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THE
BEAUTIFUL COUNTESS ;
O x-,
A Horrible Mystery,
A Startling and Exciting Story
BY SHERIDAN LE FANUE.
CHAPTER VIII.
At sight of the room, perfectly undisturbed
except for our violent entrance, we began to cool
a little,and soon recovered our senses sufficient
ly to dismiss the men. It had struck Mademoi
selle that possibly Camilla had been wakened
by the uproar at her door, and in her first panic
bad jumped from her bed, and hid herself in a
press, or behind a curtain, from which Bhe
could not, of course, emerge until the major-
domo and his myrmidons had withdrawn. We
now recommenced our search, and began to
•all her by name again.
It was all to no purpose. Our perplexity and
agitation increased. We examined the windows,
but they were secured. I implored of Camilla,
if she had concealed herself, to play this cruel
triok no longer—to come out, and to end our
anxieties. It was all useless. I was by this
time convinced that she was not in the room,
nor in the dressing-room, the door of which was
still locked on this side. She could not have
passed it. I was utterly puzzled. Had Camilla
discovered one of those secret passages which
the old housekeeper said were known to exist in
the schloss. although the tradition of their exact
situation had been lost. A little time would, no
doubt, explain all—utterly perplexed as for the
present, we were.
It was past four o’clook, and I preferred pass
ing the remaining hours of darkness in Madame’s
room. Daylight brought no solution of the dlfi-
culty.
The whole household, with my father at its
head, was in a state of agitation next morning.
Every part of the chateau was searched. The
grounds were explored. Not a trace of jthemiss-
ing lady could be discovered. The stieam was
dragged; my father was in distraction; what a
tale to have to tell the poor girl’s mother on her
return. I, too, was almost beside myself, though
my grief was quite of a different kind.
The morning was passed in alarm and excite
ment. It was now one o'clock, and still no
tidings. I ran up to Camilla’s room, and found
her standing at her dressing-table. I was
astounded. I could not believe my eyes. She
beckoned me to her with her pretty finger, in
silence. Her face expressed extreme fear.
I ran to her in an ecstasy of joy; I kissed and
embraced her again and again. I ran to the
bell and rang it vehemently, to bring others to
the spot, who might at once relieve my father’s
anxiety.
“Dear Camilla, what has become of you all
this time? We have been in agonies of anxiety
about you,” I exclaimed. “Where have you
been? How did you come back?”
“Last night has been a night of wonders, ” she
said.
“For mercy's sake, explain all you can.”
“It was past two last night” she said, “when I
went to sleep as usual in my bed, with my doors
locked, that of the dressing-room and that open
ing upon the gallery. My sleep was uninterrupt
ed, and, so far as I know, dreamless; but I awoke
just now on the sofa in the dressing-room there,
and I found the door between the rooms open,
and the other door forced. How could all this
have happened without my being wakened? It
must have been accompanied with a great deal
of noise, and I Am particularly easily wakened;
and how could I have been carried out of my
bed without my sleep haviug been interrupted,
I whom the slightest stir startles?”
By this time, Madame, Mademoiselle, my
father, and a number of the servants were in the
room. Carmilla was of course overwhelmed with
enquiries, congratulations, and welcomes. She
had but one story to tell, and seemed the least
able of all the party to suggest any way of ac-
coun'ing for what had happened.
My father took a turn up and down the room,
thinking. I saw Carmilla's eye follow him for a
moment with a sly dark glance.
When my father had sent the servants away,
Mademoiselle having gone in search of a little
bottle of valerian and sal-volatile, and there be
ing no one now in the room with Carmilla, ex
cept my father, Madame, and myself, he came
to her thoughtfully, took her hand very kindly,
led her to the sofa, and sat down beside her.
“Will you forgive me, my dear, if I risk a
conjecture, and ask a question ?"
“Who can have a better right?” she said.
“Ask what you please, and I will tell you every
thing. But my story is simply one of bewilder
ment and darkness. I know absolutely noth
ing. Put any question you please. But you
know, of course, the limitations mamma has
placed me under ?”
“Perfectly, my child. I need not approach
the topics on which she desires our silence.
Now, the marvel of last night consists in your
having been removed from your bed and your
room, without being wakened, and this remov
al's having occurred apparently while the win
dows were still secured, and the two doors
locked upon the inside. I will tell you my the
ory, and first ask you a question.”
Carmilla was leaning on her hand dejectedly;
Madame and I were listening breathlessly.
“Now, my question is this. Have you ever
been suspected of walking in your sleep ?”
“Never since I was very young indeed.”
“But you did walk in your sleep when you
were young ?”
“Yes; I know I did. I have been told so often
by my old nurse.”
My father smiled and nodded.
“Well, what has happened is this. You got
up in your sleep, unlocked the door, not leav
ing the key, as usual, in the look, but taking it
out and locking it on the Outside; you again
took the key out, and carried it away with you
to some one of the other five-and-twenty rooms
on this floor, or perhaps up-stairs or down
stairs. There are so many rooms and closets,
so much heavy furniture, and such accumula
tions of lumber, that it would require a week to
search this old house thoroughly. Do you see,
now, what I mean ?”
“I do, but not all,” she answered.
“And how, papa, do you aocount for her find
ing herself on the sofa in the dressing room,
which we had searched so carefully ?”
“She oame there alter you had searohed it,
still in her sleep, and at last awoke spontane
ously, and was as muoh surprised to find herself
where she was as any one else. I wish all mys
teries were as easily and innocently explained
as yours, Carmilla,” said he laughing. “And so
we may congratulate ourselves on the oertainty
that the most natural explanation of the occur
rence is one that involves no drugging, no tam
pering with looks, no burglars, or poisoners, or
witches—nothing that need alarm Camilla, or
any one else, for our safety.”
Carmilla was looking charmingly. Nothing
oonld be more beautiful than her tints. Her
beauty was, I think, enhanced by that graceful
languor that was peculiar to her. I think
my father was silently contrasting her looks
with mine, for he said:
“I wish my poor Laura was looking more like
herself;” and he sighed.
So oiir alarms were happily ended, and Gar-
aailla restored to her fiiends.
CHAPTER IX.
As Camilla would not hear of an attendant sleep
ing in her room, my father arranged that a ser
vant should sleep outside her door, so that she
could not attempt to make another such excur
sion without being arrested at her own door.
That night past quietly; and next morning
early, the doctor, whom my father had sent for
without telling me one word about it, arrived to
see me.
Madame accompanied me to the library; and
there the grave little doctor, with white hair
and spectacles, whom I mentioned before, was :
waiting to reoeive me.
I told him my story, and as I proceeded he
grew graver and graver.
I, suddenly laying my hand on his arm, and
looking, 1 am sure imploringly in his face.
“Perhaps,” he answered smoothing my hair
caressingly over my eyes.
“ Does the doctor think me very ill ? ”
“No, dear; he thinks, if right steps are taken,
you will be quite well again, at least, on the
high road to a complete recovery, in a day or
two,” he answered, a little drily. “I wish our
good fnend, the General, had chosen any other
time; that is, I wish yon had been perfectly well
to receive him. ”
“But do tell me, papa,” I insisted, “ lehat does
he think is the matter with me. ? ”
“Nothing; you must not plague me with ques
tions.” he answered, with more irritation than I
We were standing, he and I, in the recess of ! eveT remember him to have displayed before;
ie of the windows, facing one another. When seeing that I looked wounded, Ieuppoie, he
— —A... A. — — —— A — ~.. L /» /wJ fl» Vuc kissud ZQ6| ftQ'i “You shall know all about
one
my statement was over, he leaned with his
shoulders against the wall, and with his eyes
fixed on me earnestly, with an interest in which
there was a dash of horror.
After a minute’s reflection, he asked Madame
if he could see my father.
He was sent for accordingly, and as he enter
ed, smiling, he said, “I dare say, doctor, you
are going to tell me that I am au old fool for
having brought you here; I hope I am.”
But his smile faded into shadow as the doc
tor, with a very grave face, beckoned him to
him.
He and the doctor talked for some time in the
same recess where I had just conferred with the j
physician. It seemed an earnest and argumenta
tive conversation. The room was very large,
and I and Madame stood together, burning with
very long; but by God's mercy I hope to accom
plish a service to mankind before I die, and to
subserve the vengence of Heaven upon the
fiends who have murdered my poor child in the
spring of her hopes and beauty !”
“ You said, just now, that you intended relat
ing everything as it occurred,” said my father.
“Pray do; I assure yon that it is not mere ouri-
osity that prompts me.”
By this time we had reaohed the point at
which the Drunstall road, by which the General
had oome, diverges from the road which we were
travelling to Karnstein,
“How far is it to the ruins?" enquired the
General, looking anxiously forward.
“About half a league,” answered my father.
“Pray let us hear the story you were so good as
to promise.”
(TO BE COXTINCSD.)
it in a day or two; that is, all that I know. In
the meantime you are not to trouble your head
about it.”
He turned and left the room, but came back
before I had done wondering and puzzling over ;
i the oddity of this; it was merely to say that he '
! was going to Karnstein, and had ordered the ;
j carriage to be ready at twelve, and that I and j
: Madame should accompany him; he was going
to see the priest who lived near those pictur
esque grounds, upon business, and as Carmilla :
had never seen them, she could follow, when |
she came down, with Mademoiselle, who would
bring materials for what you call a pic-nic, j
whicn might be laid for us ui the ruined castle, j
At twelve o’clock, acconungly, I was ready.
GREEN-EYED
J E AL O TTS1T.
A Clandestine Marriage.
(Coxcloued. )
BY WM. H. P.
and not long after my fatbe?, Madame, and I set
curiosity, at the further end. Not a word could . on t upon our projected drive.
while
for a
prep-
we hear, however, for they spoke in a very low
tone, and the deep recesses of the window quite
Passing the drawbridge we turn to the right,
and follow the road over the steep gothic bridge,
concealed the doctor from view, and very near- i westward, to reach the deserted village and ruin-
ly my father, whose foot, arm and shoulder e d castle ot Karnstein. No sylvan drive can be
only could we see; and the voices were, I snp- fancied prettier. The ground breaks into gentle
pose, all the less audible for the sort of closet i hills and hollows, all clothed with beautiful
' * ' ‘ wood, totally destitute of the comparative for
mality which artificial planting and early onl-
ture and pruning impart.
The irregularities of the ground often lead the
road ont of its course, and cause it to wind beau-
tifnlly round the sides of broken hollows and
the steepest sides of the hills, among varieties of
which the thick wall and window formed.
After a time my father’s face looked into the
room ; it was pale, thoughtfnl, and, I fancied,
agitated.
“ Laura, dear, oome here tor a moment.
Madame, we shan’t trouble yon, the doctor says,
at present."
Accordingly I approached, for the first time a ' ground almost inexhaustible,
little alarmed; for, although I felt very weak, I j Turning one of these points, we suddenly en-
did not feel ill; and strength, one always fan- countered the old General, riding toward us
cies, is a thing that may be picked np when we
please.
My father held ont his hand to me, as I drew j
near, bat he was looking at the doctor, and he j
said:
“It certainly is verj r odd; I don’t understand '
it quite. Laura, come here, dear; now attend to ’
Doctor Spielsberg, and recollect yourself.” |
“You mentioned a sensation like that of two
needles piercing the skin, somewhere about
your neck, on the night when you experienced j
your first horrible dream. Is there still any i
soreness ?” ;
“None at all,” I answered.
“Can yon indicate with yonr finger abont the
point at which yon think it occnrred ?”
“Very lew below my throat—A ere,” I answered.
I wore a morning dreBS, which covered the
place I pointed to.
“Now, you can satisfy yourself,” said the doc-
attended by a mounted servant. His portman
teaus were following in a hired wagon, such as
we term a cart.
The General dismounted as we pnlled np,
and, after the nsnal greetingB„was easily per
suaded to accept the vacant seat in the carriage,
and sent the horse on with his servant to the
schloss.
1 CHAPTER* X.
I It was about ten months since we had last seen
j him; bat that time had sufficed to make an al -
! teration of years in his appearance. He had
: grown thinner; something of gloom and anxiety
had taken the place of that oordial serenity
| which used to characterize his features. His
; dark blue eyes, always penetrating, now gleam-
! ed with a sterner light from nnder his shaggy
l grey eyebrows.
1 We had not long resumed eur drive, when the
tor. “You won’t mind your papa's lowering ; General began to talk, with his usual soldierly
your dress a very little. It is necessary, to de
tect a symptom of the complaint under which
yon have been suffering.”
I acquiesced. It was only an inch or two be
low the edge of my collar.
“God bless me!—so it is,” exclaimed my
father, growing pale.
“You see it now with your own eyes,” said
the doctor, with a gloomy triumph.
“What is it ?7 I exclaimed, beginning to be
frightened.
“Nothing, my dear young lady, but a small
bine spot, abont the size of the tip of yonr fin
ger; and now,” he continued, turning to papa,
“the question is what is best to be done?”
“Is there any danger ?” I urged, in great tre
pidation.
“I trust not, my dear,” answered the doctor.
“I don’t see why you should not recover. I
don’t see why you should not begin immediately
to get better. That is the point at which the
sense of strangulation begins ?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“And—recollect as well as yon can—the same
point was a kind of centre oi that thrill which
yon described jnst now, like the current of a
cold stream running against yon ?”
“It may have been; I think it was.”
my
“Ay, you see?’ he added, turning to
father. “Shall I say a word to Madame ?”
“Certainly,” said my father.
He called Madame to him, and said:
“I find my yonng friend here far from well.
It won’t be of any great consequence, I hope;
but it will be necessary that some steps he
taken, which 1 will explain by-and-bye; but in
the meantime, Madame, you will be so good as
not to let Miss Lanra be alone for one moment.
That is the only direction I need give for the
present. It is indispensable. ”
“We may rely upon your kindness, Madame,
I know,” added my father.
Madame satisfied him eagerly.
“And yon, dear Lanra, I know you will ob
serve the doctor’s direction.”
“I shall have to ask yonr opinion upon an
other patient, whose symptoms slightly re
semble those of my daughter, that have jnst
been detailed to you —very much milder in de
gree, but I believe quite of the same sort. She
is a young lady—oar gaest; bat as yon say yon
will be passing this way again this even
ing, yon can’t do better than take your supper
here, and yon can then see her. She does not
come down till the afternoon.”
“I thank yon,” said the doctor. “I shall be
with yon, then, at aboat seven this evening.”
And then they repeated their directions to
me and to Madame, and with this parting oharge
my father left ns, and walked ont with the doc
tor; and I saw them pacing together np and
down between the road and the moat, on the
grassy platform in front of the castle, evidently
absorbed in earnest conversation.
The doctor did not retnrn. I saw him mount
bis horse there, take his leave, and ride away
eastward through the forest.
Nearly at the same time I saw the man arrive
from Dranfe.d with the letters, and dumount
and hand the bag to my father.
In the meantime, Madame and I were both
busy, lost in conjecture as to the reasons of the
singular and earnest direction which the dootor
and my father had concurred in imposing.
Madame, as she afterwards told me, was afraid
the dootor apprehended a sadden seizure, and
that, without prompt assistance, I might either
lose my life in a fit, or at least be seriously
hurt. This interpretation did not strike me;
and I fancied, perhaps luckily for my nerves,
that the arrangement was prescribed simply to
secure a companion, who would prevent my
taking too mnch exercise, or eating nnripe
fruit, or doing any of the fifty foolish things to
which yonng people are supposed to be prone.
Abont half-an-honr after my father oame in—
he had a letter in his hand—and said:
“This letter has been delayed; it is from Gen
eral Spielsdorf. He might have been here yes
terday, he may not oome till to. morrow, or he
maybe here to-day.” He pat the open letter
into my hand; but he did not look pleased, as
he nsed wh-n a guest, especially one ao much
loved as the General, was ooming. On the con
trary, he looked as if he wished hint at the bot
tom of the Red Sea. There was plainly some
thing on his mind which he did not choose to
divulge.
“ Papa, darling, will yon tell me this ? ” said
directness, of the bereavement, as he termed it,
which he had sustained in the death of his be
loved niece and ward; and he then broke ont in
a tone of intense bitterness and fnry, inveighing
: against the ‘ hellish arts ' to which she had fallen
j a victim, and expressing, with more exasperation
; than piety, his wonder thai-Heaven should tol-
i erate so monstrous an in£nlgenoe of the lust
j and malignity of hell.
! My father, who # saw a^wtree tha't something
: very extraordinary had befallen, asked him, if
not too painful to him. to detail the circumstan
ces which he thonght justified the strong terms
in which he expressed himself.
“ I should tell you all with pleasure,” said the
General, “ but you wonld not believe me.”
“Why should I not? ” he asked.
“Because,” he answered testily, “ you believe
in nothing bat what oonsists with yonr own pre
judices and illusions. I remember when I was
like yon, but I have learned better.”
“Try me,” said my father; “ I am not such a
dogmatist as you suppose. Besides which, I
very well know that you generally require proof
for what you believe, and am, therefore, very
strongly pre-disposed to respect your conclu
sions."
“Yon are right in supposing that I have not
been led lightly into a belief of the marvellous
—for what I have experienced is marvellous—
and I have been forced by extraordinary evidence
to credit that whioh ran counter, diametrically,
to all my theories. I have been made the dupe
of a pre-ternatnral conspiracy.”
Notwithstanding his professions of confidence
in the General’s penetration, I saw my father,
at this point, glanoe at the General, with as I
thonght, a marked suspicion of bis sanity.
The General did not see it, lnckily. He was
looking gloomily and curiously into the glades
and vistas of the woods that were opening before
us.
“You are going to the Ruins of Karnstein?”
he said. “Yes, it is a lucky coincidence; do
yon know I was going to ask yon to bring me
there to inspect them. I have a special object
in exploring, There is a rained chapel, isn’t
there, with a great many tombs of that extinct
family ?”
“So there are—highly interesting,” said my
father. “I hope yon are thinking of cLiming
the title and estates ?”
My father said this gaily, bat the General did
not recollect the laugh, or even the smile, which
courtesy exacts for a friend’s joke; on the con
trary, he looked grave and even fierce, ruminat
ing on a matter that stirred his anger and horror.
“Something very different,” he said gruffly.
“I mean to unearth some of these fine people. I
hope, by God’s blessing, to accomplish a pious
sacrilege here, which will relieve our earth of
certain monsters, and enable honest people to
sleep in their beds without being assailed by
murderers. I have strange things to tell you,
my dear friend, suoh as I myself would have
scooted as inoredible a few months since.”
My father looked at him again, but this time
not with a glanoe of suspicion—with an eye,
rather, of keen intelligence and alarm.
“The house of Karnstein,” he said “has been
long extinct: a hundred years at least My dear
wife was maternally descended from the Karn-
steins. Rut the name and title have long eeased
to exist. The castle is a rain; the very village
is deserted; it iB fifty years since the smoke of a
chimney was seen there; not a roof left. ”
“Quite true. I have heard a great deal abont
that since I last saw you; a great deal that will
astonish yon. But I had better relate every
thing in the order in whioh it occurred,” said
the General. “You saw my doar ward—my
child, I may call her. No creature could hare
been more beautiful, and only three months ago
none more blooming.”
“Yes poor thing! when -I saw her last she
certainly was quite lovely,” said my father. “I
was grieved and shocked more than I can tell
yon my dear friend; I knew what a blow it was
to yon.”
He took the General’s hand, they exchanged
a kind pressure. Tears gathered in the old
soldier’s eyes. He did not seek to oonoeal them.
He said:
“We have been old friends; I knew yon would
feel for me, childless as I am. She had become
an object of very near interest to me, and repaid
my care by an affection that oheered my home
and made my life happy. That is all gone. The
years that remain to me on earth may not be
Not meaning to shat myself up either
in the city, I sent for a dress-maker, and
month was in a whirl of excitement over
aration of dresses calculated to disguise the
twist in my figure, which, even to my morbid
scrutiny, began to grow less noticeable, as I was
able to walk with greater ease.
The gay season was at its height when I reach
ed town. Jndie, who had been motherless
from childhood, presided over her father’s es
tablishment.
She had remained away from a dinner party,
on account of my arrival, but was under obliga
tions to attend a reception at a later hour, an
hour at which I was in the habit of going to bed. j
She invited me to^come and stay in her dress- ,
ing-room, so that we might talk, while her toil- I
et progressed. What a superb creature she was! j
How I envied her as I watched her.
“How happy you look and are, Jndie,” I said,
with a half smile.
She turned round with a half-surprised air, I
thought.
“You are happy, too, darling?” she said, com
ing towards me, to kiss me. “I know some
thing, and lam so glad.”
“Yon refer to Mr. Cadogan, I suppose? Did
you suspect last summer?”
“No, I did not. In fact, I—”
She saw from my face, that she had made a
mistake; saw that I hoped she had suspected,
and evidently knew not how to remedy her
blander.
“You what, Jndie?” I asked.
She bent down and took my hand uneasily.
The locket she wore, hung just within my reach.
Some evil impulse moved me. I caught it, and
pressed the spring; the lid flew open.
“I ought to know your secret, as well as yon
mine,” I cried, maliciously, as she snatched
the locket from me.
There were two faces in the two halves. 1
only saw one—Bert Cadogan.
“Oh, yoi do not want tog: • nejouroonfid nee. |
I beg yonr pardon,” said I, almost pushing her I
from me.
“Lanra, you must not misjudge me.”
“I never judge without proof,” was my retort.
“Do not ever,” she answered, earnestly.
I had lost my stimulant to get well. I shut
myself in my room for a week. Then two mo
tives prompted me to appear at n amateur con
cert, which Judie gave. One was the mere re
bound of excitement, which made my seclusion
no longer bearable; the other, the expectation
that Bert Cadogan wonld reach town that night.
I think I looked, perhaps, as well as ever in
my life, that evening. I wore an exquisite Par
is dress of white cashmere; my brown, abund
ant hair, fell in heavy ringlets to my waist. I
sat near Jndie at the head of the room, in a deep
chair covered with maroon silk, watching with
listless interest the faces that came and went.
There was some very good amatanr music,
that pleased, even my fastidious musical taste,
and at length, abont the middle of the evening,
Bert Cadogan came down the room towards me,
smiling with anxions eyes.
“How are yon Lanra—better?"
I was perverse enongh to think, that to tell
him I was better, was to solicit a renewal of his
wooing. I was proud and suspicious. So I said:
‘ I am well enough to look on, as
like an oyster grown to its rock.
“Bat you are enjoying yonr visit?
glad that you came ?”
“Doubtless you are."
“Why, Laura?"
“It gives you an excase to come also,
yon seen Miss Martindale ?”
“Yes, ofconrse, for a moment.”
“Thereshe comes, now.”
Judie’s eyes were fastened on Bert Cadogan’s
face. She joined us, and a few minntes later,
they left me, and walked away together. My
eyes followed them till they left the room.
What did it mean, I asked myself—this bond
between them ? Evidently Mr. Cadogan went
and came at Judie’s bidding. Had he loved
her? Had she rejected him? If so, why did
she not let him alone? She was a coquette; she
could cot resist to use her power. Aud he—he
could not resist her, even while declaring lore
for me. That was my decision.
What a tortnring half-hoar I spent, sitting
there in my maroon-covered chair alone. I
tried to persuade myself, that I wanted no
man’s love—that I would never marry. I tried
to justify Bert I had forbidden, refused him.
I had no right to restrict him. Bat, spite of all,
I was mad with jealous longing for him.
Mr. Martindale oame to take me to sapper,
and Bert and Judie were left together still.
“Now, Miss Laura,” said my host, “I have a
favor to ask, and I hope I shall do it in my best
manner, for I do not want to be refused. ”
“What favor can I possibly do you, sir?’ 1
“You can give us a song, after sapper. Is it
too much to ask? You may wait if you like,
till the ‘vulgar crowd* has gone. I will keep
only the choice spirits to hear you.”
“You need not take any stupendous precau
tions, I will sing willingly, whenever it is de
sired. “
“My dear yonng lady, I am delighted, I never
gained a preoious boon so easily before.”
“Jndie knows that I always sing without urg-
ing. ”
We thonght yonr ill health and aversion to
crowds might render you averse to singing for
oompany.”
“Not at all. I can neither danoe or flirt. I
ought to consider it a privilege to sing.”
It is no wonder that I astonished Mr. Martin
dale. An hour before, no inducement oonld have
prompted me to sing. Now it seemed to offer
a vent to my excited feelings.
I exerted myself to please Mr. Martindale, who
was a polished, entertaining man, and who had
conceived a great liking for me from oar first
meeting. We whiled away the time in disonss-
ing politics, until the time had oome for my
song, and then he led me to the piano.
As I glanced about the room, my eye fell npon
J udie and Beit Cadogan in earnest talk
“They look quite lover-like,” I remarked to
Mr. Martindale, who did not peroieve the sting
of my tone.
“I would to Heaven they were!” he answered,
with a significance I oonld not interpret
you see,
Y'ou are
Have
The tumult of my feelings was complete. It
was a tumult that brimmed my voice with in
tense dramatic pathos, an expression whose
eletric thrill went among my listeners from soul
to soul.
I sang a verv simple ballad, bat it held the
tragedy of my own heart in its words;
“Little Clo’i {• the old, old story.
Love’s dream and a rammer friend,
Jnne roses dead, and the bright dream is fled:
Aud little Clo’ moans at the end.
He never loved me, you see.
He never will, no never;
And wbat will become of me f she cries,
For I shall love him forever,
Aud the years are ao weary, weary.
For all through the nights and days
Her heart goes back in the bright dream's track,
And little Clo’ moans as she says.
He never loved me."
I slipped away unnoticed from the piano, and
bid myself amid the curtains of a recess.
There was a hush like a sob among my listen
ers, which was the beBt applause they oonld
give. No one else offered to Bing, and the com
pany broke up in little conversational gronps.
Near me a gentleman and lady sat down and
began to discuss me.
“I don’t know,” said the latter, “about people
giving such public vent to private griefs. I am
always inclined to suspect the sincerity that
displays itself on the surface."
“I am snre no one could have sang that song
so who did not fell every word of it.”
“She is not really deformed,” continued the
lady; “the defect in her fignre isscaroely notic
eable. She need not have been so sensitive.”
“Did yon hear that she had broken her en
gagement?”
"No: but I should judge so from her song.
They say that the gentleman felt in some man
ner to blame for her hart, and believing that
she was fond of him offered himself."
“From a sense of duty?”
“Well, something of that sort.”
“She is notone whose heart need go a begging,
I should say.”
Then the couple rose and went away.
So, this then was the story—the truth doubt
less of the matter.
Bert Cadogan had offered himself out of pity,
as a compensation, so to speak, for his negli
gence, which had resulted in my injury.
He loved Judie. She loved him.
But he felt that I had a claim npon him, and
the claim of his own heart was to be set aside.
My blood boiled.
I said to mysell, “Abominable !”
Without seeing Mr. Cadogan again, I left the
city the ensuing day.
I sent him the following note as a leave-tak
ing:
“I know your motives; they seem to be mis
taken. Since you have never been bound, it is
perhaps superfluous for me to say that yon are
free from Laoba.”
I looked j ided when I reached home, and they
thonght me worse.
Aunt Isabel said I must rest.
“That is precisely what I cannot do,” I replied.
“I want to go away and travel and not know
what rest means.”
They were delighted that Ishonld wish to go,
and after brief preparation Aunt Isabel and I
started for the Continent, to be followed by my
father in the ooming antnmn.
I had my way. I lived without rest.
My capacity for excitement was perfectly insa
tiable.
And instead of injuring my health, I improv
ed upon the regimen.
My first news from home came from papa, who
joined us in Spain, in the autumn.
Bert Cadogan had not been home daring the
summer.
Papa, j ust before he left, had met him with
Mr. and Miss Martindale, which was the snm of
his information, and npon which I built such
conjectures as my mood indicated.
I had taken a pecnliar aversion to everything
like admiration or attention from the other sex,
but we became interested in spite of onrselves in
an English gentleman with whom our acquain
tance began during our sojourn in Madrid.
Mr. Keith—that was his name —was, as I have
said, an Englishman, but he had spent so many
years abroad that he had almost lost his nation
ality. He was one of those rare men who can
display interest withont affecting sentiment;
with whom yon dare be intimate with entire
immunity from the suspicion of flirting.
He was very nsefnl to us on recount of his fa
miliarity with the language, and a common lik
ing led him to attach himself to and remain with
our party for the time being.
It, was, I think, in Rome that for the first
time a species of home-sickness came over me
one evening after a long and fatiguing day of
sight-seeing. We were Bitting in the parlor of
the lodgings we had secured that morning.
Papa and Mr. Keith played ac cribbage; aant
Isabel did tatting—she was never too tired for
tatting; and I, after sitting with my head npon
my hand for a good half-hoar, got np and
brought my camphor bottle and photograph
album by way of dispelling my home-sickness.
The album still lay open before me, when by-
and-by Mr. Keith sauntered towards me, and
his glance fell npon the page.
He started.
“Miss Laura, where did you get that?" he
exclaimed.
“Do you know Jndie Martindale?” I enquired
with equal surpiise.
“I know this lady, Miss Lanra. She is my
wife.”
The mere excess of my astonishment kept me
from screaming outright. Mr. Keith had spok
en in a very low tone, and had not been over
heard, for papa was buried in his newspaper,
and aunt Isabel had discovered a snarl in her
thread.
“Yon must be jesting, Mr. Keith ?”
“I never spoke more sober trath. I have no
right, I suppose, to speak of it, but I am tired
of concealment.”
“Why do yon oonceal what you have told
me?”
“From necessity for the time, I met Judie
Martindale in Switzerland three years and more
ago. After six months' acquaintance, I offered
myself and was accepted. Her father, however,
interposed. He desired a more brilliant match
for her. He called me lazy and shiftless, be
cause I had preferred to live upon my moderate
inoome, as suited my taste, instead of investing
my money and going to work upon something
more practical than the art I love. Judie refus
ed to break with me, and her father to sanction
our union. We met clandestinely; we corres
ponded. At last she was going home. Our last
interview transpired.
“No hnman agency shall force me to marry
another, ” she said.
*‘ ‘Judie,’ I answered, ‘if that is so, bind your
self to me. Make it impossible for anything to
oome between ns.”'
“She yielded to my urging. I left her to find
an acquaintance who wonld assist us. The ar
rangements were made. We were married; and
since we parted at the ohapel door we have nev
er met”
“How long is it?"
“Two year*.”
“And have yon had no communication with
each other since?”
“Only occasionally, through the friend who is
in oar oonfidenoe.
“Who is this friend?"
“Since I have gone so far, Miss Laura, there
is no object in keeping anything baok. His
name is Bertham Cadogan.”
“Oh Mr. Keith!”