New York dispatch. [volume], April 13, 1879, Page 2, Image 2

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

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2
“Jou may be very sure of one thing, my
darling, ana that is, now yon have admitted
that you care for me, 1 shall never leave you ;
nothing in the whole world could take me
away.”
A great sigh came from her lips.
“You do not know, Lancelot.”
“I do not care, my darling,” he interrupted.
“You have said you love me, and those few
words have bound me to you for life. I will
not go away. I will not leav-o you. I will not
give you up. lam determined to win you.”
“I am potto be won, Lancelot,” she said,
sadly.
“You are to be won, darling, and I will win
you. You said you loved me; those words have
bound you to me and me to you. After that I
defy the whole world to take you from me.”
“But you do not know, dear,” she said.
“You do not know.”
“I do not, but yon will tell me. You will tell
me, I suppose, of some fancied difficulty that
lies io tlie way of our marriage. It must be
fancied; it cannot be reai. Let it be what it
may, 1 sw*ar to you I will vanquish it.”
“It is no fancy,” she said, sadly.
“ Never mind; whatever it be. fancy or not,
I will overcome it. You do not know the great
ness of a man’s lore it you think difficulties can
vanquish it- Tell mo what this difficulty is.”
She clasped her hands pleadingly.
“Not to-night, Lance. I could not, I will
tell you on another occasion, perhaps, but I
want time now to think—to collect my thoughts.
You can trust me. You know that I would not
say I cannot be your wife unless I bad good
reason tor it. Trust me, Lance, and spare me
the pain of telling you.”
“I do trust you, before you tell me anything.
Tell me what you will, it can make no earthly
difference to me.”
She laid her folded hands on his breast.
“Lance, take my word that, although we love
each other so well, we must part; that I can
never marry you ; and that, were Ito tell you
the reason why, it would perhaps make things
harder and worse for me to bear. Trust me,
Lance.” •
“I trust yon. darling, but you must tell me
what this difficulty is. I thought at first that
it was only a girlish scrupio. Now I begin to
fear that it is something more. I might help
you if 1 knew.”
“ No one can help me,” she said, sadly.
“I wul help you. Bemetnber, 1 live only to
Serve you. X will spend my whole life in help
ing you. I cannot imagine what your difficulty
is, but, let it be what it may, I have a man’s
strength and a man’s courage. I have greater
means .at my command than you can have.
Gwendoline, you must tell me ; by right of the
love you have given me, 1 command you to tell
me.”
She was silent for a few minutes, and then
She said, slowly :
“Lance, when you have heard what I have to
say, you will never like me again—I am quite
sure of it.”
“And I am equally sure, Gwendoline, that,
whatever you say to mo, 1 shall love you just
the same. Whatever it may be, tell me now.”
“No,” she returned,'slowly, “not now. It is
Christmas Day; let me forget that par.tingand
tears lie before me—let me only remember that
I love you, and that you love me.”
“There may be tears,” said Sir Lancelot,
•'but there shall be no parting. With my own
Strong will I will conquer fate; there shall be
no parting, dear. When will you see mo—when
Wilf you tell me what I have to hear ?”
“To-morrow, after luncheon,” she answered;
•‘ I will walk through the woods with you, as I
did this morning. It will in all probability be
Our last walk.”
Sir Lancelot smiled—ho could not believe this
fear ofhers to be well grounded—and then he
bent down, and said good night. Once more
he left her standing by the marble Psyche—
alone.
CHAPTEB VII.
“he had duo a pit fob me.”
The sun did not shine on the day that follow
ed Christmas Day. The snow lying in the far
off cloud-land was near falling, and a soft gray
mist lay between earth and heaven, hid the tall
trees, and floated over the grass—a silver mist
that gave a dr.eamy, vague aspect to the land
scape. After luncheon was over, and when
some of Lord Lynmarehe’s visitors had sot out
to drive or ride, Lady Gwendoline started for
the woods. '
“I have been counting the hours,” said Sir
Lancelot, meeting her, “anl they seemed to
have leaden wings—they would not pass.”
“They have passed ail too quickly for me,”
She replied.
Looking at her, he was struck by the pallor
of toe beautiful face and the pained expression
of the blue eyes. Yet Lady Gwendoline had
never looked better. She wore a dress of black
Velvet and white fur, which suited her aristo
cratic style of face and figure, to perfection.
The chill misty air had higbtened her beauty.
Her look of restrained sorrow did not please
her lover; and it was all in vain that she tried
to be cool and dignified.
“Ah, no, my Gwendoline,” he said, “wo are
not going back to the terms on which we stood
even so late as yesterday morning. You can
not retreat. You said you loved me. lam here
as your lover.no i as your friend. Let there be no
mistake about the terms on which we stand.”
She looked at him, frightened at his words.
“You will not say that to me when you have
beard what I have to relate.”
“Before you begin, Gwendoline,” he said,
drawing near to her, “do try to believe that
nothing can change my love. Let mo try to
impress upon you, my darling, to have perfect
faith and perfect trust in me.”
“I have both,” she returned, “and with
them perfect love. Now listen to me, Lance
lot; this is our farewell—we meet to-day to
bury our love, to bury it out of sight, out of
mind."
“1 must boar what you have to tell me before
I can say whether we must part,” ho said.
“Now, Gwendoline, begin, dear.”
He saw her face grow pale, and her lips.
When she opened them, grew white.
“It is very bard,” sne observed; “many
people have indulged in cinldisn follies, and no
harm has come of it. I have been so bitterly
punished for mine.” •
“ For a childish folly, Gwendoline ?” he inter
rogated.
“Yes ; for in many things I was but a child
when it happened. I am not quite twenty,
pew. I was just seventeen then.”
She stopped abruptly; speech seemed so dif
ficult to her.
“ You do not know how I hate to tell you,
Lance,” she said, slowly. “I think I would
rather die, standing here by your side, than tell
you my story.”
“Tell it, darling; let me judge. I smolder
and wiser.”
“When I was seventeen,” she began, “my
father went to Strathmuir. in Scotland—he
could not get to his own place, Glenarvon—l
forget why—but for the shooting he took
Strathmuir. I do not know, either, why he
took me with him, except that ho was so fond
of me. Strathmuir is a pretty place lying in
the midst of the Scotch moors. I remember it
well, although the memory of everything be
longing to it, even the scent of the heather, is
"hateful to me now. My father took a large
party of visitors with him; for Strathmuir is
not merely a shooting-box, out a large and
beautiful mansion. I enjoyed part of the time
there. The gentlemen were out all day shoot
ing, and. the ladies—most of them married
read and talked. I was just seventeen; 1 had
left school only about four months.
“I bad read so many love-stories, Lancelot,
my mind was filled with romance—that vague,
sweet, dreamy romance which belongs to sev
enteen. I had not seen anyone then who, by
any trick or force of imagination, could be
transformed into a lover; but, like every other
girl, I longed for the time when love and lovers
would be mine. One afternoon my father came
home well pleased. He had been to Lord Lo
ryston’s, and there be bad met with one of the
pleasantest of companions. I remember how,
during dinner, be expatiated on bis good quali
ties ; he was so gay and so charming, there was
such a winning grace in all he did and said
music in bis laughter, sunshine in his smile.
I remember bow my father’s speech concluded.
•“Better than all,’he said, ‘my new friend
has a Saxon name—a real old true Saxon name,
“Osric.’”
“Some one then asked for his full name.
“‘Captain Osric Anderton,’replied mv fath
er.
“Oh, Lance, there have been times since
when I have felt, woman though I am, ready to
curse that name."
The anger that flushed her face and gleamed
in her eyes startled him, yet he did not shrink
from her, his hands tightened their clasp. He
could not have described the pain that seemed
to stifle him. Of all the turns that her story
could have taken, he expected this loast; that
it bad anything to do with love or lovers he had
not anticipated.
“But nothing,” he said to himself, “shall
Shake my faith in her.”
“On the day following,” continued Lady
Gwendoline, “Captain Osric Anderton came.
My father pressed him to remain tor a week or
two. He was very handsome, Lanco, although
I loathe the memory of his beauty now. He
had a frank, debonair face, with a laughing
glint in bis gray eyes, and a head covered with
clusters of fair hair. He was full of life and
animation. He cnarmed every one, and he
charmed me. I did not discern then what 1
discerned afterward—the want of honor, the
utter want of principle, which made his beauty
worse than a whited sepulchre. I did not dis
cern then that underneath all the fun and the
laughter there was a greed and self-seeking
that words are weak to describe—that beneath
the fair smiles and fair words was concealed a
reckless spirit. I did not know then, what I
knew afterward, that, despite his personal
beauty and his charm of manner, Captain An
derton was a wicked man. Yet I can remember
times when his words and ideas shocked me,
when they jarred upon my sense of what was
right; but I would not heed these warnings—l
trampled them under foot. Even my father be
gan, X think, to distrust him alter a time. He
would look grave when Captain Anderton was
telling some of bis stories. Once I heard him
Bay:
You fall short, sir. You are not so Saxon
as your name? ”
“From the first hour that he entered Strath
muir Captain Anderton paid me rhe greatest
attention. Lance, you will remember that I
■was only just seventeen, that X had a girl’s na
tural longing for love and romance, that X had
no mother to warn or guide me, no sister to ad-
Wise me. My father worshiped me, and
thought I could do no wrong, and I was vain
snd foolish.
ft. JU did uot lava Lance-,
r i not the least in the world. I never even de
l ludod myself into thinking that I loved him
; But my vanity was flattered by his homage. I
3 found it pleasant to hear that 1 was more beau
tiful, more beloved, than any other girl. I
liked the flattery. I liked to think that one
man on earth was ready to die for me. I
liked to remember that I was all the world to
r him. But I did not love him; X swear it to you,
1 Lance. X did not know then what love meant
t —I never knew until I met you.
“The greatest folly that I committed was
, that I used to roam over the heather-clad hills
with him—that X used to rise early and go out
i whore ha could join me. Even then I discow
> ered two or three things that might have put
[ mo on my guard. Ho was almost without
money, he was deeply in debt, and he was a
, reekless gambler. All those details came out
in our conversation.
I “ I did not love him Lance; my hand never lay
; in his as it doos in yours. I believe that if he
i hid offered to touch my face I should have
i hated him. But his flattery was pleasant, his
we'U-feignod admiration was pleasant. Meet
ing him on the hill-side was a breax in the mo
notony of my life, and X enjoyed it accordingly
—but love never entered my heart.
“Thon he talked nonsense to me. I laughed,
Lance, out of the lightness and happiness of
my own heart. I did not think of the matter
seriously at all. I laughed when ho went down
; on his knees among the heather, and said, if I
did not love him, he should die; it was only a
i well-acted comedy to me. I never said one
serious word to him, and for that he would ro
, proach ma at times. lam not seeking to ex
cuse myself. I know that I did wrong in meet
ing him, in talking to him, in having anything
to do with him; but, oh, Lance, I have been bit
terly, cruelly punished'for my tolly I”
“During this time Captain Anderton was
busily engaged in making inquiries about my
iortune. I heard of it afterward, when it was
too late to take the precautions I should have
taken. Unhappily for me he learned that I was
a wealthy heiress—that my mother’s large for
tune was settled on ma, and could not be
touched, and that I should in all probability
succeed to the greater part of my father’s
wealth. From the time that he learned that
be redoubled his attentions to ma. Moro than
once he persuaded me to go out on purpose
that we might walk and talk together.
“I was only seventeen, and X liked to be
amused. The’ladies staving in the house were
ail staid and quiet. There was no one at
Strathmuir young like myself. I never talked
seriously to Captain Anderton—poetry and sen
timent wo never thought of—it was all light
hearted nonsense. He did not make love to
me in the common acceptation of the words;
he did not talk about marriage—if he had, I
should have come to my senses all the sooner.
Ho spoke to me generally in a most exaggerated
stylo of adulation—so exaggerated that I never
gave it a serious thought. He talked to me a
great deal about what he would do if ho had
money. I particularly remember that he said
once—
•■‘l do not think! should care how I got
money, if I could but got it?
“To my bitter cost I found the words true. I
remember, also, that he cleverly extracted from
mo all information as to my mother’s will. Ho
learned that at eighteen I was to have a hand
some allowance, and that at twenty I was to
succeed to her entire fortune. X shall be twenty
in May.
•“ If I had but ever so small a sum certain,’
he sand to mo once, ‘ I should leave the army.
I do not like the army—l do not like the re
straint?
“Ono morning, something—l cannot remem
ber wiiat—was to take place at a town in the
neigbborbool, and my father with most of his
visitors went thither. Captain Osric remained
at home. 1 was sitting with Lady Vyvian read
ing, when he contrived to give me a little pen
ciled note. It said:
“‘ Do come out, Lady Gwendoline. Do not
let us waste this lovely morning indoors. Cjino
over the Bradip Hill. I have a scheme for our
amusement—make some excuse for coming
out'
“I did so. X told Lady Vyvian that I wanted
to go. She looked rather uncomfortable. ‘ X
do not like you to go alone, Gwendoline? she
said; ‘I will go with you?
“But 1 made some excuse—a false one, I
know. I wanted to enjoy the sunshine on the
bills, and to laugh like a girl with my young
admirer. I had no desire for a promenade with
the stately Laly Vyvian.
“I went, Lauce—but I wish I had died on
the threshold of Strathmuirl I met my young
admirer, who had honeyed words on his lips,
love in his eyes, music in his gay laughter, and
we walked away over the hills. Once or twice
it seemed to me that my companion’s laughter
was forced, that an air of unusual gravity was
about him, and at times I found him looking at
me intently.
‘“/lie you tired?’ he asked meat last. I
told h.m that I was.
“‘Some tenants of the friend with whom I
was lately staying live near here? be said; ‘you
shall go and see them, and then you can rest.
You shall have buttermilk anl oaten cake—a
Scotch banquet, Lady Gwendoline? And just
as wo passed the Bradip Hills we came to an
old gray building, a small quaint bouse stand
ing alone in the midst of an old-fashioned gar
den. X saw Captain Anderton’s handsome face
grow pale and anxious.
“ ‘Here you oan rest and have some refresh,
ment, he said. ‘You will come in, Lady Gwen
doline ?’
“I did not stop to think; it seemed to me of
little moment whether X went iu or notx, even if
it wore not in strict accordance with the laws of
etiquette, who was to know what I did on those
Scotch moors, so fay away ?
“We entered the house, and I saw an old,
white-haired man. Some woman, evidently his
wife, was with him; and they were seated, one
at each side of the fire-place. Captain Ander
ton asked for some buttermilk and oat-cake for
me; it was brought by a little maid-servant, and
I, being both hungry and tired, ate and drank.
Heaven forgive mo if I judge him wrongfully;
but I do believe that he had contrived to have
some kina of drag mixed with the buttermilk,
it had such a peculiar taste; and when 1 had
drunk it, i had a most strange sensation. I did
not lose my senses, but they seemed numbed.
I beard distinctly, yet every sound came from
afar off. I saw plainly, but my eyes were dazed.
All my energies were paralyzed—if murder had
been done in mv presence, 1 could not have in
terfered. Presently X was standing before the
white-haired old man, and Captain Anderton
was holding my hand in his. I heard him say,
in a clear, distinct voice;
“•I take you both to witness that this wo
man is my wedded wife?
“1 held up my band for a moment, but every
thing seemed to sink away from me; in a few
minutes more, when I had recovered, I found
that the old man was reading a prayer, and that
we were kneeling before him.”
"It cannot be true I” cried Sir Lancelot.
“It is perfectly true. I heard Captain An
derton say:
“•Adam and Elsie Graham, it the time should
ever come when I may require you to give evi
dence of this marriage, you must uot withhold
the truth?
“Then some one opened the door, and a
stream of fresh air came in winch seemed to
dispel the terrible vapor. Captain Auderton
took my hand and led me away. When we were
outside the house my senses seemed to clear. I
turned angrily to him.
“ ‘ What do you mean by this folly, this mad
ness, this insult, Captain Anderton?’ I de
manded.
“‘lt means, my dear, that by the laws of
Scotland, the most convenient in the world, you,
Lady Gwendoline, are my lawful wife?
“ Lance, I fell at his feet in sore distress. He
pretended to bo sorry ; be tried to raise me, but
I would not let him touch mo,
“ ‘lf it be true,’ X said, ‘I will lie here until I
die? ”
Sir Lancelot set his teeth—his breath camo in
great hot gasps.
“If I had been near,” he said, hoarsely, “I
would have set my foot on the villain’s heck.
Go on, Gwendoline,” be added. “There will
be a reckoning-day for him yet. Tell me all.”
“He bent ever me then, Lance, and he said :
“ ‘ You love me, Gwendoline ?’
“‘I do not—l never did,” I replied.
“ ‘Then you have deceived mo? ha declared.
‘You have been willing to talk to me, to laugh
with mo, to meet me out here on the hills. If
you do not love me, you have deceived me.
Why have you done this
“Then X saw that he had dug a pit for me,
and that I had fallen into it. I seemed suddenly
to understand his plot, and how ho had laid it.
The only thing that I did not understand just
at that "moment was what he wished to gain by
it. I looked indignantly at him, yet I felt like a
helpless child.
“ ‘There has never been one word of love be
tween us? I said, ■ and you know it?
“ ‘I know nothing of the kind? he asserted.
‘I have addressed you by every title that a wo
man loves best to hear?
“Sb he had; and in my folly I had laughed at
it, thinking it a jest.
“ • That was jest, not earnest,, I said.
“ ‘A man makes love in earnest, not in jest?
he rejoined. ‘You knew I loved you, and, if
you had no love for me, why have you walked
out with me day after day—why have you lis
tened to me—why have you made excuses to
meet me?’
"Lance, when brought face to face with my
own folly, I was bewildered. Why had I done
these things ? Only from a childish impulse,
only from a girlish love of fun.
“ ‘lt is done now? he said, coolly, ‘and it is
of no use making any disturbance about it. Of
course I thought you would be pleased with
such a romantic marriage ; if you are not, I am
very sorry, and we must make some arrange
ment—we must come to terms?
“ ‘You have laid a cunning plot, and it has
succeeded? I exclaimed, on hearing these words.
‘You have made me a victim. I will go and tell
my father all about it?
“I arose from the ground and walked quickly
away. He followed me.
“ ‘Stop, Lady Gwendoline,’ he commanded,
and I stopped, for there was quiet determination
in his voice.
“ • Listen to mo? he said, ’beforeyou do what
can never be undone. You are very young
—you do not understand the law or the world’s
usages. There has been a mistake. I have
done what I have done under the impression
that you loved me—and your own conduct has
made me believe that you loved me ; if you do
not, it is all a mistake. But take my advice—if
you do not love me, and do not wish to live with
me, do not tell Lord Lynmarche?
“I was still weak enough, iHtnce, to believe
what ho said.
“‘lf you tell Lord Lynmarche that I have
ft 9 WU Compel J ol * Hva
NEW 1 ORK DISPATCH, APRIL Id, 1879.
always with ms; and if you do not really like
me, that would be very sad for you?
“ • 1 would rather die than ever speak to you
again!’ I cried.
“‘Dying is not so easy, and there are laws
which compel a wife to speak to her own hus
band. But lam really vorv sorry, Lady Gwen
doline. It is a mistake, and I regret it?
“After I had walked on for a few minutes
and the fresh air had cleared my brain, I be
gan to doubt what I had heard. I turned round
to him with now hope in my heart.
“ ‘ I do not believe one word you have said,
Captain Andertoq. You are jesting with me
ant! it is a cruel jest. That absurd, empty cere
mony was no marriage.’
“Ho smiled grimly, and my heart sank again.
“ ‘I have seen.marriages and heard of them?
I cried, in my childish, futile indignation.
‘This is no marriage—none at all. There was
no clergyman, no license, no ring—nothing that
constitutes a marriage?
“ ‘You are wrong, Lady Gwendoline. There
are laws and laws. Each country has its own
method of performing the marriage ceremony.
The English laws of marriage are clover and
complicated; the law of Scotland, in its sim
plicity, seoms to have been made for the con
venience of people like myself?
“‘I do not believe it. I will never believe
that, because you choose to say before two peo
ple that lam your wife, that makes me so. I
am not your wife I’
“‘Why did you not say so at the time?’he
asked, quietly. ‘You should have spoken then;
it is uselees now?
“‘I am not your wife I’l cried again. ’Do
you mean to tell me that any man can marry a
woman against her will? It is monstrous 1”
“ ‘You will find that our marriage is legal,’
he said; and, Lance, his firm, earnest manner
began to impress me. ‘lnquire where you
will, Lady Gwendoline—inquire of whom you
will—consult the most learned lawyers—and
you will find that legally you are roy wife. No
power can free you, Lady Gwendoline—l can
not free myself; but, as it is a mistake,! am
willing to do my best. I will never annoy you
nor molest you—l will never tell any human
being what has passed between us. You, in
your turn? ho Went on, his face flushing with
shame, ‘must promise that you will aid and
befriend me?
“ ‘ How can I aid you ?’ I asked.
“ ‘ Why, you see it is hardly fair to have so
great a difference between husband and wife.
You are so rich and I am so poor?
‘“Then it is money you want, Captain An
derton ?’
“‘Exactly so,’ he replied, trying to speak
carelessly—‘it is money. You have a hand
some allowance—you will have a grand fortune.
Promise to allow me a certain sum to be deter
mined on. per annum, when you obtain pos
session of your wealth, and I. on my part, will
promise never to molest you, never to claim
you as my wife, never to betray the imprudence
of your conduct to any one?
“I saw it all then, Lance—l saw how cleverly
he had laid his plot, and bow easily 1 bad been
duped. I walked on, blindly, dumbly.
“ ‘You see, Lidy Gwendoline? he continued,
‘there is much to be thought of. You may
soon regret your promise, and say to yourself
that it will be better to have a law-suit, and try
the legality of the marriage. We will suppose
thad; you do that, and that throughout the
length and breadth of the land there is nothing
spoken of but the case of Lady Gwendoline
Lynmarche—the whole story of your impru
dence, your wandering with me over these
wild, lonely hills, the story of your secret mar
riage in an old Scotch manse. You would get
the best lawyers to plead for you. I should do
the same ; and, knowing what clever lawyers
can do, I ask you one question—even supposing
the case wore decided in your favqr, what shred
of character would remain to you after such a
trial ?’
“‘X am innocent! ’ I cried. ‘How dare you
say such things to me?’
“‘lam only warning you as to what the
world will say if you brave its opinion, Lady
Gwendoline. Suppose that the case was de
cided in your favor, do you think that any man
who values his name would share it with a wo
man who has figured in all the newspapers—
with a woman whose story has been on every
tongue? ’
■ “Lance, I was so young,' so credulous, that I
believed what be said, and I began to look upon
myself as lost beyond redemption. Ho must
have seen how bis words wore beginning to in
fluence me, for he went on—
•‘ ‘lt would be a sad day for the Lymnarches
to have a grand old name like theirs dragged
through the mud and mire of a law court.
There was never a Lynmarche yet who dis
graced his name?
“‘Nor will I. If I must buy your silence, I
will pay the price you demand for it—the price
of a man’s honor and a woman’s happiness.
But, remember, I despise you.’
“My words seemed to sting him—not into
nity, but into something that resembled self
contempt.
“‘Xiiave bqpn deceived too,’he said. ‘I
thought you loved mo?
‘“You did not. It has been no question of
love, but ratiiorone of money. You have never
loved me, but from the first have thought and
planned to turn me to profitable account?
“‘You are not altogether just to me, Lady
Gwendolino.’.he remarked ; ‘I might bo much
more grasping—l might force you to live with
me, and then, instead of being content with a
paltry allowance, I should.be master of your
fortune?
“I was too ignorant, Lance, to fight him
with his owe weapons—to tell him that I was
under age, and could not many without the
consent of my father. He had an easy tri
umph over me.”
“It is incredible,” cried Sir Lancelot, “that
any man should be such a villian. Surely, my
darling Gwendoline, you did not believe your
self the coward’s wife ?”
“ I did then—l do not now. That nigh t some
friends of my father’s came from luvorary to
dine with us, and among them there was a fa
mous Q. C. Oh, Lance, my heart sinks now
when I remember the torture of that evening 1
“‘You shall see who is right and who is
wrong as to our marriage,’ whispered Captain
Anderton to me. ‘Listen—lam going to speak
. to the eminent counsel; I shall, toll him’our
story, and you shall hear what he says?
“In the coolest, easiest manner possible ho
began; I beard my own story recited—he told It
as an incident he had heard. When he had fin
ished tho great Q. 0. said;
“‘lt was a marriage, certainly, although tho
lady could have obtained a release, if she
would?
“An hour afterward Captain Anderton came
to me and, pretending to look over my book,
whispered:
“ ‘ You have heard tho decision. Such a man
as that seldom errs?
“ ‘I have heard? I returned, bitterly. ‘Name
your price, and if it is to be paid, rid ma of
your batea presence, and never dare to address
me again?
“ ‘Mine is the winning move in tho game? bo
laughed; and, Lance, I knew that he had spoken
the truth—ho had won and 1 had lost.
“X never had the least hope from that hour.
AU night long 1 lay sleepless and trembling,
wondering what I could do, how I coui'd free
myself from the terrible toils into which X had
fallen. It seemed to me then that my life was
all over—that I might just as well die as live.
How was I to live under tho burden of this in
tolerable secret ? If X had loved him, and had
consented to a private marriage for my love’s
sake, that would have been a different matter;
but I did not love him, I had no thought of
marriage, he had been nothing to me but the
amusing companion of au idle hour. Now I
loathed him. His meanness, his greed, his
treachery, disgusted me. 1 could not endure
even to look at him. But in my ignorance I felt
that ha was master of my fate. On the morrow,
when I went down stairs, he asked to speak to
me. Oh, Ijance, when he bent his face, smil
ing, into mine, I felt that I could have slain
him I’.
“We must make some arrangement? he said.
‘I think I shall bo behaving very handsomely to
you, Lady Gwendoline, if I consent to be con
tent with a thousand per annum when you come
into possession of your magnificent fortune?
“‘You shall have it? 1 premised. ‘I would
give my last shilling rather than be compelled
to live with you or to see you?
“‘A thousand per annum,’ he repeated;
‘and until that time I shall expect you to pro
vide me, from your allowance, with any small
sums of money that 1 may require; and, if I
should by any chance have the misfortune to
fall into debt, you will, of course, clear me?
“ I promised. You see, Lance, X would have
promised anything rather than have beeu
obliged to parley farther with him.
“‘We cannot have any documents drawn up?
he said, ‘until you are of age, andean legally
sign them; but you must clearly understand
one thing, Lady Gwendoline. I have a right to
the money, and, if you fail to pay it, I shall
simply claim you as my wife, pn.i the law will
compel you to live with me. Pay the money
regularly, and you shall not hear from me
again.”
“ ‘ You have spoiled my life,’ I moaned.
“Oh, Lance, I was so helpless! All the fear
of my whole being merged in tho one
great horror lest my folly should be found out.
I believe now that, if I had gone at once to my
father, and told him my story, I should have
been saved.”
“I cannot imagine why you did not,” ob
served Sir Lancelot.
“I was afraid,” confessed Lady Gwendoline;
“Captain Anderton had deceived mo so com
pletely. I quite believed what he said, that, if
I went to my father, and told him, I should be
compelled to live with him. Now I see that it
was but'a threat. At seventeen,Lance,a girl feels
instead of reasons—l never reasoned about the
matter at all. Captain Anderton was very
clever In my society he was always talking
about the Scotch marriage law, until people
began to laugh at him. And then my father
began to dislike him. I overheard him say one
day to Sir Charles Vyvian—
“‘ I have made a mistake in asking that
young Anderton here. There is nothing Saxon
about him except his name. He has the man
ners of au adventurer—nothing more?
“When Captain Anderton found my father
cold, and our friends distant, he spoke of
going. I could never tell you how great my
relief was. Oh, Lance, I loathed him so 1 I
longed for him to go. It seemed to me that I
could never breathe freely while be was in the
house. I had not exchanged, one word with
him since he told me the terms he required.
If he entered a room, I left it; and one morn
ing, to my intense joy, ho announced his de
parture.
“‘You will hear from me when you come of
ago,’ he said. ‘Until then—unless there be
anything the matter— l sha]J uot trouble you?
o ; “He had tho presumption to hold out his
: hand to me.
u ‘“I shall never touch the hand of a swind- 1
■ ler,' I said. You are going, but you take with
r s l you my utter detestation?
I- ' “Ho laughed, and went away, but not with
i- out making every arrangement. I breathed
freely. On the same evening my father spoke
is of him again. I overheard him saying that j
e- ho would never again take a men upon trust ;
d or because ho had a Saxon name. Yet be ■
know nothing more about him than this, that ■
I, bo bad evinced in all his words and ways a
- complete want of principle.
s- “Then wo loft Scotland. Ido not say ranch
to you, Lance, of what I thought, felt or suf
i. ferod. It would ba so useless, dear; words are
,’ weak. One thing I must toll you. After the
i. first sense of despair had passed, I bogan to
s wonder if Captain Anderton had deceived me
,t —if it were possible, after alt, that it was no
marriage, even according to Scottish law.
e What do you think I did, Xjance ? I dared not
n go to a lawyer; but, enclosing a good fee I
y. wrote—not in my own name—to one who is
d supposed to be very clever, for his opinion. He
i- answered my letter, and said that he could not
i- pronounce the marriage valid, and that, if
either party to the contract disputed it, there
■ g was fair giouni for a trial. I wrote back to
j. him and told him more than I had at first. His
t answer was tho same—there was fair ground
for a trial.”
0 “But, Gwendoline, it is incredible. You are
r no more that man’s wafe than you are mine.”
’ “It matters little now,” she returned drear
o ‘’y-
a * You do not mean to tell me that you intend
this absurd slate ef things to continue, Gwen-
> doline? It drives me mad to think of it. That
,’ r man has deceived you from first to last. It was
u no marriage. How could a woman be married
u against her will? The Scotch law may be bad
j enough, but it is not so bad as that. You are
o no wife, Gwendoline. Ho was a villain, you a
t . child, and he saw his way to obtain money from
a you. He knew you did not love him—how could
u you? Ho knew you would never marry him—
Q again, how could you ? He laid a trap, and you,
q poor, simple child, fell into it.”
h “Yes, I have thought so since,” she allowed,
cl “It shall not go on, Gwendoline; heknust be
punished, my darling. You are not his wife; he
never had even tho least shadow of a legal claim
o upon you. I know sufficient of Scotch and En
glish law to be quite sure of that. Gwendoline,
you need have no cause for tear—you are not
. his wife.”
She raised her pale, beautiful face to the skies,
and clasped her Hands as one who prayed.
. “I am thankful for that,” she said.
i. “And this state of things must be ended at
’ once,” he pursued. “It is monstrous that it
. should continue. He must be hunted down and
H punished.”
Q Then she turned to him with a clear, cold
s light on her face and a calm resolve in her eyes.
“I thank you, Sir Lancelot,” she said,, “for
y having made'mc feel happier. lam glad no tie
, binds me to this man. But I must ask for your
patience while I tell you more. I shall never
marry.”
> “But there Is not even a shadoww of fear that
y. that absurd ceremony was legal.”
1 “That much lam thanxful for, and am happy
f to hear, but it will not change my resolution. I
5 would rather die than have my story known.”
’ “It is only the story of a noble girl basely de-
■ ceived,” he cried.
3 “I know it—l know that the utmost any one
can blame me for is this: I laughed and talked
1 with him, I went out with him. They were tri
’ fling indiscretions, but I shall have to pay the
price of my life’s happiness for them.”
“You shall do no such thing, Gwendoline,”
’ he remonstrated.
’ She turned her face to his.
~ “I du not think, Lancelot, that you under
stand mn yet. Xam proud—proud beyond the
generality of women. You say that the revela-
1 tion of my story would not injure me—would
not cause people to think less of me. I toll you
3 that 1 would rather suffer any torture, any
r death, than have it made known.”
“But, Gwendoline, what could it matter?
1 You would be my wife, and no one would then
dare to whisper one word about you.”
' She raised her eyes to bis, and they were filled
' with pitying love.
, “ Your wife, dear ? No, never—l love you too
1 well. Your wife should be some girl on whom
? not even the shadow of blame has ever fallen. I
6 should not be able to bear it if, when people
spoke of me, they designated me as ‘ Sir Lance
lot’s wife, the girl about whom there was so
1 queer a story once upon a time? ”
1 “ No one wotfld say so, dear.”
’ “ Ah, yos, plenty would. I know that a scan-
' dal such as that would never die quite away.
. There must be no shadow on your wife’s name—
-1 none.”
’ Her voice died away in a low murmur broken
■ by sobs.
“Let me be judge of that,” he said. “It is
3 my name, dear; let me place it in your hands.
' lam quite content if you will only share it.”
“No,” she returned, sadly, “do not plead to
*■ me, Lance; it is bard enough to refuse. My
dower is a dower of shame; you shall have none
f of it.”
; “Will you coolly and deliberately break my
1 heart, because two years ago a swindler de
ceived you by a story almost too shallow to de-
i ceivo a child ?”
1 “ Ah, Lance, you are angry. Do not be an-
1 gry, dear; it is all useless—love, persuasion,
1 entreaties are all useless. I can never be your
wife. You will thank ma for it iu the years to
come,” she continued, “when some fair and
1 noble woman stands by your side—some one
5 who has added lustre to your name, and who is
a spoken of with reverence and honor. You will
' thank me then, and own that I did well to refuse
to share my darker destiny with you.’ d
‘ And, though she was so proud, so haughty,
f so calm, she bent her head until her face was
■ buried in her hands, and then she wept passion
ate tears.
3 “My love, my love, we must part,” she sobbed.
3 “Life bolds nothing for us. We must be apart
-for evermore.”
v “Gwendoline,” said Sir Lancelot, in a low
voice, “I cannot bear it, dear ; you torture mo,
s you drive me mad. I know you are the dearest,
i the purest, the noblest of women. My darling,
i what can idle rumor, idle scandal matter to
r us ? Will you break my heart to gratify your
pride ?”
3 “I should break your heart, indeed, if, after
t I married you, my name and yours were to be
- on every lip. I could not brook the disgrace.”
“There might not be any. Your betrayer
3 might be well inclined to let tho whole matter
3 die out. If money could purchase his silence
once, it might again. It is possible that he
3 might hesitate if he were well paid.” ■
“He would not,” she affirmed. “He swore
to me when X saw him last that if ever I thought
1 of marriage ho would bring the case at once for
trial.”
3 “Ho might say so, but I do not think he
‘ would do it,’ said Sir Lancelot.
3 She drew nearer to him, and clasped her
hands round his arm.
3 “Lance, I have a terrible fear. Undercover
1 of the darkness of night, he has been here
twice for money. Each time, in fear and trem-
• bling, X have been compelled to get all the
• money I could, and give it to him; and it struck
0 me—l hate the words as I speak them—l hate
1 myself as 1 utter them—it struck me that he
3 loves me with a jealous, terrible love, and I feel
• quite sure that if be beard only tho rumor of
" my approaching marriage he would cury out
3 his threat.”
a Sir Lancelot’s face grew white with anger.
• “Loves you?” he cried. “Heaven give me
I patience 1”
3 “lam afraid of him, Lance,” she said, shud
-1 denng. “Though lam no coward, lam afraid
! of him. See—my hands tremble; lam afraid.
3 Nothing can tree mo from him—nothing but
‘ his death or mine.”
> The words died away in the silver mist, but
> the time was coming when Sir Lancelot would
' remember them.
3 “Gwendoline,” he said, suddenly, “you do
love me ? Tell me so again.”
“I love you with all my heart,” she replied.
3 “And but for tins you would be my wife?”
“I would not ask any happier fate from
3 Heaven,” she answered.
“Will you leave matters to me, dear? I am
1 better versed in the ways of the world than you
1 are. I can meet a man like that and manage
him better than you can. Will you trust every-
1 thing to me ?’’
“ Uh, Lance, do not ask me 1”
1 “But Ida ask you, dear. Do you suppose
1 that I can calmly contemplate the fact of your
3 life aud mine being completely blighted for the
sake of a villain who has traded on a girl’s ig-
3 norance. If be will listen to reason, well and
3 "good; if ho is poor and needy, ha shall not want
money; but if ho attempts to injure you I will
’ take him in hand and I will crush him. Gwen
>’ doline, you would trust me with your own fate
1 —surely you will trust me iu this matter.”
o “But he might hurt you,” she objected.
I “Nay, sweet,” Sir Lancelot laughed, “I am
1 not a girl for him to frighten, nor a woman for
f him to threaten. Such men as he are apt to
3 cower before an honest man. Give ma his ad
dress and I will see him.”
“ Oh, Lance, Xam sore afraid. Let the affair
r rest, dear.”
3 “Nay, it shall not rest; your fair lite shall
- not be clouded by a villain’s treachery. Tell
f me where I can find him. Do not tremble,
3 Gwendoline; believe me, I will think of you
first—l will study your interest before my own
• happiness. If I find that I cannot punish him
without the public betrayal of your story, he
; shall go free; if I find that I cannot procure
■ your ireedom from his persecution without bo
f trayiug your secret, then you shall be obeyed,
> and the matter shall rest where it is. Now do
t yon trust me, dear?”
s “Implicitly,” she said. “The address of
a Captain Auderton is the Albany, in London.
S’ Now you know all.”
I “ And it was the remembrance of the wicked
e deception that had been practiced on you that
r made you think you must be on your guard?”
3 ho interrogated.
“ Yes —1 dared not confess to liking you.”
t “Then, Gwendoline, if it had not happened
! that, returning accidentally to speak to you, I
. had overheard what you said, you would have
dismissed ma—you would have sent me away
r from you, and never have told me whether you
,f loved me or not ? Would that have been fair,
t dear?”
£ “Perhaps not. But what was I to do? I
I knew that I loved you, Lance, and I knew my
3 own story. Sending you away seemed the only
i thing that could be done.”
“ Thank Heaven it did not succeed I” said Sir
1 Lancelot. “ Gwendoline, I have an idea that I
. shall come back triumphant and happy, and I
claim you as my wife.”
f She gave a great sigh of relief. If it could i
a but be that this terrible cloud might pass away
? —it it could but bfe '
“Listen to me, Gwendoline,” continued Sir ,
‘ Lancelot. “ I shall go to London at once. You
' Bay his address is the Albany. I will go there
and see farm. Best assured, dear, that we shall
I come to terms, anti that I can manage him ;
! and, when I have settled with him, I shall come
back- and ask the noblest girl in England to bo
i my wife.”
“Yon are so good to me, Lance,” she said,
■ “so kind. Do youthink that I shall over bo
! happy and light of heart again? Shall I,
I Lance?”
“Yes—and soon, too. I have but to find
Captain Anderton, to arrange with him, and re
turn ; and than, Gwendoline, wo will forget this
dark episode.”
So, with hops renewed, they both walked
homo through tho clinging silver mist and tho
changing light.
(To bo Continued.)
low he won na.
THE REAUZATOH OF AN OLD DREAM.
It was a lovely little bit of English scenery
for an artist’s pencil to perpetuate—tho wood
land glade in the Summer's afternoon.
Down through the massed thickness of foli
age, greon and still, the mighty sun asserted his
rights, bathing in glory a hero and there patch
of sward or an ivy-covered branch, while tho
shade, dense and calm, claimed the sturdy,
brown, gnarlod trunks, and the variegated moss
at their feet.
On a bit of the sun’s domain, Eustace Ber
thold srtetched himself, and his sketch book
fell idly by his side, as his eyes wandered over
nature’s picture, and his thoughts roamed lar
ther.
Away to tho right lay a pasture stooped in
sunlight, and from it, on the quiet air, came the
tinkle of a sheep-bell, or the bleat of a lamb,
or the short, quick bark of the warning dog;
not a sound or sign of human presence, save the
artist’s own, until a girlish voice, singing sweet
ly, broke the spell, and over tho stile, from the
meadow footpath, sprang the embodiment of
Berthold’s thoughts.
She was a pretty girl of twenty, or there- .
abouts, with laughing dark eyes and a rosenud
mouth, that was always showing its dimples ,
and pearls in smiles. ;
She had a dainty little figure, and the dain
tiest of costumes—a cambric dress, cool and
blue, with a ooquettishly-plumed hat on her
nut-brown hair, and from its wavy abundance
to the sole of her fairy toot there was stamped .
the one word—coquette.
Moreover, Miss Millie AUicent was an heiress
in her own right, with no nearer relation to
thwart her wnims and fancies than the old i
aunt with whom she resided, and the aim of ;
whose life was to assist her niece in contract
ing what she styled a good marriage. ,
Yet to Millie AUicent, to careless, bewitching
Millie alone, had Eustace Berthold surrendered
his heart.
At sound of her voice it had learned to throb;
at touch of her hand, each nerve to thrill as no
woman had ever had power to teach it before.
And now ha was forty-five and ugly, so he bit- f
terly told himself—middle-aged, plain, and
poor. 1
“ What a charming seat you have got, Mr.
Berthold I” said the young lady, gaylylapproach- 1
ing. “Isn’t it pretty, that peep through the
trees? Let me sec how you have copied it. 1
You have been making a sketch, of course ?”
And she stretched out a little imperious hand .
to the tumbled portfolio.
“I’ve not been drawing,” he replied, with a
smile. “I have been thinking only.
“ Or sleeping, more likely I”
She seated herself carelessly by his side, and
scattered out the contents of bis book.
“Oh, this is -pretty—this river scene 1 Ido
like that;” holding it at a critical distance, and '
pronouncing judgment with the utmost assur
ance. . “ The swans are bewitching, and the 1
girl in the boat looks rather like me. I '
would call it my likeness, and have it framed
for my drawing-room, if you would give it
me.”
. “ You would not deign to accept it.”
“Try me!”—with a merry laugh. “You
have never offered me anything yet, so you
can’t tell.”
“ I would offer you everything I have in the
world, and myself into the bargain, if I thought
there was the faintest chance of .your saying
‘Yes, I will take them.’”
They wore out at last, the words he had held
back so long—uttered against his own con
sciousness and will, as it seemed—forced from
him by the magnetism of those bewildering
glances, and that arch face so near his own.
And as the syllables in their repressed emotion
loft his lips, tho girl crimsoned hotly, and there
was silence.
The sheep-bell tinkled again, a thrush burst
into a volume of song overhead, and the shad
ows grew a little louger before the artist turned
again to Millie, nervously replacing the sketches,
and, with his eyes reading her countenance,
said:
“ What say you ?—will you ?”
“No, thank you,” she interrupted, with a
laugh ; and he leaned back on tho velvet grass,
giving no sign, save the one quick contraction
of his features, of tho force of the blow ho had
received.
Miss AUicent hesitatingly resumed her seat.
“You are not offended, Mr. Berthold?”
“Have I any right to no?” he asked, sadly.
“No, I think not, because I never dreamed of
anything of this kind. You are more than dou
ble my age, you know, and so altogether differ
ent. Now don't you think people would call it
rather-an absurd affair, and laugh at us (I hate
being laughed at—don’t you ?), if—if I bad.been
able to say yes ?”
“No doubt!” he assented, bitterly.
“And don’t you think that very likely, in a
little time, you would have seen the folly of it
yourself—known, when too late, that you had
made a mistake? I believe people often do
that, and you and I haven’t got a single feature
in common. We should niase tho most fear
fully ill-assorted couple in the world.”
“Beauty and the beast,” he responded,
quietly. “You show me clearly what an old
tool I have been making of myself; annoying
you, too, I daresay, by my stupidity and pre
sumption !”
“ Indeed you have never annoyed me ?” she
interrupted, emphatically. “I’m afraid you
don’t understand quite what I mean. I never
can express myself as I want to do.”
“I do understand perfectly. I have been, as
I said, an old fool, and have had wilder fancies
than a young one. It is all over now, as I knew
it must be sooner or later, and I go back to the
art I ought never to have neglected. Don’t
trouble your kind little heart about me.” (For
there was a suspicious moisture stealing into
the softening eyes.) “Work will console, and
cause me to forget.”
“ And you are sure you forgive me, and that
wo are quite as good friends as ever wo were ?”
she pleaded, rising, and lingering.
"Certainly. ‘Afriend once, a friend always,’ ”
he smiled.
And then she tripped away upon her inter
rupted walk, and pondered.
“ Hava I given him any real pain, I wonder ?
And how long will it be before he forgets it all
—three weeks, or a month, perhaps ?”
* * * * * *
“We have not seen anything of Mr. Ber
thold tor a louger time than I can count!” Mrs.
Larkin (Millie’s aunt) observed to a roomful of
afternoon tea drinkers.
And a young man, from behind her niece’s
chair, volunteered, "Neither has any one else,
for he is just working himself to death. This
picture oi his for the next exhibition will be
the making of his fame, and the ruin of his
health, I predict.”
“Have you told him so?” questioned Miss
AUicent, turning carelessly.
“Dozens of times. Willful man, like willful
woman, Miss AUicent, must go his way. By the
by,” bending lower and sinking his voice for
her ears only, “ may 1 order the horses round ,
to-morrow for the ride you nromised me? ;
Don’t disappoint me again.”
“I won’t, if it is fine,” she laughed.
And after the guests bad, one by one, strolled :
away, Lord Frederick last, .Mrs. Larkin put her
hand on her niece’s and said:
“ You have made your market at last, child. |
Lord Frederick means to propose, as sure as I 1
am a woman. He is a conquest worth the trou- ;
ble of making—isn’t he, dear ?” i
“I don’t know.”
Millie leaned back in her chair, with the near- ■
est approach to a sigh her aunt had ever heard -
from her lips. ]
“itis a weary world this, aunt, with its con- ■
quests, and proposals, and refusals; and the i
chances are it won't be a bit brighter when one
is married. I wish sometimes-—]
But Mrs. Larkin, in alarm at that one terrible 1
word, echoed in interruption: i
“Refusal ?”
“I can't accept everybody. Better refuse I
them all, I think.”
“Refuse Lord Frederick—his title, his family
conections, his largo Income—himself! Millie,
whom are you expecting to get—a prince ?”
“A somebody I can love, if he be but a beg
gar,” the girl said, very softly, with her dark :
eyes gazing far out, dreamy and sad, and Mrs.
Larkin rose and fanned herself.
“I never believed you would talk such non
sense—never I Love I—preposterous, absurd !
But it you must love, wby can’t you love Lord '
Frederick ? Whom have you seen more lovable
—tell me that.”
A color ever so faint tinged the delicate
cheek; then Millie sprang up, her merry self -
again.
“I’ll toll you when I meet him, aunt, as I'll
tell you how I answer Lord Frederick, if he
says anything very particular to me. Now it is
time wo dressed tor the theatre, isn’t it ?” i
“That is Mr. Berthold across there,” Miss
AUicent announced, without moving her elbow i
from the front of the box on which she leaned
to survey the crowded theatre. “Lord Freder
ick, would you mind bringing him around
here?”
His lordship, secure in the wished-for objects,
age and plainness as opposed to bis own youth
and fascination, obeyed his charmer’s wish, and
carried his generosity so far as to allow the art
ist, for whom he had a careless amount of per
sonal friendanip, standing room behind Miss
Allicent’s chair, while he turne’d his own appre
ciated attentions upon the other ladies of the
party, and hoped thereby to pique fair Millie.
“You are working very hard, I hear, and look
as if it did not agree with you,” the girl said to
her old friend, as the fall of the curtain started
conversation.
•• It agrees with my picture,” he gravely
smiled, “I will turn over a new leaf when it is
I finished.”
I “It you don’t finish off the book at the
same time,” she laughed. “ Beside, you
are offending all your old friends. Aunt was '
remarking your rudeness only the other day. '
It is alt very well to strive for name and
fame, and ail that, and they are very nice I
things to get, but what good will they do
I you if you Haven’t a bit of health left to onjoyj
them?” in stern, unanswerable rebuke. Thon
she went on, laughing up in his face, “ Gome
and shine at dances, and kettle-drums, and at
homes, as you did a few months ago, and for
get this tiresome picture awhile. ’’
“Unfortunately,” he said, in a lowered voice,
as the curtain rose again, “ 1 never forget.”
Upon two mimic lovers, who, when both de
ceived by the hearts on which they had respec
tively staked their afieoiions, made haste to
console themselves with each others, and found
the change a preferable one. Millie sat and
gazed until tho seen® ended, then took up the
thread of her conversation.
“A memory of six weeks’ length is tho most
convenient pattern to have, and the most fash
ionable one, I believe. That Francis on the
stage is just exactl-v like every man I know; it
one young lady says ‘No,’ he congratulates
himself on his escape from such bad taste, and
repeats bis question to another young person
of more discernment. Am I not right?”
“You are excessively cruel,” ho said, in a
hoarse whisper, as ho turned abruptly awiy,
and, with a bow to Mrs. Larkin, quitted the
box.
“Berthold gone?” Lord Frederick question
ed, languidly raising his eyebrews. “Did yon
ever seo any fellow so fearfully altered in a few
months ?”
“That Miss AUicent is a sweetly pretty girl,
certainly,” tho artist’s friend observed, as Bert
hold rejoined him. “Looks too good for that
conceited young sprig of nobility; but she is
engaged to him, I suppose?”
“I believe so,” Berthold quietly answered.
The work was done at last, and the fame
gained ; the painter’s name in every mouth, and
the space before the picture daily thronged.
Caitics praised and friends congratulated,
and the public crowded to see the success that
had cost its winner more than time and labor.
Miss AUicent went with her aunt, of course,
to see the picture of the season, and Lord Fred
erick joined them in the room.
“Don’t talk to me!” tho girl placidly snubbed
bis lordship’s flow of conversation. “I want to
get it thoroughly into my mind, every detail of
its grand beauty, and I can’t do that if you keep
on chatting. Take aunt round the other rooms
and leave me to sit here and study this one pic
ture till you’ve seen all the rest, then I’ll listen
to you.”
Shocked at her niece’s brusqueness, Mrs.
Larkin could only lead away the ruffled lord,
and do her best to smooth him down, while
Millie stood riveted there, and gazed upon
“Despair."
So was tho picture named, and it represented
the most entire hopelessness for present or
future.
Gazing there, Millie heard fragments of the
opinions passing around.
"Grand conception,” “Delicacy of touch,”
“Pathos of expression,” “Every detail per
fected,” &c., foil unheeded on her ear, as she
bad gathered into her mind, as she had said,
the grandeur of genius, and fancied that, in
dimmest, vaguest resemblance, the face whose
last sight evoked despair’s storm, the soft, sad
face of the young wife, was like her own.
Then the'ciowd shifted, and she caught an
other voice.
“It is sad to think ho will never paint an
other picture, isn’t it ?” it said.
“Oh, dreadful I” responded the lady addressed.
“But is it really true? Is he quite blind, and
hopelessly so ?”
“ Quito. He overtaxed eyes and brain alike
worked like a galley-slave at this ; and 1 saw bis
oculist myself this morning. Quiet and rest
may save his life, but be will never see another
picture.”
“Oh, it does seem sad!” And they passed
on to the next work of note.
Millie lingered there a moment, stunned, as
it seemed, by the news that spokse, indeed of
despair. Thon she threaded her way swiftly
through the people, and gained the first speak
er’s side.
“Pardon me,” she said, raising her pretty
face, flushed and anxious. “ I chanced to over
hear your words just now. Are you quite sare
Mr. Berthold has lost his sight ? I knew he
was ill, but ”
“Unfortunately, there is no room for any
doubt.” The gentleman looked interestedly
down upon the faltering questioner. “lam
personally acquainted with poor Berthold and
his medical man, and what we have long feared
is known to baa certainty now. It is a dread
ful fate tor him.”
“Is he in town? No? Would you mind tel
ling me where he is? He is a very old friend
of mine—of ours.”
“He left town last week, I am not certain for
what place, blit shall know in a few days. If
you will favor me with your address, I will for
ward you Berthold’s as soon as I get it.”
“You are very kind.” Miss AUicent scribbled
a line upon her card, and eagerly handedit.
“If you will send it to me, I shall be very
greatly obliged.”
“I shall, certainly,” he assured her with a
bow, and Millie was standing again where they
had left her, as her aunt and admirer returned
from their tour of inspection.
That evening Lord Frederick met his fair en
slaver at a dance, by perseverance gained the
chance he had been seeking for weeks, and
laid his title and himself before her in an elabo
rate speech it had taken him nights of study
to prepare; and she refused him—refused him
unconditionally and unmistakably.
He had not believed that any girl would do
that, and was perfectly astounded.
“I have a rival somewhere, must have,
though, ’pon my word, I can’t name him!” he
said, perplexedly, caressing his moustache,
and glancing for inspiration over the brilliant,
shifting throng, visible through the open win
dow to himself and his companion standing on
the balcony. “I have not seen you give any
one encouragement, Miss AUicent.”
“I don’t suppose you have,” Millie replied.
“You are sure you know your own mind—
there is no chance of its changing ?”
This was his last, and a very feeble effort, to
which she responded haughtily:
•‘Yes, I am quite sure I know my own mind
at last, Lord Frederick.”
A week or so later, before hopeful young la
dies and scheming dowagers had 'recovered
from tho blow received in the tidings that Lord
Frederick had gone' abroad, a note in an un
known hand came by post to MiUie, exciting
much her resentful aunt's curiosity.
It contained only a card, with its owner’s
compliments, and the written name of a
country village, so tiny and remote Millie
had never heard of it before.
Nevertheless, after a whole day spent in pri
vate consideration in her own room, she told
her aunt that the one wish of her life was to
find her way to that village next day.
' “Is there anyone there you particularly want
to see ?” Mrs. Larkin questioned very sharply,
but with her sharpness running away on the
wrong track. “ Yes, aunt,” the girl smiled.
“ The person of all others in the world for me
is there.”
“ Then you have come to your senses at last,
and want to undo the greatest mistake of your
life.?”
The elated lady smiled, too, as her thoughts
travelled complacently to the rejected Lord
Frederick.
“Yes, I want to set right, if I can, the mis
take coquetry made for me,” said the gill,
demurely.
* * * * * ♦ ♦ ♦
The little village of Marstone had grown ac
customed to the sight of tho blind gentleman
who had settled in its midst.
At first, the pathetic sight of the strong man
struck helpless in his prime had moved the
pity of the country minds, while the rumors of
the fame that could never atone for the cost it
had claimed excited their gossip and curiosity.
But as day by day they saw tho quiet fig
ure led by the childish hand on whose guid
ance it was dependent pass down their streets
and through their fields, they grew accustomed
to the pitiful sight, and remarked it not as
Eustace Bertbold took his daily walk among
ths sweet June loveliness he might never again
behold.
“Let us sit down here,” he said, gently, to
his small guide, “ and tell me how everything
looks around. The trees are waving overhead,
are they not, and casting varying flakes of
shadow upon tbe bright-hued grass wo touch ?”
“We be in Farmer Jone’s copse,” answered
the matter of fact Jim, “and there ain’t much
wind to speak of. There’s a precious sight of
birds over in that next field. The master he’ve
put a scarecrow there, but, bless yer, they
don’t mind that 1”
The painter stifled a sigh. No more intel
lectual eyes than this rustic child’s was it in
his power to procure as substitutes for his
own lost ones.
Intellect’s services must be paid for, and
Berthold was poor—poor, and with his hands
powerless to earn.
“ Glance up through the trees and tell me how
the sky looks. Are there pure, fleecy clouds
vailing tho radiant blue ?”
“ There isn’t many clouds about; but grand
father he said as bow he thought we should get
some more rain afore long; his corns——”
Then a sweet, low voice interrupted:
“You can run home, Jim. Come back for the
gentleman in an hour’s time. The breeze is
whispering to the boughs,” that quiet, restful
voice went on; “and they are tossing their
leaves as they listen. Down among them pierces
the sun’s glory, and checkers the darK green at
our feet. There is light on my hands, there is
shade on yours; but a ray is stealing over your
face; and ■”
“ Is it a delusion—a day-dream ?”
The artist rose, trembling with emotion; his
dark eyes—there was nothing in their appear
ance to show their misfortune—turned upon the
spot from whence proceeded that voice out of
tho darkness.
“Miss AUicent I”
“Yes, it is I,” she whispered, passing her soft,
clinging band through his arm. “ Why have
you given me so much trouble to find you
out ?”
“How did you do it?—how did you come
here ?”
He passed his hand across his brow in an at
tempt to clear its bewilderment.
“Igot your address by a stratagem—never
mind what—and brought aunt down boro yes
terdav upon false pretences, I’m afraid. I told
her I’wanted to try and rectify tbe mistake of
my life; and I believe Ker thoughts fixed them
selves in some way upon Lord Frederick; but,
auyhow, she camo.”
“ Where is Lord Frederick ?”
•• I haven’t an idea ” —a pause; then, in a
whisper, "I don’t mind tolling you that—l’ve
refused him.”
Silence again, as there was onco before in a
’ woodlanl'giada; then Millie said, gayly:
I “This is as like the wood you and I wore sit
ting in nearly a year ago ns trees and grass can
make it. Do you remember the morning Imean
Mr. Bertbold ?”
j Ho bowed his head.
“And do you remember the—tho—a question
you asked me then ?”
“Don’t 1” he said, shortly, with a hard-drawn
breath.
She laughed as sho had laughed then.
“Would you mind asking'it again now. to
know if I have learned to make a better re
ply?”
“Why torture me thus?” ho rose abruptly,
and his words rang hoarse and stern. “ Have
you no pity for an affliction whose bitterness
you, careless and callous, cannot comprehend,
that you add to a burden I scarce can boar?”
But she closed his lips with her one hand, as
bor other stole round his neck.
“I have not pity for you, Eustace’’—soft
and trembling, the whisper thrilled his
ear—“ I have lone. No, don't speak yet;
listen. A year ago, when you asked me to
marry you, if you had pressed tho question
more, I believe I should have said yes ; but yon
seamed cool and indifferent: and I was very
proud and—generally idiotic. Since then I
have studied my own heart a little more; and
when I find that you just till it every bit. what
can I do but come to you as I have done, aud
ask you to marry me.”
“ Oh, I must not tako advantage of your gen
erous compission! I, a blind beggar, marry
the rich and beautiful Miss AUicent! I was
more than sufficiently presumptuous to dream
of it when as good as another man ; now—-’’
“Now you are dearer a hundredfold to me
than you could ever have been in health and
strength, and crowned with fame, and with
friends and flatterers to teach you io forget me.
Now you are all my own—mine alone!” The
soft, sweet face was pressed to his. “I can
teach you to oare for ma again, if you’ve for
gotten it in this past year. And, Eustace, yield
you must; so do it with a good grace. Put
your baud m mine, aud say, ‘ 1 will try nod give
you in time some little return for the whois
heart you have given me, Millie. Meanwhile, 1
will tolerate yonr affections and attentions,
and -’ ”
But Berthold was sobbing on her shoulder.
"Angel!” he murmured; “how have I de
served such overpoworing-happiness ?”
FABLES ANPjVNECDOTES.
(.From the San Francisco Argonaut.)
One day Bildad that’s the new dog was a lyin
fore the tier, were it was offle hot for his nose,
and every little wile ha wude h if to lift it up for
to make it gitcool, and then he wude lie it down
again tween bis poz, piutin at the lier, like it
was bo fore. Uncle Nod, ha sod: “He teech
that feller a lessen, soef I dont.”
So Uncle Ned ho got sum whax, and made it
warm and soft, and wen Bildad rose his bed
Uncle Ned he lade the whax tween Bilfiad’s poz,
and Bildad he lade his cbm in it and shot his
. eys up and smiled much as to say : “That’s a
goodeel more camftable, thank you.”
But bime by wen Bildad’s nose was red hot
agin, and he wont for to lift it up, be cadent make
it come, and you never seen such a camp meetin
pformence in ol yure life, and sech yelling glory
bally looyo!
Me and Billy was took to camp meetin once,
and I was too little for to kanow wot it was ol a
bout, but Billy he sed it was the minstrels.
Bimeby a big black feller he got xcited by tho
smgin, and jumpt up and down and hollered
wild for a our, and no body else sed any thing
til he got done and took out a grata big yaller
hankchef for to wipe the swot off of his face.
Then a white boy, which was wicked, he hollered
out: “ Give it back to Desdimony 1” and*all
the white fokes laughft like they wude bust, but
I think if be cudent say nothing no funnier than
that it wasent harly worth while for to disturb
the meetin.
An now He tel you a bout a other dog. Once
a man had a dog wich dident have no tail, tho
dog dident, cos it was cut off wen it was little,
but Franky, thats the baby, he is little, too, yes
indeed, like puppies. So the mans dog grode
up without no tail for to waggle, but one night
sum notty boys they got a pence of old rope out
of a ship yard, and sum pitch, and fastened the
rope onto the end of the dogs back with the
pitch like it grode there. Then that dog was
prowd like he was a new dog on an old tail, an
be went swelhn a round a mung the other dogs,
a try in for to waggle it til he most broke his
back. But he eddent lift it of the ground, and
after a wile it was drug aeros a cigar wich a
feller had threw away, and it got a lite, tho tail
did. aud had a smoke its ownsellef. Then the
dog it lied down like it was agoin to sleep, and
it sod to the uther dogs: “ There wasent never
enny pup wich cude ba so cool and callum like
me wile his tail was a house afire. lotto ■ ba
hired out to teech fortytude to Oristion marters.
Jost wake me up wen its ol burnt of, cos I have
got an importent engadgement.”
But wen it was ol oi, and the fire was got hold
of the cake of pitch onto the end of his back, ha
dident hav to be woke up, cos he woke ths
hole town up hisself.
Due day Towser, thats the dog died, he got
his tail notched in a gate and honied, but pigs
they squeals, and a jockous it brays like a brass
band.
One evening just after my sistersyung man
had ben to see her and was gon home agin, and
her and mv father was a settin m the pollor,
there was a jaokus, and it brade fritefle. Then
my father he said : “ Missy nows youre time.”
Then she sed : “Time for wot, father ?”
And father he sed : “Time to remember yure
yung man. Dident he tel you, not liaief a
our ago, a settin at that very pianno, that wen
uther lips and uther harts their tale of love
shude tel then yude remember him. But tween
you an me, I gdss this fellers voice wude re
minded you of him it he hadent mention it at
all.”
“Then Missy she was the furiosest girl that
ever was, but she dassant sas her pop.
Ono day Missy and her yung man met in tho
orchard and was taking holt of one a other, and
mo and Billy we was in the sumer hous lookn
out. Billy lie got xcited and ran up to em a
hollerin : “ Get the under boll, Missy, get the
under holt, and when you trip him jest kanock
his feets out forwards, and fetch him down unto
his back, wop I”
Then Missy and the yung man let go, and sho
went in the house, and there wasent any rassel
after all. That shows wot comes of takin sides,
cos fair play is a jooh But wen me an Sammy
Doppy was having a fite, Billy he come a long
an hit Sammy ■in the snoot of his nose with a
rock jest in time to save him from the werst
llckln he ever got, yes, in deed, I wude busted
his mowth as soon as he let me up.
Ole Gaffer Peters was to our house one day a
bragin wot a good liter he was wen he was a
yung feller, and Billy he said wy dident he go
for a sojer, like George Washington, which was
tho best fiter in the world. Gaffer ho sed : “ I
did, William, I did. I was an officer ii.the war
for too year.”
Then my father ast wot branch of the service
did ho a dom, and ole Gaffer ho sed : “ Hay?”
Then my father ast a other time : “ Was you
Calvary, or Infootry, or was you a cannon sojer,
or wot ?”
Ole Gaffer he rubbed his bed awile, wich aint
got no hair on it, jest like an apple, only not so
many fli spex, and then he sed : “It was so long
ago I dont reckleck jest this minnit, but I bleov
1 was a Poltroon.’’
I shude spose that ole feller wude hav to lie a
wake nites for to think wot a fool he is, cos one
day wen Jack Brily, wich is the wicked sailer,
he fire a eg at him, and it busted on his
sholder, ha wiped it of, and then he luked up
to the ski for a long time, but cudont seo
nothin. Then he wocked over to Mister
Pitchels house, thats the preecher, and ast
more than a thousan hundred questens a bout
the angels, and jest how much a angel is like a
bird.
But if I was an angel Ide rather be a eagle,
and have my photograph onto all the green
backs, and the dollars, and evry were, yes, in
deed, with stickers on one foot, and a switch in
the other to lick the British, hooray
HUMOR OF THE HOUR.
BY THE DETROIT FP.EE PRESS FIEND.
JUST THIS SAME.
Tho fire on Winder street, yesterday, called
out a legion of colored people from “Kain
tuck,” and one little "nig” secured a first-class
position on a fence, from which to view the
blaze. A white youth saw the advantage and
walked down there and called out:
“Here! you git rightdown from that fence!”
“I guess not; I guess Ize up beah fust,” was
the reply.
“It don’t make any difference,” persisted the
other; “you can’t stay up there, your father
don’t pay taxes.”
“But my ladder’s got a boss wid a chattel
mortgage all ober him, an’ dat’s de same fing—
de worry same!” cried the little “nig” aud be
held the fort.
t HE KNEW THE BOTES.
The other evening a man with his hat on hii
ear and a knowing look in his eyes got oil a
Grand Trunk train and made inquiries about
an up-town hotel, and finally decided to take a
hack up. Nothing was said about tbe fare,
which was fifty cents, but when he had been
safely carried to his destination he pushed his
hat up a little more, drew down his left eye,
and said to the hackman:
"Now, boy, look a-here! I hain’t traveled—
oh! no! and I don’t know my gait. I’ve hoard
of you fellers before, and I’m right on ths
gouge and kick. I’ll give you a dollar for this
ride, but not another cont—l’ll fight first!”
The driver took tbe dollar in place of the an
ticipated fifty cents, and tho smart Aleck walk
ed into tbe hotel to tell the clerk how he bluffed
a follow weighing thirty pounds more than ho
pulled down.
“I SWAN.”
A woman about fifty years of age stooped on
the Campus Martius, yesterday, to buy’a dozen
oranges of a iruit peddler. She counted as he
picked them out aud put them in a paper sack,
and she counted only eleven tor the dozen.
“Here, sir, you have cheated mo out of .one
orange 1” she called out.
“ Oh, no I haven’t,” he coolly answered.
“Yes, you have, eirl You shall count ’em
over again!”
He complied, and somehow or other there
were fourteen instead of. twelve, and be said:
“Ab ! I must be getting careless indeed. I
make two oranges by recounting. Here’s your
dozen.”
Tbe woman received the package, looked
longingly at the two he threw back, and whis
pered :
“I swan! but I wish X knew enough to keep
my he»A shell”