied his sister,
taking his proffered arm up the stairway.

“1 had hoped that Beatrix would be a re-
minder of you, as I saw you last,” said the mil-
lionaire, as the trio sat at breakfast; ‘‘ but I
cannot trace the slightest resemblance, “You
oe all the Trefethen beauty, and havo it
still.

Der uncle’s words went to Beatrix’s heart
with an unpleasant shock. She had scarcely
thought of herself as beautiful, though she knew
that at the German court where she had had
brief experienco of society, after her simple
school-lite and unaffected home-training, and
where her splendid lineage and brilliant pros-
pects made her a belle of considerable distinc-
tion, she had not been inferior in that respect to
her companions. But now it occurred to her
that, judged by the standard of beauty of an-
other country, sho might be looked upon with
indifference. Certainly her uncle’s words and
tone had seemed to incicate that he was disap-
pointed in her oes

“Beatrix is liko her father’s family,” Mrs.
Leuthold explained, while tho girl was anxious-
ly asking herself:

“Tf uncle Trefothen is not pleased with mo,
will Griffis be? For uncle is an old man, and—
but—” she could not pus even to her heart, in
distinct words, her hope that Griflis’s love was
beyond such influences. For Beatrix was
wholly innocent of the worldiixess and prac-
ticality of American girls, and had never in-
dulzed a thought disloyal tovher betrothed hus-
band, from the day when he had kindly shaken

hands with her and said that sho must not for-

et him, for she was to be his wile some day.

ndeed, her handsome cousin had becomes a very
gol to her; and not even her mother suspected
with what thrills of rapture tho girl looked for-
ward to meeting him.

Before the travelers aroso from breakfast tho
announcement—‘‘ Mr, Gilruth,” sent the ruddy
color flying from Miss Leuthold’s cheelis; but ib
came to her face again, in a surging tido, when
it was the judge who entered the room. But sho
was glad to see him. She felt more at ease with
him than with Mr. Trefethen; and that there
was more warmth in her cousin’s greeting than
in the reception given her by ber uncle.

The visit was a brief one; the judge stopped
only longenough to apologize for not being at
the pier, and to say that the ladies and Griffis
would cll soon: and, the meal being over, Bea-
trix and Mrs, Leuthold went into the parlor to
await their callers.

Ob!” breathed Beatrix, rapturously, stop-
ping before Gillette’s paintings.

“Ah! What do you think of those?” asked
Mr. Trefethen.

‘‘They are very fine,” said his sister.

‘More than that!” exclaimed Miss Leuthold,
earnestly. ‘* What faces! -

‘““Yes; this one is almost a portrait of my
adopted daughter.”

‘‘ Your adopted daughter, Octavien!” cried his
sister, in astonishment.

“Yea Miss Sydney Trefethen; T speak of kor

ED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

47

 

as my daughter, because I care for her as such.
and there isa stag ah of her becoming my
heiress—not to the Trefethen estates, of course.”

Mrs. Leuthold bowed, proudly, as tosay—and
in nothing else do I feel any interest, so spare
explanations.

“ But where is she?”

‘Under the chaperonage of one of the most
handsome, wealthy, and distinguished women
of New York—an old friend of the Gilruths—
Mrs. St. Martyn.”

Beatrix was listening, interestedly. ‘We
have heard of her, mamma, have we not?”

“Yes, my dear. Then she is out in society,
Octavien?”

“Has just ‘come out,’ and created a great
sensation! She is only sixteen, and yet men old
enough tobe her father rave over her, She
does not lack for admirers.”

‘“‘She must be very beautiful,” said Beatrix,
with a little sigh.

“She is certainly pretty, here,” remarked
Mrs. Leuthold, scanning the picture.

‘*And that ouly does her justice in form and
coloring; her expression is bewitching.”

Beatrix’s eyes were fastene.1 upon the picture
with strange intentness, and she was still study-
ing it when the Gilruth ladies called, unattend-
ed by Griffis.

‘““Griffis has not stopped here?” asked Mrs,
Gilruth.

‘*Mamma, you might have known he would
not,” said Gertrude. ‘‘He did not want us to
come until after luncheon,” turning to Beatrix;
“he thought you would prefer to rest this morn-
ing. But I knew better. When I go toa new
place, I am too excited to rest. Iwant to seeall
that is going on!”

“But Beutrix’s temperament is very different
be yours, my dear child,” suggested Mrs, Gil-
ruth.

‘I supposo so, mamma; but all the same I
knew she would not want to sleep half the day,
like an old lady. Come, Trixy, I want to hear
all about the school where I thought I should
die of German and homesickness; and the voy-
age—did you have any nice flirtations?” confi-
dentially, as she placed her arm within Miss
Leuthold’s and led her down the room.

‘“No,” said Beatrix, gravely.

Gertrude laughed, in great amusement, at her
cousin’s dignified denial.

“Why, I was ever s) much younger than you
when I came home, and had both mamma and
Griffis to watch me, and yet I had «legant sport
on shipboard.” k

Beatrix was silent. She could not understand
her wild cousin. And Gertrude went cn, half
annoyed at Miss Leuthold’s shyness and want of
confidence:

“Well, I see you do not mean to tell mo any-
thing. How do you like these pictures?”

“They are lovely. J have been Jooking at
them. oO you know my unclo’s ward?”

“Certainly. Has he been telling you about
her? Papa thinks it very unfair to you, that
Mr. Trefethen should havo adopted her,” Mis
Gilruth remarked, comfortingly, thinking that
she now understood Beatrix’s silence.

“Oh, no, indeed, itis not! I a no one will
say or think that! How lovely sho is! Uncle
says that this is an exact reproduction of all but
ler expression.” 3

Gortrude started. It came to her liko a reve-
lation that this was a portrait of Sydney and
painted by Gillette.

“Yes, it is like her,” she said, her tones
ingicy. ‘Icannot see why people thin
so handsome, though.”

“*Ican. And don’t you think the artist who
painted this must have loved to do it?”

‘Tam sure I haven’t thought anything about
it.” And now Gertrude’s tones were soaecidcd-
ly cold that Beatrix changed the ccnversation.

“ Mamma,” she raid, coftly, atter their friends
were gone, and sho had stood looking cut at
busy Broadway for a time, speaking without
turning from the window, “would you be so
kind as to ask Griffis, when he comes, not to let
our betrothal .be made public yet awhile?
Somehow, I feel as if I should like to get a littlo
acquainted with people here, before being forced
to answer congratulations.”

“Certainly, my Gear. - It is quite as well that
you should be introduced into society first.”

It was nearly the dinner- hour when a servant
brought Miss Leuthold a message that her
mother was in the parlor with a gentleman who
wished to see mademoiselle.

All aflush and trembling the girl went cown
to her betrothed, to look into the eyes she
thoucht the handsomest on earth, and to hear a
thrilling voice say, tenderly:

“My dear Beatrix, I am very glad to see
you. I hope vou are well and rested.”

Then there followed a delightful half-hour in
which Mrs. Leuthold and Griffis did most of the
talking. But Beatrix was supremely happy in
sitting at her lover’s side, and listening to his
melodious voice, and receiving an occasional
fascinating smile.

‘Tam so sorry that I cannot stay and dine
with you,”said Gilruth, as he arose togo; “ but
I shall see'you at my own home, at dinner, to-

‘Ow-
her

 

morrow,” turning to Miss Leuthold with his
speaking eyes and ing smile, Then, lean-

 

 

ing low over her fluttering band, ‘I quite agreo
with you, Beatrix, that it will be better to keep
our engagement quiet for a time, and enjoy our
secret all by ourselves. Good-night, and sweet
est dreams, dear cousin.”

The young man went away, leaving a burn-
ing passion in his,cousin’s loyal heart of which
he little dreamed, and feeling decidedly more
comfortable than before his call.

“Tam glad she is so sensible!” he meditated.
‘“Now if she would only ke so acecrsmodating
as to fall in love with sore one else I should be
in luck; for i doubt if I shall ever bring myself
to wish to marry ker. If she wes like Elivor—
or even like Sydney Trefethen, now—one might
be reconciled to obliging our respective parents.
But—that figure! and that color! How her
some cousin will gain in comparison with

er

 

CHAPTER XIX.
IMPRESSIONS.
The fate of love is such
That still it sees too little or too much.
—DRyDEN.

Ir Griffis was relieved by his call upon his be-
trothed, certa‘nly Beatrix was hapyier that
first ey in a new Jand then she bad believed
she could be, before his ccmirg, when the day
had slowly waned and tke tedicus hours failed
to bring him.

Judging of her lover by the strength and im-
patience of ker own passion, Lis prccrastinaticn
in calling upon her had seemed to Beatrix like
lack of ardor. Rossiter kad said that her Leart
would tell ker soon encugh whetker ker cousin
betrayed a lover’s impetucsity; and until Gil-
ruth came tke werds recuried to her, again
and again, with harassing suggestions. Then
she reproached herself jor the well-ccncealed
restlessness of which she had been guilty. What
right had she, who knew nothing cf the customs
of this land to which she bad ccme, ard wha
was unfamiliar with the details of her ccusin’s
life, and wholly unused to the ways of lovers,
to judge a man who kad scores of sccial and
business demands uyon his time of which she, a
woman—whose destiny it was to te idle and pa-
tient, to watch and wait—could possibly know
nothing! After all, his chief consideration had
been her comfcrt. And when he bed ‘“‘lastencd
from bis pressing business engegements to wel-
come her,” how kind and tencer bad keen his
manner. Could she have askcd for more lovir g
pages than spoke in his smile and shcne in

is witching eyes?

Pcor Beatrix! It hed not trovbled ker that
Griffis’s conversation Lad teen chicfiy ecdressed
to her mother, nor that he had shown no solici-
tude at keing compelled to say to his tetrotked
all that he had to say under espionage. That was
to her as it should be; and, unacquainted as ske
was, practically, with American usages in such
respects, she failed to discover, as one of his own
country women, thoroughly in love, would in-
stantly have done, that the clder ledy’s presence
bad heen a decided relief to Lim; and that the
conrteous, conventicnal werds he had spoken to
herself were very different {rcm the ordinary
impassional languege of a lover; even as she
had yet to learn that the smiles and glarces '
that had ckaimed scores of wcmen, were as
natural to Griffis as fregrance and beauty to
flowers, Lut were 10 ¢x) onents of the dcsires
and purposes that ~ at bis heart.

So, for that first right the ycung Leiress SL
peacefully and happily in Ler new kcme, undis-
turbed by the souncs upon tke thorcughfare, and
blessed with visicns of a smile tkat set ker
pulses throbbing, and marvelous brown eyes
that seemed aoe a story that thrilled every
— of heart-blood with intoxicating joy.

The next morning, while Beatrix sat looking
out on Eroadway, and listening to her urcle
and mother as they conversed of ccrtain foreign
affairs, which Mrs. Leutlold, being a Frerch-
woman, approved, while Mr. Tretethen, who
was very American in political cpinions, con-
demned, visitors were annvunced; a1d almest
breathless with surprise, and admiration, end a
sensation that was vague pain, the girl saw her
uncle bend gallantly above the hand of a woman
whose regal style and beauty she had never
seen cqualed, and from whom he turned to kiss
a bright young creature, lovely as some angel
vision, with her pinky cheeks, her eyes like
laughing sapphire sees, her hair yellow and
shining as threads of spun gold. And with
these two fair women, was Gili uth.

‘Mrs. St. Martyn, my sister, Mrs. Leuthold,
and my niece, Miss Lcuthold,” anrounced Mr.
Trefethen, leading the new-comers forward;
‘and Miss Trefetnen, my udopted daughter. It
is hardly necessary to introduce our cousin,
Griffis ”

“1 did not expect to see you £0 f00n,” re-
marked Beatrix, gently, as Griffis made his way
to her side. ‘* How happens it?”

““On my way down-town 1 stopped at Mrs.
St. Martyn’s, and found that she and Miss Syd-
ney were coming here, so rode down with
—_— - hope you are not disappointed ut see-
ng me

“Oh, no, indeed!” she exclaimed, earnestly;
paolo her eyes drooped and her color
   

i
i}
hl
}

 

18

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

 

Griffis was too much of an adept in women’s
ways not to understand Beatrix’s look, and too
used to feminine admiration to be surprised that
his cousin should like him. But the depth of
the interest she betrayed he was far from com-
prehending; for that she, having seen him but
once, and ols when a child, should be earnest-
ly in love with bim, was a possibility of which
he did not dream; perhaps, the less, because his
interest in her was so slight; and so his criticism
of this girl, who was a source of actncurontt
and anxiety to him, was anything but flatter-
ing—‘ shy, awkward and sentimental!”

“ That is kind of you to say,” he answered,
peamr tly, aloud—it was second nature for

riffis to be pleasant—‘‘ I thought I might be de
trop among so many ladies,”

“Tam sure you have uncle to keep you com-

“=

“True; bu+ he is so exclusively devoted to
Sydney that he doesn’t in the least lend me
countenance,” retorted Griffis, lightly.

“What is this gentleman saying? Not inti-
mating that he ever needed any one to ccun-
tenance him, surely?” cried Sydney, bantering-
ly, joining them, ‘ Miss Louthols , don’t let
your cousin beguile you into believing him any-
thing but a very self-sufficient personage.”

“T will not allow you to nee me to my
cousin,” Gilruth semarked, promptly.

“T am sure Miss Trefethen would not do
that,” said Beatrix, gently.

“Thank you,” laughed Sydney. ‘‘Of conrse
I would not. I bas wanted to warn you that
if you believe Mr. Gilrush’s representations of
himself you will think him greatly superior to
what he really is,” she explained, her. dancing
blue eyes alight with merry mockery.

“A mistake of which Miss Trefethen has never
been guilty,” added Gilruth, meaningly.

Beatrix was silent; she could neither under-
stand the girl’s light irony nor Griffis’s evident
irritation; but the latter annoyed ker. Why
did he care for Sydney’s remerks? Was he
anxious that she should think well of him?

St. Martyn came to the rescue, with a
question to Gilruth, who, soon after, made his
adieux,

“T suppose it is bardly fair to ask you how
you like New York yet, Miss Leuthold?’ Syd-
ney said, presently. ‘‘It is enough to make you
disgusted with it to be on this noisy street and
in this dismal house.”

“*Ts this a dismal house?” asked Beatrix, sur-

rise 1 at the girl’s audacity in criticising the

'refethen mansion.

“Tthiuk so, and I tell papa so! Such a hor-
rid yard as he has with his birds and hens run-
ning all about! But he has promised that 1 may
have my own way in the spring, and turn the
whole conservatory, or some one’s else, out of
doors. He has a nica conservatory, hasn’t he?
Will you come with me while I get a flower?”

The two girls went away, the old French-
man’s eyes watching them curiously as they
disappeared together—Sydney’s perfect figure
gaining by contrast with Beatrix’s solid propor-
tions, And yet the heiress had a stately grace
and dignity, and only needed t> bloom out of
her late girlhood, and continental training, into
womanhood and a more strict individuality, to
be a glorious woman,

“Tt seems as if I am scarcely acquainted with
you, yet,” Miss Trefethen said to Beatrix, when
summoned to leave; ‘‘ but I hope I shall see you
very often. I presume you will soon be at-
tending parties, and kettle-drums, and break-
fasts, and all the delightful places where ono is
constantly meeting one’s acquaintances?”

“ Thank you; yes, we shall be going out soon;
but you must come here, in the meantime.”

“Oh, I come twice a week to dinner, to say
ig of the chance times,” replied Sydney,

gutly.

“Of course. How stupid of me to think I
must invite you. I hope you will pardon me;
but Ihave scarcely had time to pet accustomed
to the fact that we are cousins.”

_ ‘Ido not wonder, It does seem rather pecu-
liar, doesn’t it? But it is very nice of you to
claim relationship—and I trust you will find it
in your heart to like me—just a little!”

“T do not think I could rg that, if I
would, Miss Trefethen,” said Beatrix, softly and
earnestly.

“Then prove it by dropping the miss. Good-
morning, Beatrix.”

e Good-morning. Sydney.”

“Thank you. Now, that sounds cousinly!”
and the joyous young beauty tripped lightly
down the steps, axiely Ppelting Mr. Trefe-
then’s withered cheek, and kissing his hand as
he helped her into the carriage.

Beatrix turned away with a sigh.

“How proud my uncle is of her!” she mur-
mured. ‘“ But it is not strange!” :

“Mrs. St. Saree Mr. Trefethen was say-
ing, “1 feel that 1 ought to give at least one
grand eutertainment in honor of my sister and

er daughter; but the idea of it is overwhelm-
ing, unless 1 candepend upon you and Sydney
for assistance, Decorations, supper, etc., of
course are easil: eae disposed of; but I need
soms one to help me do the honors and make
out my lists.” :

“Phat is

easily arranged, Sydney, of course,

..

 

will receive with you. I am sureshe will make
an admirable hostess, and I will send my ball-
list for you to consult.”

“Very well. Then perhaps we can decide.
within a day or so, about the invitations? i
oe like the affair at as early a date as possi-

e. ;

A carriage rolled up, back of Mrs. St. Mar-
tyn’s,and Gertrude Gilrath sprung out, and
hastened to speak with Elinor.

“Good-morning, Mrs. St. Martyn! Good-
morning, Miss Trefethen! We ra, ae at your
house on our way down, Mrs. St. Martyn,

Mamma wishes to know if you and Miss Trefe-
then will dine with us informally at six? Only
Mr. Trefethen and Mrs. and Miss Leuthold will
be present, and it need not interfere with any
of your arrangements for the evening.”

“*In that case, we shall be pleased to come.
You are going to Madge Jerrell’s wedding re-
ception, of course??

‘Yes; then weshallsee you. Good-by.”

“What do you think of Mrs. St. Martyn?”
Griffis whispered to Beatrix, as Elinor entered
the Gilruth parlors that evening.

* She is very beautiful.”

* Yes, as beautiful asany one in New York,
and we can boast many handsome women.”

“More beautiful than Sydney Trefethen?—
they are both blondes.”

<a but very different,” said Gilruth, de-
cidedly.

“Do you think so? It seems to me there is
something strangely alike about them. I told
uncle Octavien so, and he laughed at the idea;
but mamma agrees with me. Mrs. St. Martyn’s
hair must have been golden once. Not that I
am positive Sydney’s will ever darken, but
there is surely a resemblance, aside from the
fact that they are not.very different in com-
plexion and form—a sort of likeness in expres-
sionand manner. One might easily take them
for sisters,”

Gilruth laughed. Mrs. St. Martyn was com-
ing toward them.

‘‘Elinor, here is Beatrix insisting that you
and Miss Trefethen ara enough alike to be sis-
ters,” be announced, much to his cousin’s dis-
comfiture,

For a minute the lady regarded Griffis with
startled face; then she cried, gayly;

[ve always thought Sydney bore a resem-
blance to some one I knew, and the vague like-
ness perplexed me; but I never guessed that it
was tomyself. Iam glad that Miss Leuthold
has settled the difficulty, and in a manner so
com plimentery: to me.”

“How absurd!”

“* Who, please?” dryly.

“Both you and my cousin,” laughing.

“Very well; so long as you absolve yourself
we can survive the accusation, can we not, Miss
Leuthold?” smiling at Beatrix, as she turned
away to speak to Judge Gilruth.

“Have you known Mrs, St. Martyn long?”
asked Beatrix, thoughtfully, as the elegant lady
promenaded slowly down the parlor upon the
judge’s arm.

‘‘ Ever since shecame out in New York so-
ciety, though 1 was a lad then,” replied Griffis,
carelessly. ‘‘ By the way, as I came up-town, i
stopped at the club and met a gentleman who
claims acquaintance with you—Mr. Rossiter.
He is a fine-looking fellow, Beatrix. I suppose
you did not neglect the opportunity ten days
on stipboard afforded you of breaking his
heart?’ ,

“ Cousin Griffis!” cried Miss Leuthold, draw-
ing herself up proudiy, ‘‘ you insult me when
you gaaaten my loyalty to my betrothal
vows ‘

“My. dear child,” Gilruth said, in consterna-
stion, ‘I do not question your loyalty. But I
certainly do not expect you to devote your
thoughts and companionship exclusively to me.
Marriage scarcely calls for such unselfishness,
much less an engagement.”

“Ts an engagement, then, so much lesssolemn
than a marriage?” asked Beatrix, shyly.

‘Well, in this country it is eoneredia. consid-
ered easier to set the one aside than the other,”
answered her cousin, ‘‘ But our customs can

scarcely be of interest to you. Shall I bring

Mr. Rossiter to call?’
“Certainly, if mamma consents.”

>
ed

CHAPTER XX.
REVELATIONS.
Oh! that a dream so sweet, so long enjoyed,
Should be so sadly, cruelly destroyed.

—Moorr.
Beatrix felt that her meetings with Griffis,
that day, had been anything but satisfactory;
and she wae eee to get home, and, upon the
plea of a headache, escape to solitude and her
own room, But at the head of the stairway,
remembering that she had left her gloves in the
parlor, she turned back, reaching the doorway
of the salon in time to hear her mother re-

mark:
‘Mrs, St. Martyn is so fascinating a woman
it is strange that she has never 8 @ secon

marriage.
“That does not seem se strange te me,” au-

 

ey

swered Mr. Trefethen, ‘‘as that after the score
of dazzling offers she has had she should think
of marrying young Gilruth.”

“Of marrying young Gilruth! You do not
mean Griffis Gilruth?” Mrs, Leuthold cried, in
extreme astonishment.

Beatrix leaned back among the shadows of
the hall, anxious to conceal her presence, and
powerless to move, while her uncle replied, re-
morselessly ;

“Griffis, of course! Whom else should I
mean?’ He has been devoted to her ever since
her return from abroad; and an excellent match
it will be for bim!”

“Octavien, is it possible you are not aware
—_ ae Gilruth is Beatrix’s betrothed hus-

ani

“Ciel! How should I be aware of it? Since’
when, pray?”

“Since he was six, and she a few months old.
His father and I arranged the matter, and
Griffis, himself, ratified it, when he was twenty-

e.

‘So the judge had an eye upcn Beatrix’s es-
tates?” suggested Mr. Trefethen, dryly.

“* It was as much my wish as bis that the little
ou should be betrothed,” replied his sister, with

ignity.

R Ana how happens it that I never heard of
this baby-agreement?” sarcastically.

‘IT was under the impression that I wrote you
about it. But you have always held yourself so
aloof from friends and family, that it is not sur-
es you have been kept in ignorance,” said

rs. Leuthold, quietly.

Mr. Trefethen took no notice of her pointed
allusion to the peculiarly recluse life he had led,
but demanded:

“Has Griffis acknowledged his betrothal to
Beatrix since her arrival?”

“ Yes.” ‘

‘“‘Then he will keep it—the Gilruths pride
themselves upon their unswerving honor!—and
I hope Beatrix will be happy. But I do not like
these marriages of interest, where the husband’s
hand may be given to one woman and his heart
to another, and the wife be exposed to the
temptation of loving any man who makes him-
self more agreeable than her indifferent spouse.
American customs in regard to marriage are far
better. Young people should seek each other
from choice, and marry fcr love; not because
a parents decreed it while they were yet in-

ants.

““Nonsense!” said Mrs. Leuthold, warmly.
“Parents are more competent to pick out fit-
ting partners for their children than the cbil-
dren are to make proper selections for them-
selves; ially in the case of girls.”

“T do not believe it, madam. riage should
be based upon the direct inclinations of the twe
most concerned—the two who must spend a life-
time of happinessor misery together, Parents
cannot control their children’s hearts.”

‘IT never had reason to complain of my mar-
riage,” retorted Mrs. Leuthold, convincingly,
“and I was bethrothed to my husband in child-
hood and did not see him until a few days pre-
vious to the wedding.”

“ And then did you love him?’ asked her
brother, sarcastically.

“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Leuthold, placid-
ly. ‘Young women should know nothing of
love until they marry.”

“Bah!” cried . Trefethen, irritatedly.
“And you, an intelligent woman, can believe
that then they will love to order?”

“A ae girl will love the bus-
band chosen for her we her parents, certainly.”

‘‘ Human nature is human nature, no matter
who is the girl!” said her brother, almost fierce-
ys ‘‘and if there is no love in her heart, a few

ormal words pronounced by a clergyman over
her and the man picked out for her will not
awaken any! And how about the husband’s?
Even if your well-brought-up girl falls in love
with her cousin’s handsome eyes and cherming
smiles, are you contented that she should be the
only one to lose her heart?”

“T have no doubt that Griffis will make
Beatrix an excellent husband,” replied Mrs.
Leuthold, calmly. i

¢t - —— a aa — esi

ated, ironically. ‘* Well, well, Iho e
ray be contented with that!” °

A fierce pain tore at Beatrix’s heart as she
stole up the stairs again, and locked herself
into her own room; a pain that never wholly
left it in many a weary day.

Out of a bitter contem pe for Continental] mar-
riage customs, born of his own miserable ex-
perience, her uncle had powers opened
out to the girl a field of new an startling
thought. hat she had but vaguely felt, be-
fore, she comprehended fully, now. “And a de-
fined consciousness of her heart’s needs end her
womanhood’s rights, helped her to en,
dissect every look and word of her cousin Gil-
ruth, during the flying days that hurried the
winter toward spring. -

The morning after_her revelation of her
daughter’s betrothal, Mrs. Leutbold was con-
siderably indisposed. And as her illness rapid-
ly developed into a severe attack of pneumonia

r. Trefethen’s ball was postponed until after

Leat, which grave season was {end

 
( DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

19

 

z

Beatrix’s formal introduction into society was
delayed until then.

And, now, freed from all espionage, the girl
set herself the task cf analyzing her cousin’s
heart, and conquering, if need be, her vehement
passion for him; an ordeal from the exquisite
pa of which most young women of Beatrix

uthold’s age and training would have shrunk
powerless. Sometimes it seemed that Griffis
must care for her, he was so faultlessly atten-
tive. He called, or sent some token of remem-
brance in the shape of fruit and flowers, daily.
And when he came alone the girl’s ardent heart
would thrill madly at the smiling of his eyes;
the caressing musicalness of his tones made her
tremble, and his tender, sympathetic words
swept her soul with a mighty desire to throw
herself upon his breast and entreat him to love
and cherish her; but he did not often come
alone. Mrs. St. Martyn and Sydney Trefethen
accompanied him, or he came with Gertrude to
take Beatrix for a drive, or escorted his mother
of a morning. And slowly, but surely, not
Beatrix’s intuitive jealousy alone, but the cold
decree of Reason, whose aid she had inexorably
invoked, taught her that Griffis’s heart held a
warmer place ior another woman than it would
ever hold for her. And thenshe would pas-
sionately reproach herself, that she had surren-
dered to him, unsought, all her wealth of love!
And then—oh! with what terrible temptation
would come to ber the thought that, since she
held his troth, his troth that he had voluntarily
pledged, why should she not be his wife—the
wife of the man she worshiped, and keep him
from that other woman—her beautiful rival?
Followed by fierce hatred of herself that she
could dream of claiming a place within arms
that thrilled not to hold her—upon a breast
warmed by no emotion for ber!

And so the girl fought her battle with hope,
and suspense, and despuir, her eyes apie e
keg shadows, and pallid face and wasted
orm evidencing how bitterly she suffered.
And no one suspected the truth.

‘Beatrix, upon my word you are getting
thinner, and have lost nearly all of your color!”
Gilruth exclaimed, lightly, one morning, when
he came into the parlor and found his cousin
entertaining Mr, Rossiter, who had been intro-
duced into igh society, and called occasionally
at Mr. Trefethen’s.. “ Ycu have been confining
yourself too closely with your mother—or, are
you getting homesick?”

“ Attribute it to homesickness, if you please,”
answered Beatrix, wearily. ‘1 should lie to
be at home.”

As she spoke she met Rossiter’s eyes, and
there was no mistaking the half-questioning,
half-pitiful look in them. She knew of what he
was thinking, and a tide of scarlet surged into
her pale face. Griffis saw both the glance and
the blush.

“So, my lady,” he said, sarcastically, to him-
self, when after inquiries for Mrs. Leuthold and
a few minutes of polite conversation with Bea-
trix and her guest, he had taken his departure,
‘there is an understanding between you and
Rossiter, despite the indignation you affected
when I hinted at your flirting with him! I soe
that you are very much like other young wo-

en.

Beatrix felt that she had been misunderstood,
and was more shy and ungracious than she was
already grown. She even diew back with ris-
ing hauteur from Rossiter when he said, kindly,

at parting: s ;

“T think with your cousin, Miss Leuthold,

that you areconfining yourse'f too closely with-

doors. I am sorry to know that you are
homesick—less happy in this land than you had
hoped to be, and am exceedingly sorry to find
you so changed.”

“T fear that your im 1
you,” she answered, cold ve Then, added witn
pr frankness, “It is si y to pretend I do not

ow of what you are thinking. I betrayeda
secret to you when we last conversed upon the
steamer—I wore my heart upon my sleeve. I
was a child then, I have grown a woman, in-
these few weeks past, and suffer, as I supposo
most women do, There! Do not let us refer to
the matter again!” .

“Certainly not, unless I
your friend—can help you.”

“You apd Se Impossible! Noonecan help
me!” Beatrix said, hopelessly. *

“T am not sure that it is impossible, Miss
Leuthold,” her guest answered, with a certain
strange meaning expressed in his look and tone.

“What! Can you change indifference into
affection?’ demanded Beatrix, with an outburst
of bitter pain.

“No; but I may prevent your cousin from
marrying your rival!”

“ Ah! But of what good would that be, since
he does not love me? I have been his betrothed
from childhood, but think you I would marry

unless his heart as well as his hand was

“ And mas not this heart turn to you, if he
learns that his present preference is hopeless?”
‘How can it be hopeless when I have given
him back his betrothal vow? What can come
between them?” :
“Team Tae wenan ksewn aa Bilucr Bi,

ation is misleading

can in any way be

' within a

>

 

Martyn is my wife! She will never marry
Griffis Gilruth!”

Beatrix’s great hazel eyes shone with amaze-
ment, and her pale lips trembled. Then she
said, breathlessly:

“But it is not Elinor St. Mart
It is my adopted cousin, Sydney

CHAPTER XXI.
THE MARKED DOOR-STEP.
The inventive god, who never fails his part,
Inspires the wit when once he warms the heart.
—DRyYDEN,

Tue weeks that for her more fashionable sis-
terhood had hardly been sufficiently long to
hold all the pleasures crowded into them, had
eS tedious and weary enough to Dora

ane.

She was a girl of many strong passions, vain,
romantic, ambitious, revengeful; but, certainly,
whatever of love was in her nature sne had be-
stowed upon her mother’s handsome boarder—
fascinating, mysterious Casey Canton. And
while he was away from her, she knew not
where, and she had only promises and memo-
ries to live upon, she was assailed with doubts
and grew sick with suspense. Sometimes she
wondered if it could be possible that he meant
never to come back; and then her cheeks would
flame, and her dark eyes glitter, with a direful
anger that her self-possessed lover would scarce-
ly have cared to have aroused, could he have
guessed the danger it portended. But her pas-
sion slumbered again, when, after anxious
weeks of watching, the red mark for which
Casey had bade her watch, appeared upon the
door-step. é

Every Saturday morning since his departurs,
Dora had hastened from her room at an un-
usually early hour, to look for the promised
sign. At first, with nervous dread; for minute
inquiries had been made at the boarding-house,
by Mrs. St. Martyn’s agents, concerning a per-
son whom Mrs. Lane had innocently identified
as Mr. Canton, and the girl’s every thought was
concentrated upon her lover’s safety; but as
time passed and she heard nothing from the
fugitive, Dora grew angrily impatient. At
last, however, her resentment was calmed, and
her growing suspicions allayed, by the discovery
of the carelessly-drawn mark upon the low-
er step. Casey was in town!

Miss Lane’s first impulse, as she stood looking
down upon the rough line, was to obliterate it.
But some of the boarders were already up,
and upon second thought she concluded that for
her to be seen washing off that one step, or even
scrubbing down the stoop, would be to invite
more attention to herself and the sign than to
leave it untouched, asif it were the work of
some mischievous boy. The next day being
Sunday, when the stoop was always scrubbed
and the boarders all slept late, the marks could
be gotten rid of without attracting observation,
While she thus deliberated, aman came out of
the house and stood beside her. ‘

“‘Good-morning, Miss Lane! Are 7 trying
to find an cccult meaning in this chalk mark?”

‘¢Oh, no!” answered Dora, hastily, with af-
fected carelessness, age her bold dark eyes
to Mr. Slidell’s face. ‘‘ 1 was_thinking how
horrid it makes the steps look. I wish the boys
would let them alone.”

“She does not often natr about how the
steps look, I notice,” Mr. Slideli cbserved, as he
sauntered down the block for a morning paper.
“T suspect [ struck a key-note when | asked if
she was seeking for a meaning in that red mark.
At all events, it is a chance clew tu follow. I
don’t intend to shut myself up hero much longer
for all Mrs. St. Martyn’s monev, unless some-
thing turns up and mighty soon.” .

And while the detective was coming to this
conclusion, Dora Lane watching him, mut-

tered:

**] don’t like that man, and I don’t believe he
is square. But it won't do to hint anything to
mother, for she will say we have nothing to
fear; and one man’s money is as good as an-
other’s. It lies between him and me, then; and
we'll see if he can make anvthing out of me!”
and the girl’s lips curled, defiantly, as she went
back to her room for another nap, from which
she did not awaken until long after Mr. Slidell
had settled himself at the parlor window with
his morning paper, to keep an eye upon Miss
Dora’s movements.

But her actions were above suspicion. She
did not leave the house that day, and by mid-
night the last of the boarders had come in and
darkness and quiet reigned supreme in Mrs.
Lane’s domicile. And yet, with imperceptible
movement, some person was descending the
stairs, and crossing the hall to the parlor.
Noiselessly opening and closing the door, the’
stealthy intruder, lifting a shade, took up a

he loves!
efethen!”

 

station at the window. One, two, nearly three
hours passed, and then the watcher drew a
ick breath and stole out of the room. Imme-

iately a man arose from a sofa in the dark
corner of the parlor and peered through the
window. Some one had gone down the stoop
and was rubbing at. aspot upon the lower step.
Shortly the outer door was locked, again, and
few minutes of each osher Mr. Slidell
idise Lane stele softly to their respective

Gi 4

™,

t

 

core The detective had struck a clew at

But though, throughout the day, Sunday,
he was particularly watchful of Dora’s move-
ments, the girl betrayed no secret.

“She is waiting for a third signal,” he said
to himself. And that night two persons watched
again in Mrs. Lane’s parlor. But an unfor-
tunate accident revealed to Dora the detective’s
espionage. An almost imperceptible move-
ment, as he lay upon the sofa, caused a cigar to
drop from his vest pocket to the floor. It was
a slight sound, and at first the girl at the win-
dow only started nervously. Thenshe suddenly
sprung across the room, drew a match under
the mantle, and by its blaze beheld Mr. Slidell
stretching sleepily.

‘“Why, Miss Lane, how you startled me!” he
cried, sitting up and drawing his hand across
his blinking eyes. ‘I believe I fell asleep down
here. It is not very late, is it?”

‘Yes, rather late for people to be sleeping in
the parlor,” answered Dora, scornfully, only her
pale cheeks betraying her alarm.

“That is so—two o’clock—” looking at his
watch as Miss Lane lighted the gas, ‘Is any
one sick? Is anything the matter? Can I be of
any service to you?”

“No, thank you. I came down to get a book,
toread. I left it here I believe.”

“Have you found it? Very well, I will turn
out the gas for you,” he said, coolly.

Dora returned to her room in despair. She

ut no faith in the detective’s well-acted lie.

jhe knew that she was watched, and that this
man was a spy employed to trace Casey Can-
ton’s whereabouts, But, while she dreaded
betraying her lover, she grew more and more
determined to meet him; and so seu her woman’s
wit to work, to discover some manner of elud-
ing. the detective’s vigilance.
he next day she gave not the slightest ap-
pearance of having been ruffled by the occur-
rence of the night. Ske went in and out, with-
cut even slencing at the figure six upon the
step, and did mai keting and shopping with per-
fect composure. She even ouee tolaugh and
chat with Mr. Slidell, when he came into the
pas just before the ringing of the dinner-
ell, and found her arrayed in a jaunty wrap-
per, her slippered feet resting upon an ottoman,
and her lap full of worsteds. They went down
to dinner together, Mies Dera still smiling and
pleasant. But her mother’s first remark brought
a frown to her hands: me fece.

“Dora, Ann has gone to bed sick; won’t you
pour the tea and ccffee?”

Miss Lane flounced to the side-table in any-
thing but an agreeable humor, and complaining
that nothing was ready, passed into the kitchen
for hot water.

‘Dora, do hurry!” cried her mother, pres-
ently. But the young lady made no respcnse,
and her sister entering the room, Mrs. Lane
commanded, pettishly, ‘Ellen, bring me some
hot water from tke kitchen.’ I suppose Dora
has got one of ber tantrums.”

As most of the toardeis were familiar with
Miss Dora’s “‘ tantrums” when asked to do any-
thing that she disliked, no surprise was exhibit-
ed at her eee. But it suddenly oc-
curred to the detective that the girl might seize
this opportunity to i to the keeping of
some appointment, and be hurriedly left the
table to await ber exit. He did not dreem that
the bad gone out of the besement door, into the
cold windy night, in wrapper and slippers; and
at that moment, while Leing driven rapidly up-
town in a hack, was exchanging slij pers for
boots, and hiding her pinned-up wra pes under
a dress skirt. But, Dcra had escaped bim.

Leaving the hack at the corner of Sixtieth
street and Second avenue, she paid the driver,
walked back to Fift, -ninth street, took a car to
Eighth avenue, and an Eighth avenue car to
One Hundred ard Third street, where, by a lit-
tle pene of steps over the boungary-wall, she
made her wey rapidly into the park, It seem-
ed to her that she bad been hours getting there,
though she had really come in excellent time.
But tear that she was being followed, and anxi-
ety lest Casey shculd not have waited for her,
caused each minute to any weariscmely as she
sped along the path that led to the fort, half-
fearing that she was going wrong, yet not dar-
me: turn back.

ut at last the dark pile locmed before her.
She crept breathlessly alcng, and stepping cau-
tiously into the dreery, vault-like apartment,
whispered her lover’s name, her heart almost
ceasing to beat as she listened for the answer.
There was only a weird silence, broken by the
sighing of the kare-limbed trees among the
— without and the rusiling of afew dead
leaves,

Oh! if Casey had come and gone! Hark!
There wasa step overhead! Could it be his?
Suppose it was not! What a frightfully lonely
place it was! The girl tried to move—to whis-
= to herself; but she was powerless, speech-
ess, until a tall form came near her, dimly re-
vealed by tht starry light from without, and a
voice d, softly:

“Dora.”

Then, with a stifled ery,

she sprung inte
man’s arms, *

\
 

 

 

 

 

 

20

/

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

 

 

CHAPTER XXII.
NOBLESSE OBLIGE,

Lose not the honor you bave early won,
But stand the blameless pattern of a son.
—DRYDEN.

Two weeks had passed since that strange in-
terview and interchange of confidence between
Myron Rossiter and Beatrix Leuthold; but each
thought often of the other’s words.

To Beatrix, understanding keenly as she did

"the bitterness of hopeless love, Myron Rossiter’s

romance was a ee sad one. In his youth,
and the first flush of her girlhood and beauty,
he and Elinor St. Martyn had been lovers; and,
later, husband and wife. There had been a
short period of happiness, then misunderstand-
ing, trouble and separation. But though years
had come-and gone since their brief idyl, weav-
ing other stories and experiences into each life,
the man, uvable to conquer his first and only
passion—ever the sport of this curse or blessing
—had resolved to woo and win again, it possi-
ble, the woman of his love.

And if he should fail? Ah! how Beatrix’s
soul trembled with pity for him, as she recalled
the kindling color and shining eyes with which
he had betrayed his ardent dreams. Mrs. St.
Martyn seemed’so proud and cold. Would she
ever respond to this man’s undying love?. Even
it he confessed to her the identity she had not
yet recognized, would her heart go out again, as
in the old days, to the man who had been her
boy-husband?

hese questions were often in Beatrix’s mind
during the last days of Lent, when Mrs, St. Mar-
tyn came frequently to the Trefethcn mansion
to consult with its owner concerning the grand
ball that was to take place during Easter week.
She knew that Elinor and Rossiter had met but
casually, as yet; but upon that occasion the
gentleman would have an opportunity to seek

the society of the woman he adored, and, per-’

—_ to presage his fate.

n the meantime, Rossiter was making himself
quietly bat thoroughly familiar with every fact
and rumor concerning the personages among
whom he was soon to move, and the society in
which he was to plav a strange part; and he could
not credit Miss Leuthold’s assertion that her cou-
sin, Griffis Gilruth, loved Sydney Trefethen. Ha
attributed Beatrix’s belief to girlish jealousy of

' Sydney’s good fortune, popularity, and exceed-

ing beauty, and ignorance of general opinions
iu regard to Gilruth’s attentious to the elegant
widow.

And, certainly, upon Easter morning, Griffis,
himself, would ave smiled with superb scorn
upon any one who should have told him that
Sydney Trefethen was the woman who held
royal rule over his capricious heart; though he
stood looking out, between costly laces, at the
sunshiny weather and a few downy white clouds
floating against the blue sky, and thinking of
her. It was the sky that brought her to his
thoughts—the sky, blue as the wood violets she
had worn et her belt, the day before, when he
had met her and Lucien Gillette coming from ‘a
long gallop into the country.

ow magnificently she rode—as if born to the
saddle—and how splendidly she hed looked ‘in
her dark, closely fitting habit, that’ revealed
every lovely curve of her perfect figure, with
her marvelous braids of golden hair fallin
below her waist, and the jetty velvet cap, wit!
its proud ‘heron’s plume, boyishly surmounting
the bright, queenly bead!

“‘Oh! Guardy and I have kad such a grand
ride!” sho cried, enthusiastically, in answer to
Griflis’s greeting. ‘‘ Away out along the coun-
a reads; and found such clusters of these!”
taking the flowers from her waist. ‘+ Aren’t
they bewitcl.ing—so fresh and wcody? I won-
der if God ever made a flower more lovely than
these little blue things, with their golden hearts
and faint, sweet periume?”

‘*Happy flowers,” lauched Griffis. ‘Could
you find it in your heart to spare a few?”

‘You care for some? They mean ‘ Love,’ you
know, and it seems absur
fickle, faithless hands! What value can they
have for oneincapable of appreciating the senti-
ment or feeling the passion? But, here they
are!’ holding them out to him; and laughing
sherode‘away _

The mid-April Easter sky—bluo as the few
tiny flowerets that still shed their perfume in
Gilruth’s dressing-room—recalled to him Syd-
ney’s merry mockery. Merry—yet with aring-
ing undertone of earnestuess that grated upon
him harshly. Indeed, between Miss Trefethen
and himself there existed a strange antagonism.
She had never treated her chaperonce’s suitor as
most women were wont to do—with flattering
aoe and admiration, but with a good-

umored but palpable indifference, and a deli-
cate contempt underlying all her frequent laugh-
ing sarcasms, that both irritated and fascinated
him. And yet he made no effort to conquer
this subtle dislike, however sorely the giri’s light
shafts of irony stung him. He despised himself
as thoroughly as Sydney could despise him, who
knew nothing ot his disloyalty to his name, his
violation of honor, his wretched lack of manli-
ness; and never more intensely than when, in
sume moment of debuiniwire gallaniry, ke ou

i

to give them into)

 

ae her frank blue eyes earnestly watching

Why was it, he questioned of himself, as he
idly stared atthe dainty spring clouds, that this
waif, this charity child upon whom he had
never wasted a thought to please, should have
the power to make him feel herscorn, and force
him to unpleasant consciousness of his weak-
ness?

His mother’s voice recalled him from his dis-
agreeable self-communings.

“ Griffis, I have ordered the carriage a trifle
earlier this morning, that you may drive down
for Beatrix, to go to church with us.”

“ Unfortunately, mamma, Beatrix prefers to
stay at home. 1 saw her last night, and she
bade me give you her love, and say that she
will not dine with us to-day.”

**- You should have insisted upon her coming.
She stays in altogether too much, or e!se she is
homesick. Have you not noticed how pale and
thin she is getting?”

‘* Perhaps it is love-sickness,” suggested Ger-
trude, flippantly. ‘

** Youug ladies whoare happily engaged, my
dear, are not supposed to be love-sick with such
effects,” said her mother, complacently. ‘‘ Bea-
trix has nothing to render her unhappy.”

‘How do you know, mamma?” persisted Ger-
trude. ‘‘Sbe may be jealous of Griffis’s atten-
tions to Mrs. St. Martyn.”

“ Nonsense, Gertrude! Beatrix would not be
worthy her lover if she coukl doubt bis honor!”
re plied Mrs. Gilruth, calmly, as she poured a
cup of chocolate for the judge.

For weeks past, however like his former proud,
brilliant, nonchalant self he bad seemed to
others, Grifiis had been wretchedly ill at ease:
but never had he felt such utter lack of self-re-
spect as at this moment when he sat sileut, and
shamefully listening to his mother’s words of
unsuspecting faith and pride in him.

As the family arose trom breakfast, Griffis
left the room at his father’s side.

“T shall not attend service this morning, sir
and if the ladies will consent to go alone, i
should like to talk with you upon an important
matter.”

“ What is it, Grif? Not any trouble, I hope?”
the judge said, genially, laying his hand affec-
tionately upon his son's shculder.

Griffis shrunk from the touch as if it had hurt
him. All his life this petted, spoiled society-
favorite had cherished one pure, unselfish, fer-
vent passion, and that for the man who, until
the sudden development of his infatuation for
Elinor St. Martyn, bad ever been his confidant
and friend. Never two chums loved each other.
more devotedly and affectionately than this
father and son; and it was the bitterest part of
the penalty Griffis felt that he must pay for his
weakness, that he knew heshould cruelly wound
his father’s rigid sense of honor, and ancestral

ride.

“ This trouble, sir,” said the young man, con-
trolling himself, and following his father into
the library, ‘ this trouble, sir,” closing the door
and flinging himself tipon a Jounge opposite the
judge’s great Sleepy-Hollow chair; “I cannot
marry my cousin, Beatrix.”

‘Not marry Beatrix?’ cried the elder man,
in indignant astonishment. ‘You must! You
have no choice.” ‘

ef But I cught to have a choice,
her.”

‘Did you love her ony more when you ratified
the betrothal I made for you in childhood?” de-
manded the judge, sententiously.

“ Certainly not. But I imagined, that when
the time for marriage came, I should be ready

I do not love

to make her my wite, regardless of any dictates |

of the heart. The time hascome. Beatrix has
every reascn to expect me to speak of marriage.
But I-cannot.”
, “You cannot! You talk of love! Are you
in love with some other weman?”

“Tam engaged to Mrs. St. Martyn,” answered
Griffis, clearly. i i

His father almost sprung from his chair; then
sunk back, his face growing pale and stern.

‘While you are the promised husband of
Beatrix Leuthold! And you a Gilruth!” he
said, with intense contempt, and an agony of

shame and disappointment that made his proud:

lips quiver. .

“Father!” exclaimed the younger man, pas-
sionately, arising and pacing the floor, ‘for
your sake, as well as my own, I wou'd give half
the years of my life to recall that moment of in-
fatuation when I asked E}inor to accept me as
her lover! Do you think I am insensible to the
disgrace of having teen the first of the Gilruth
men faise to the code of honor? 1 should have
waited to ask Beatrix to release we; but I do
not see that any course is left, now, other than
to confess to her tLe truth, at this late date, and
request her to consider our aap oe ended.”

“And you would settle the matter thus?”
with an intonation of ineffable chagrin.

“ How else? I do not care for my cousin, and
never shall; and I do for Elinor.”

‘If this were a matter of the heart, only,” the
judge commenced, with forced calmness and
deliberation, ‘‘ Beatrix, and not Mrs. St. Mar-
tyvn, should reeeive the most consideration,

Al bar lite your eousim bas locked upon you v6

~

 

—

her future husband; and; now, you propose not
only to offer her the insult of flinging back to
her a troth that I scught in your behalf, and
you, yourself, have asked, but the indigwity of
scorning her affection. Elinor St. Martyn may
like you, but does she love you? Do ber cheeks
flush and pale at your coming, ber eyes grow
more tender, her hand tremble at your teuck?
Rumor says that Mrs. St. Martyn’s girlhood
keld a romance, Perhaps she loved then. Cer-
tainly she eared not a turn of her hand for old
St. Martyn, and I doubt if she has for any man
since. But this is not a matter of the heart
alone. Pre-eminently it is an affair of honor;
and honor—the Gilrutb honor, Griffis—demands
that you be true to your pledged word—the
vows that bind you to Beatrix Leuthold.”

Griffis still walked the room; but his bot, im-
petuous determination to settle the matter in
accordance with his desires was calmed. The
judge’s deliberate tones and dispassionate words
had suggested thoughts that would not be light-
ly put. aside; and his father’s proud, anxicus face
influenced him beyond any storm of passion.

It was true, Griffis mecitated, that his first
allegiance was due to Beatrix. He, a man, had
made his choice. Like a man should be not
abide by it?, And suppose the girl did love him?
—was he not the more in honor bound to make
her bis wife?) And Elinor? He could not’ bear
to give her up—she was so beautitul, so regal!
And yet—the judge had put in plain words
what Griffis haa often eee vaguely—did
she love him? Ah, well, she would not grow
thin nor pale for his sake—thin nor pale—like
his cousin! Had Gertrude struck the l:ey-note
when she said that Beatrix might be love-sick?

He suddenly ceased hispromenade, and looked
down into his father’s face.

“N blesse cblige,” the elder man said; simply.

“Yes, [knew. And if Beatrix loves me }
shall marry her.”

CHAPTER XXIII.
EASTER’ DAY.
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.—TENNYSON.

*Do you like Griffis Gilruth, little girl?” the
artist asked, when Sydney had tucked the re-
mainder of her violets back in her belt, and
they rode slowly down the avenue.

“Do you?” retorted 8) dney, looking swiftly
up at him with a gay leugh. ‘

‘* Perhaps I have less reason to than you,” he
replied, smiling back at her.

‘Why? What reason have I to Jike him?”
Ss stioned Miss Trefethen, with a little disaain-
ul gesture.

‘* He is brilliant, fascinating, handsome—”

“And self-sufficient and cepiicicus,” inter-
rupted the girl, with curling lip.

**Aren’t vou a trifle hypocritical]? I thought
he was a favorite with most women.”

“So he is. And he knowsit. Bah! I dislike
men who expcct to ke admired end loved, aud
have no love to give in return!”

“You think him insincere, then?”

“No, not exactly that; but he is too selfish to
be capatle cf any great passion. He may like
women for a score ot reesors, Lut ke will never
love one, and find life quite worthlss without
her,” said Sydney, reining up her Lorse before
Mrs. St. Martyn’s mansion. ‘‘ You are ccming
in, Guardy?’

‘‘No, not this evening,” helping her to dis-
mount. ‘I believe I have promised to dine
with you to-morrow.”

“Indeed you bave! Do not dare to ferget
it!” she ciied, esa groom came to take her horse
aid Lucien led ter to the sters,

“I am not likely to,” be answered, with a
deeper meaning tl an the girl could guess,

“Adorned with violets!” exclaimed Mrs. St.
Martyn, brightly, Easter morning, as she en-
tered the parlor where Syéney stood by an open
window—knots of the blve flowers fastened at
her throat and waist. ‘‘ By the way,” she add-
ed, coming to Miss Trefethen’s side, *‘* Griffis
wore some, last evening, at the theater. He
said i gave them to him.”

es he kept them, did he? And exhibited
them as a trophy of my devotion?” with a little
flash of ccntempt.

‘“No; be said he asked for them.”

“That washonestofhim,” with a brightening

ace.

Elinor Jeughed, ;

“You believe it would beso very dreadful to
offer a gentleman a knot of fiowers to wear?”

“One who wculd imnediately arrogate to
himself the having added a twentieth or thir-
tieth heart to his list cf corquests!” responded
Sydney, spiritedly. 3

Mrs. St. Martyn regarded ber pretcgee in
amazement. Was it possible tlat 1Lis girl, in
all earnestness, presumed to discain a man
whom most wcmen were orly too ready to
caress and flatter? Such eudecity startled her.

“Forgive me, dear Mrs. St. Martyn!” Sydrey.
said, turning to her penitently, befcre the lady
could utter a word. “I hcpe I bave not Gis-
pleased you! I should not have spoken my
mind s0 plainly.”

“Do not let that worry you,” seid Elinor,
calmly. ‘‘I should very much like an ou
weuld tell me exactly what you think ef n
DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

21

 

 

Shall) 1?? the girl’s blue eyes flashed, and
taking her chaperone’s hands impetuously and
earessingly in hers she exclaimed, earnestly,
“That be is not halt worthy of you!—Not half!
People say that you will marry bim; I do not
know; I have never been quite sure how much
you care for him. » Bué [ do know how much he
cares for re Exactly as much as your sta-
tion, wealth, breeding, and beauty, answer to
the requisites of his selfishness; your difference
from other women fascinates him by its novelty,
and the winning of a prize coveted by so many
will add to his eclat/' PerhapsI cannot make

ou understand what I feel—but it is as if

e cares for you with mind and senses only.
There is no heart—no intense worshipful pas-
sion about it.”

Mrs. St. Martyn put ber armsabout the flush-
ed, serious speaker and silently drew the bright
head against her shoulder. The girl’s earnest
words had moved her strangely. There was a
look of unrest and longing upon her beautiful
face, a wistful curve to her faultless lips, and in
her eyes a far-away glance as if she were re-
living some past hour. She came back to the
present with a little shiver.

‘Who taught you to analyz love, girlie?”
she asked suddenly.

“T don’t know,” softly. ‘‘ Butif I were loved,
I should want it to be with the deepest, purest
devotion of a man’s soul, and a devotion that
was deathless.”

“Sydney, do you think any man is capable
of loving like that?”

“Yes!” breathed the girl, solemnly.

Mrs. St. Martyn’s face whitened. But she had
eontrolle 1 the passing emotion, when, a moment
later, Mrs. Allison joined them.

“Some other time we will complete our dis-
cussion,” she said, smiling at Sydney es they
passed out to breakfast.

But all the day Miss Trefethen’s impetuous
words were in Elinor’s mind: during tho Laster
morning service when she missed Griffis’s hand-
some presence from the Gilruth pew; and oven
later, when Lucien Gillette joined her and Syd-
ney at the church door and drove home with-
them to dine.

To dine; and dinner lasted long; and the
hours that followed wore toward evening so
joyously and quietly, and so rapidly, as all

ours crowned with blissful con‘ent and sweet,
inexplicable happiness are wont to do, that tea
was announced before the artist arose to take
his leave.

“Oh, you must stay, now, Guardy!” urged
Sydney; ‘‘und this cvering we will have some
rausic.”

Ilis glance sought Elinor’s.

“T wish you would,” she said, gently.

“T will,” he answered, simply; and as he re-
sumed his seat by Sydney, there came a a
ness to his graves, earnest face that thrilled Mrs,
St. Martyn with swift, unconquerable pain.
Was this the man, she asked herself, passion-
ately, who was capable of the devotion of which
Sydney Trefethen dreamed? And was the beau-
tiful waif the object of his grand, idolatrous
love? For an instant, a mad, scoredin agony

“burned along her every vein and rioted at her
heart—a bitter rebellion that she who had miss-
ed life’s greatest bliss, loving and being loved,
must watch another drink to the fil of this
draught of intoxicating sweetness. And quick-
ly as she controlled her long-slumbering pas-
sion’s tempestuous outbreak, there was achange,
a subtle sadness and reserve in her manner, that
her companions perceived but could scarcely de-

e.

““Do you not feel like playing, Mrs. St. Mar-
tyn?’ whispered Sydney, when tea was over
and they were returning to the parlors.

“Certainly; why not?”

““T thought you looked weary.”

“Tam not too weary to ree Suppose we
go to the amber room; Mrs. Allison, . Gil-
lette—it seems cosier there.” — ;

Gathered in the dimly-lighted salon, Elinor
played piece after pieca for her audience. Mrs.
Allison placidiy dozed in her chair, Sydney
softly walked the floor with little Myra’s hand
in hers, end Lucien leaned absorbed and silent
against the piano. Presently the grand, sol-
emn sacred music changed to a sad, wailing
melody of Elinor’s own composing, and over
her = rung the words of Tennyson’s ‘‘ Break,
break, break, on thy cold gray stones, oh, sea!”
How her rich voice suited itself to the mourn-
ful words, ending in a little burstof staccato
notes that were like a st ower of tears.

“Do you believe that?’ the artist’s voice
questioned, softly. ‘Can the tender grace of
a day that is dead never come back to us?”

Llnor started. To us! She looked up at him,
breathlessly, and trembled under his strangely-
eager gaze. ; oie

““T havo never found that it does,” she an-
swered him, quietly. i

“Nor I. Lut my happiness is staked upon
the hope that it will!”

- Her eyes drooped and her hands strayed
again over the keys. Liko hers, this man’s life
had held a romance; but, unlike hers, his future
held promise of an idyl as sweet and satisfying.
The grace that had beautitied the days wherein
his love had. reigned was wreathing with

| tender sentiments and joyous hopes his associa-
tions with bright, golden-haired Sydney.
She ‘played on, and on, improvising, dreaming
—scarcely conscious that the pain and unrest at
her heart was betraying itself in the melody in-
voked by her jeweled fingers until little ra
a to her side and looked wistfully into her
ace,

“ What is it, little one?”

“ Please don’t play so any longer. It makes
me feel so sorry.

The lady’s lips trembled as she pressed them
to the child’s pure brow.

“Well, then, I will give you something joy-
ous now, and then you must run away,” she
said, striking the chords of a brilliant anthem,

“Phank you,” responded Myra, when the
mus‘c ceased, courteously bidding her triends
good-night. '

“T must follow the little maid’s example,”
said Lucien, as his hostess arose from tue
piano. ‘I fear I have already trespassed upcn
your kindness. I must urge in excuse that the
evening has passed so deligntfully.”

“Thank you. I fear Il have trespassed upon
yours in demanding so much of your time in
connection with our tableaux, You will come
early to-morrow evening and see that my ar-
rangements are quite right?”

‘There is no doubt but that they will be,” he
answered, smiling; ‘‘ but I will come early. I
assure you I have enjoyed helping you.”

* And have made up for lost time when we
lazy folks were abed,” cried Sydney, laughing,
as she sprung to Mrs. Allison’s side, to pick upa
handkerchief the aa had dropped.

Mrs. St. Martyn looked troubled.
that is not true,” she said, regretfully.

“Tt is true,” the artist answered, quietly;
‘* because necessity compels me to work hard
for any joys. But the reward has keen ample,
Ihave given you pleasure.”

He held out his hand, and Elinor’s white fin-
gers tbrilled fora moment in his close grasp.
And then, with courtly adieux, he was goue.

* Good-night!” said Sydney.

“Good-night!” Elinor caught the girl in her
arms in a tumult of self-reproach and peni-
tence, kissed her passionately, and then hasten-
ed to her boudoir, where she sat for hours in-
dulging olden memories and entrancing vis-
ions. —

“T hope

 

CHAPTER. XXIV.
DORA’S TRYST.
He sought by arguments to soothe her pain;
Nor those availed; at length he lizhts on one;
“ Batore two moons their orb with light adorn,
If Heav’n allow me life, I will return!”
—DRYDEN.
“*Casny! Casey, darling!” whispered Dera,
as the man folded her in his arms with ardent
caresses. ‘Oh, I was so afraid you would not
wait!” :
“Asif I would miss any possible chance of
meeting you, my love,” he answered, between
his kisses. ‘‘ But what kept you, Dora?’
“T could not come sooner without being fol-

lowed!”
Who by?” questioned Canton,

“ Followed!
quickly.

‘* One of our boarders—a spy of Mrs, St. Mar-
tyn’s, I suppose!’ exclaimed the girl, in a whis-
per. ‘I only know that he has
over me for three days past.”

“Are you sure it isn’t a lover, Dora?” her
Se thon questioned, with assumed levity.

“A lover!” cried the girl, scornfully. ‘Don’t
joke, Casey! Just listen!” she continued, sen-
tentiously. ‘‘The NE day you went away, a
detective came to the house and quizzed mother
about a man answering to your description.
Of course she told all she knew, which hap-
pened to ba precious little, except that you
were with me in the parlor the night that
Mrs. St. Martyn called, and that we had keén
in the habit of singing together. I wasso lucky
as to hear her testimony, so that when I was
called mine didn’t contradict it. A day or two
after that, a Mr. Slidell applied for board. He
was well recommended, and mother was de-
lighted to get an occupant so quickly for the
room you left. But Inever liked the man. He
just hung around the house all day, and [ al-
ways felt as if he was watching me. I never
really suspected it, though, until Saturday
morning, when I came down early, to look at
the steps, and he walked out on the stoop and
asked it I was trying to find a meaning in that
chalk-line.”

“A natural enough question, if your atten-
tion seemed concentrated upon that, and the
man wanted to get up a conversation with you.”

“But he didn’t often put himself out to get up
conversations with me,” remarked Miss Lane,
dryly. ‘‘f£said I was only thinking how hor-
ridly the boys had made the steps look, and he
smiled disagreeably and walked away. But
that day when I went out, he followed me,
though I took good care that he should not sus-
pect that I knew it.”

“That was right, beauty,” said Canton, ap-

kept watch

 

provingly. ‘‘Aud the next mark—did he no-
tice that?” ‘ :
“‘T cannot say, positively. I meant that he

should not; so I watched from the attic window

 

until midnight, and then from the parlor win-
dow,-hoping to see and warn at But you
passed so quickly I could only hurry out and
wipe off the mark. Last night, as I watched
again, a little noise in the parlor startled me;
and al] in a minuto it flashed across me that
some one was there. I sprung for the matches,
lit one, and on the sofa was Mr Slidell, pretend-
ing he bad fallen asleep, and 1 had disturbed
him. I didn’t believe him, and I don’t suppcse
he believed me that I was there to get a book.”

‘Well? said Casey, intently, as the girl
paused a moment in her narration.

“This morning I took no notice of the steps,
but wherever I went he followed me—to mar-
ket and to Bartlett’s dry-goods store, where
Jack Rowe is clerk; ycu remember Jack Rowe,
parts his hair in the middle and blushes like a
girl? But T asked a favor of Jack while I bought
a yard of calico. He isalways tormenting me
to go out with him, and I promised to go any
evening he liked, if he would hire a hack to be
at our corner from six to seven, and keep quiet
about it. That afternoon I dressed in a wrap-
per and eT to mislead Mr. Slidell and went
down to dinner when he did. After he had
commenced eating I had to go to the kitchen
for hot water for motker. Perhaps she is wait-
ing for it yet! for Iran out through the area,
where I had my shoes and dress in a package,
and a hat and shawl, and hurried to the car-
riage. I rode to Sixtieth street and Second
avenue, walked to Fifty-ninth streot and tcok a
car across town, and then took an Eighth ave-
nue one, and here] em, But I was as afraid as
death that you would be gone! Ob, Casey! If
I had not seen you!” and Dora flung her arms
forcibly about the man’s neck, :

“You can hardly call it seeing me,” Canton
laughed, embracing her again. “Tam sure I
can't see you in this dungeon darkness. But
then I know just how ycur color is flaming and
your eyes skLining, beauty, for your face is
graven on my heurt. But, Dora, dariing, we
ma meet any more at present, that is evi-|
dent.

His companion clung to him only the more
closely.

“Then take me away with you, Casey,” she
whispered.

“But Iam not going away again. I must
stay in New York and play my little geme for
a fortune. And, in the meantime, ycu must be
brave and patient, my love,” holding her tight-
ly to his heart, and toying in the darkness with
her hair, from which her bonnet had talJen.
“Yeu bave done well, so far—proved yourself
a first-class confederate; but it might spoil
everything and result in getting ourselves into
the unpleasant clutches of the Jaw if we were to
risk another meeting yet awhile.”

“Casey,” said Dora, lifting her head from
his shoulder, ‘‘how soon shall we ke able to
meet? How scon will all need for separation be
over?”

“‘T cannot answer either of those questions,
exactly, my love, for I must work out my
plans, slowly and cautiously: and 1] cannot en-
canger them, or ourselves, by any meetings
while we are watched, Cannot ycu get tbis tel-
low upon a wrong track or tire cut his vigilance?
Suppose you deceive Lim ty flirting with your
friend, the dry-goods clerk, awhile. In the
meantime I will waite you bow things prcsper.”

“Casey,” said Dora, straightening herself,
suddenly, ‘‘ why ccn’t we Le married?”

If the man wos at all startled by the energetio
question, he did rot tet ray it.

“Married, when, Dora?” regaining his hold of
her hand, and striving to draw her back into his
arms.

“Now! To-night!” she enswered, still stand-
ing proudly erect tefore him, but so close that
he could feel her hot, eager breath beating
against his face.

“It is impossible, my love,” he replied, ten-
eo “It would cnly strenghten suspicion
aga inst us, and add to the chance of my detec-

on.

“No one need know it. I will go home and
be patient; tut Ishould be so much happier.”

“Dora, don’t you trust me?” he commenced,
reproacbfully.

‘No, I don’t and won’t,” broke forth the girl,
passionately. “I love you, Casey Canton—
adore you! and you knew it. And when you
are away I suffer the tortures of Purgatory, I
am so jealous and miserable! nd I won't
stand it any longer! Ycu can carry out your
plans quite as well married as single, for no one
can prove anything against youLut me, And,
as your wife, I will dare and endure anything
for you! You have often ercugh talked of love
and marriage to me! Didi’ you mean it?
Don’t you want to marry me?” she concluded
frenziedly.

For answer, Canton caught her forcibly in
his arms and spent kisses upon her bot cheeks
and Reisipaed mouth until her fury subsided,
and trembling with love instead of arger, she
resigned herself to his pee clasp and
listened to him submissively.

“Beauty, it is cruel for you to doubt my love
for you,” be urged: at If Thad not ba ya. if

: not mean marry you, Ww i)
come back at all?” ae :
 

age

 

22 DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED,

 

SSS

 

“Casey you don’t love as I love!” was the
illogical and tearful answer.

“‘T will prove to you how I love, by meeting
and wedding you here, whenever you may
wish,” he retorted, calmly.

“ Here?”

“Why not? What better plan for a secret
marriage?”

“But what clergyman would come here ?”

‘Half in the city, if they were offered a nice
little sum! I can, and will manage all that if
you are really ready to take me for better or
worse, little woman, and tostand by me whether
I succeed or fail in establishing my identity as
the ber to one of the greatest fortunes in New

ork.

‘*- You know I am ready,” she said, softly.

“Then all you have to do is t» allay your
friend Slidell’s vigilance, and name the time for
the wedding. Suppose we make it this day
month.”

‘‘ A month is so long, Casey.”

“But we can write toeach other. There need
be no danger in that. Will you meet me hero,
and marry me, pet, a month from to-night?
What do you say?” with caressing imperative-

ness.

“Yes, I will.” .

*“ And in the mean time will you fix matters
at home? You must discover some way to out-
wit vour watchful friend.”

‘You may trust me!” said Dora, decisively.

“T do trust you, love! Here is my post-office
address; and now we must bo going. I will
walk a little way with you. But kiss me again,
once, first. Just think, pet, the next time we
meet I shall hold you in Ee arms like this, but
you will be my own little wife! Dora, Lowe
much to your love, but I intend to pay you as
your wildest imaginings cannot picture!”

And the infatuated girl—furious-tempered,
jealous-natured, savagely -loving—gave her
sweetheart a clinging farewell caress, without
a suspicion of the prophecy in his fervent words.

 

CHAPTER XXV.
GILRUTH HONOR.
Thou shalt know ere long—
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.
—LONGFELLOW.

HavinG decided upon his line of conduct to-
ward the girl whose promised husbaud he had
been from childhood, Griffis lost no time in
adopting it; and that Easter day which passed
so pleasantly in Mrs. St. Martyn’s home that
neither she nor Sydney had especially remarked
Gilruth’s rather unusual absence, lung survived
asa beautiful memory for Beatrix Leuthold.

Griffis surprised her by a call at noon, to take
her home with him for the day; and as reither
he nor her mother would listen to any excuses,
it ended in his carrying his point, And ne a
woman—a young woman and a loving one—de-
epite her proud resolves to conquer her passion
for him, and give her cousin back his freedom,
Beatrix found herself not quite unhappy, sitting

in the carriage at his side; nor wholly unsuscep- |

tible to his fascinating influence. Never had
she known Griffis so gay. For the first time in
her life, she felt perfectly unconstrained in his
presence and joined easily in his vivacious con-
versation, until her rising spirits called to her
cheeks a faint flush—a delicate shadow of her
former rich bloom—that thrilled her companion
with mingled self-pity and self-reproach.

All unconscious of the vexing disquiet that
underlay his blitheness, the minutes sped so
brightly for Beatrix that she was conscious of a
fense 0! ee ae when the pleasant tete-
a-tete with Griffis ended, and Judge Gilruth,
with excessive fervor and deference, came gal-
lantly te the carriage to meet her; an attention
that, unusual as it wasin itself, agreed perfect-
ly with the atmosphere of flattering empresse-
ment which distinguished this eh to her
cousin’s home as different from any of her for-
mer visits there. At first Beatrix was perplexed
by this sense of cifference; but her unerring
perceptions soon discovered to her that she was
not being received as a relative, merely, but
with the bonor due to Griffis’s fiancee ; and set
her pulses beating with Cas ag joy. And
then, suddenly and painfully, there flashed
across her mind her uncle Trefethen’s words:
‘The Gilruths pride themselves upon their un-
swerving honor!” ;

why must she needs recall that sarcastic sen-
tence? Why be forced to question whether her
cousin’s kindness was all the outgrowth of
horor#—whether Griffis ae it for honor’s
and interest’s sake—while his heart had no
share in it?

She could not answer—she would not! She
thrust the annoying thoughts away! For this
once, when Gilruth was so gay, so attentive, so
alluringly lover-like, she gave herself up to the
sweetness of the hour.

Dinner was followed by a lone drive through
the sunny, balmy April air; a ride that Beatrix
rever forgot, it was so quietly happy. And af-
ter tea there was music, when she played while
her betrothed near her, and sung—bis
clear tenor notes mingling with her rich -
tralto ones. Then came ride home; an. the

 

girl’s heart throbbed exultantly when she was
again alone at Gilruth’s side, and all her senses
yielded to the passat a few happy hours had
aroused to added fervor.

“ Beatrix,” Griffis said, after they had ridden
for a little time in utter silence, taking her
hand in his, ‘‘do you love me?” .

It was not necessary to wait for the audible
answer that his companion was too startled to
utter; her hot fingers fluttering in his light clasp
told him the truth.

“Youdo? Yon really care for me, Beatrix?
Pray be honest!” he plead, with an eagerness
that in the infatuation of the moment his
cousin was far from interpreting aright.

‘‘ Griffis,” she answered gravely, ‘I have
loved you ever since the day, six years ago,
when you bade me not forget: you, for I was to
ee wife some time. Do you remember
i

Ah! he remembered it well! Marriage had
seemed so far away then, end at best such a
light matter. And ke had deemed that to wed
at tho dictates of interest and rcason were so
oar atask! Now—

e resolutely put aside rebellious thoughts
and bravely trampled upon the vague urrest
and longings of his heart. ‘ Noblesse oblige”
rung in his ears. His cousin loved him, and
the Gilruth honor demanded that he be true to

er.

“Yes,” he said, softly.. ‘ And I have not de-
served such honor, Beatrix; but I hcpo lam rot
incapable of appreciating it. And sinco we un-
derstand each other, may not our betrothal as
well be announced immediately?”

‘As you wish, Griffis.”

“Thank you,” he answered, and courteously
kissed her brow.

The caress sent a mad joy to Beatrix’s heart.
In all her life she had never been so happy as
during the silent minutes that followed—his
kiss yet burning her forehead and bis hand still
lightly clasping hers. And Griffis? Ho locked
out into the night, and thought of another. wo-
man than Beatrix, and wondered whether her
fair face would scorn or approve bim now! Hoe
poor back from his uneasy reveries with a
start.

“ At home?—co soon? I hope you have hada
pleasant day, Beatrix,” as he opened the car-
riage coor.

‘““T have enjoyed it very much,” earnestly.

““T am glad of that,” her cousin replied,
truthfully. “I wish yeu were going to Mrs,
St. Martyn’s Easter Charity to-mcrrow night;
I presume you are posted upon all the arrange-
Nc yin tieonglt last week,

“Sydney brought mea programme week,
What a dainty little Gevien itis.”

“Yes, Mrs. St. Martyn spares no expense to
make the entertainment recherche; and shetel!s
me that Miss Trefethen’s debut as en actress
will be astartling success. At all cvents a fit-
ter person than Gillette to play that part with
her could not be found.”

“Why ?? asked Beatrix, quickly.

“Js it pessible that it Las never cecerrcd to
ou that the little romance between Miss Tro-
ethen and her guardian, as sho calls him, may

result in a wedding, now that sko is rich and
prosperous?” retorted Griffis, cynically.

“No,” gravely. ‘‘ There are cxcclle.t reasons
why Sydney should care for Lir. Gillette, and 1
know that be is fond of ker; but I co not kelicvo
tbat either of them care in that way.” Then,
suddenly, almost without volition, came tke
swift, earnest question, “Should you like Syd-
ney to marry Mr. Gillette?” 4

‘t”? in extreme surprise. ‘Should I like
Sydney to marry Mr. Gillette?” repeating the
words almost unconsciously, as if they werea
revelation. ‘Why not? Why not, Beatrix?”

Already Miss Leuthold regretted the inquiry.
, “Do you think it would Le as good a match
as she could make?” she said, explanatorily.

‘“‘T have not interested myself «nough in Miss
Trefethen’s future to duly consider that impor-
tant_matter,” he replie ; laughing; ‘Lut, he
concluded, lightly, ‘1 will think it over and
favor you with my weighty judgment in _re-
gard to it at. some future date, Good-night,”
and releasing his cousiu’s hand he ran down the
steps to the carriage.

_But_Beatrix’s words lingered in his mind du-
ring all that homeward ride. From the time he
had first seen them together, he had regarded
the marriage of eae and Lucien as a fore-

one conclusion, As Miss Trefethen she would

ave a nice fortune—just what Gillette needed
to marry—and what more natural ending cf the
artist’s interest in the beautiful waif than that be
should make her his wife? His cousin, however,
had suggested to him a new line of thought. It
was true that Sydney might be very fond of
the man who bad been her friend and teacher,
without loving him; and, certainly, she had
every chance of making a better match. Her
belleship was undisputed. At the clubs her
beauty and the charms of her frank, fresh, un-
conventional manners were ful!y discussed, and
in society she was always surrounded by a cir-
cle of irers. Who, among them all, did the
young beauty favor most?
so pertinaciously to recatling her manner to-
ward other men than Gillette, that he reached

Griffis ‘set himself |.

 

home without one thought of his betrothed, or
the self-sacrifice of that day.

But when he had made himself comfortable
in slippers and smoking-jacket, and sat puffirg
at fragrant cigars far into the night, he was bit-
terly restless and miserable—fiiled with pity for
his cousin and hmself. He had tried. to do
right. His father’s wishes and judgment, and
his own sense of honor toward Beatrix, a
proved his course; Lut he realized that the mis-
take which now made Lim wretched bad com-
menced in the flippant, self-sufficient, sr perficial
days of his youth; when spoiled by his early
triumphs in society, the aCmiration of women
for his handsome face and physique, and the
flattery of their ready preference, be had come
to regard love lightly and marriage carelessly.
Under ail his egotism and inscusiance, however,
Griffis Gilruth was pcssessed of real, earnest
manhood; Lis heart had not quite turnt itself
out in light as ours; and, now, witb the dawn-
ing of the first real clovd upon his bright
career, the deeper and better nature within him
oa to thrill with life, and make known its
needs,

Tbe more profound his self-communings be-
came, the more clearly the young man realized
that his liking fcr Elinor St. Martyn was an
infatuation born of her unlikeness to «ther
women, and thatincited bim to conquer a heart
that so many men had found obdurate—tbat she
had never awakened his trucst pessions—and,
however his pride must suffer in asking at her
hands his freecom, his bappiness did not depend
upon a marriage with her. But though he
could teach himself to forget Elincr, could he
teach hiirself to love Beatrix? Would bis
cousin’s effection for him ever touch the kev-
noto of bis own passion? Would it ever quiet
the unrest at lis heart? Would it ever afford
him an incentive to brilliant achievements?
Would it ever make life better worth the liv-

ing?

And while Griffls pursued this bitter self-
examination, and inculged his hopeless self-
inquisition, Beatrix, tor, was spending a
thoughtful and sleepless night.

At frst she was restless with a strange, new
delirious cxcitcment; but by degrees a score of
tormenting Coubts aud fears assailed her. Un-
influenced longer by Griffis’s fascinating
presence, her proud, «xacting womanhood re-
asserted itself and prcmpted her to a cruelly
critical analyzation of the every act and word
she had accepted as an earnest cf his effection.
And, weighed in the balance of her own deep
and long-tried love, Beatrix found her cousin
wanting—not in ary courtesy cue her as his
betrothed, } ut in ccfinite avowal cr betrayal of

his love. She cculd rcmer ter rot cne ardent |

word wherewith he had addressed Ler, nor re-
call one spontaneous outburst of passior, never
so slight. And yet he had been attentive, en-
tertaining, devotec—had ected his r le of fience
faultless y. Did she require too much? More
than ary man would give?

At last the answer came—proud and vche-

mert,

“Wo! No! No! A tbcusand times, no! I
will bo eaticfiec—ycs, to the deptks of my ecul,
that Iam _lovcd, even as I love, cr I will rever
marry! It was wrong to pledge Griffis and me
to ecch other when wo were children, end the
Leuthild price—cs pure and priceless as the
Cilruth honor—tids me break any such troth
unless it is ratified by the deepest cesircs of
Loth our Learts!”

CHAPTER XXVI.
LOVES AND LOVERS,

ee me = or thy eae ae a flower,
e_record of one our.
. PPY ours. H.

Ir was a very select and limited srermbiege but
an excessively Lrilliant one, that gathered in ‘Mrs.
St. Martyn’s parlors to her third annual Easter
Charity. These entertairments, that Elinor gave
each Easter Monday evening in behalf of a cana
institution, had been so far extremely successful;
and this, which was to be followed by a dainty col-
lation and a dance, promised even to surpass those
that had gone before.

The sa.ons had been transformed into a lijow
shea Sie shrouded in crash, the walls hung
with vines, the mantles banked with bloom—and the
orchestra, embowered in a thicket of flowering
plants, discoursed soft music while the gay audience
fangtoak, and gossiped, and flirted, and waited for
the commencement of that delicious little comedy—
‘Old Love Letters,’ which was to be followed by &
few effective tableaux.

Beatrix Leuthold had been invited to take part;
put as she had not yet appeared at allin general
society, and wes to be formally presented at her
uncle's ball, two evenings later, she bad declined;
and Griffis had determined to improve the cpror-
tunity that her absence, and the latter part of the
evening would afford of coming to an urderstand-
ing with Elinor. And a fierce ccrfiic: with bis pride,
and a di eable apprehensicn cf her icy, ouat
ap tn A e ‘rliant —— with which he me

6 friends an uaintances.
oat with — Hsing = the curtain he forgot self in

is interest, e amateur performance. I fe
on no real stage had the play ever been better given.
Seetie was Dian Mine Bydney'e readiuon or Be

we b -
et lovely widow, filled the audience
enthusiasm. Never a ‘‘ Mrs. Brownlee” acted
more perfect ideality and delicate passion than the

1

-
*

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

 

golden-haired beauty who was greeted at the close
of the little eee a tumult of applause.

“What did you think of it, Ivan?” asked Griffis of
Count Krylof, who sat beside Gertrude.

“Tt was delicious! What an actress the young
lady woul make!”

“It was beyond acting,” said Mrs. Jerrell. ‘It
seemed a delightful realism.” 7

“Perhaps it was,’’ laughed the count, ‘Mr.
Gillette must have had plentiful opportunities for
giving her lessons, while painting her golden hair in

hat picture of his.”

‘“‘How absurd!? cried Gertrude, with a shrug of
her shoulders. ‘‘I suppose because she has golden
hair, it must follow that he, being an artist, wishes
to marry her!”’

“T will absolve Gillette from that charge, Miss
Gilruth,” Ralph Webb interposed, with a meaning

lance into her clouded faca. ‘*I cannot state, posi-

ively, that he prefers dark-haired women to flavic-
omous ones; but I do know that he would be ex-
cessively annoyed to have Ree le misunderstand his
kindly affection for Miss Trefethen, who has been
his ee and ward.”

“J wonder who she will marry, anyway?” said
his niece, Madge, now Mrs. Marlowe, who, being a
bride, was naturally interested in matrimonial
speculations,

“She may not marry at all,”” remarked her hus-

“Or she may not marry in our set,” ested Ger-
trude, significantly, though she and Sydney were
excellent acquaintances.

“Or, wouldn't it be too funny if she should marry
Mr. Trefethen!” exclaimed e, startlingly.

“Madge! what can you be hinking of? Mrs,
Jerrell asked, reprovingly. \

s Whe: mamma, you need not look so horrified!
It would only be May wedding December—and is it
not done grey. day?

‘Indeed, Mrs. Marlowe's suggestion is_ rather
reasonable than otherwise,” urged Colonel Russell,
ae ©: the ets defense. ‘I happen to
know that Miss Trefethen has already refused sev-
eral offers that ought to be considered flattering
ones for her; and if the lady is heartless, may she
not be ambitious as well?”

“Colonel,” said Gilruth, speaking so distinctly
that every one of the little group could hear him,
despite the crash of the orchestra, “‘I question the
right of any person to stigmatize a woman as heart-
less because she does not love the first man who
throws himself at her feet. That she refuses a
dozen offers does not prove it. She may still have a
heart—and one true, and noble, and worth the win-
ning. And I fail to understand how Miss Trefethen
can receive offers of marriage that are more flatter-

to her than they would be to any other lady!’
e blase colonel regarded Griffis’s eloquent face
and flas' eyes with polite surprise. ;

** Reaily,” he commenced, carelessly ; but a 8
in the music warned eres those of the party who
were to participate in the tableaux, among whom
were Ivan Krylof and the Gilruths; and Russell
changed his reply to a sarcastic comment.

“One might almost suppose Gilruth in love with
the little Trefethen, if it were possible to suppose
that his pride of birth would allow him to marry a
woman without a pedigree.”

“ Or, you might say, if he was not already engaged,
cee Russell,” Mrs. Marlowe anneunced, senten-

ously.

“Engaged! ToMrs. St. Martyn?’ asked her uncle
and Russell in a breath.

“No indeed,” said Madge, disdainfully; “to his
cousin, Miss Leuthold, the niece of Mr. Trefethen,
whois to be introduced to New York socieiy, Wednes-
day evenly Oh, it is aregularromance. She isan
immense heiress, and the: ve been betrothed since
they were mere children!”

adge ben made a sensation, and she knew it,
ane Colonel Russell did look cynically indifferent.

* Who told you this, my dear?’” said her mother, in
real surprise.

“Gertrude—not half an hour ago.”

Mr. Webb curled his lips under his fine mustache,

“ Griffis Gilruth is worse than I thought him!” he
said, indignantly, below his breath, as the first
tableau was revealed. He did not know how often
again he should say that of Beatrix's betrothed,

Griffis himself had gone away confounded at his
own blaze of r. The indignation he had felt at
Madge Marlowe's suggestion, and Colonel Russell's
flippant speech, was spontaneous and overwhelming,
ae compounded of sensations wholly new to him,
His nature had revolted with a shock of pain from
the Shang of Sydney Trefethen—in the exquisite
bloom of her youth and loveliness—united to a man
well old enough to be her span iesnens while some
hitherto inert io-1 leaped into hot protestant life,
refusing to ieve the girl heartless, or to acknowl-
edge her inferior to any woman of his world. and
when he entered the improvised “green-room,” and
the yaimie actress was the first to greet him, he
caught both her hands in his, and looked down into
her flushed, excited, glad face with a glance so
stran, proud and protecting and tender, eyes 50
serious "way to their selena depths, that Sydney
stood sobered and spellbound before him,

“Sydney, it was perfect,”’ he said, simply; and for
once the could not answer him mockingly; she
felt that Griffis’s words were not idle compliment.

“Thank you,” her frank, sunshiny eyes flashin;
into his, then shyly drooping. ‘‘ Iam glad I please

ou.
= “What is this?” cried Elinor, lightly. “Have I
interrupted a private rehearsal?” She, too, was
amazed at that strange look on Gilruth’s face.

ee not at all!” he replied, quite his usual self

 

 

agi “What a treasure the stage would have in
her!” he added, as Sydney turned to receive the
congratulations of Gertrude and the young Russian.

“Yes; she seems born an actress. Did I not tell
you she would be a great success to-night?”
uateers i Heh pee act were a2 man

love er?’ .

“Try her, and see,” vetorted Elinor, laughing, as
she hurried away to superintend some cost 4
ux were over; servants were bur-

: ‘the mimic theater into a ball-room; |.
and " the

artist’s arm, flitted here an

and here, among’ the fay throng, ra-
diantly lovel; in - shimme! ‘aint-blue satin
dress, with great knot of eae ites relieving

 

its chaste Pisin, and fringing the heart-shaped
neck and tiny sleeves, while compliments po in
upon her, and more than one pair of handsome eyes
watched her eagerly or enviously—among these lat-
ter Gertrude Gilruth’s,

Slight encouragement as the girl’s penchant for
Lucien Gillette had received, she still cherished it;
and to-night, despite Ralph Webb's explanation of
the artist’s regard for his ward, she was thoroughly
jealous of his particular devotions to Sydney; and
was glad when the dancing commenced, and Mr.
Gillette was forced to relinquish his pretty com-
panion to a partner. Lucien sought Elinor, but she
ae. engaged; and presently he gravitated toward

ertrude.

“* Will you waltz, Miss Gilruth?’’ he asked, smiling.
And in a moment the girl was in his arms, her starry
eyes shining triumphantly as she floated past Sydney

refethen in the dance. From the bi
sauntered to the conservatory.

“So you really liked our little play?’ he said, when
Gertrude reverted to it, as he idly fanned her.

“Immensely. pay one might almost imagine you
were in earnest in all you said to Miss Trefethen.””

“And had I been in earnest—would that have
spoiled it?” laughing.

Miss Gilruth’s dark, dazzling face lifted to his, and
for one instant her eloquent eyes said as plainly as
any words:

“Yor me—yes;” then the glowing glance was
vailed under the sweeping lashes, and her head
drooped in fascinating confusion,

Gillette dropped her fan to the extent of its golden
chain, and takin; g her face between his hands, raised

it again.

“Bardon me,” he said, gently, ‘if I speak plainly.
I am so much older it gives me the right; and it
would pain me, deeply, to have any woman waste
on me one iota of interest that I could not return.
poet, Trefethen holds a warm and peculiar place
in my heart; I care for her as I care for no other
woman—but one; and that one—I may not tell you
her name—has been my guiding star through life, I
love her, have loved her for years, to the exclusion
of every other passion! Pcrhaps it is a hopeless
love, but all the same it is a deathless one. There,
Gertrude—you know my heart! Be as true to its
cease asI shall be to your kindly revealed friend-
5)

The girl trembled with excitement and was fever-
ish with shame. She could not be angry with Gil-
lette, he was so ere delicate, so considerately
tender; but, oh! how che heted herself, that she had
ao her love-sick fancy.

“You may. trust me,” she murmured, as she
sprung away from him.

= ee door of the conservatory she met Count

lof.

“Are you engaged? Do you care to dance? I
should like this waltz!” she said, hurriedly, excit-

edly,

oF am delighted to be so honored,” ke replied,
courteously. ‘‘Something has annoyed Miss Gil-
ruth?” he added, questio: ly, as they whirled into
time with the music.

“Oh, no; nothing of any account,” she answered,
regaining control of herself, though still goaded by
that consum: burning pain of forfeited maidenli-
ness and wounded pride, and dashed into one of her
gayest moods.

he young Russian had _ never found his lovely
qerrpet so gay and sparkling, and appreciative of
is attentions; her starry eyes, and warm, dark
face, with its color ebbing and flowing in delicious
little passionate-hued lines, and dewy mouth rip-
pig Wn anger, enticed him to ardent devotions,
which Gertrude accepted with fascinating coquetry,
until it ended—their dangerously desperate flirta-
tion—as neither could have dreamed a few hours
earlier! For Ivan still adored Elinor St. Martyn,
though hopelessly—as he had learned—and Gertrude
hated but had not conquered her romantic liking for
Gillette; certainly they neither of them meant their
foolish sentiment to drift them into any serious
denoucment. It came about quite simply, Ivan ask-
ing, in his gallant, fcreign way, for a flower from his
companion’s bouquet, as a souvenir of the ore ake

“Which one will you have?” cried Gertrude, look-
ing up at him with her melting eyes. ‘Each has a
mea ge

“Ah, but I do not know their significance. Pray
tell me, before I choose.”

“No, indeed!” she exclaimed, laughing. ‘‘ You
must make your choice and abide y the conse-
MN then I il take this,” touching a lovely
“*Then I w: eC ” touc! a lovely rose-
bud. “‘ What does it signify?”

“Oh, that is ‘young lovo’; Icannot give you
that!” with another ripple of mirth, and an arch,
upward glance,

“Why not, Gertrude? See! I will have it!”

They were quite curtained off from any observers,
in the embrasured window cf_the library, and with
an impulsive motion he caught the girl in his arms
and triumphantly held the flower before her eycs.

“Say you give it me, with its fullest significance!”
his face bent so close to hers that his fair mustache
almost ase" her lips and his glance revealing his
unmistakable me

Gertrude shivered with remembrance of another

‘ace—dignified, , sorrowful—that had bent
above her that night; and with the scathing pain of
the memory came a sudden resolve. Lucien Gil-
lette might scorn her, but he should never pity her!
When they met again, she would proudly demand
his congratulations.

“Take it,” she said, raising her eyes with simu-

ted ion. And then she felt his arms folding
closer about her, his lips sealing soft kisses Apes
hers, and knew that she was Ivan Krylof’s promised

e.

And, after all, as he slipped his magnificent coro-
neted ring upon her fin: er bidding her wear it until
he should obtain her father’s consent to replace it
with a fitter emblem of their engagement, sho was
not wholly dissatisfied with her choice—rash asit was.
Had not the girls she knew been dying to win
the distinguished foreigner? And was he

a count? And ever so much nicer-looking
Jerrell’s puend. Charlie Marlowe?
Gilruth would always manage to be rear
sonably happy—and there was no reason why, in
time, she quite satisfied hher

-room they

ould not be

 

CHAPTER XXVIL
THAT STRANGE THING, A WOMAN’S HEART.
Why did she love him? Curious fool, be still:
Is human love the growth of human will?
—BYRon.

GrituetTe stood grave and thoughtful where Ger-
trude Gilruth had left him. He pitied the beautiful
child—after all, she was scarcely more than that!—
and he wondered, vexedly, whether other people
subjected himself and Miss Trefethen to the sus-
picions she had intimated,

“IT must hold myself a trifle more aloof from
Sydney, in future,” he thought. ‘This year decides
her destiny, and I must not let her thoughtlessly
destroy any chance of happiness by too apparent
a fondness for me.”’

“ Mr, Gillette,” said Elinor’s musical voice, break-
ing in upon his meditations, ‘you look as if you and
‘Mrs. Brownlee’ had parted again, forever, instead
of ‘making up.’ I hope you and Sydney have not
been quarreling?”

+ oa has not been here.”’
“Not been here? I met her coming out of the
conservatcry.”’

“*T have not seen her.”’ ;
“You were so engiossed in meditation, perhaps.
It is no compliment to me that you should bak

id.
“Do I? And why should I lock happy?” almost
bitterly. .

“T once heard you say you had one ambiticn—to
be famous. You are achieving it. Cannot satisfied
ambition bring happiness?”

“Tt was yourself, Mrs, St. Martyn, who suggested
that Fame was my cne ambition,” he said, smiling
sadly. “‘And you were mistaken, It is not fame
for which I have waited and labored for many
years.

“And not wealth—surely !” .

“‘And why not wealth?” he asked, sharply. ‘Is it
to be despised? Is it not the open sesame to every
earthly good?”

‘No!’ she answered, warmly, a passionate re-
bellion against his cynicism flowing thiough all her
Nae “You, of all men, should have learned truer

wT le

“Experience was my first instructor,” he said,
slowly. ‘‘But, bitter as it has been,” he added,
“you are right; it has not set me the task of gaining
wealth. My ambition is a higher « ne.”

“Tt must be love, then,” said Elinor, forcing her-
self to speak with polite calmness, though her heart
almost stopped its beating as she waited for his

reply.

K Yes, Mrs. St. Martyn,”—his gray eyes decp with
dreadful earnestness—‘“it is to win love—a love
royally true to itself, and loyally true to mine, a love
that will cndure beyond death.’

“And, think you, such is not to be found?” her
tone was almo:t a whisper, the words forced them-
selves over her beautiful lips with sharp intersity.

“It may be, for men who have wealth, rank, an-
contrat ee 1 ae he answered, he incisive
meaning, ive you my arm back t
ball-room, Mrs, St. Martyn?" »: ewe

Elinor put out her Land, blindly; her face was
deathly pale.

“Mis. St. Martyn ?*

Strong electric hands closed over hers, Eyes daz-
zling with a glowing, questioning gaze, burned down
upon her face. She scarcely dared realize the mean-
ing in that eloquent speaking of her name. She
wondered, vaguely, what the pain and longing at
her peace ie es a to rg ft oe ee
came swi lown the path am: e tropic bloom,
and Griffis Gilruth confronted them, " :

“Ah, Griffis, have you come to claim your dance?”
she said, with swift composure, as the artist bow-
eerrcenes and resigned her to Gilruth’s com-
panionship. 5

“Yes; or rather, will you stay here and speak
with me a minute, instead? I Dave something im-
portant to say.”

‘You have news?” anxiously—her mind reverting
by some strange law of thought to the mystery that

e and Griffis had at scught to solve,

“No, not that kind. Iwish to ask you to take
back your ring, Elinor,” coming directly to the
point, with defiant mastery of his rebellious pride.

What? So soon, Griffis?” with a tone in her
voice that was like a note of joy. “ ButIam glad
that you are brave and true to yourself;” laying her
hand quietly on his.

“Do not be kind to me, Elinor,” he broke cut, im-
petuously. “I only deserve your contempt. I ask
my freedom back, because, in seeking to win your
love, I was disloyal to an engagement that has t ound
me from childhood—and, so, dishonorable tcward
you. But I cared nothing tor my betrcthed—I
scarcely knew her, if t sis can accept that as any ex-
cuse for my detestable weakness.’

“ Griffis,” she said, ‘gently, looking into his peni-
tent, shadowed, handsome eyes, and taking no no-
tice of his self-accusations, ‘‘ who is your betrothed?”

“My cousin, Beatrix Leuthold.”

Elinor scarcely looked the surprise she felt. ‘And
do you love her now?” she asked,

““No;” he said the word in a low voice, and with
ites are roach. it 4 is

en, Griffls, since it is as @ now as when I
said it once before, that you are my vely dear
friend—let me bid you not to marry her! 1 do not
say it for my own sake,” with a dazzling smile of
heart-wholeness that there was no mistaking, ‘}
peri we eae ong x is fe me ycu love,
an am satisfied; but for her e, and yours.
You will both be miserable!” s

He shook his head pao fs ;

“Do not tempt me to further disloyalty, Elinor,”
he said, gloom 9 “Tam in honor bound to keep
this engagement, so long as Beatrix desires 10 abide
by it. she cared as litile for me asI for her, I
cannot see why we should ety just because our
parents arranged that it should beso when we were
children; but she loves me—has told me so, and as a
gentleman I must consider herand not mysclf.”

“Very well,” with a little impatient gestuie; “if
yop mune 53 can marry your cousin and £0 bind
a Ags San eee will ee discover ha truth, then

01 oman can er v« man’s
heart will taach her, inevitably, soon or lato, that
she is wedded to an unloving husband!”

“But then,” said Griffis, grimly, ‘“‘I will have
 

 

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

 

 

 

geet part honorably. I will have done the best
could.’

‘“You call it honor for a gentleman not to break
his pledged word! Well, then, keep it; but keep it
under no false pretenses. Tell your cousin that you
are prepared to abide by your betrothal, but that
you do not love her, ‘Then you will have done your

ost,”?

**] have asked my freedom back from one woman.
I will not humble myself to a second,’’ retorted
Griffis, decidedly.

Elinor looked annoyed. “If you were in love—
truly, honorably in love,’’ she said, spiritedly, ‘t you
would quickly enough ‘humble’ yourselt, as you call
it, to Miss Leuthold. The trouble is with you, Grif-
fis, that you love no one but yourself!”

‘Lhe cutting words stung Guruth cruelly, bringing
the swarthy color to his face, and a haughty gleam
to his eyes. Never in the course of his petted life
had such a blow been dealt his self-esteem. Never
before had any one dared tell him this disagree-
able, unflattering truth. Sydney Trefethen had
been the first woman who had betrayed for him
neither admiration nor preference; but her good-
humored indifference, and laughing mockeries,
though they had pierced the panoply of his egotism,
had been nothing to this outburst of Elinor’s scorn.
But he said not one word in self-defense, though
Eijinor, already sorry that she had gone quite so far,
wished that he would; only stood quietly waiting
while Miss Trefethen, leaning on the arm cf Myron
Rossiter, came leisurely toward them.

The girl’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide-
opened with surprise.or excitement, and her interest
in what her companion was saying intense. Griffis
had never seen such a look of rapt attention upon her
face as this fine looking stranger had called there,
He took a kind of fierce pleasure in dispelling it.

* Miss Trefethen, I think you promised me another
dance. If Mrs, St. Martyn will pardon my leaving
her, may I not have it now?”

“T prefer that you should excuse me,” said Syd-
ney, turning her blue eyes upon him, icily.

“yt hope that Griffis will not,”’ said Elinor, smiling,
as she ‘Guam signified to Mr. Rossiter that she
would take his arm back to the ball-room; and went
away soliloquizing:

‘*T have done what I can. I must leave the rest to
fate!’ and thinking of the strange variance between
Sydney’s contemptuous criticisms and_ indifferent
treatment of Griffis Gilruth and that attitude of
spellbound happiness with which she stood before
him, once that evening, and—her face all aglow with
eee flush and marvelous gladness—looked into

eyes.

“Of course I must release you, if you wish it,”
was Griffis’s first remark, when he and Sydney were
alone; and he turned cant ok to a casement opened
to the starry April night. S$ manner was coldly
polite, even haughty; but his half-averted handsome
tace was shadowed with a discontent and spiritless-
ness so u.terly foreign to it that Sydney was moved
to a concession.

“Tain not quite sure that I care to be released,
after all, Mr. Gilruth,” going frankly to his side.
“Come, suppose we do dance,”

“No, not now,”’ a faint smile coming into his eyes,
“since you have once refused. Why did you, Syd-

ney?

a Because I enjoyed one waltz so much, this even-
ing, I do not care if I ever dance again!” making the
confession ironically, as if she despised herself that
it was a truth.

“Aud who was your honored partner, Sydney—
cousin Sydney?” he said, quizzically, taking her
hands in his. “I wish you were my cousin.”

She drew herself haughtily away, swift anger be-
trayed in every line of her straight, lovely form.

“Why? Have you such a predilection for cou-
sins?’ she demanded, net a

“Tse you have heard’’—was repressed, sig-
nificant aaswer. 7

““Yes, I have heard!—of your betrothal to Bea-
trix! AndI understand, now, a score of inconsis-
tencies in her words and manners, and I know what
the end will be! She is a thousand times too good
for you, and yet you will break her heart! Not as
you have broken women’s hearts who had no wealth,
nor hizh ancestral name, to satisfy your insatiable

ride; but in an honorablz way—as her husband!

ut if you do, oh, howI shall despise you! Yes,

‘ despise you!’

Sydney’s blue eyes were cold, her face aglow with
furious color, her hands wrung together in the in-
tensity of her earnestness! and yet there was pain
as well as anger in her clear young voice, and a look
of oe grief apn her brave, sweet face, that
never faded from Gilruth’s mind. It was asif she
had vainly tried to finl some good in him, and,
iy was sorely hurt that her hopes were shat-

re

Before h2 found one word wherewith to answer
her, she was gone; and when he regained the ball-
room, where she was receiving the adieux of the
a she gave no conscious sign of his presence,
pu Mrs. St. Martyn came to iin with extended

ud,
“Can 702 forgive me enough to be friends
ain?” she asked, with one of her dazzling smiles,

ting her exquisite face to his. ‘It is that I know
you better than you know yourself that I spoke as I
did. Griffis, there will surely come a time when
oti nee will assert itself. What if it should be
too .

“1 suppose I must submit to the inevitable with
the best graze possible,” he answered, claspin
her outstretched hand, closely in his. “Good.
night;” and he went away thinking deeply of Eli-
nor’s words, and thinking deeply too, of the beauti-
ful charity-child, as she had faced ee , con-
temptuous, grieved! While Sydney, lock ta her
own room, lay sobbing upon a lounge, conscious of
a misery such as had never before darkened her
fateful life.

“Oh, Guardy! reas: To think I have lost you!
And for her sake! As if she cared for you as I fave
done! Now there’is no one—no one—to love!” ;

Elinor came and tapped lightly at her p:o’ezee’s
door, There was no answer; aud she went to her
own boudoir, and vigils that lasted until the rosy
es and brilliant gold of ths sprinz sunrise stole in

tween the Jaces at her window. And every
thought was of a man whom she had once chosen to
please, because he could never dareaspire to her

 

hand. And—now—he had not wealth, nor rank, nor
“claims ot long descent’ to recommend him—could
she, Elinor St. Martyn, New York’s proudest queen,
stoop to lay her heart at his teet?

CHAPTER XXVIII.
A NIGHT-TIME MAREIAGE,
Men were deceivers ever.—SHAKESPEARE.

Day after day and week after week had followed
that discovery of Mr. Slidell’s upon which he had
built confident hopes of winning the large reward
offered by Mrs. St. Martyn to whoever should trace
Casey Canton’s whereabouts; and since that night
when Dora Lane had left the house while he sat at
dinner, returning late, alone, he had been unable to
progress one iota in the task he had undertaken.

There were no more sizns, no/jmore night-watches,
not the slightest act of Miss Laue’s that was suspi-
cious.. Though he shadowed all her comings and go-
ings, he discovered absolutely nothing upon which
to found a belief that she hau a lover su? rosa, or se-
cret communication with any person whatever, In-
deed, she had commenced to look favorably upon
the young clerk, Jack Rowe; and their attachment
had become the gossip of the house. Miss Dora bad,
heretofore, within the knowledge of all her mother’s
boarders, held herself superciliously aloof from any
“tradesman,” and had been generally disliked for
the airs she gave herself on account of her beauty
and few showy accomplishments. But now, there
was no doubt but that she was making a “ dead set”
for young Rowe—an interest born of a fear of old-
maidism, some of the envious ones charitably re
marked.

“Well, Jack gets a fair salary, and is respectable,”
Mrs. Lane asseverated when any of the gossips men-
tioned the affair in her hearing; ‘‘and I don’t know
as a got any call to ask more than that for my

irls.’

" As for Jack, himseif, his delight at having at last
conquered the beautiful Dora’s otdurate heart knew
no bounds. He was wildly infatuated, and carried
himself with an air of superiority to jess favored
mortals that was wonderful to contemplate. And,
certainly, his lady-love gave him every chance to
flatter himself that his charms were all-powerful.
She went with him to theaters, shows, church—
somewhere every night, often walked to meet him
as he came home to dinner, and always bade hima
smiling good-by of a morning, watching him down
the street with delicious devotedness.

But there came a day when Mr. Rowe did not ap-
peas at dinner, and cntered the parlor, late, with an

explicable change wrought in manner and looks—
a change that had been proughe about by a conver-
Cubion be had had with a tall, handsome mau, who
had communicated to him some startling facts, and
asked his co‘peration in as startling an undertaking.
Had bribes been necessary to accomplish the pur-
pose, they would have been freely offered, but the
workings of Jack’s own passions afforded a suffi-
cient incentive to him, to agree to the wishes of the
stranger; and he came home with a subdued, steely,
sinister scam in his i pale -blue eyes. :

But if Dora noticed the slight change in her ador-
er’s manner, the restlessness that possessed him,
and his irritable outbreaks of passionate protesta-
tion, it certainly eee to her no suspicion that
a dangerous knowledge was buried _in his heart, in-
ciling him to furious jealousy and revenge. It did
occur to her that it was about time ske cooled
a little toward the victim of her self-interested flirta-
tion; but she could not afford to give Mr. Slidell the
slightest cause for doubting the genuineness of her
devotion to Jack until she was, at last, the wife of
that other man whom she worshiped with such
blinded, lawless passion. And, indeed, she was glad
that she had not, when, the very day preceding that
upon which she intended to meet and marry Can-
ton, Mr. Slidell] paid his board-bill, and resigned
his post of espionage.

Now, all was clear sailing, as she wrote with de-
light to her lover; and she was too elated with the
success of her ruse, and the nearness of her triumph,
to notice that the man she had victimized was as rest-
lecs and excited as herself. She bade him good-by
next morning with a smiling face. She would not
break off with him too suddenly.

“T suppose you will be home at the usual time,”
she said, carelessly, as he went down the steps.

“No, it is my late night.”

“Oh, is it? Thad forgotten!” she replied quickly,
ard turned away. His answer had pleased her.

“Yes, my late night, as you shall learn one of these
days,” he muttered, significantly, as he walked rap-
idly toward his store

hen Mrs. St. Martyn had, as she thought, identi-
fied the man whom she had seen in the poorer:
house parlor with. Dora Lane, and who had a
dressed the little Myra, as one with the scoundrel
who was the child’s father, she hoped she had
gained a clew to the perpetration of that robbery
which had left her powerless to carry out her prom-
ise to the dying actress. But Taylor’s revelations
had come too late. Mr. Canton, if he was, indced
the man, had vanished from Mrs. Lane's, and oe
the ken of those who were interested in finding him,
though the detective, Slidell, had jumped_ madly at
one slight clew; and no Jules Letronne had respond-
ed to the advertisement that informed him he would
“hear of something to his advantage by communi-
eating with Gilrut and Dennison, No. — Broad-
way.’ As for Christabel Letronne, her personal
history, whatever it had been, was buried with her,
Her wanderings and record as an actress could be
traced, but those alone.

But, in the meantime, while Elinor was slowly
forcing herself to admit, as Gilruth had long ago
urged, that it was useless to pursue the mat‘er fur-
ther, the man who had evaded her espionage had
learned precisely how much _ he had to dread from
her power to interfere with his bold ps and
though, as yet, he had not shown bis hand, had pre-
pared to play a desperate game for social position
and vast wealth. Fortune had favored him inmany
bel fe His lucky star seemed in the ascendancy;
and upon the night of his second meeting with Dora
Laue, at the old fort, he was ready to ignite a train

hat should affect the New York social world to its

center. : :

Whatever doubts Dora had entertained of her
handsome lover’s intention to make her his wife
were completely dispelled by his ardent letters, and

: . Had set him far bclow her

 

his seeming impassioned anxiety for their rerriage,
that, he had every reason to believe, he wrcte Ler,
might be made public within a few weeks citer the
pa ceremony ; for which she wastoceyerd upon

im to make all the arrangements: though, for their
success, he should mainly rely upon her self-posses-
sion and the skillful acting which had alrcacy ren-
dered her so valuable a confederate. He would meet
her at the fort, promptly at half-past eig].t, with a
clergyman and two witnesses, friends cf his own
whom he could trust, and a certificate fillcd cut,
save with her signature, which she must wiite as
well as possible in the starlight, as it was imycrative
that the clergyman should not he alle to reecguize
either of the _ contracting paities until alter
Casey’s identity had been cstablished as a certain
wealthy old gentleman’s son and heir.

Aud the girl’s heart thrilled with anticipation at
her lover’s letter. 1t secmcd as if that long, eventful
day would never pass: thcugh she ccmn-enced in the
afcerncon to array herself {or her tridaJ, as carciully
as if an assembled multitude were to sci utinize the
arrangement of her bair and the texture of the 1uf-
fles at Ler throat. It wesfclly, she knew, ard laugbed
at it, but pursued it all the seme; tor to “Icck her
prettiest,” was a bit of wcmanlinecs that would Lave
its way. And, indeed, she attracted not a few
glances as she entered a Harlem-bound car. Her
toilet, inexpensive as it was, set off to the full her
dark, bold charms. It was a new suit of some jaunty
epling goods, enlivened with pipings and tows of
rich cardinal, and fitting yertectly; and a flaring
hat, with bright front trin mings, and a drcoying
plume, placed far back upen her corenal of braids,
added to the beauty of her sj a face.

It was a dusky spring night, sultry and still; so
stil! that Dora could hear every throb of her elated
heart as she sped along the path to the fort, some-
times stopping an instant to make sure that 1 foot-
steps followed her. For, secure as she believed her-
self, at last, from Slideli’s espionage, she knew that
a possibility still existed of his keeping watch of her
movements: and eager as she was to assure her
marriage to Canton, she was as anxious as himself
that those plans which he bad built upon the stolen
confession. of the dead actress should attain fruition.

But all was silent, silent as the grave, save an cc-
casionai chirp of sume sleery swallow, or the faint

iping of joyous insects and stealing into the fort

ora found herself the cnly occupant of the lonely
place. She passed out, again, into the dusky at-
mosphere—sweet with the smell of growing gl acses,
and heavy with the epicy odors of blocming shrub-
bery and leafing trees, and paced restlessly up and
down, preferring to wait in the dewy night, than
withix the gloom of the old walls. How inte: minable
the minutes seemed! Would Casey never aj pear?
Suppose she had been watched, and followcd, and
so cauced his detection? What wculd ccme cf it?
Could all of Mrs. St. Martyn’s money convict him of
any crime? She thought not, so long as she held her
peace. Dora ot, not know when crce aman isin
he clutches of the law how much may be ciscovered
concerning him.

“One, two, three, four,”~-she would count, and
then stop, straining her cars and holding her breath,
while she listened for her iover’s coming, ¢rd then
commence again. She could hear the tirlling of
the car-bells, the roll of carrieges, the ring oi merry
voices, through the sultry silence; but—wculd there
never come another sourd?

Ah! yes! A carriage stopping near; then the
stealthy approach of springing steps, and a form
just discernible!

“Casey! Is it you?”

“Yes, cae One moment, and { will be with
you! Stay just where you are!’

Dora’s blood suiged excitedly through her veins
as she waited fcr Lis reappearance. And then, for
one brief happy instant she was foided in his arms.

“Be very calm, my beauty,” he said, quickly re-
leasing her. “TI have explainec everythirg to the
clergyman to save you any questioning; and you
have only to respond softly to the service,” and he
Jed her just within the walls of the fort as the others
of the party appeared.

There was a hasty falling into places, and the ser-
vice, short but impressive, commenced; the bride and
groom giving scarcely audible answers to the sclemn
questions asked them, and trembling visibly as they
were pronounced man and wife, and the newly-made
husband slipped a heavy golden circlet upon Dora’s
finger; but an instant after, when he brought her
the certificate to sign, and led her into the airagain,
he had quite regained Lis usual calmness. _

“That will do,” be said, as the gil scribbled her
name, in the starlight, with the pep he handed her,
holding the paper upon a book; ‘*and you shall take

| charge of this, deary,” though he still retained the

little roll in his hand. ‘‘ Come, now, my friends will
attend to era) the fee, and seeing the parson safe
home, and J will put you in your ca i Your
carriage! Th t sounds grand, doesn’t it, Dora?
But I hope my beauty will never have to travel in a
meaner way.’ ma : :

“You are coming with me, Casey?’ she questioned,
coaxingly, as they reached the waiting coach,

“No, darling ** he whispered, carelessly sti ping
the certificate into the pocket of his overcoat, an
folding Ler in a swift embrace. ‘I have an engage-
ment for to-night, and, besides, it would not be wise.
I will sce you soon, beauty. Good-night.”

He closed the door upon the strangely-wedded girl;
and as he did so the driver, leaning from his perch
with cigar in mouth, drew a match across tLe front
wheel, nearest the gentleman—the little blaze for an
instant flashing full across his fine form and hand-
some face, z

““Confound you!” the man muttered, apes
swiftly aside, but not so swiftly that Dora tailed to
catch the brief revelation.

She put out her hands with a startled asthe
horses, given whip and rein, dashed away. man
she had seen was Casey Canton—but! i

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE TREFETHEN BALL.
_ One she found

With all the gifts of bounteous nature crowned;,
¢ But one whose niggard fate z
h estate. —DryrEn.
Ir was avery unusual sight which grected the eyes
of passers pee Broadway the evening of old si,

eS
 

‘DIVORCE

Trefethen’s ball. The granite mansion was re- |
splendent with ens from the great s.lons upon the |
ground floor to its topmost window; and canorous |
with mingled hum of voices, jubilant laughter and |
ecstatic music. ‘

Without, the porches, and the piazzas transiently
erected for promenaders, were festooned wiih vines
and bunting and hung with starry lanterns; a car-
peted archway, spanned with light, stretched from
the doors to the widely-opened gates where deferen-
tial servants received the rapidly-arriving guests;
and the entrance to the house, itself, was under a
canopy of ny and bloom; while, within, tropic
plants, masses of cut flowers, and a profusion of
vines and foliage, transformed the great somber
rooms into a wilderness of beauty.

At the head of the first of the stately swite of
apartments, the walls around him hung wich the tri-
color of France, the imperial flag of Germany, and
the brave, bright ‘Stars ‘and Stripes,” stood the
stately old Frenchman welcoming his throng of

ests, for few who had been favored with his invi-

tion but had gladly accepted it, curious to know
how the long-inhospitable mansion would look, and
its eccentric owner do its honors.

Supported by her SPs », the dazzlingly-beauti-
ful widow, stood at his right hand his adopted
daughter — graceful, dariig, winsome Sydney;
whom, but a few months before, he had brought un-
conscious across his threshold, with her pretty head
lying against his shoulder and awakening within
him the spirit of his dead youth that had so long
slumbe under the icy crusts of anaes bitter-
ness and ek: Most lovely the girl looked,
and as regally ladylike in her youthful dignity, and
beauty, and glow, as Elinor St. Martyn in her ma-
turer charms. Herdress was of soft, creamy-white
lustrous silk embroidered with delicate bands o
flowers and trimmed with a fringe that shone and
quivered with her every movement, like a line of
prisoned sunlight; while rows of rosy pearls, her
adopted father’s gift that day, lovingly clasped her
round white throat,and plump arms, and banded
the golden hair that waved from her brow to a high
graceful knot, shafted with a joweled dagger.

The two women—the chaperone and her proteqee—
blondes _as they both wero, contrasted splendidly;
among Elinor’s bronze-hued locks ran a river 0
folate, sunshiny gems—great Indian topazes, whilo

ie yellow-hearted stones clasped, here an:| there, the
black lace robe—a miracle of art—that draped her
qneenly figure and lent to her baro arms and bosom
a milky whiteness; and hundreds of cyes rested ad-
miringly upon the two—one so magnilicently beau-
tiful, the other so girlish and fair.

Upon Mr, Trefethen's other side stood his sister,
in the splendor of velvet and diamonds, aud his
niece, pale, and tall, and earnest-faced, and looking
all her high birth in tho nobility of hor carriage and
the becomingness of a court-train of garnet velvot
worn under a dress of lace and pale blue satia.
Certainly, that night, there was nothing in Miss
Leuthold’s well-bred, quiet manners, that her be-
trothed could have characterized as “shy” or
“awkward.” She had bloomed into womanhood
within the weeks that had passed since Gilruth had
thus mentally criticised her—reserved, earnest, gen-
tle, but full of the pride and will that she had inheri-
ted from a princely race; and there were not afew
of her uncle’s guests who regarded admiringly the

leasant-spoken young for ign heiress, who, if she
acked something of the Trefcthen beauty, certainly
lacked none of the Leuthold dignity.

It seemed along time to Beatrix before the pre-
sentations were over—perhaps because she was look-
ing so expectantly for her cousins, wha were late in
arriving, and she was glad when Gilruth at last
appeared, and lingered at her sido until she was free
to mingle among the throng, leaning upon his arm.
She had met him once since that delicious Sunday
they had spent together, and he had sent her a
splendid token of their engagement, with a devoted
littla note—that she hadtreasured as sacredly as a
Mohammedan treasures a scrap of the Alcoran.
And, yet, it was with as much dread, as pleasure,
that she had slipped the diamond upon her finger
and gone ay 0 the parlors, to receive the con-
ulations of her mother and uncle, and Mrs. St. |

and Sydney, a presentiment that for all his
affectionate letter, and his faultless manners, she |
would yet discover Griffis less loyally Joving than
herself. And, if so, despite the publicity of her
engagement, the gossip to which she would be sub- |
oak the heart-sick pain she must bear, he should
ave back his freedom.

“Do tell me, Griffis,” was ker first question, ‘if
there is any truth in whatI havo heard hinted to-
night, ie Gertrude and Count Kryiof are en-
as is sine true, though marvelously sudden, I
had _ no idea, myself, (2at-he was in love with Ger-
trude; and sho had never seemed to fancy him; but
it came about, in some way, at Mrs. St. Martyn’s,
—e pido 3 oe appear really in earnest
about it, thoug And as it is a desirable match,
father has bestowed his blessing, aud the young
couple are becomingly happy alamode.”

“We must find them, and your father and mother,
as well. I wish to offer my congratulations.”

Indeed, congratulations were the order of the
eve . Tho news of Griffis’s betrothal had spread
like wild-fire through society, followed hard after by
the rumors of Miss Gilruth’s engagement to the dis-
tinguished young Russian. And, as compliments

oured ia upon them, Beat ix persuaded herself that
CS cousin must be thoroughly satisfied with their
relations, when
pe eres Oh, how earnestly

lieve SO

There was one person who was utterly confounded
at the news of Couut Krylof’s engagement, and that
was Sydney Trefethen. It was Gillette who mecn-

 

he so smilingly accepted all tho
© wiched to

tioned it. j
“Eng to Gertrude, Guardy? To Gertrude? I
don’t understand it! And you do not care?”

“Do I not care? Ceriainly not, except to hope
that they will be happy! Why shouid I, Sydney?

“T thought you were engaged to her yourself,”
she said, honestly.

“T can surmise why. But you ent’rely misinter-
merece scene, which I hope you will speedily

orge
“Ofcourse! Oh, how glodIam! Jt would have |
ry hoart to kave you mary her. 1 am not

 

| when he ap}

D BUT NOT DIVIDED.

25

 

sure that it would not, to have you marry any one”
—smiling up at him, tenderly—* but, oh! to Ger-
tiude! It would be dreadful)’

“Does your antipathy to Griffis extend to the en-
tire Gilruth family?” trying to speak lightly.

“On, no!” quickly, and dropping her eyes, “Ido
not dislike Gertrude, but she is frivolous: not half
worthy of you!”

aoe Y’ laughing. ‘And you really “do dislike

“T believe I hate him,” she said, oa

“And who, of ell the gentlemen who like you, do
you love, Sydney ?”’ he asked, still jestingly.

“Not one! just_love you, uardy—you, and
Papa Trefethen, and Mrs. St. Martyn; only I have
not known them long enough to open my heart to
them, as to you. So you see I cannot endure a
rival, yet, while I am—lonely! Yes, I am lonely!’
looking frankly into his kindly eyes, ‘I am just
finding it out! And you must not fail me now!”

“Poor girlie!’ he murmured, as, having made her
confession, she flitted away, to look after her guests;
and his glance grew stranzely grave, as it swept to
where Mrs. St. Martyn, leaning upon the arm of
Myron Lossiter with whom she had just danced,
stood chatting with Beatrix and Griffis.

For the first time since-she had met him, Beatrix
was not quite satisfied with Rossiter’s face. She had
always thought him exceedingly well looking, until
now that she came tv compare him with Gilruth
and Gillette, who stood a few paces away. He lost
by contrast; though she could scarcely define what
it was that he lacked. He was tall and finely form-
ed, faultlessly attired, and had straight handsome
features, splendid tawny hair and beard and mus-
tache, and sparkling eyes. But there was a distin-
guished air about Lucien and Griffis—a certain grace
of frankness—that Rossiter had not,

Yet, he was intensely devoted to Elinor; and in
consideration of their early romance, wiy should
not she come to wed him since neither of these other
men was eligible—Gilruth betrothed, and Gillette—
well, he was only a painter, after all—moneyless
and rankless?”’ 4

“Griffis, would you mind getting me an ice?’ she
eaid, ina kind desire to leave Rossiter to sole enjoy-
ment of Elinor’s companionship.

“Certainly not. One moment—pardon my intro-
ducing business matters,” speaking aside to Elinor;
but I forgot to send you word that Slideli has given
up his position—left Mrs. Lane’s, yesterday. He
says he is tired of doing nothing.”

There was a sharp click at Elinor’s side. Rossiter
had been playing with her fan and broken two of
the dainty ivory sticks.

¥ Surely you have employed some one to take his
Pp.

lace?”?
“Is it worth while? Why not give up the whole
business?”’

“T cannot,” said Elinor, resolutely. ‘I must
think it over,” and she turned again to her escort.

“*See what I have done,” he exclaimed, holdi
up the om toy. “I cannot understand how
came to handle them so vigorously.”

“T think I can find it in my heart to forgive you,”
she laughed.

“T will prove that assertion by calling upon you
to-morrow, and replacing it with a new one,” he re-
torted, quickly.

“Make the call by all means,” she responded,
courteously; ‘* but pray forget the other matter.”
a would not accept so slight a favor from
me

‘“Why not?” she asked, simply, unable to define
something in his tone that meant more than any
idle sentiment or tender passion.

Rossiter smiled faintly and lowered his eyes to
hers in a searching gaze that made Elinor grow cold
with some intangible fear. She shuddered as a lit-
tle group of friends gathered about her, and ho
walked away to. seek Sane who had promised
him the next dance. t was it that the man
meant? why did his glance fascinate and frighten
her? she kept asking herself, while she responded
gayly to the remarks of those around her. And it
was not until Lucien Gillette. made his way to her
side, for the first time that evening, that she was

| able to dismiss Rossiter from her min

She had been waiting eagerly for the artist to seek
her, and yet sbe was most unlike her brilliant self
ared—almost haughtily silent. But
Gillette exhibited no consciousness of her mood.
He would not compel her to talk.

6 ~ you care to dance, Mrs, St. Martyn?” he
asked.

“No; I will promenade.”

She placed her hand upon his arm and they moved
slowly through the rooms, Elinor gracious and smil-
ing to her See ce Lucien gravely silent. It
was not until they stood opposite the painting,
** Womanhood,” that he ventured more than a stu-
diously courteous remark.

‘I wish we were alone,” he said, ‘“‘and I should
like to tell you the story of those pictures.”

“One is never so much alone as in a crowd,” she
answered, calmly; “and 1 should like to know if
your ideal is embodied in this picture.”

“Yes,” his eyes upon the glorified face in the
painting—‘‘ a woman who has learned that love is the
only earthly passion that can satisfy the heart, and
recognizing the soul and not circumstances, is ready
to resign position and fling away wealth that she
may summon her heart’s sovereign to share with
her her | fe.”

“You do not mean, surely, that your ideal woman
would renounce these things that the world accounts
good—wealth, and luxury, and rank? Why should
she? It would be her dearest pride to bestow them
upon her lover!’ Elinor’s blood was afire; her heart
beating suffocatingly; she found herself powerless
to combat the vehement passion with which this
man inspired her. And yet, «nly in the depths of
her violet eyes, as she raised them to his, did she
betray the sweet madness that possessed her.

Lucien dropped his grave, desperately earnest
oer to her face, and for one moment Mrs. St.

artyn knew that he was trembling from head to
foot, while he regarded her with a passionate long-
ing that made her long to cry out with alngled fear
o joy; but almost instantly he controlled his migh-

emotion,

“But,” he answered her, “what if he will not
accept such gifts? A man may give all, or give
equally, but be cannot receive all! He de a

 

proof that love is king—a proof that all the world
T read! And when he waits for the woman
he loves—but the woman whom the world regards
as his peer—to bid him dare come and rule over her

heart, he must be sure that he goes to an undivided
kingdom.”
‘““How much you ask!” she breathed, her e

es
wondrous troubled, and yearning, and passiontul,
drooping beneath his glance that seemed drawing
her heart from her bosom,

“Too much? Too much—that I would meet my
wife on equal ground? Too much—that I would
claim man’s divinest good—to labor for the queen
of his life? Too much—that I would kave my Love
from her pinoy hight, bid’me hope and aspire?
Too much?”

“No! no! no! You cannot ask too much! Ifa
woman loves, what will she not give!” speaking in
the same concentrated tones that he had used,

And then—was she glad or sorry, that Sydney
came and carried Gillette away to an engagement he
had made and almost forgotten? She could scarcely
tell; che only knew that she seemed consumed by
the tumult of her passions; she longed for a mo-
ment’s quiet and coolness. Near, was an alcoved-
window, opening out upon one of the long piazzas
that had been erected for promenaders; Elinor
hastily songs the shelter of the heavy draperies,
and so stood, in the shadows, watching the couples
who walked to and fro, just a band’s breadth from
her. But she did not long enjoy her retreat un-
molested.

‘Mrs. St. Martyn? Alone? Thisis a kind Fate!”

It was Rossiter’s voice, and it made Elinor turn
icy cold; but she would not look at_his face.

“T do not understand why you should consider it
s0,”’ she said, coolly.

* You do not?” his voice breaking into violent, un-
controllable passion. ‘‘And will you never? Does
no sweet memory steal into your heart and tell you
the truth?”

_“‘T fail to comprehend you, Mr. Rossiter,”’ haugh-

tily.
Yor to recognize me? Chvristabel! Christabel!”
Her face gathered a sudden swift, white horror,
as she lifted it for one instant to his; she tried to
turn away, but failed; Rossiter caught her in his
arms; she fainted.

 

CHAPTER XXX.
WARP AND WEFT.

You must obey me soon or late;
Why will you vainly struggle with your fate?
—DRyYDENn,

Exryor Sr. Martyn was but briefly unconscious,
Without any outcry or disclosure whatever of his
companion’s state, Rossiter bore her in his arms
across the piazza, into the heaviest shade of the fes-
tooned flags and greenery, but where the night air
came full against her face; and supported her there,
calmly fanning her with the jeweled toy he had
broken earlier that evening. He knew that, high-
strung as was her nature, and sudden as had been
the shock of his disclosure, she was too strong a
woman to be dangerously, or even physically, affect-
ed by it. And he had not mistaken ber,

Presently, with a little moan, Elinor opened her
eyes, realizing inthe instant that she saw Rossiter
at her side, and with his arm about her, all that his
low, passionate cry—“ Christabel! Christabel!’’ had
meant. There was but one man on earth who could
have spoken that name, and spoken it as he had
done—that man, the husband of her youth—Jules
Letronne.

She had never forgotten him, His memory had
haunted her throvgh all her brilliant, successful life.
For years she had feared a meeting, yet had never
ceased to think of him with sharp, self-remorseful
pain. Then had followed atime when she had almost
wished that their paths might once mcre cross; that
she might again come within the ken of Jules’s ex-
istence; that she might dete: mine, by the Ught of
her maturer judgment, what manner of man it was
whose le she had never been quite able to shut
cut of her heart. And then, as if fate-sent, had come
that summons from a dying woman—summons to
hear and undo a wrong—a wrong to Jul. s Le(zonne ;
and in a passionate, inexplicable impulse to atone
for a past ee which she could never,feel
wpally. guiltless, she had given her promise to find
him. That she had failed, had been through no fault
of hers. As emotions strangely new to ber fought
their way into her heart, and—cespite her pride, and
her will, and her attempt to defend herse. ‘ainst
them by strengthening ber careless bond to Griftis
Gilruth—took entire possessicn of her soul, and fore-
shadowed to her a bliss of which she had not. here-
tofore conceived because she hed never yet truly
loved, she had determined with the more penitential
cnergy never to relinquish Ler efforts to be true to
her pledge to Jules’s mother, And—now—Jules was
here! He loved her, and, as in the old cays, bad
spoken that musical name of hers whigh no other
person had ever used!

In an instant of time all these things flashed
through Elinor’s mind. Beyond this she dare not
go. Rossiter stced silent, motionless, grave, at her
side—one arm still protectingly about her. She
drew herself away, almost with a shudder, and
searched his face with her heavy eyes,

He smiled, ancy

“Tam charged with my wanderings to and fro
through foreign lands? Sixteen years—yes, seven-
teen, is along time. You have changed, too; and
yet I have never Zorgoten how you would look,”
with a touch of gentle pain in his voice; * you have
lived in my heart, Christabel!”

Elinor had turned again from the handsome,
bronzed face with the sae beard and mustache,
and paow heir lying above ihe flushed brow,

“‘T should like to go home. Will you get my car-
riage for me?” she said, simply.

“As you wish. Will you go this way tothe hall
and dressing-rooms? It is less crowded than through
the parlors.”’

She suffered him to lead her along the lantern-
lighted piazzas, and escaped up-stairs. She spoke to
no one; she scarcely allowed herself to think; che
moved as if in a stupor. When che reached the
floral canopy without the doors, Rossiter was wait-

for her. He did not address her until rhe had
entered the carriage and motioned him to close the
SS

—

Se

a Se

 

 

26 DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

 

 

door. Then he leaned upon the framework of. the
window.

“| may come and see you to-morrow?”

““Why should you?” she flashed out, suddenly.
“We are nothing to each other. By what right do
you ask?”

“By right of the love I have borne you through
all these weary years, and that has forced me, at
last, to humble myself once more at the feet of the
woman who was my first, as she is my only, love.
And by another right, Christabel, of which you do
not dream, I ask one interview.”

“Come,” she said, faintly, and was driven away,
the man looking after h r with a face that was inex-
plicable in the sublety of its many expressions.

Mrs. St. Martyn’s presence was too distinguished,
and her society too popular, for her not to be speed-
ily missed; and much polite wonderment was
aroused by her sudden disappearance; but Myron
Rossiter held his peace, and Miss Trefethen was the
first to make an explanation. Elinor had sent her a
message, saying that, feeling ill, but not wishing to
worry or annoy any one, she had quietly retired;
she hoped that Sydney would convey her apologies
and regrets to Mr. Trefsthen, and Mrs. and Miss
Leuthold, and assure her friends that it was a very
slight indisposition, indeed.

Lucien Gillette was the only person who attached
unusual importance to this message. He remem-
bered_ Elinor’s dilated, passion-deep, violet eycs as
they had met his, and her low, level, but softly
solemn confession:

“You cannot ask toomuch! If a woman loves
what will she not give?”

And yet, the force with which she had held her
emotions in check, as if resolved that ill, and not
impulse, should control and guide her! Did her
haughty spirit revolt against the tenderness in her
heart? Her unconquerable pride stand between her
and a surrender of all she had held of high account,
to love of aman her inferiorin station and fortune?
He was filled with vague alarm, and a thousand ex-
quisitely tormenting doubts, while Myron Rossiter,
his unsuspected rival, moved gayly and carelessly
among the brilliant crowd.

“Will you dance, Miss Leuthold?” Rossiter asked
of Beatrix, to whom he was talking.

She assented, quietly. She had hardly heeded his

leasant, trivial conversation; she was watching

riffis; and unconscious as she was of_the serious,
respectful, interested espionage, she, herself, was
being watched. Ralph Webb, from where he was
chatting with Miss Trefethen, was making a_study
of the young foreigner’s manner and face. Sydney
had been furtively conscious of this for some little
time, before she laughingly accused him of his pre-
oceupation.

“T’m not in the least jealous, Mr. Webb; but I
really should like to know what you are thinking of,
Miss Leuthold?”

He smiled good-humoredly; but regarded Sydne
with a peculiarly searching glance as he answered:

“T was thinking what a pity it is that Gilruth does
not care for her.”’

“And ho ¥ do you know that he does not?” ques-
tioned the girl, quiclly.

“Do you think he does?” quizzically.

“Tt isnot fair to turn the tables upon me in that
fashion,” retorted Sydney. ‘* Butif youreally want
my opinion, you will find if most aie to
Griffis. I doubtif he truly loves any one but him-
self, or cares for anything but his own pleasure!”

She did not answer bitterly, nor sarcastically, but
with a half regretfulness of her own harsh condem-
nation. The gentleman looked at her, curiously.

“T do not agree with you. I believe Gilruth cares
for one woman; but is too weak, or too selfish, to
break his engagement to his cousin.”

“We might better,” replied Miss Trefethen,
calmly, ‘‘evenif that woman despises him, than to
marry Beatrix Leuthold. He will break her heart.”

“That is what I think.”

Sydney gave a little unconscious sigh. ‘ Beatrix
is splendid,” she said, ‘‘ and passionately fond of her
cousin. The best one can hope for heris that she
will never learn the truth.”

“T hope, rather, she may learn the truth; learn,
before she marries him, that he cares absolutely
nothing for her!”

“Tt would almost kill her,” said:Miss Trefethen,

met

t ph Webb smiled. ‘Women’s hearts can en-
dure more than you think; and Miss Leuthold is
proud and strong. She would suffer, but she would
get over it.”

Sydney looked incredulous; she did not pursue the
subject, however, though she marveled when, a
little later, she saw the -humored bachelor
promenading with Beatrix, that he exhibited so
much interest ina woman he scarcely knew, when
ae the ladies of his world he had long been re-
garded as wholly unimpressionable.

But that interest Beatrix seemed fully to recipro-
eate. His pleasant, genial, courteous manners, so
different from those of younger and more flattering
men, reid won upon her friendliness and sympa-
thy; and the girl was tranquilly contented in his
companionship, and quite unconscious of how lon;
a time they were spending together. For Ralph ha
found her a chair in the bay window, just adjoining
the end of one of the piazzas; and, secure from ob-
servation, they could watch not only the gay scenes
within the -room but the little flirtations upon
the end of the near promenade. But intent upon
some description of her native land, into which her
escort had led her, neither Beatrix nor Mr.
Webb noted or recognized the white-robed figure
that iad come last among the shadows of the bal-
cony without, until a voice the latter instantly knew
for Colonel Russell’s, asked softly.

- this you, os nna eee

ou a) pear 0 fo’ ave ested you
not to addres me so familiarly, Pisane” do hot re
peat the offense,” was Miss Trefethen’s freezing re-

sponse. | .

“ Nonsense! Are you never going to drop those
little airs and pive mea definite answer to my pro-
posal? It not do to trifle forever! I shall not
eternally keep my heart at your feet!” in a voice so
Se levotion and vexation that it were

to decide which emotion predominated.
“It is you who trifle. I have told you that I care
nothing for you. I meant it! and mean it still!”
with the utmost coldnecs,

 

3

 

“ And I still tell vou that you do not mean it! You
are rash, indeed, if you think to choose higher! I
love you, Sydney, and you must, you shall, come to
me!’

The girl’s anger blazed.

“Never! And if you flatter yourself that you do
me an honor in asking me to marry you—knowing
as you do my history—let me undeceive you! Your
presumption is an insult! I do not love you, and
without love I would not marry a king—though I
hold myseif the equal of earth’s highest sovereign.
It is not circumstance but soul that distinguishes
the gentle from the lowly bred; and you are not
half enough a gentleman forme! Now go!"

The colonel walked away with his insufferable
conceit, which had persuaded him that the girl must
sooner or Jater grant His suit, woefully wounded at
being baffled; but his fury was nothing to what it
would have been, could he have guessed that every
word of the little drama had reached other ears
than his own.

“Did not you think Sydney was grand?” asked
Beatrix, presently, to relieve the embarrassment of
the situation.

“Yes! And it pleases me vastly that it was Rus-
sell who so suffered at her hands. He deserves it.
Miss Trefethen’s extreme youth and beauty ma;
have fascinated him; but he is not worthy of her,”

“Sydney seems to be very_much admired. I
wonder whether she will marry Mr. Gillette? I have
ees so, though uncle Octavien appears to think
not.”
**No; she is fond of Gillette, and he of her, which
is perfectly natural—as I suppose you_know; but
his heart i3 not lost there,” smiling. ‘ Will you let
me take you down to supper, Miss Leuthold?” rising,
suddenly.

“Certainly; but I must get one more breath of
air, first. What a dark, sultry night it is forspring,”
and she arose and stood full in the window, and saw
} ust the sight which Mr. Webdb had sought to spare
ner—Sydncy coming back along the promenade
with Gilruth at her side.

“Will you not change your mind, Sydney, and
dance, to-night—just once, with me?” Griffis was

saying.
aaa: answered Miss Trefethen, briefly, but de-
cide: lly.

“Sydney!” he exclaimed, standing still. ‘‘ Are we
never to be friends?”

“Never,” she said, simply. ‘Shall we go in?”

Beatrix put her hand on her companion’s arm,
and went away, quietly. She was neither Sey
nor at rest; she was thinking deeply. When she
looked up, consciously, she found her companion
regarding her with an expression she could not
fathom, though it called a deep blush to her face,
and made her vaguely sad, even while it drew her
nearer to him in sympathy.

Ah, if the many hearts being blindly and cruelly
tortured by fate might but discover, for themselves
sais indifferent observers could so plainly tell

em

 

CHAPTER XXXI.

MY CHILD.

“T yet shall be possessed
Of woman’s need—my small world set apart!
Home, love, protection, rest,
And children’s voices singing through my heart.
“By God’s help I will be
A faithful mother and a tender wife;
Perhaps even more, that He
Has chastened the best glory from my life.

“‘ But sacred to this loss
One white sweet chamber of my heart shall be;
No foot shall ever cross ;
The silent portal séaled to love and thee.”

fF Exinor breakfasted, alone, in her boudoir, the
morning of her promised interview with Rossitter.
She ‘spent a sleepless night and her face was
worn aud white, and her eyes heavy. Whether she
could have cared for this man, who had captivated
her fickle girlish fancy, had he come back to her
sooner, she could not tell; for now—with every tu-
multuous throb of her heart at thought of him, she
knew that she loved Gillette. And loved him with
the madness of a matured woman’s first sweet devo-
tion. For, through all her two and thirty summers,
Elinor’s soul had slumbered, undisturbed by any
breath of passion save her childish fascination for
Jules Letronne, and her half-remorseful, half-senti-
mental memories of him.

Her father’s discovery of her marriage, and furi-
ous anger at herslf, and hatred of her young hus-
band from whom he had hastened to assure her that
she was divorced, had been followed by the death of
her mother; and a year later the proud home in
Boston was dismantled and the banker removed to
New York, taking up his residence at a fashionable
hotel, and introducing his daughter, then scarcely
seventeen years old, immediately into society,

The young belle a one very brilliant season,
made a tour of all the fashionable eae
and came back to town, to wed Burdette St. Mariyn
—a_ man old, irritable, ugly, in every. way his girl-
bride’s inferior in \refinement and breeding; but
famed for his riches, Many ple wondered how
her father could sign and seal his daughter away to
the withered widower; for, that she, herself, had no
liking for the match, was plainly to be read in the
face whose girlish beauty had frozen into statue-
like pallor, coldness and immobility; and there were
those who could still recall the pray crested head
but deathlike countenance of the young bride, as, in
the presence of a brilliant throng, she stood at tne
altar in Trinity.

But the wonderment died quickly away, as all
pee ‘urores do, before the bridal-party returned
m their tour in the States and set sail for forei
lands; and no one guess, not even those who
met her upon the old man’s arm, with that icy look
upon her face and that proud, defiant Hent her
eyes, what manner of life the girl-wife led. The
couple took up their residence abroad, the million-
aire surrounding his bride with every icence,
and only herself knew the awful agony of the bond-

age Elinor endured. ’

She was twenty-five when her husband died, and
she blossomed out into a beauty that, as well as her
immense possessions, captivated halt the men who
came) within ite influence; but with one galling mari-

 

tal experience branded into her life, Elinor’s lovers
found her irresponsive to their passion and disdain-
ful of any second surrender of herself. It was not
until she had wearied of her gay life abroad, and
was surfeited with adulation in her native land, that
she allowed the womanliness within her to resume
its sway, and ie for some new, and untried, and
tender interest wherewith to fill her heart. It was
this uncontrollable craving for affection that be-
trayed her into listening to the pleadings of Gilruth,
who had long been a favorite friend; a mistake—as
ber heart taught her, more and more surely, until
she recognized, even while she believed that h' cared
for Sydney, that the artist’s was the hand that could
vee Bikey masterful touch the sweetest springs of
er being.

Then, and not till then, she ceased to dream of her
brief, unhappy, girlish idyl. And now—

Elinor arose from her breakfast, leaving it un-
tasted, and summoned Taylor.

“ell Carl that I will see but one visitor this morn-
ing—Mr. Rossiter;” and with that she shut herself
into her dressing-room, and threw herself upon a
lounge, where she lay motionless—but thinking in-
tently—until the summons that she dreaded came.

She arose, then, very calmly, and bathed her face,
and put on a splend d trail ng dress that added to
her grace and dignity, and went coolly down to meet
her caller.

Her mind was made up. She did not love Jules
and she did love Gillette—and—oh! dearer truth !—
she knew thet Gillette loved her! She would not
put her great joy out of her life, because of that ro-
mance of her girlhood. If she had wronged Le-
tronne well, she had been nothing but a capricious
child, and influenced by her father’s awful anger,
and she had sorrowed for it often, But they ad
been legally divorced, and had lived apart all these
years, and she would not give him any hope. He
must go away and let her alone.

Much of this she said to Rossiter, with a decided
but gracious enity while he listened with his eyes
fixed upon the floor, and an unfathomable expression
upon his face. When she had finished, he crossed
the room, and stood looking down at her.

“Christabel,”’ he said, entreatingly, “I have been
true to you for_years, and ceaselessly dreaming of
this day, when I might be in a position,again to woo
you. You will not refuse me your love, now?”

“T must, Jules. I have none to give.”

“Ts it because I cannot trace my birth back toa
oud, ancestry?” he asked. ‘Can Gillette do

2

She had not mentioned her lover’s name, and it
smote her like a rough blow to hear it upon this
man’s lips.

“We are talking of yourself,” she said, more coldly
than she had yet spoken; ‘‘and I possess_certain
knowledge that Iam in honor bound to tell you,”
and she pithily related the dying actress’s words—
“So, you see, I have reason to believe that your an-
cestry is, perhaps, as high as I could wish.”

The man listened, attentively. ‘This is a strange
story,” he said, ‘‘and I had believed my mother
d years ago.” Then, with an impatient, passion-
ate gesture: “ But, what is it to me if you will not
share any good fortune I may discover? Otherwise,
Ishall go away without even an attempt to fathom
this mystery concerning myself!”

_ “That would be an unreasonable thing for a sane
man to do,”’ she replied, with bag sarcasm.

“Ay! But I am not a reasonable man, nor a sane
man, if you talk to me of resigning the one hope of
my life!”

» She was silent.
“Do you hear me?” passionaley: ;
“Yes; but if you use that tone, I must leave you,”

she answe! ig.
* “No! no! Christabel,” pu her back in her
chair. “ You must listen to me! If you will not love
me,” speaking imperiously, “‘at least you shall not
marry any one else!”

“Let me go, sir! You forget that you have not

wer over me!”’

ke, Christabel! You will hear the
truth? You are yet legally married tome! Whether
you will or not, oe are my wife!” in slow,
deliberate sentences, while Elinor looked into his
eyes with a horrified, charmed gaze, that she was

powerless to withdraw.
; “There is no enrollment

He went on, merc:
whatever of our divorce in the records of the Boston
courts, and if there was, it could not hold good in
law since I was served with no papers, andlafforded no
opportunity to answer any charges or specifications,
ou were never legally divorced from me! aua
you were never leg: married to Mr. St. Martyn!
and you cannot le; marry any other man'”

Elinor shivered from head to foot, and yei his eyes
held her in that awful thralldom. There was suience
for a minute, and then he said, more quietly:

= Pia since you are * ‘e, will you not let me
stay with you and care for you? In time you may
come to love me, darling.”

\ She was aroused, now, and put up her hand, as if
to shut cu’ the sight of his face.

“No, never! Never!”

* You have no pity, Christabel! Think of all you
have made me suffer!” 3 ,

“And God knows I repent it, ifit was ever the
halfjI suffer now!” she said, with dry lips and

onized eyes. “ But I car not come back to aon I
wil not! 1 do not love you! We can obtain a divorce
af ! and—I ee

s eyes flashed, wrathfully.

“You care to make yourself the theme of ue
scandal? To have your whole life discussed, bit by
bit, by all New York? To proclaim that for seven

ears you lived witha man who was not your hus-
band? To all of the St. Martyn wealth.to en-
Gis ho wn pt ace ah

who ps,
when once sor pame has been. ny oe?
-and down the land .

The slow, ee sentences made ass:
Pride delicacy, love—all were ae ed by
the barbed words, that were woefully Yet she
reared her ae haughtily.

“Gol” she said, peep . “If I wronged you, in
ee ee now, and we our
separate lives. Unless you drive me to desperation,
you say well that I will not let the world make a by-
word of my name, and amuse itself with aa
But, if you press me too far ”"—she wrung her hands

 

—
 

 

together—“I will do anything! Oh!” with a pitiful
cry, ‘‘that one could unlive one’s youth! How I
cursed mine!”

“Then, Christabel, why not become the guide of
eng child—that hers may not be cursed?’’—he said,

na meaning, intense way.

‘My child! My child, Jules!”

She sprung from her chair, and stood breathless,
with wide-wild eyes, and a face that was a revelation
in its intense, yearning, queeeenin’ gaze.

“Our child, Christabel. She lives. Your father
deceived jo when he told you that it died at its
birth, and your old nurse shall tell you whatI am
saying now—that our child lives.” 3

‘My child! My child!” still rung over her lips in
an _ ecstasy of wonder and joy. My child! Oh!
Jules, bring her to me!’ And then she sunk back
into her chair, and dropped her face into her hands,
and wept uncontrollably.

“Dear Christabel, soon, very soon, you shall see
her—if you will go to her! wi you, sweet wife?’’
and he kuelt beside her and put his arms about her.

 

CHAPTER XXXII.
OVER AT LAST.

The last link is broken
That bound me to thee,

And the words thou hast spoken
Have render’d me free. —Ssr

“Win you not stay with us, ma petite?” Mr.
Trefethen said to Sydney, wheu the mockingly
prilliant lights shone upon deserted parlors, heavy
with the odors of dying flowers

“Not to-night, really; since the carriage has been
sent back for me, and Mr. Gillette has s.ayed to
take me home. Iam anxious, too, to see Mrs. St.
Martyn.”

“Where is Gillette? Ah! here! Come tome at
luncheon-time, then. Ihave something to say to

‘ou,’’ and the old gentleman kissed the gi-l’s brow,
teas Lucien good-morning, and leaving the salon
5 tas ees sought rest after his night of unusual

on.

Sydney and Gillette were strangely silent during

drive. Neither seemed inclined hs talk,

“T should like to hear how Mrs. St. Martyn is,”
the latter said, when they stood at the door of her

home.

“IT will ask for you,” replied Miss Trefethen, as
the sleepy waiter responded to their ring. ‘ Carl—
a you here, Taylor? Is Mrs. St. Martyn really

“She looked very ill, indeed, but complained only
of a headache,” the maid answered, respectfully.

“Thanks! [will call sometime during the day,
yj oa and Gillette lifted his hat andran down
the steps.

But he was destined not to see Elinor that day,
nor for many succeeding ones.

“How is it that you areup, Taylor?” asked Miss
Trefethen, kindly, asthe woman took her wraps
and followed her up the broad stairway.

“ Bertha seemed to be feeling poorly, and, as Mrs,
St. Martyn would not need me, I offered to take ner

ae an I help you? Shall I brush out your
air

“Yes, thank you; but you need not have waited.”

“It is nothing,” answered Taylor, deftly unclasp-
ing the pearls from the young girl’s neck and arms,
and helping her to remove her exquisite dress,

Sydney held a warm place in the woman’s heart,
because of her fondness for Myra, whom she volun-
tarily instructed in what she herself learned on the
one! and gavo lessons in singing, the chill

wing developed a rare and precocious talent for
music, both vocal and instrumental. Waren Miss
Trefethen was arrayed in a dainty, long white dress-
ing-robe, and loun sed restfully in an easy-chair be-
fore the mirror, the maid commenced to brush the
bright, beautiful mass of golden locks.

“Your hair will never darken, Miss Trefethen,”
Taylor remarked thoughtfully, presently.

“You think not? M’s. St. yn’s was as golden
as mine once, and see how it has changed.”

“But there is some fair hair that never does. My
mother’s never did.”

“ And her’s was like mine?”

“Not exactly; it was not as pretty—sandier.”

“But no doubt you thought it lovely. I thinkI

on earth, if I o ad one.”

“And I hope you would not have broken‘ her
heart,”’ said Taylor, in a low, swift way.

“Did you do that?” very gently.
as t fearso. The bitterest partis not to know.”
“Why, Taylor, where is she?” turning round in

surp!

“Dead, lam afraid. I went back to Milford once,
but she was gone, and no one knew where. I have
never heard of her since.”

“Milford! What was her name?" demanded Syd-

ney, breat. .

* Goodrich+Jane Goodrich,”

The girl sprung up and seized Taylor's hands in
hers with a delighted ery.

“Why, your mother ‘was the best friend I ever
had! nee ee dare think where I might be now,
if she had not found me a homeless, runaway child,
vn sheltered me, and taught me to earn my own

ing.’ . ;
bs Wind agg is—” Taylor stopped, with a catch in

er breath. .

“Dead? Yes,’ answered Miss Trefethen, gently.
“sit down, you are not able to stand, and lt me
talk to you;” and while the maid cried softly and
bitterly, Sydney told of Mvs. rich’s later life, of

her death, and of her burial in the little New ie

land e. “And at the last,” she concluded,

“she confided to me what she knew, and what she

feared, concerning you; and how she had come to

New York to find you, and be near you, and had,

walked the streets at night, and searched for you by

until she had grown hopeless. But she left a

letter for you, and her love—not that she really sup-

d I should ever come across you. Howstrange-

gs happen! ShallI getyou the letter? And

‘Ou may go; you will want to read it alone,”

and the young girl hastened to deliver into Taylor’s

- hands the packet for which she had never dreamed
of finding the owner. | ’

“How strange things bappen!’’ she repeated,

when spe bed sont t.@ maid away happy bub tear

 

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

27

 

ful, with her treasure. And then she put out the
light, and lay long in the darkness thinking; ending
with a little woeful cry, before she fell asleep.

“Guardy, youare dearer and dearer to me as we
grow further apart! I do not believe there is an-
other man in the world like you; I know there is not
one—not one—that I will marry! Oh! if I only had
a mother to love.”

When, at a’later hour, Mrs. Trefethen awoke, she
found a tiny nots from Elinor upon her dressing-
table, saying that she was still suffering from a
headache, and sent Sydney her love, as she should
keep her room, undisturbed, through the day. So
the girl prepared to drive immediately to Mr. Tre-
fethen’s. ‘

“Well, papa, are you quiterested? Mrs, Leuthold,
I hope you are none the worse for the tiresome
night, Where is Beatrix? Not ill?” questioned Syd-
ney, as she entered the room where luncheon was

aid.

“Here I am—to answer for myself. And I am
finely, thank you; but I fear mamma and uncle
Octavien are a trifle used up.”

“Sit down, sit down, petite. Yeu must stay to
breakfast, or juncheon, whichever it is,» commanded
the Frenchman.

“Tf you insist,” laughed Sydney, “since I could
not think of letting you enter upon the tt.-w-tete you
promised me, without refreshing yourself.”

“And yet you are all curiosity to know its im-

rt?”

Puy must a guilty to a little of that feminine
weakuess; but I think I can wait with becoming
nen papa,”’ taking her seat at the table, by his
side.

‘The repast was a light one, and more time was de-
voted by the ladies to the discussion of the ball than
to the viands; but Griffis Gilruth’s entrance was the
signal for rising.

‘Now, papa, I am all anxiety,”’ suggested Sydney,
in an undertone, and with a careless bow to Gilruth
she followed the millionaire to his study.

“It is a proposal, petite,” said old Mr, Trefethen,
coming directly to tue point. ‘‘I have received an
offer for your hand, from one of the wealthiest men
in New York—Albert Shelly.”

“ And you said, what?”

“That the answer must depend upon your wishes
in the matter.” :

“How good you are! For I cannot marry him!
Thank him, please, for the distinguished honor he
confers upon me, but say I cannot wed a man Ido
not love.’ 7

“But you scarcely know Mr. Shelly. You might
learn to love him.”

“Never! Oh, do not urge me, dear sir.”

“I have no such intention. 1 want you to be truly
happy, married, or I prefer that you should not
marry at all: for if the time comes when you can
give me your promise never to wed, I will make you
the heiress to my entire fortune; and you shall try
what Satisfaction the pleasures of wealth can se-
cure.’

“You are kind; but I do not wish to usurp
Beatrix’s rights,” she said, simply.

“Beatrix will inherit all the Trefethen estates—
abroad; she will not need my money, Perhaps you
will not.”

Syduey smiled, faintly, as she went out of the
room. She was wondering whether, indeed, she
should ever need it; or—should she’ marry?’ She

thought not.
You are not going, yet?” asked Beatrix, who was
promenading the hall with her betrothed.

“Yes, I must. The carriage is waiting forme. I

‘shall see you soon again. Good-by.

She passed out upon the piazza, Miss Leuthold and
Gilrvth idly following to the door, and stood waiting
for the horses to come around the circular drive.

* Allow me,” said Griffis, descending the steps and
er her hand as the footman opened the carriage-

oor.

“No, thanks; it is hardly necessary; and she
flung _ aside his clasp with a foolish, impetuous, self-
willed movement and—lost her footing. She could
not fall far, the carriage was too near; but the mis-
step between it and the piazza hurlet her violent!
against the sharp framework of the ee Gil-
ruth hastily gathered her in his arms, and Beatrix
never forget the look upon his face as he saw the

| eruel cut the blow had left across one fair temple.
should blindly ee rat my mother the fairest woman |

As he brought her in, he was a3 deathly white as the
fainting girl in his arms.

“Take her to my room,” said Miss Leuthold,
calmly, “‘ while I call Mrs. Wallace;”’ and though she
went along the hall to the housekeeper’s parlor
without looking back, she knew, as surely as she
had seen the act, that her betrothed kissed the sweet
pale face that lay upon his shoulder.

“Is she much hurt?” Beatrix asked, when Griffis
joined her in the parlor.

““T—I—cannot tell. I hope not. They have sent
for Dr. Rhodes.”

He walked to the window and stood looking out.
What a change had come to his face. It was weary
and haggard. Beatrix sat and watched it, for a
while, in a sort of cruel frenzy. She was not debat-
ing what she should do. She knew well. ‘She real-
ized, beyond any further doubting, that the perce
tions that in the earliest days of her meetin with
them, had affected her concerning Griffis and Syd-
ney, had been an unerring consciousness. Long
fore he was in the least cognizant of it himself, she
had discovered the latent ‘ion that had suddenly
bloomed into full, fierce being. She should have
been guided by her instinct, then. She must hasten
to retrieve her error, now. She would send this man
—this man that she een be happ with
her adopted cousin—her rival in every one’s heart!
It never occurred to her that Miss Trefethen might
scorn her gift of her lover.

For a minute longer she sat still, finding a sort of
bitter medicine to her own sharp pain in seeing that
her cousin was suffering. Then she cr the
room, andspoke hisname. Something in her voice
startled him, He turned quickly toward her.

«., Griffis,” she ¢>mmenced, in rapid, level tones,

I have been miserably untrue to myself, du
these weeks past, in_ re’ to believe what my
heart told me when first I came here—that you do
not love me! I have tried to beguile myself into be-
leving otherwise; but to-day has taught me the
truth, Take back your ring, and release me, if you
plcase, from our troth.”” ;

“Beatrix, you are sure you mean this? That you
will not repent it?” he questioned, hastily.

““Can you look into my éyes and swear that you
care for me, asa man should care for the woman
he is about to marry? No? Then know that I would
sooner die, than be united forlife to a man whose
heart was not filled with as pure and fervent a pas-
sion as my own!”’

“Tam sorry for this, Beatrix,” he said, slowly.

“Yes, know. You have meant todo yourduty
by me, ause, years ago, Our parents pledged us
to each other. ‘That was where the mistake com-
menced. But you owe me no ‘duty that is not
[incom ese by your heart. I hope Sydney will soon

better;”’ and she turned away.

Griffis caught her hand.

“ Beatrix, I assure you nothing but the merest
commonplaces have ever passed between Miss
Trefethen and I. Until this hour,1 did not know
how much I cared for her!”

“TI understand. I could not do Sydney the in-
justice to believe otherwise,” she said, with un-
meditated sarcasm, and she went out of the sulon
with such slow dignity, and unmoved face, that Gil-
ruth could not realize what a deadly blow had been
struck at her heart,

But Sydney knew, when, slowly coming back from
her stupor, she heard through the door, half
opened in Mrs. Leuthold’s room, the pleading ery:

“Mamma, let us go home! Oh, take me home!
I cannot live if we do not go back.”

 

CHAPTER XXXII,
A HEART TRAGEDY,
Oh, suffering, sad humanity!
Oh, ye afflicted ones who lie
Steeped to the lips in misery,
Longing, and yet afraid to die,
Patient, though sorely tried.
—LonGFELLow.

GiLteTrTr’s call at Mrs. St. Martyn’s, the day after
the Trefethen ball, elicited the same polite answer
accorded to a score of others: Mrs. St. Martyn was
receiving no visiiors. But, determined not to be put
off thus, he directed the waiter to announce to his
mistress who it was that wished to speak with her,
only to learn that Elinor declined to see him.

utely as he accepted the cruel decree, it burned
its way into his heart with scorching pain, He
knew, from inquiry, that she was, if ill at
all, but very slightly so; and it filled him
with agonizing alaim, that she not only would
/not see him, but sent him not the smallest mes-
sage. He turned away, slowly and _lifelessly:
when, suddenly, the decor opened behind him, ard
blithe steps came rapidly down the stoop. It was
Myron Rossiter—his form held proudly erect, his
face aglow with triumph, his eyes shining with ex-
ultant joy. He had seen Elinor. Gillette realized it,
and with an awful soul-sickness, before Rossiter
Sa bg tea ote oun

“Ah! . lette; Mrs. St. Martyn was co: not
to admit you, but she is suffering a trifle with a
headache ; and felt_only adequate to meeting—very
intimate friends. You know, if she received one
acquaintance, she must serve all alike.”

e two men—both of princely hight, and both
handsome—paused upon the pavement, looking into
each other’s eyes; one with smiling, victorious face,
the other with a glance of intense repulsion and un-
wavering scorn. It seemed to Gillette that he should
kill Rossiter, een there, insolent, successful,
smiling; and yet he held himself so powerfully in
check that not a muscle moved of his gid body, his
clenched hands, his sternly wrathful face. cr a
full minute he 1 garced his rival with that fixed gaze
of utter abhorrence and contempt, and then walked
silently a.

There bad been no mistaking Rossiter’s exultant
meaning; and, if Lucien bad tried to doubt it, there
were the facts of Elincr’s treatment of himeelf, and
that she had gianted an audience to this man who
had come joyous and triumphant from her presence.
In all his years of unremitting toil, and desperation,
and almost horelessness, the artist had never suf-
fered as he suffered now, when he knew that the
prize for which he had striven eo Jong, and had so
well-nigh won, was lost to lim forever, It was a
desperate, €xcruciate consciousness, that almost
overwhelmed his senses, rye and meprtal. He
walked to his studio, in a blinded, stupefied wa
thinking of his pain, and wcndering how he could
bear it, as if he were some pitiful other person, look-
i on upon the throes of agony racking bis soul.

eaching there, he locked himself in, darkened the
windows, and then threw himself upon the flcor. It
was a long time before he moved. How long he had
lain there, outstretched upon the cold, fanciful
wood-carpeting, whether days and wecks, or only
hours, he cculd not tell. He knew that he bad not
slept, had only suffered, dun ye all the while. He
raised himself, slowly—he was faint and weak—and
drew up ashade. The streets were dark and silent.
Lowering it again, he lighted the gas and locked at
his watch, It had stcpped. Then he glanced about
the room, turned on a flood of light, and seized
palette and brush.

He was actually vnecnscious of how, or what, he
painted; he did not even ncte the colors he might be
using; but there was a strong necessity upon him
of exercising physical force, and he worked, despe-
rately, until rays of sunlight stcle in like ghosts, and
flickered shadowily in the glare of the gas; then
turning cff the lights ] e went to his boarding place.
It was Saturday, and he had been absent since

ursday.

When he had bathed, and shaved, and breakfasted,
he returned to his studio a self-conquering men.
Only in the sadder eyes, and graver expression of
his earnest face, could the most acute observer have
detected the shedow ‘that had fellen on Gillette's
life, or the traces of the terrible battle he had fought
with self for his own soul.

He entered his painting-room with a firm step, and
a ~ resolution to be even more devoted to his
art. Not that he weakly dreamed that ambitious
aims or world-wide fame could fill his cron heart;
but because he knew that it was right to live, and all

worthy livin, th in
some obj ue must have in view the attainment of

 

As he closed the door, and hastened to fll tho
room with air and sunshine, bis night's work stood
 

SAN re ee cee ey

See

Aenean

 

 

 

 

revealed to him—the face of Rossiter—smiling,
triumphant, insulting, but with the spirit of a fiend
jooking out at the scintillating eyes. The artist
stepped toward it with a shudder, and wrenching it
into bits, thrust it into the grate and set fire to it.
He could never work with ‘Aut in the room!

Indeed, for the present, he seemed to have lost all
powerto paint. He essayed to complete one of some
small unfinished pictures, but failing, locked his door
and took his way to the club-room.

The first person he met was Ralph Webb.

“Why, Gillette, where in the world were you this
morning?’’ he demanded, abruptly.

“Why? I—have been away since Thursday,” re-
cognizing the necessity of saying something, and
making a statement that was literally true regarding
his spiritual self.

“Why? Imissed you st the steamer, of course!
You do not mean’’—Gilette, perplexed face sug-

esting to him a startling possibility—‘‘ that you are
oun of who sailed for Europe this morning?”

“ Yes,” answered Gillette, his lips dry, his voice
sounding, to himself, hard and unnatural.

“Old Mr. Trefethen, with his sister, and niece, and
ward, and Elinor St. Martyn.”’

Gillette leaned upon the
which he stood, to steady himself.

“Gone to Europe! All of them! I cannot under-
stand it,’’ he answered, pressing his hands across his

eyes.

‘Nor I! though I can surmise a few things. But,
Gi lette, my dear fellow,” hesitatingly, ‘I thought
you, - least, would know of Mrs. St. Martyn’s move-
ments!’ .

** You see I do not,’’ said the artist, quietly.

“Well, there is a mystery at the bottom of it!
And I suppose before-night the gossips will have a
fruitful subject of conversation; for thereis a rumor
abroad that Mrs. St. Martyn has gone to Europe, to
marry that handsome fellow from England, Rossiter
—and that he was an oldlover. Certainly, I never saw
her so unlike herself—colorless one moment, flushed
the next, and almost insanely excited.”

“He went, too?” Gillette could not bring himself
to mention his rival’s nane.

“IT suppose so, I was only with them_a few min-
utes. It was by accident, merely, that I was there
at all—and as they appeared anxious to avoid pub-
licity, L felt that I was a1 intruder.” ;

“There were no acquaintances to see them off?”

$ pay two—the hour was very early—Judge and
Mrs. Gilruth. Griffis was not tnere;” with ironical
emphasis, :

‘Well? You think—”

“T don’t think at all. I knoe that he has behaved
like a brute! Jilted his cousin! I hops the voyazs3
may do her good, for she looke1 wretchedly this
morning, It sorve him right, if Sydney Trefethen
reUillette looked up with ed

lette looked up with surprised inquiry.

** You think he cares for her?”

“T am sure of it.””

“ And Sydney?”

“You ought to know her, better thanI do. I be-
lieve she lixes him, and I believe, too, that she is less
infatuated with him than most women who hava
been so unfortunate as to care for him. Whether
her pride or her love, her strength or her weakness,
is stronger, I cannot tell.”

“ Sydney is wonderfully proud and heroic; but—”

“ Women’s hearts are past any one’s comprehen-
sion, eh?”

‘ Yes,” said Lucien, gravely.

Ralph glanced furtively at his friend; but if he
deemed that the artisc had suffered within the days

t, he gave so sign.

& Gillet .” he remarked, presently, “will you
drive with me? And then we will coms back here
and dine. If you will, [’ll send right around for the
horses.” .

Lucien assented. He was inno working mood, and
the ride might do him good,

“T have found a note here, for me, from Sydney
Trefethen,” he said, in a very strange tone, when ho
joined Mr. Webb in front of the club-house.

“It contains no ill news?” with an anxious glance
at Gillette’s pale face.

“Tt only confirms the rumor you mentioned. Mrs.
St. Martyn is going to live abroal.”

“Dear Guarpy,” Sydney had written, “I cannot
imagine what you will think wien T tell you that I
sail for Europ: on to-morrow’s steamer, Iam glad
to go—I am not happy here—but it grieves me not to
be able to see you, though I shall not bs many weeks
away, and will write you a long letter as soon as wo
are s arted. Now, is confusion—and mystery;
and Mrs. St. Martyn has begged me not to ask you to
come here or to take the steamer. JI vaguely guess
why. She is going abroad to live, and as Mrs. Leu-
thold and Beatrix wish to get back to Germany, they
have decided to go at the same time,
and I accompanying them. I am to live with
when I come back. Dear, dear Guardy, remember,
evar. there is one who loves you or and
that is— )YDNEY."?

The contents of the note were graven upon Lu-
cien’s mind. It was with difficulty that he kept up
a_casual conversation with his companion; until
We startled him with the announcement:

“Gillette, I am thinking of taking a run across
the ocean ina week or so, and I should consider it

the greatest favor you can do me, if you will accom-

bac A me.”
*“Oh, no! No!” said the artist, hurriedly.

“There neel be no unpleasant cont etemps, you
know—at least, we could choose where we would
go. I wish I could induce you to prove your friend-
ship_ by accepting me invitation,’ he ‘added, deli-
cately. ‘‘ Do not decide just yet, but think it over.”

They had driven through the park, and in the
vicinity of hth avenue and Ove hundred and
Third street halted a moment to enjoy the splendid
view of the distant convent and the arches and tower
of 4igh Bridge.

- tis the excitement down here I wonder?”
Ralph remarked, as. they rode slowly on again, and
noticed that many persons left their carri to

up the path | to the old fort. And then

. Trefethen
him | Byg:

 

repeated the question to a lad who was pass-
Meche: toe can roe yo
‘Oh, that is it, Poor fellow! Perhaps he is just

as well off, though,” Mr. Webb remarked with easy
philosophy, as they drove away.

It was late in the day when the gentlemen return-
ed to the club and their dinner, and sat at table look-
ing over the afternoon papers.

“Ah! Here is an accouut of that tragedy in Cen-
tral Park!” exclaimed Webb, lightly running his
eyes over the sensational report. Gillettc, too,
singled out that item upon his sheet. Then—

“Great heavens!” trembled over his white lps;
_ he sat staring into Ralph Webb’s equally startled

ace,

CHAPTER XXXIV.
SELF-SACRIFICED.
Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.
—TENNYSON.
Sypney’s hurt was not dangerous, though it was
for the time ugly; and ina few hours she insisted
upon being driven home. She was possessed of a
strange excited sense of having in some way

| wronged Leatrix; of having come between her and
| happiness; of haviug been responsible for the pa‘n
ck of the chair against |

in that anguished ery:

“I cannot live if wedo not get back to Germany.”
She knew, as well as if she had heard every word of
the surprised, indignant and pitiful conversation
that followed it, that the engagemeut between
Griffis and his cousin was broken; and though she
was unconscious of what had brought it to ayna!e
she pitied Beatrix, in an inexplicably remorscfu
way, and fe:t an unreasoning dread of meeting Ler.

But she had no need to indulge this fancy, as she
realized when, just previous to her departure, there
came a slight tap at the door of her room, followed
by Miss Leuthold’s entrance.

“You will not stay Sydney?”

“No;Iam anxious to go home.” Then with a
little tender cry, she ene the room, and
threw her arms about Miss Leuthold’s neck.

Beatrix could not fail to understand what the
tone meant.

“Yes, it is_all over, Sydney,” sho said, tearlescly,
but without further effort to repress the expression
of woe upon her face.

“T am sosorry for ro whispered Sydney, lifting
her great bluc eyes e oe to her companion’s,

“You need not be. It is better so; andit is all
right now. Oh! mamma was so angry and amazed
atfirst! But when I told her all I had suffered, and
believed and disbclieved, and that Griffis was as
miserable as myself, she relented. Of course it is
much worse for all of us that it should happen im-
mediately it had been made public; but mamma
and I are going home, and pcople will soon get
over talking aboutus. And uncle Octavien is £0
kind. For the first time, Sydney, lam notafraid of
him. I love Lim.”

‘Why, Beatrix! Yes,he iskind; and he grows
kinder every Cay; but your cousin—is a wretch!”

* Sydney! he is not to blame! is I.. He has

* Syd he i to bl It isl... He h
meant to keep his cngagement honorably; but I
feared from the first he cid not love me, and yet
stupidly tried to persuade myself that he did, in-
stead of compelling a cefinite understanding. It
was any weakness that has made us all so unhappy.
But—Sydney—I had never Lada lover, end have
been brought up differently from you American
oo who are emart, and brave, ond self-reliant.

ou and Griffis will forgive me—will you not?”

“T and Griffis! What is he tome? I have noth-
ing toforgive, Beatrix!’ twining her arms about her
adopted cousin.

Miss Leuthold made an attempt to emile—such a
sad attempt it was—as she arose to accompany
Sydney down-stairs.

“Good-by, Cousin Sydney. I hope you will come
to me often, as long as Iremain here.’

“IT wil,” answered the girl, seriously, kissing
Beatrix adieu.

Reaching hemo and finding that Elinor had given
coun orde s that no one should disturb her,

sydney went cirectly to her rcom, and threw her-
self upon a couch to ceck the rest che sadly needed.

“Aren’t you coming down to dinner, Miss
fydney?” questioned a little voice, when Miss

refethen had lain so long that the room was
full of shadows. ‘“ Mrs. Allison is allalone and has
invited me for company. Bunt I wish you would
come.

“Ts it dinner-time. Myra?”

‘*Yes, ma’am. Have you been arcleep?”

“Asleep! No, indeed!” with a bitter laugh, “I
have been thinking.”

** And sorry thoughts?” The child was peculicrly
sensitive to every variation of sound.

“Sorry thoughts! Yes! 1 am ready now, little

”

me.
“But eon is the matter with your forehead, Miss
ney?”

Me I ht it to-dey and it is eee up.”

“Dear! Dear!” said Mrs. Allison, deprecating-
ly, when she saw it. “Mrs. Sr. ey ought to
know it! Iam afraid it will make you ill!”

“Oh, no! There is not the least danger; tho doc-
tor has attended to it and says so,” replied Sydney,
gently but listlessly.

Mrs, Allison’s eeeety was not allayed, however,
when Sydney ate but little, and was oe pale
and qu’et; for she could not know that the girl was
listening, nervously, for a familiar ring at the door
—a visitor she felt would come that night. And her
intuitions were unerring ones. Before they arose
from dinner Griffis Gilruth’s card was brought her—
he having learned, by sending to his cousin Trefcth-
en’s to inquire for her, that she had returned home.
. With the card still in her hands the girl went to

er fate.

“ Sydney!” Griffis exclaimed, the instant he caught
asight of her pallid face, ‘vou ought not to have
come home. It was too much for you!”

“No; 1 am not ill,” she answered, calmly, moving
row the room and dropping his card upon a little

able.

“But you look unlike yourself! Oh! Sydney, I
cannot bear to see you so! For—listen to me, Syd-
ney !—I love you!—love you!—love you!’ And then
in a torrent of ardent words he confessed the over-
whel ess of the — that had taken pdsses-
sion of his heart, his ility to brook

t dreams of a future devoted to

fervent . a
begged her promise te begome his.

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

 

 

Miss Trefethen listened with intense, unfathomable
quiet. But when he ceased speaking, and reached
his hands out eloquently to her, ske stepped back
with indescribable haughty dignity, and her clear,
defiant young voice arrested ‘hini with words o
scorn that cut into his soul like stcel.

“Marry you, Griffis Gilruth? Never! I want no
remnants of love flung at my feet! To the man I
wed I have nothing to offer save myself. ButI shall

rive heart and soul. I shall dream cf no grander
n¢dom on earth than that over whichamy husband,
my king, shall reign supreme! I shallask God for
no more exceeding swectness than to kneel at my
husband’s feet, and look into his fond eyes, and hear
him murmur, ‘My wife,’ and know that with the
— of those words he means that I am his all in
all! And you, Griffis Gilruth, who have made love
to scores of women!—you, whose troth has been
pledged to Elinor St. Martyn, only to be reclaimed!
—you, who have been engaged to your cousin for
years, and have broken her heart and taken back
your freedom that you might address this new
phase of your ever variable passion to me!—expect
me to find myidealin you? Never! Iwantamaen’s
honest all of love—a husband to trust and honor—
or none!”’

Tho girl’s blue eyes flamed with commingling
emotions; her breath camo in swift, sweet, obbin
gusts over her curling, scarict lips; her white throa
pulsed fiercely; her cheeks glowed like pascsionate-

ued blooms; forshe had epcken with a vehemence
born of scorn, and anger, and pity, and pain, that
shook her, body and soul, like some terrible vcleanic
outbreak,

Griffis listened with all the eager a dying out of
his handsome eyes, the splendid glow in_his face
changing to a fixed, deathly whiteness. He looked
as if some powerful hand had dealt him an infamous
blow. He uttered no word, but turned dumbly from
the pulsing, yroud, passionate figure, and went si-
lently away—a changed man—every woman who
had suffered at his hands avenged through this mor-
tal wound that Sydney Trefethen had dealt him.

And, when once he was gone, the color died out of
Miss Trefethen's face, the passion died in her eyes,
the breath upon her ii os, and she dropped upon the
mossy carpets—powerless, hopeless, but never quite
unconscious of her great misery. For in punishing
Griffis Gilruth she had taken Ler own heart in her
hands and let outits life blocd. She loved him—had
loved him from the first—and now she knew it!

But, Sydney was not long in acquiring a semblance
of self-control. She was young, and strong, and

sroud. She would live for years, perhaps, always
bearing about with her this pain, and she could not
ecmmence, too soon, to live that others should not
suspect it. £o —T slowly, she crept to her own
room, where Elinor found her later, with her white
face buried in the pillows of a Turkish lounge.

“Sydney, are you ill?”

“Oh, no. I made a misstep, to-day, when I was
getting in the carriage at papa Trefetben’s, and cut
my forehead. slightly. It pains me a litle.”

Gently, but ey core Eknor turned Sydney's
white, eee face to the light.

“Poor child!” she said, caressingly. “I am afraid
it is not £0 slight a hurt as you say; or—something
else trovbles you, Eydney.”

“Yes,” frankly; “Griffis Gilruth’s engagement to
Beatrix is ended, and on my account! And then Le
had the audacity to make love to me!”

“And you do not love him, Sydney?” with cearch-
ing, sorrowful Se j

A vivid color burred for an instant in the girl’s
deathly face.

“1 told him that I wanted no remnants of a love
he had wasted on ecores cf women, nor a heart that
had been fickly et to others.”

“Sydney, Griflis is a little spoiled, pcrhaps, but a

rilliant man and—”

“Mrs, St. Martyn, I never wart to hear his name
again!” interrupted Miss Trefethen, with uncontrol-
lable passion.

Elinor tock the girl’s hand kindly in hers.

“Poor child! Your troubles have just commenced!
Mine are—” She stopped, suddenly, and began «
new sentence. “Sydney, Tam gome abroad, ¢
Saturday morning’s steamer; and I may never ccu->
back to this country.”

“What has happened, Mrs. St. Martyn?” cried
Miss Trefethen, raising herself and forgetting her
own ericf in the ciscovery that Elinor’s face .gave
signs of intense ee

. “Very, very much! I cannot tell you all, now;
but I will some day. Ihave written and dispatch
aletter to Mr. Trcfethen, expl some of
my history, and plans, an co! ing
— I shall leave all my own matters here, for m:

awyer to attend to, but I must vide an immedi-
ate, if not permanent, home for Mrs. m and
Taylor; and I hope to arrange for them to go to Mr.
Ob, Trish you were not golug! Not got

wish you were no! ing! . Ing so!—
Net go at all!” cried Sydney, 80] ef 5
considerate to press any questions, but weighed
cown with the sense of some uncomfortable mys-
tery. ‘‘ How can I spare you?” and she put her arms
ebout Elinor’s neck. ft :

“Dear ~ hive was all Mrs. St. Martyn answer-
ed. But she drew the golden head to her shoulder,
oo — her feverish face against the girl’s co!

ee!

‘ CHAPTER XXXvV.
THE SHADOWS AROUND THE DLOCK-HOUSE.
Ah! from real happiness we sirey.
By vice bewildered: vice which always leads,
owever fair at first, to wilds of woe. -
‘ —THoMSsON. .
Tue night of her bridal was one of keen wretched-
girl whom
Casey Canton had Her ee with
her lover had been brief and unsatisfactory, she had
been driven home without her certificate,
Fee te oat doa ting is Co
ough not inexplical ou
sey *s evident desire for its concealment.
suspicions, that found no relief in the
ploring letter she had hastened to write
only increased as the next day sped without b:
ing her an answer. At ite close, the furious
ay desperate

?
ote

}

~we

~

—

?

‘DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

29

 

 

———_
that Casey mect her, tho next night, at their nace
ed trysting or, failing, prepare to accept t 7

lace,
fullest revenge she Could work out for him. An
having mailed this missive she waited, with the iin-
atience and blind mage of aprisoned animal, forthe
our when next she should see the man whose des-
ba she imagined she held in her hands.

With the occurring of her marriage, Dora abruptly
terminated her flirtation with Jack Rowe, refusing
him any interview with her, and treating him wit
the most insulting coldness and indifference. And
she was too engrossed with her own unhappiness to
notice with what jealous eyes, and expression of
subtle triumph, he regarded her, the once or twice
she crossed his path, He might be sentimental and
foppish; but he was jealous and vindictive as well;
elements of character concerning which the girl who

~ had deliberately deceived and fooled him, had nci-
ther reasoned nor reckoned. And when the hour
came that Dora once more set out for her distant
but secluded place of rendezvous with Casey Can-
ton, she did not goalone. A companion of whom
she little dreamed stood silent and moody upon the
front platform of the car she occupicd, and dogged
her steps as pertinaciously as another shadow fol-
lowed after his, This time, the girl did not enter
the Park by the private entrance on Eighth avenue,
but at One Huncredth street, and 2 so swiftly
along the dusky walks that it required considerable
effort, on the part of her self-appointed guardian, to
Keep silently near her.

At last she turned off into a rocky path and pre-
sently emerged upon the more open space at the
left side of the fort. Keeping in the densest shade
her companion crept after her. The girl stole softly
to the iron door,

“Casey!’’ she whispered.

'_ There was no answer. Then she passed noiseless-

y to the narrow ledge at the back of the stone pile,

tanding in tho footpath, almost hidden by a sleuder
pine, was a dark 0.

“ a Of

“Well,” a voice answered, coolly.

Dora made a motion to fling herself in his arms,

, but he held her coldly away.

“You are a rash, nonsensical girl!’ he said, irri-
tatedly. “If you had waited, I would have explained
everything!”

“You can explain everything now!” cried Dora,
her pent-up passions breaking forth. ‘You can
give me my marriage-certificate! And you can tell
me why you are so ised that had [ passed you
on the street I might not have known you! And
you can say why it is that you did not want me to
discover your attempt at masquerading! I will not

your fool any longer! Iam your wife and I will
know all your doings.”

“Well? Have you finished?” he asked, sneering-
ly, coming very close to her agitated, throbbing

igure. ‘* And do you wish to know one of your own
doings? You sted upon marrying, and since
you were so very anxious to be made a wife, I helped
you to attain the wish of your heart; but I took
good care not to marry you myself! You are the
wire of Ja-k Rowe!”

*Casey, youlic! Tow dare you tell me that?” her
voice husky with passion.

“That is not ladylike talk, my beautiful Dora;
and I tell you the truth! 15 is the reason I forgot to
let you havo your certificate. But Rowe has it! Go
home and ask him for it!”

“Casey, you are trying to deceive me and I will
pm you for it!” she exclaimed, in uncontrollable

‘ury.

“No; the only deception I have practiced was
when howe and I changed. places at the perfor-
— of the ceremony. And you will not kill

e!

“No!” she enunciated, hoarsely. ‘ You are right!

I will betray you!”

“No, 7! retty friend, you will not do that,
either! IfI ti oug t 80, 5e¢ how easily I could send
you to your death among these rocks, wit)out a hu-
Tan being near to save you, or detect me!” and ha
threw hisarm about the girl and almost held her
over the rocky precipice,

“Let me go!”’ cried Dora, chokingly, struggling to
free herself,

There was another struggle among the shadows at
their left. Dora’s con ed guardian has made a
motion as if to spring forward, and had found him-
self suddenly a captive, with ahand pressed power-
fuily over his mouth.

“Be quiet!” was whispered in his ear. ‘‘ Youknow
me—I am Slidell, and a detective, on the track of
that scamp, there. I want to hear all that I can be-
fore I arrest him.” }

“Thave no intention of hurting you, if you will
listen to reason!” Casey resumed. “I. only want to
show you what I shall ‘not peak pr to do, if you in-
terfere with me!” and he looked sternly into her hor-
rifled face. ‘‘I am the husband of one of the richest
women in New York, and by this time to-morrow
we shall be hundreds of miles away. And even if
you could tell ny wife your little story, which, re-
member! would implicate yourself, since you were
the robber and not I, think you she would listen to
you? Or, = that she gave you an audience,
and even that she ved you, do you imagine she
would for one instant act in the matter other than
by her great wealth and influence to shield her hus-
band’s name from infamy—regardless of what fate
overtook you?” t

Dora breathed hard, like some raging animal
brought to bay. But she recognized that Casey was
too powerful an antagonist for her to conquer, and
was silent.

Now,” he went on, coolly, deliberately, ‘Rowe
loves you, and you owe him some redress for fooling
him, even thouzh, with m: bois he was not quite as
much your dupe 2s you thought. Go home, and live
with him, and Will settle a handsome marriage por-

ticn upon you.
2 1 You wretch! I never will ac-
eed i ck Rowe as my husband! I will die
9

“Oh, well; suit yourself about that; but it would

ba _a pity to throw away life so s00"!”’ mockingly.
be Butlotme tell you this, that as surely as you say
a word about that of jewelry an pers
that to uw ‘our
own ae! sank as = a —
furnish you abundant spending-m 3

1 shall claim another fortune Desidas my wife's.

|-_been brought home; but in such a violentl:

 

Breathe it, though—and you cannot escape my
vengeance!”

“Casey! Ihate/ ha‘’e! hate you !” the girljhissed.
“Oh, how I want to kill you! 1 should joy in it!”
and in her frenzy she threw out her hands, in an at-
tem:.t to push him from the narrow foothcld.

“Take care, you fury, or you will tempt me to do
that for you! You had better go—if you can hold
your peace!” roughly seizing her hand.

“Tecan! LIswear it!” cried the girl, relapsing into
deadly fear of him.

“Then go! And you had better consider awhile
oe you throw Jack overboard,” he added, taunt-
ingly.

Dora wrenched her kands madly away, turned
from him, almost insane with rage and fear, stum-
bled into some one’s arms—the arms of a man who
had stood among the shadows at the side of the fort
—and, overcome by the sudden shock of this new
terror, her senses entirely des:rted her. The wife
Jack Rowe held in his arms was a ravin| maniac.

The girl’s piercing shriek, as she felt the clasp of
Rowe’s arms revealed to Casey that their meeting
had been discovered; but the warn: came tvo
late! Almost at the same instant, a heavy hand
fell upon his shoulder, and a stern voice announced:

“‘Casey Canton, I arrest you for the robbery of
certain papers and jewels belonging to the late Mrs.
Christabel Letronne!” .

The prisoner uttered no sound, but made an awful
struggle for freedom, in his desperate attempts to
escape, scuffling with his captor all along the edge
of the — foothold, until they were upon the little
plateau at the right of the Block House and just
above the greatest hight of the natural rocky wall
upon which. it was built. Then, with a super-
human effort, Canton sought to throw the detec-
tive. But Slideli was prepared for this wile, ant
proved the tronger man of the two. With an unex-
pected movement he disengaged himself from the
murderous hold of the desperado, and Canton was
flung headlong downward.

It was still early in the morning when Gilruth was
apprised of the night’s work and hastened with the
detective to the hospital whither Canton had
been taken. And it was with difficuly he could
credit the evidence of his own senses when he dis-
covered that the man who lay in a dying condition—
but unconscious, as he had been from the instant he
had struck the rocks in his fatal fall—was—Myron
Rossiter! i

Yhe doctors thought it doubtful if the patient
rallied from that stupor; but anxious to improve
even a possible rational moment, Griffis left the do-
tective with him while he liimself rode full speed to
the Inman steamer upon which Mrs. St. Martyn and
Rossiter had taken passage for a

But, paeey as the panting horses bore him to tha
pier, Griffis was too late to communicate with Eli-
nor. The steamship had already swung loose from
her moorings, and by the csiue of her noisy tuz was
rapidly moving out into the liver; and with a
glimpse of one gclden head surmounted by a severely
plain, boyish hat—a head he woul have recognized
as far as he could see the user eo glinting against
the yellow hair—Griffis turned an ly away,

iving his driver orders to get back quickly to the
ospital. But these he soon revoked, and presently
rung at the door of Mrs. Lane’s boarding-house. _

Hove confusion, fright and grief prevailed. With
the assistance of a carriage and a policeman y— had
insane
condition that the doctors, who had been hurriedly
summoned, declared that she must be immediately
removed to an asylum. And to thissorrow had been
added the horror of Jack Rowe’s confession to Mrs,
Lane of his own connection with her dau.shter, and
all that he knew concerning Dora’s relations with
Canton. Griffis learned from Rowe, and the almost
distracted mother, merely what supplemented or
corroborated Slidell’s sto’ 3 and possessed by a new
hope he drove to Elinor’s handsome up-town home.

as he had surmised, he found that it was oceuried
by Mrs. Allison and the servants, and that Taylor
was among itsinmates. He quickly explained to the
maid what he suspected, and hurried her out to the
ee — then turned his hovszs’ heads toward
the hospital. c ;

“He has been conscious! We havo his confes-
sion!” whispered Slidell, with profession] glee, as
Griffis led trembling companion to the group
about Canton, .

“That! that—is not Taylor Torne!” said the maid,
hesitatincly, as her eyes fell upon the motionless
figure with tawny hair and beard, that was stretched
upon the cot. Then she went nearer, and at the dy-
iug man’s side stood lcoking down into the dead ly
face, where black circles were forming about the
bloodless lips and closed eyes. Presontly she turned
agitatedly to the doctors and officiels:

“It must be he! Itis! But he had not such col-
ored hair and whiskers!”

One of the merce stepped forward, beside her,
and examined the patient, critically.

“Tis hair and whiskers have been bleached with
solutions of peroxide of hydrogen and then dyed,”
he said. “They vere black?”

“ Yes, sir,” in an awed whisper.

Canton’s eyes had opened.

“You here, Jennie? Isuppose you're glad that I

am
is lids fellagain. Tenever finished the sentence,

 

CHAPTER XXXVL

JULES,
And there is even a happiness
That makes the heart afraid. Hoon,

Grirris’s astounding discovery that Casey Canton
was one and the same personage with Myron
Rossiter, and the dying. man’s brief confession of
his connection with the disap ce of Mrs,
Letronne’s —— and jewels, and assumed relation
to Mrs. St. Martyn, were filled in with discoveries
cae revealed a marvelous record of villainy and

ring.

A gambler and an adventurer, Canton’s handsome
face and pleasing address had often been his “luck,”
and so he » when, in a “flush
time,” he had hap to be smitéen upon the
street by the charms of the dashing beauty who
afterward proved his ruin; and, discov. that she
lived in {a boarding-house, had esta) himself
‘

 

 

where he might see her daily. Then, while carrying
on his flirtation with Dora, his interest had been
keenly aroused by the mystery surrounding the —
from New Orleans. He managed to mn himse’

well acquainted with her movements, and through
Miss Lane, informed of the smallest item of news
known in regard to her. But it was not until the
night of her death, when she was visited by the
wealthy and distinguished Mrs. St. Maityn, that
Canton, in the hope of ae it to ecme money
account, hastily resolved to make himeelf master of
the actress’s secret; and coaxed and teguiled the in-
fatuated Dora into becoming Lis hely meet ard ac-
complice. It was scarcely the work of a minute for
the cirlt» secure the parcel and give it, all uncon-
ao of the valuable jewels it held, into her lover's

and.

The documents the package contained suggested
the possibility of Lis r¢ presenting himself. as the
long-lost heir to a magnificent fc rtune, and tLe gems
afforded him the means wherewith to secure or
in the carrying out of his plans. He was beffied,
however, 7 Mrs. St. Martyn’s connection with the
affair, and his ignorance cf how much, or how little
of the history he had learned, she knew, also. Eu
this puzzle, with the aid of ore cf the Llood-hound
detectives employed Ly the rascally Sharp, he suc-
ceeded in solving so completely that the power was
thrown into | is hands to j lay a still higher game;
in which Sharp was to be a silent ; artner, in ecn-
sideration of money he had advaiced to de rat
Canton’s trip to Europe and subsequent life in hi
society. Hoe succeeded in fan iliarizing himself with
the entirety of Elinor’s 1¢mance; tiaced the ser-
vants who hed lived in her one the clergyman
who had married her to Jules Letionne, yerscns
who had known the young Echemian, ard the peo-
ple who had kept the hcuse where the 1 ewly-mar-
ried couple had passed their Liief honey ncon,
And it was the discovery cf aa liarly import-
ant fact that enabled him to play uycn Mrs. St.
Martyn’s intense and Icng-1ectiained n aterzal pas-
sion, and gain her consent to go. abroad and recog-
nize him as the husl und of her ycvtb.

And, peculiar as Griffis ] ad at first deemed it that
Eli: or should not have detected the imy osition, the
marvel lessened as Canton’s strange plot became
fully revealed, and it was taken into consideration
how handsome had teen his address, how pleasing
his manncrs, that he had mace his appearance as a
rentleman of mcans from abicad—a friend of the
Leutholds, and: intrcduced into ecciety by an Erg-
jish nobleman, that he was mester cf secrets Mrs.
St. Martyn suy posed it in) cesitle fcr but one man
to know, and that it was eeventeen years since the
had ceen Letronne

Certainly, however her irstincts bad rebelled
against reuniting her life to thet cf ler confessed
husband, she never once locked yb the handscre,
tawny-haired man who called her“ Cir stele” —
the )retty middle rame by which ehe Lad alweys
been known to Jules—as an impecstcr; cither dur.
ing the brief time intervenirg tetween his revela-
tion of his ide.tity and Lis failure to ayyeer at the
steamer—where his luggage was olready dey sited
—or the days that fclowed, when she lay yrostrated
with a low nervous fever, Licught cn by Ler ex-
heusted mental condition and the tormenting mys-
tery of Rossiter’s inexplicable atsence. All ber
thoughts centered vpon ker child—the child vpon
whose baby-face the had vever Icoked, though he
told her it yet lived: explaining that her father had
paid the nurse to put it in a foundling arylum,
which the woman lad dcne, afterward confessing
the deed to Jules, whose name the had secretly dis-
covered: ard he—Letronne—had sovght out the lit-
tle one and carried it with him abroad. And while
Elinor could but believe that Rossiter would follow
her by the next steamer, she yet wiithed with en-
cuishful impatience that any delay, however slight,
should keep her cne adced n-cment f1cm the Caugh-
ter to whose scl:ool-home in France, she was eager-
ly traveling. Inceed, for the entire aity, that ocern

Renee was far fiom a pleasure trip, thoveh in
health, tranquillity, and mutt al cémiraticn and love,
Beatrix and Sydney gained daily.

Lut infelicitous as Lad been the parsage, the
spirits of ali the party impreved yerccy tilly as the
steamer neared Guecnetown. Eli cr led fully } er-
suaded herself that here che shculd reccive a cable-

ram; ‘an exp(ctation ciceincd to Le 1ealizd,
t ough she wes far ficm evimising from whom the
me sage would ccme, nor Lew strargely it ¢] ould
affect all their dcstinice. Mr. Trefether, to whcse
care it was acdreseed, carried it 10 Mis. St. Mertyn
in triumph. He had diezded lest in ler yiesent
nervous state she should Le called upon to endure a
fresh disap ointment.

-“Stayr? Elinor said, when he weuld have Jeft her
to read the dispatch elone. “If you ylease, 1 wich
to tell you now cxactly why I have come abroad and
my relations to Mr. Rcesiter.”

She hastily unfolded the paper and read:

“Myron Rossiter, alics Casey Conten, alias Teylor
Horne, ete., iscead. He was arresied fcr theit«t

apers and jewels Lelonging to Mis. Letrcnne. His

aggage contains valuable information, ee
whether you have yosscssion of it, or I must mele
arrangements for legally securing it here. If the
former, I will foliow you by the next eter mcr, after
receipt of answer. RIFFIS GILRUIN.”

The sheet fluttered from Elinor’s nerv lees bard,
and her face blanched With the sudcenress cf the
horrible news. At first she decmed it scme awiul
mistake, but her reason quickly ccuvinced ber of the
fallacy of that_supposition. Ther—was thie man
really Jules? No! That cculd not Le either!—she
was free—free, after all!

“Thank God!” she said, solemnly.

“For what, Mrs. St. Martyn? Your words co con-
tradict the expression ct your face.”

“Read the telegram,” she cnswered. Ard, when
Mr. Trefethen bad done so, she urfelded for him
those chapters of her life which ccnceined Ler girl-
ish folly, her connection with Mrs. Letrcnne, a d tre
Cisciosures that had passed Letween her and

Ris iter,
“The fellow’s /nesse and daring have been come-

thing marveious! Simply marvelous!” eS ee
the old when Elivor finished. ‘ Those
stolen papers must have furnished him a elew by

which he ferreted out your entire history,”
“Do you think—can there possibly be any truth
’
     

|

 

 

 

30

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED.

 

 

in what he said—about the child?” asked Elinor,
excitedly.

“There may be. But, my dear Mrs. St. Martyn,
let me entreat you not to build any hopes upon it,
save that, whatever he learned, you can! By the |
way,” he added, ‘‘it is fortunate that you took |
hares of his belongings. What do you propose |

oing?”” |

“T shell telegraph to Griffis Gilruth to cross over |
immcdiately, and await his arrival in London.”

“Inthe meanwhile, if they desire to get home, I
san. easily run across to the continent with the other |

lies,”

But Sydney, who had purposed visiting the Leuth-
olds, would not leave Elinor; and Beatrix, wale
to spend as much time as possible with her adopte
cousin, persuaded her mother to stay awhile in
London, One day, two weeks after the news of
Rossiter’s death, when the others of her party were |
- Fenieeiee Gilruth’s card was brought to Mrs,

. Martyn.

“Griffis! Griffis!’ she cried, agitatedly, as he was
shown into her parlor, and she advanced to meet
him with extended hands,
mph Mrs. St. Martyn!” anxiously, ‘“‘are you

“Not now; but I am looking so,I know. How-
ever, 1 mean to improve rapidly.”

“T think you will,” he answered, quietly. ‘‘ Have
you éxamined Rossiter’s baggage et

“No; I left every thing until you should come.”

Gilruth looked somewhat surprised. His next re-
mark was an irrelevant but startling one.

“Ralph Webb and Mr. Gillette came over on the
steamer with me, and are here.”

“H-re!” Elinor’s face gatherel an almost rap-
turous glow, which quickly faded, leaving it ashen,
“Tam all anxiety to know what you have to tell
me,” she said, with forced calmness and further dis-
regard of his communication.

riffis recounted succinctly, all he had learned of
Canton’s career ee

“But he did not you who was the real Jules
Letronne?”

“No; he was dying, and his confession was broken
and brief. The papers will tell all; and, while I ex-
amine them, will you see your other friends? They
are anxious to call.”

“ Yes,” said Mrs. St. Martyn, hesitatingly, pow-
erless to refuse her heart’s imperious demand,

Griffis smiled and went away, and_the minutes
that followed seemed like hours to Elinor, until a
tap at the door heralded the entrance of a lone, tall,
8 Jendid figure—that of the man she loved. She
stood spellbound before him, her eyes drooped, her
breath coming in quick gasps, while he regarded her
pitifully, passionately. ,

‘Have you nothing to say to me, Elinor?” advanc-
ing slowly toward her. .

The sound of his voice affected her like some po-
tent elixir. Her blood thrilled through her veins in

a rapid, burning tide.

” Bie thing! * she answered, lifting her head and
ni out her hands.

* But Lonly care to hear one word—‘ Come!’”’ keep-
ing himself still a little from her. ‘‘Can you say it,

inor?”

““C:me! Take me! Take me, Lucien!’ she cried,
plaenn and in an instant she was lying on his

reast. a

There was no other word, no car only the close,
clinging clasp of her eae oo inkres |
ful embrace, as he held her to his heart, for many, |
many minu each was so ecstatically happy. |
After a time he Ied_ her to a sofa, and, still holding
her in his arms, bade her “‘ talk.”

She obeyed submissively, and told him of Rossiter
and her past.

* And now, Elinor, you are sure you love me?”’

“Love you?” she asked, eloquently, raising her
violot cyes to his carnest ones. “I aim ready to be-
COME ECE OE IRN if you will be my Co-

e
me But there is a shadow on your face?”

“Lucien, if Jules Letronne is Syn oit anythin;
should ever come between us!—” she shudde
violently.

“Tf nothing ever does come between us, dear
Elinor,” he said, calmly, *‘ what then—?”

“You know what then, my king, if you will take
what seemed once to be refused you!” with a look
of pas-ionate love and longing.

smile illuminated his grave face with wondrous

lory.
en 0 you remember asking me if I would do that
—the night I met you at Mrs. Jerrell’s ball?”

a your answer was ‘ Try me and see,’ and you

“And my answer had a deeper meaning than you
dreamed. I meant that what once you had refused
me—your love—I weuld take whenever it was again
offered me; even as I take it now, if you can forgive
iy long deceit and receive back to your heart and

“ Jules! Jules!”
, “Yes, Christabel.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

4A MYSTERY SOLVED.

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
out old shapes of foul disease,
: out the narrowing lust ot gold;
= the valiant man and free,
eager heart, the kindlier hand.
—TENNYSON.

Tare was much to tell, as Jules and Mrs. St. Mar-
tzu sat locked in each other’s arms, and read, each

 

tne other’s soul; and many memories to recall.
Etinor’s heart beating high with iy, and
t .ovbing with exquisite as the artist told

of his past—his first a’

the unqengaerene love that him
1. ar her; wretchedness as he stood without old

T inity ae she Sg as a the a of a
1. Guy erce - at, ca hing a

face and kn that she was adler happy nor
joving; his ae earned as a common
sailor before, mast; otortng a a@ new name
and his t

her

 

kindly words had been to him, when, unsuspicious of
his identity, she found him gruff and silent in the
fields beyond Naples; his almost hopelessness as his
pore sold but slowly and he despaired of cancel-

g the indebtedness he had incurred to friends and
masters abroad; his happiness when he held her in
his arms the evening of Mrs. Jerrell’s party; and his
eutone when he had believed her lost to him again,

orever

“ And now, at last, Elinor, the dream of my life is
re lized; and the story told by my two pictures,
Maidenhood and Womanhood, made plain. My only
love has surrendered to mine the heart that once
was cold tome! Elinor, shall you ever regret it? I
have little more to offer you now than then!”

‘But I have learned that love is better than all
things else, and a noble man God’s most royal crea-
tcn—whether he be rich or poor, high or lowly
born,” she answered him, with a kiss slow and sweet
as ever woman gave, ‘ How stupid it seems, now,
that I should not have recognized you, or could have
believed any one else, Jules! For I had never been
forgetful of that long ago time—the night of our be-
trothal and marriage, and the days that followed,
When we get home, across the water, I will show
you a letter, yellow with the seventeen years I have
treasured it, and a close soft curl of your hair. Ah!
Jules!” slipping from his arms and kneeling at his
feet, ““how can you so freely forgive me for so
nearly wrecking your life?”

“ Because, even at the worst, it was thoughts of
ou that lent it its aught of gory. My one desire
1as been that you might share it, at last!” he said,

lifting her in his arms again, and kissing her with
all the fervor of his delicious passion.

Though theroom was are darkening, the
lovers—gazing rapturously in each other’s eyes—had
remained unconscious of it, nor suspected how long
a time they had spent together, until a servant came
with lights, and Mr. Trefethen and Gilruth followed
him into the parlor, And—what did it mean?—the
younger man’s eager smile the elder one’s excessive
emotion as he crossed the room to where Gillette
still sat at Mrs. St. Martyn’s side?

“Elinor, if I interpret this aright, lan indeed hap-
B . forlhave found a daughter as well as a son!

onrade—my boy!” grasping the artist’s hand, “J
am your futh 7 {” ;

G-llette’s face was blankly amazed. He could not
comprehend the impassioned speech,

a — not understand you, sir,’? was all he said,
lowly.

“Teil him, Gilruth!” exclaimed the old French-

man, his face glowing, but his agitation too great for

hin to state particul ars, .

“Let me!’ cried Elinor. ‘I comprehend this af-
fair, strange as it seems!” turning to her bewildered
companion. ‘You, who were never rightfully call-
ed Jules Letronne, nor had any claim to the tile
Lucien Gillette, have a name—a name of your own
—at last! And the papers your mother] ft have dis-
closed it—is it not so?’’ to Griffis. “It is—‘’.e ethen.””

“*Can—this—be—possible?”’ syllabled Gillette, still
een bingty

“Yes! Yes!’ cried the millionaire, his piercing
eyes scintillating with delight. ‘* Covrade Treyerhen,
you are my son! And I am happy to find you so
worthy to bear the name, and so deserving of a
father’s love and pride!”

The two men—the elder stately and dignified even
in his age, the younger most unlike him, but splen-
did of figure and face, andan honor to the princely
blood that coursed in his veins—stood with interlaced
hands, and hearts awed with their new joy.

Elinor was first to break the silence.

“I should like this mystery explained,” she said,
smiling. “I comprehend, yet do not ‘comprehend
in! as Christabel Letronne not Conrade’s mo-
ther, or was she—your wife—Mr. Trefethen?”

“She was my wife—Helene Trefethen. I was ap-
prpacking forty when I first fell in love—desperate-

vy, madly, jealously !—with the daughter of a decayed
English actor. ‘Uhe girl did not care for me, I knew;
but that was nothing! I bought her, yes, / ow: ht her,
with my gold, of her selfish parent, ani carried her
to my proud home, believing that having her for my
wife would satisfy me, and she would learn to love
me! Isoon discovered my mis'ake! Helene only
feared and dreaded me. Then my jealousy grew,
fierce and cruel. I must have made her] fe a bur-
den to her, though, until lately, I have never becn
able to see my own part of the wrong—for I loved
her and: she betrayed me! When Conrade was a
few months old she escaped from her abhorred cas-
tle home; and all efforts to trace her, or recover my
son, proved unavailing. From that time I was a
bitter misanthrope, a self-exile from: family and
country and all who knew my history, and given
over to the accumulation of money; until—a few
months ago, when, for the first time in thirty-eight
years, I held again a woman in my arms—a woman
with a strange lixeness to my girl-wife, and so
young, and lovely, ani helpless, that the little ten-
derness and charity left slumbering in my nature
rose up and battled with my evil passions. It was
the pure love that Sydney—now my daughter—
evoked, that first taught me how I had wronged
Helene. And now I see it even more plainly.

“She hada lover when her father compelled her
to marry me; and it was to him she fled when she
could no page endure my tyranny, t her child
with her for love of it, and hatred of its father! This
lover, an actor, to doubly secure them from detec-
tion, took the name of Jules Letronne; Helene calling
her son after him, and herself assuming the name
of Christabel—using the stage name of Marie, for
she soon commenced playing. Guilty as was their
love, these two clung to each other through life;
Helene, year by year, delaying to reveal to her son
his parentage, until she suddenly lost track of him,
Even then, so indifferent had she grown to the

e, the wrong did not torment her until she came
to die, All this Il learn from her confession, which I
have just read. The rest you know. The papers
leave me no doubt concerning the identityof my son,
even if they were unsupported by the incoutroverti-
ble evidence of Helene’s own diamond ring, and the
cera ornaments the child wore when she
carried him away; which Griffis has succeeded in
poesining from the bands to which Canton consigned
them

e, a thousand times I welcome you |

dear daughter—

1,
to my heart! ‘You and Elinor—
will remain Certainly, I have

with me while I live

' a claim upon you, after all these years of loneliness,

 

if you can forgive and forget my wrong to the dead
mother you so resemble, and-that sin of hers for
which I was partly responsible.”

“Do not mention that again, dear sir!’ Conrade
said, earnestly. ‘‘ Next to my wife, it shall be my
— and pleasure to render you my devotion.”

The old gentleman pressed his hand fervently,
then turned to Gilruth.

“*Griffis, it is unconscionable of us to keep our
friends longer in suspeuse. We must receive their
congratulations.”

.‘T thank God, Elinor, that I won you before this
disclosure!’ whispered Conrade.

Mrs. St. Martyii smiled.

“And I,” she said, worsbipfully. She understood
her lover so completely now. And she went to
Griffis with glowing face.

“Griffis, I feel that for much of this creat happi-
ness I am indebted to you. At last we have fath-
omed the mystery I so little dreamed could ra
my life so utterly! You know wy history, and will
forget all I have ever said in mistaken kinuncss or
mistaken anger to you?”

“T have nothing to forgive,” smiling, but with
none of the old witchery in his sad eves. “AndI
_ little. Tt was your woman's intuition that guid-
eJ usa ¥

“And yet it failed me in the critical hourof my
life!” she answered, with a shudder, as she thought
ot Rossiter. |

“Forget the unpleasantness of the past, Mrs. St.
Martyn,” be replied, gently, **and only remember
that the mystery is solved, and so joyously !”

“* Ah, Griffis, l wish the mystery of your life was
solved! I hope it will all ccme right sometime!”

He flinched as if she had touched a mortal wound.

_ “Don’t speak of that,” he said, huskily. ‘‘ Some-
ary punishment seems greater than I can

ar.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII,
L’ENVOY.

But I love you, sir;
And when a wcman s: ys she Joves aman
The man must hear her.— KE. B. Brown1na.

Twat was a happy perty which started for a visit

to the Trefethen and Leuthold ancestral hc se

and a tour through southern Europe; the artist an
his chum, Mr. Webb, having joined their friends.
Only Sydney was very ill at ease,

Giruth had hastened back to New York, a few
formal bows and cold commonplaces having been
the extent of the civilities that had passed between
Limself and Miss Trefetl.en ci. ring his stay in Lon-
con, And though the girl1ejoicea in the «xceedin
happiness of her friends, and was tenderly pett
by them all, especially her adopted father, whose
love for her was none lessened by his pride and
affection for his son, she was wretchedly heart-
sick. It was er to see whither Beatiix and
the imperturbable bachelor were drifting, and Syd-
ney felt that she, only, was cc prived of that joy of
love which can alone fully satisty a passionate
woman’s soul, And—bitterest «f all was the pain
with which she ceaselessly romenmbered tlat she,
herself, had scorned this gift when offered! But—
she could never humble herself to let Gilruth guess
that she loved him.

Her friends, though they knew that she suffere
said nothing to her upon the subject. Elivor an
Conrade, at east, ay ne her pride, and knew
that time and the giil’s own true heart woud work
a cure more curely than any advice or intcrference.
And Sydney_was glad when the summer was over
and ske and her American companions turned their
faces homeward, ¥

“Sydney, darling,” Beatrix said, at parting, “I
have never ventured to criticise you befcre, but my
love for you must Le n'y excuse row. I pray that
you will nct let an unjust and tco severe con «emna-
tion of a man who cares tor you, wreck his nae
ness and ycurs! I never saw any one changed as
was Griffis when be came to Loncon; it is as if his
heart is broken! And you—are not—yourself.”

* Beatrix!” flashing cut at ler proudly, “did he
deserve wy love? See how he treated you!’

“Dear ccusin,” replied Miss LeutLold, blus] ing,
“T told you the termination of my engagement was
fcr the best. Iam more than cver sure of it new.
Memma kasgiven Mr. Webb permission to pay his
addresses to me, ar.d 1 ki.cwtl at Isl alifindin Rilph
ry iceal hustatud; so do not think of meat all! And
if Griffis did not di serve ycu once—l do Lelieve he is
worthy any wcman’s love now!”

“But 7 ov is t o late!”

“It would not ke for me, if Iloved and had been
in the wrong!” answered
mrtter eon pee.

Eut Miss ‘liefethen wes rot forgetful of it. She
was elmost surprised at berself when, in answer to
— panne father’s question, as they neared New

ork:

“Sydney, — you made up your mind to for-

swear marriage?’

She said, cogeeiys “Oh, no! Not me! papa!” and
Gilruth’s plea ing face was in her mind!

“ You know,” she resumed, coketi “you cannot
make me your heircss now! Sol must lock out for
a husband!”

‘Dear child, I believe that you are too true to

ourself to marry save for Jove,” he answered,
stfully.

One golden autumnal morning, the travelers found
themselves in New York, with Gilruth at the pier, to
meet them.

“You will go directly home?” he said to Elinor,
when the greetings were over.

“Why? What has happered?” she questioned,

anxiously alermed by a troubl«d tone in his voice.

“T fear little Myra Taylor is cying.”

“Dying? Dear little 7”

“Yes, and she asks constantly for
Sydney! Her mother and I have feare
ould come too late.”
¥ Caine Quick!’ and in a few minutes

ven rapidly through the busy, bustling
streets, while Griffis told them how Myra, play'rg
about the. store-room at the top of the hcree,
one day when Taylor was :uperincending the cleen-
ing of it, had pulled a pile cf.

‘ou and—
you

catiix, quietly. Andthe -

avy jumber upon ker ©

 

ee

—

 
aoreeaeanstnengiranean

DIVORCED BUT NOT DIVIDED

31

 

 

head while trying to reach for a pretty japanned tin
box. She had been ill ever since, and delirious unt
the last night. :

“The box fell open, and its only contents, a legal
paper, Taylor asked me to take charge of. it is the
annulment of the marriage between you and Jules
Letronne, and was procured in New York, just
previous to your marriage to Mr. St. Martyn!”

“ Qriffis! Is thisso? At last my doubts are set at
rest! be? father told me nothing of the paper, and
when a few of his effects were stored away there
that box must have been considered empty. Oh, i
in discovering to me that which renders my union
with Mr. St. Martyn valid, and sets me free to re-con-
tract a marriage with Conrade, my little pet should
have sacrificed her life!”

It was even so.

“Dear Mrs, St. Martyn—kiss me—and you—too—
Sydney!” were the child’s first and only words, as
the ladies bent above her tiny form. And then,
stipping her hand into her mother’s, she gently
closed her eyes and fell asleep.

It seemed that Elinor’s grief was almost as intense
as Taylor’s; and the mother was the comforter,

“Mrs. St. Martyn, I shall always grieve for her,
but I shall not wish her back, She was not born to
stay in this world and meet its pacashipe. She was
always different from other children. d, perhaps,
her sweet life will be a little atonement
father’s crimes.” ;

If Taylor found any peace in that aoe Elinor
would not deprive her of it; and she testi ied to her
own fondness for the little daughter of the man who
had so sinned ge her, by erecting above the tiny
grave a beautiful monument, which still rears its
snowy head — the summerygrasses of the New
England grave , beside the plain slab Sydney had
caused to mark the burial spot of Mrs, Goodrich,

“Conrade,” Elinor said, when she showed him the

per Myra had revealed, “after all we have not

m divided! Our hearts are one, and our lives
shall be soon! All that we need to make our happi-
ness complete is—our child!”’

“And who te darling Christabel—I love the
old name yet—that God may not give us that good
gift also? Gilruth hopes so!”

And Gilruth was the one to bring them the news.
athered in Mr.

ite from Bos-

for her

One evening when they were all
Trefethen’s parlor—he came in hot

'“Elinor! Can oe bear so much _ happiness?” he
cried, surprising them ashe dashed into the room
with face aglow. ‘‘ Your child lives! The nurse who
put herinan asylum gave her your family name
and her own surname! The authorities thought the
child a boy at first; but it proved a girl as brave as
any boy! A girl who ranaway in search of freedom,
and fortune, changing the oddly-combined name o!
Sydney Brown to Helene Arnold—and, then, to the
righ tful one—Sydney Tresethen!”

e stood one moment watching the effect of his
rapid, excited words, and the madly happy parents
and fond grandfather as they rapturously embraced
and kissed their golden-headed darling; then he
turned away. After all he had no share in this joy
that he had brought to his cousins!

a Sydney broke from them all, and ran to Gil-
ru

“Stay!” she said, pleadingly. ‘You must hear
me, Griffis! Ilove you! Hear me say it—here be-
= oe all!—Z love you! What answer have you
‘or me

What answer? Ah! how well she knew, as he
folded her in his arms, and she felt his hot tears—
yes, a strong man’s tears of supreme joy—dropping
upon her sunny head!

 

It was winter; but all within Grace Church and the
Trefethen mansion was brightness and beauty; and
an immense throng gathered to witness the double
wedding of old Octavien Trefethen’s son, Conrade,
to Elinor Christabel St. Martyn, and his grand-
daughter, apo Trefethen, to her second cousin
Griffis Gilruth. j

ie and Elinor were married first, without
other attendant than Mr. Trefethen, who gave ihe
bride away. Then came Sydney and G@ with
Gertrude and Beatrix, and Count Krylof and Ralph
Webb for bridesmaids and groomsmen, while Con-
rade su his daughter forever to Gilruth’s

om
And, then, amid the triumphal music, and enthu-
siastic plaudits of those who joyed to see these ro-
mances promising so happy a completion, the newly
married couples made their eras the carriages
that were to bear them back to the magnificent re-
ception, Griffis whispering:

ey aoe. there was a time when I did not
dare his hour; but I knew I should at least
And Conrade, confessing:
t last—Elinor—I have won my treasure—she
who has been through life, my guiding star!”

 

 

 

‘HE END.

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Publishers, 98 William street, N. Y. ‘

 

The Saturday Journal,

“The Model Family Paper
—AND—
Most Charming of the Weeklies.”

 

 

A pure paper; good in every thing} bright,
brilliant and attractive.

Serials, Tales, Romances,
Sketches, Adventures, Biographies,
Pungent Essays, Poetry,
Notes and Answers to Correspondents,
Wit and Fun—

i

All are features in every number, from such
celebrated writers as no paper in America can
boast of.

What is best in POPULAR READING, that the
paper always has; hence for Homg, Sxop, Li-
BRARY and GENERAL READER it is without a
rival; and hence its great and steadily increasing
circulation.

The SaTuKDAY JOURNAL is sold everywhere
by newsdealers; price sia cents per number; or to
subscribers, post-paid, at the following cheap
rates, viz.: :

Four months, one dollar; one year, three
dollars ; or, two copies, five dollars,

Address BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers,
98 William Street, New York,

 

Half-Dime Singer’s Library

1 Wxoa, Emma! and 59 other Songs,

2 Caprain Curr and 57 other Songs.

8 Tue Garxszoro’ Har and 62 other Songs.

4 Jounny Morean and 60 other Songs.

5 I'ut Srrixe You WirH A FeaTuer and 62 others.
6 GrorGE THE CHARMER and 56 other Songs.

7 Tue Bette or Rockaway and 52 other Songs.

8 Youne Fre.uan, You’re Too Fresx and 60 others.
9 Soy Youne Grru and 65 other Songs.

10 I’m THE GoveRNor’s ONLY Son and 58 other Songs.
11 My Fan and 65 other Songs.

12 Comm’ Taro’ THE Rye and 55 other Songs.

13 Taz Rotiickine IrtsHMAN and 59 other Songs,

14 Oty Doe Tray and 62 other Songs,

15 Woa, Cuariie and 59 other Songs.

16 IN TH1s WueEat By anv By and 62 other Songs.
17 Nancy Ler and 58 other Songs.

18 I’m THe Boy THat’s BounD To BLaze and 57 others,
19 Tae Two OrpHans and 59 other Songs.

20 Waar are THE Witp WAVES Savina, SisTrr?
and 59 other Songs.

21 Inprianant Potty Woe and 59 other Songs.

22 Tar Op Arm-Cuarr and 58 other Songs. :
28 On Conry Istanp Bracu and 58 other Songs,

24 OLp Simon, THE Hot-Corn Man and 60 others.

25 I’m xn Love and 56 other Songs.

25 PARADE oF THE GuaRps and 56 other Songs.

27 Yo, Hrave, Ho! and 60 other Songs.

28 ‘I'witt Never po To Grp ir up So and 60 others,
29 Buur Bonnets Over THE Borper and 54 others.
380 Tar Merry Lavanine Man and 56 other Songs.

81 Sweet Foraet-mu-Nor and 55 other Songs.

82 LerTie Bapy Mine and 53 other Songs.

83 Dz Bango AM DE INSTRUMENT FoR Me and 53 others,
84 Tarry and 50 other Songs.

85 Just To PLzase THE Boys and 52 other Songs.

86 SKATING ON ONE IN THE GUTTER and 52 others.

87 Kotorep Krangs and 59 other Songs.

88 Nit Desprranpum and 53 other Songs.

89 TE Grru I Lerr Brninp Mr and 50 other Songs.
40 Tis Bur a LitTie FapED Fiower and 50 others.
41 Pretty WaILHEimra and 60 other Songs.

42 Dancine In THE Barn and 63 other Songs,

43 H. M. 8. Prvarorr, COMPLETE, and 17 other Songs

Sold everywhere by Newsdealers, at five cents
per copy, or sent post-paid, to any address, on re-
ceipt of Siz cents per number.

BEADLE AND ADAMS, Pusieners,
98 Wi11aM Srreet, New Yor.

 

 

BEADLE & ADAMS’

STANDARD DIME PUBLICATIONS.

Speke’

Brap.E AND ADAMS have now on therr lists the fol,
lowing highly desirable and attractive text-books,
prepared expressly for schools, families, ete. Each
volume contains 100 large pages, printed from clear,
open type, comprising the best collection of Dia-
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and otherwise.) The Dime Speakers for the season
of 1880—as far as now issued —embrace twenty-three
volumes, viz.:

1, American Speaker. 13, School Speaker.

2. National Speaker. 14. Iudicrous Speaker,

3. Patriotic Speaker. 15. Komikal Speaker.

4. Comic Speaker. 16. Youth’s Speaker.

5. Elocutionist, 17. Eloquent se geet

6. Humorous Speaker. 18. Hail Columbia Speak-
7. Standard Speaker. er.

8. Stump Speaker. 19. Serio-Comic Speaker.
9, Juvenile Speaker. 20, Select Speaker,

10. Spread-Eagle Speaker | 21. Funny Speaker.

11, Dime Debater. 22. Jolly Speaker.

12, Exhibition Speaker. | 23, Dialect Speaker.

These books are rope witu choice pieces for (>
School-room, the Exhibition, for Homes, etc, They
are drawn from FRESH sources, and contain scme <.
the choicest oratory of the times. 75 to 100 Declamc-
tions and Recitations in each book.
Dialogues. \

The Dime Dialogues, each volume 100 pages, em-
brace twenty-seven books, viz.:
Dialogues No. One. | Dialogues No. Fourteen,
Dialogues No. Two. Dialogues No. Fifteen.
Dialogues No. Three. | Dialogues No. Sixteen.
Dialogues No, Four. Dialogues No. Seventeen.
Dialogues No. Five. Dialogues No, Eighteen
Dialogues No. Six. Dialogues No. Nineteen.
Dialogues No, Seven. Dialogues No. Twenty.
Dialogues No. Hight. Dialogues No, Twenty-one.
Dialogues No, Nine, Dialogues No. Twenty-two,
Dialogues No. Ten. Dialogues No. Twenty-three
Dialogues No. Eleven, | Dialogues No. Twenty-four.
Dialogues No. Twelve. | Dialogues No. Twenty-five.
Dialogues No, Thirteen. | Dialogues No. Twenty-six,

Dialogues No. Twenty-seven.
15 to 25 Dialogues and Dramas in each book.

These volumes have been prepared with especial
reference to their availability in all school-rooms.
They are adapted to schools with or without the fur-
niture of a stage, and introduce a range of charac-
ters suited to scholars pf every grade, both male and
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available and useful dialogues and dramas, serious
and comic.

Dramas and Readings.
164 12mo Pages, 20 Cents.

For Schools, Pario s, Entertainments and the Am-
ateur Stage, Sota prienng Original Minor Dramas,
Comedy, Farce, D ess Pieces, Humorous Dialogue
and Burlesque, by 1 oted writers; and Recitations
and Readings, new ¢nd standard, of the greatest
celebrity and interest. Edited by Prof. A. M. Russell.

DIME HAND-BOOKS.
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Brapie’s Dive Hann-Booxs ror Youna PEopLe
cover a wide range of subjects, and»are especially
adapted to their end. They constitute at once the
cheapest and most useful works yet put into the
market for popular circulation,

Ladies’ Letter-Writer. | Book of Games.
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of Verses. Ball-room Companion,
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Hand-Books of Games.

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Hanp-Books cover a variety of subjects, and are es-
pecially adapted to their end. /

andbook of Summer Sports.
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Book of Croquet.

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Cricket and Football. Book of Pedestriar

Guide to Swimming. Base-Ball Player.
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Manuals for Housewives.

BeapLe’s Dime Faminy Serres aims to supply a
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the unlearned. They are of conceded value,

1. Cook Book. 4, Family Physician.
2. Recipe Book, 6. Dressmaking and Mil-
8. Housekeeper’s Guide. linery.

 

Lives of Great Americans

Are presented complete and authentic biographies

of many of the men who have added luster to tho

ae ic by their lives and deeds, The series em-
Aces:

I,—George Washington. | _VIT.—David Crockett.
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1.—Mad AnthonyWayne| I[X.—Kit Carson.
IV.—Ethan Allen. X.—Tecumseh.
ae de Lafay-| XI.—Abraham Lincoln.

ette. XIT.—Pontiac.
VI.—Daniel Boone. XIIT.—Ulysses 8. Grant.

SONG BOOKS. ;

reer ge
ONeCc 80)
found inthe i ao one
School Meloaist, {Musle and Words,

JOKE BOOKS, o.
Pocket Joke Book. Jim Crow Joke Book.
Paddy Whack Joke Book.

ee shove publications ty! sale by = ~ a
on recei
BEADLE & ADAMS. BS Wrettas or, wy? one
 

 

> Of Notable Works by Notable Authors. Beautifully printed in the popular folio form, from clear, open type ; each
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1 Was Sue His Wirz? Mrs. Mary R. Crowell.... 10¢ 52 A Romance or a Poor Youne Giru. Mrs. Ellet 100
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8 Dip HE Love Her? Bartley T. Campbell..... 10c 64 Tur Prive or THE Downes. Margaret Blount, 10c
4 A Srrance Woman. By Rett Winwood. .... 10c 55 A Srrancr Girt. By Albert W. Aiken........
6 Two Grats’ Lives. By Mrs. Mary R. Crowell.. 10c 56 Tue Prerry Pourrran. By Parson’s Daughter..
9 Tat War or Hearts. Corinne Cushman,.... 10¢ 57 Dip Sue Sry? By Mrs. Mary Reed. Crowell...
11 Toe Fatsz Wipow. Mrs. J. D. Burton. 10¢ 68 Dovsiy Divorcep. By Jenny Davis Burton..
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23 SowInG THE WinD. Mrs, Mary R. Crowell..... 10¢ 65 Pursvrep to rHE AtTarR. By Cushman. . .
24-25 Brrps of Prey. Miss M. E. Braddon ...... 10¢ 66 Taz TerRiprx TruTH. By Jenuie D. Burton. 10¢e
= Hn thw al oF Nonoor?" Sate ae i 10c 67 E.zcant Ecrert. By Philip 8. Warne....... 10¢
LOTTE’ . — 68 E ow. By M F. Ellet.. 1
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$9 Tue Lite oF St. Kans. “BY Mrs. Crow us 1 70 Drirtine To Ruin. By Mary Reed ‘Crowell . ,, 10e
83 STRANGELY WeD. By Mrs. J. D. Burton,...... - eat eer 8° DaventEE. 9(By. A Parson's
384 Tue Gresy Brive. M. E. O. Malen. ... 1 STERIOUS GUARDIAN. Corinne Cushman 10c
3 Was SHE A Wire. By Rett Winwood......... 10¢
74 ApRIA, THE ADOPTED. By Jennie D. Burton.. 10c
75 Pretry AND Provup. By Corinne Cushman. . 10¢
39 A Danczrovs Woman. By Margaret ra L 7 are cnire oe By oe Be oe ae
OR Cae ee 78 Tue Biack Rippie. By Corinne Cushman.. 10¢
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Viats or WraTu. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.. 10c A new issue every two —
For sale by al! newsdealers, onsen Portage, paid.

on receipt of twelve cents. BE
Publishers, 93 W: street, N. Y.

100

85 ANNIE ‘TEMPLE. 4 av. J. H. In am. .
= Wirsovt Mercy. By Bartley T. Campbell.

37 Biack Eysgs anp Brvr. Corinne Cushman..
88 Brave BarBara. By Corinne Cushman

 

 

- 1e

46
47
48 A Wrip Girt. By Corisine Cushman.. 10c
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50 Love Ina Maze. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet.......... 10
51 Carnotina. By Dr. J. H. Robinson 10c

 

& Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published. Each Issue Complete. ned

averley Library | ° Ne

45 Her Hidden ln Sg Love at “ALL Opps.
By Arabella Southwort'
46 phe Little Heiress; or, Uxper 4 Croup.

nison,
47 Heeause She Loved Him ; or, How Wo.
Alice Flem

1 The Masked Bride}; or, Wm. Saz Marry
Him. y, Mrs. Mary Crowell.

2 Was It Love? or, CoLLEGIANs AND SWEET-
HEARTS,

3 on Gir Wite

m. Mason Turner, M. D.
Tun TRUE AND THR
Fatse. By Bartley

23 os Year} or, Way Suz Propossp. By Sara
24 end Face Was Her Fortune. By Eleanor

25 Only a Schootmistress3 or, HER UNTOLD
By Arabella Southworth.

 

4a 2 ae Heart; ‘or, STARTLINGLY STRANGE, -

Hessl Southworth.
5 Bessie Raynor, the Work Girl. By
Mason r, M. D.

Wm.
6 The Secret Marriage; £e A A tit ead IN
Sprrz or By
7 A Daughter of Eve; or, Eine By Love.
By Mrs. Reed Crowell.
8 Heart to Heart; or, Fam Pay.us’ saves
By Arabella wor
9 Alone in the World; or, eae May's
Warp. Bythe author of “ Clifto;
IO0A Pair of Gray Eyes; or, Some EMERALD
NecKLACE. By Rose Kennedy.
11 wate 3 ots A Dancrrovs Game. By

ta,
12 His Lawful Wife; or, Myra, Taz CHILD oF
By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. i
'y

ApopTIon.
13 Madcap, the Little Quakeress.
Corinn: Cannan.
4 Why 7 Married Ebtens or, Toe Woman Iv
Gray. By Sara
15 A Fair g Loonie or, Our IN THE WorRLD. By
Bartley T. ae ll.
16 Trust ie ot; or, Tae Tror Kyicut. By
Margaret Leicester.
17 A Loyal Levers ot THe Last OF THE
RIMSPETHS. ” Southworth.
18 His Idol; or, Set ieiones Marruce. By
Crowell.
19 ‘Tho Broken posceaeie: or, LovE VERSUS
or. Grace
20 wea Nell, the Oranse Girl; or, Txz
Wrircues or New York. Agile Pe

mne.
21 Now and Forever; or, Way Di SHe Marry
co Henrietta Thackeray.

 

SECRET.
26 Without a Heart: or, WALKING ON THE
Brink. By Prentiss Ingraham.
27 Was She a Coqu: tte ? or, A Srrance Covrt-
SHIP. By Henrietta Thackeray.
28 Sybil Chase: or, THE GaMBLeR’s Wirz. By
Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens.
29 For Her Dear Sake: or, SAveD From Hi-
SELF. By Sara Claxton.
30 The Bouquet Girl: or, A Mion oF
Money. By Agile Penne.
31 A Wad Marriage: or, Tse Iron Wit. By
Mrs. Mary A. Dennison.
32 Miriana, the Prima Donna: or, Roszs
anp Litres. By A. Southworth.
33 ‘The Three Sisters: or, Tot MysTEry or
Lorp Unanront. By Alice Fleming.
34 A Marriage of Convenience: or, Was
He A Count? By Sara Claxton.
35 Sinned Against: or, Taz WmTHrop Prive.

By Clara Augusta.

36 Sir Archer’s Bride: or, Tut QUEEN or His
Heart. By Arabella Southworth.

37 The Country Cousin; or, Au 1s Nor Gorp
Tat Gutters. By Rose Kennedy.

38 His Own Again; or, TRUST ‘Her Nor. By
Arabella Southworth.

39 ste oo oe or, A Youne Giru’s Goop Namr.

al.
40 Bledzed to Marry; or, In Lovr’s Bonns.
Sara Claxton.
41% lind Devotion; or, Love AGaINst THE
Wortp. By Alice Fleming.
42 Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, Its Srconp
Love. By A. Southworth.
43 The Barovret's Secret: or, THe Rivau
fister. By Sara Claxton,

Haur-
de of an Actor. the author | 44 The Only Daughter: or, BRoTHER AGAINST
nae World,” ete, ote” | Lovss. By Alice Fleming.

 

By
4s In Spite of Sretecktt or, JENNETTE’S Rew
ARATION. By 8. R: Sherwood.’
49 His Heart’s Mistress; cr, Love ar First
Sian. By Arabella Southworth.
50 The Cuban Heiress; or, ae
LaVintresse. By . Mary A. Deniso:
51 Two oon Girls; or, THE Bers OF AN
sa tbs whagea emenger of
e nge essenger 3 or, Soork. AW
For a Heart. ay feet Geo
53 Agnes tinpe. "ine Actrenn cr, beg Ro-
MANCE of A Rupy Rina. By W. M. Turner, M. D.
54 ee Woman's Heart a Savep’ From
55 ‘Sh EF Spid N Love Him SToormne
e ot Love m 3 or, Te
Conquer. By Arabella iti or,

6 Love-Madj or, Brrrotnen, Dr

. ‘VORCED AND ei By W. eS

57 aan E Fleming Girl; or, Sunsumr at Last. By
ing.

58 The Ebon Task; or, THE STRANGE GUARDI-
Reed Crowell.

aN. By Mrs. Mary
59 A Widow’s Wiles; or, A ene REPENT-
ance. By Rachel Bernhardt.
60 Cecil’s Deceit; or, Tax bw pers Lreacy.
By Mrs, Jennie Davis Burto
61 A ee Heart; or, Sib F ical sian toe
Tron. By Sara Claxton. Ready January llth.
62 The Maniac Bride; or, THE DEAD SECRET
_ or Hotiow Asn. By Margaret Blount. =. 18,
A new issue every week.
all News-

Tre Wavrrury Lirary is for sale
dealers, five cents per co or_sent mail
‘DLE AND ADAMS,

ipt of si ta bank.
Publishers, 98 William street, New York.