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DOSIA
THE TAMING OF A GIRL.
BY HENRY GSEVILLE.
Translated from the French, e or the
“Sunny South,”
BY PROF. OHAS. F. GAILMABD.
X.
The carriage stopped in fiont of the little porch,
and two minutes later Pierre was sitting in the
second arm-chair, opposite to his friend, and both
were conversing with the Princess as if they had
all been acquainted of old. The big books and
the paper knife had disappeared, and a few modern
romances replaced them upon the table.
Breakfast passed gaily. The rich silver ware,
fine crystal, rosy radishes, shining table-cloth,
sweetly-fragrant bouquets scattered all around, the
Princess’ velvety eyes and white dress, all con
curred to form an harmonious ensemble, well con-
oeived, in which bright and soft colors formed
a pleasant and apparently natural contrast. The
Princess excelled in the art of arranging an inter
ior with the objects surrounding her. Maybe that
arrangement was the cause of her house having an
irresistible attraction.
After a conversation at random on a thousand
topics, the Princess proposed a walk in the park.
It was about four o’clock. They passed the mon
umental entrance erected by Alexander the 1st,
and bearing on one side a Russian inscription in
golden letters, repeated on the other side in French
language : A mes chers compagnons d'armes. Leav
ing behind them the palace and flower gardens
they went to a bowlingreen surrounded by a stone
balustrade, and took seats at the very place where
Catherine s old court used to assemble for a famil
iar talk or for lunch.
They had all of them thought of Dosia more
than once during the day, but no one had pro
nounced her name.
‘1 wish I could have some milk,’ said the Prin-
cees, all at once. ‘Is the gardener’s house far
from here ?’
‘About ten minutes walk,’ answered the Count.
* Well! please have some milk brought here, I
am very thirsty.’
‘I will go there myself,’ said Mourief immediat
ely.
She signed him to stay.
‘No, sir, you are my guest,’ she said with her
peculiar grace, ‘my brother will take that trouble.’
Seurof started off rapidly without uttering a
word. He understood that when alone with the
young officer, Sophie would easily make him say
what she wanted to know. He guessed rightly; for
they could see yet his white cap among the trees
when Sophie asked Mourief:
‘What has your cousin Dosia done to you that
you have such a poor opinion of her ?’
‘What she has done to me, Princess ? she has—.’
He stopped one second, and then added :
‘She almost made me commit a folly that I would
have regretted all my life.’
‘I am fond of follies,’ said the Princess, smiling,
‘tell me all about it.’
In a few words Pierre relatedh is ride with Dosia
him aY*eiiV.Vb'fy7smifmg aTpiit^^vfiflei
‘Well.' Mr. Mourief, supposing that she had not
made up her mind to come back, what would you
have done ?’
‘I should have led her to my mother’s as I had
said. But such a ecolding I would have received !
I am really thankful to this little brainless girl
that she saved me from that storm !’
‘Wonld not your family be satisfied with that
choice ?’
‘Certainly not. But you, Princess, you who
are acquainted with her, I see, would you like to
have her for a relative ?’
‘Oh !’ said Sophie, *1 am not a judge of those
things. First I think Dosia a charming person,
even with all her defects, and I know that could
I have her with me for only one year, she would
change her ways—moreover, I cannot marry her,’
she added, smiling, ‘which alters the question
considerably’ '
‘I shall not marry her either, thank heaven !’
exclaimed Pierre.
‘But tell me, sir, what if your family had refused
to consent to that marriage ? I believe Dosia is
a relative to you to such a degree, that the Church
itself would oppose.’
■I had thought of that too,’ answered the young
man. ‘In that case I was determined to resign
my commission of officer, and go to some foreign
country where we would get married.’
‘You would have run the risk of displeasing the
Emperor ?’
‘It would have been a necessity, since I had run
away with her.’
‘So you would have married her in spite of any
thing?’
Monrief looked at the Princess in wonder.
‘But, Princess,’ he repeated slowly, ‘sineel told
you that I had eloped with her!’
Sophie cast down her eyes, enjoying for a while
the supreme contentment of meeting with a true
honest soul.
‘ Did you not love her deeply ?’ she asked.
‘Candidly, no ! I even ought to say that I did
not love her at all. I see it plain now; I feel that
something more than beruty and wit is necessary
to inspire true love.’
‘Have you made that discovery, indeed ?’ said
the Princess, smiling.
Pierre blushed and kept silent. Fortunately,
Sophie did not ask him how long since he had
made this discovery, for he would not have dared
to tell the truth.
‘You would have married Dosia without love,
and knowing well that she could not bring you
happiness?’ ° ‘
‘I had eloped with her!’ he sadly repeated for
the third time.
Sophie shook hands with him.
‘Mr. Mourief,’ she said, ‘you are a true man,
but, she added, drawing back her hand, ‘you
must be thankful for the ending of that trial. It
is good for you and her. She is not the woman
of your dreams, nor are you the husband for her.’
‘Who is the unfortunate man whom you would
condemn to wear such a heavy chain through
his life?’ 6
‘Ah! that is the question,’ said the Princess
with her enigmatic.'smile, ‘I dont know. But for
guiding this unmanageable ship it takes a wiser
pilot than yon.’
Plato came back at that moment, followed by a
peasant bringing milk and some glasses in a
basket. They drank the milk,; and the peasant
went back.
When the Princess rose to resume their walk,
she said, addressing Pierre :
• Are you sure that the return of Dosia to her
mother’s did not leave you any regret ?'
‘It was to me the greatest relief I ever exper
ienced, the truest and most genuine joy. I never
slept any better than I did that night.’
’Happy prerogative of a good conscience!’ said
the Princess, addressing h ir brother. ‘You see
before you, Plato, a man who never knew remorse.
Admire him, brother.’
‘Ah! Princess,’ sighed Pierre, ‘you cannot
imagine how glad I was When I thought of the
risk I had run. Great heavens ! I sigh bow when
I think of the danger I eseaped.’
They went towards home, conversing along, all
of them satisfied, but each one for a different
reason. Sophie’s contentment was the most serious
of the three. She had spent her life seeking
noble souls, and when she found any—which hap
pened very seldom—a music was sung in her heart
that would have delighted the angels in heaven.
This time the concert was particularly sweet and
brilliant.
Sophie and her brother, doubtless found an op
portunity to exchange some mysterious words in
an a parte, for all the way back to the camp, Plato
kept humming operatic airs. As for Mourief, he
did not say a word but he smoked eight cigar-
reites.
XI.
The two young men got in the habit of visiting
the Princess often. This peaceful life had so
plaased Mourief, that he disdained his other am
usements, except perhaps the theater, and still he
selected carefully the plays he was going to see.
The great drilling and manoenvering took plaee
and the camp was broken up. For one week
after, Pierre, who was exhausted by fatigue, did
nothing but sleep, ea‘t, smoke, promenade and
sleep again. After that week he felt like himself
again. The Princess had loaned him some books,
and the lieutenant, who before never read, took a
great pleasure in reading them. He did not real
ize at the beginning, that the cause of this change
was the pleasure he had in speaking with Sophie
about things which she loved.
One morning he woke up thinking that he had
no motive in going so often to see the Princess
Koutsky.
‘I must bother her a great deal,’ he sail to him
self with sorrow.
He resolved then not to go there any more.
Saddened at that resolution, which was not asked
for, he prepared to write a very polite note to be
sent with the books he had, when Providence, dis
penser of joys and griefs, reminded him that the
regattas would take place that very day, and that
he had promised to go with Plato to his sister’s.
•One more happy day,’ he said, ‘I shall write
to-morrow. Since she invited me, it is evident
that I am not intruding. Besides, she will prob
ably have company.’
The unfortunate officer did not know that he
was guessing rightly.
As he passed the gate of the Princess’ residence,
he saw his friend Plato—whose smile seemed to
him particularly sardonic—coming to meet him
with these words :
•I believe that a sudden great joy is dangerous.
Sister had an idea; I dont know if you will ap
prove it or not. I fear not.’
‘ Uh ! speak quickly,’ said Pierre impatiently,
‘dont keep us here in the draught.’
‘Well, my friend, here is the thing. Sister
loves concord and would like to see union and
peace reign all over the world with a cornucopia
in each hand. As she cannot reconcile empires—
which is sometimes imposs ’
‘How long will you speak that way ?’ interrupt
ed Mourief.
•I’m through. Sister satisfies her pacific aspira
tions in reconciling her friends. She knew that
your cousin Dosia and yourself had a casus belli,
she undertook to make you shake hands together,
and to that purpose she invited her to see the reg
atta.’
‘Dosia! Dosia here !’ exclaimed Pierre, taking
up his cloak that he had thrown upon a settee.
* —* * - * - — —— — — —1 —«— . O'J 1
sister wait for you. She has seen you through
window and will wonder at what we are talking
bout so long.’
So saying, Sourof laughing—though a little un
easy—almost forced his friend into the parlor.
Dosia was there, indeed, sitting in the middle of
a sofa, the ends of which were occupied by her
dress. She sat straight as a young poplar, imp
assible as a statue, and grave as a babe waiting
for his broth. Four or five ladies—well selected
for the occasion among those who look without
seeing, and listen without hearing—formed a frame
to that picture. Sophie knew well how to ar
range things and she expected to amuse herself at
the meeting of the two cousins.
‘Oh ! Princess, this is not fair,’ he whispered,
while kissing Sophie's hand.
‘You had to come to that some time or other,’
simply answered the Princess, smiling.
It was true, Pierre bowed respectfully before
his cousin,^who drily returned the salute. Plato
was leaning against the door, looking at them
with uneasiness. At last Pierre boldly took a
chair by Dosia and began talking with her.
‘Have you been well, consin, since 1 had the
pleasure of seeing you?’
•I thank you, cousin, I have only a bad cold,’
and she kept turning the leaves of an album.
‘And my excellent aunt has not been ill, I
hope,’ Baid Pierre, to continue the conversation.
‘No, cousin, no more than usual.’
Pierre could not stand it any longer. His nat-
ural sense of t he comic was choking him. The pres
ence of indifferent ladies around him encouraged
him, so leaning towards Dosia he asked her softly ;
‘Tell me, cousin, did they punish, or at least
scold you on account of your last—freak ?’
‘No, cousin, and I’ve got back my horse. I have
a room to myself, and Pluto sleeps at the foot of
my bed.’
‘I am not surprised that you took your dog for a
room-mate.’
‘And I do all I please now,’ she added angrily.
‘I think it has always been the case, but I am
glad to hear that you have progressed. And
what about music ?’
The Princess, who saw that the quarrel was
lapidly brewing, called Pierre to her side, while
Plato took the place vacated by him. Dosia be
came immediately grave and the red that anger
had brought to her cheeks disappeared. Her face
then resumed that sweet and childish expression
that made her so charming.
Come, Mr. Mourief,’ said Sophie, who couldn’t
help laughing, ‘wait at least until after chocolate.
Do not open hostilities before armistice is over.
You will have plenty time to quarrel; the day is
long.’
‘She is insupportable with her coolness.’
‘But you commenced first.’
‘I own that I did, but she shall not have the last.’
‘Dont forget she is my guest, Mr. Mourief. Be
patient for my sake’
‘I shall do anything to please you, Princess,’
answered Mourief, looking at her.
‘I thank you, and will depend on your word.’
The Princess went out to give some orders. A
few minutes later the servants brought the chocol
ate, after which the company walked towards the
lake where the regatta was to take place.
at a great cost from long distances, is kept in a
sort of museum in a castle of a poor-looking ap
pearance, but copies of those originals are free to
all. At any time of the day, any one can get the
use of the boat of his choice and paddle it himself
or even get a sailor to do it for him for one hour.
All that gratis. Of course you are at liberty to
give something to the man who is rowing, exposed
to the burning sun while you and the ladies are
sitting under a canopy.
It was that strange and mottled flotilla that
was to run the regatta. Among so many different
kinds of boat they had necessarily established
several classifications, as well for sailing as for
rowing.
The grand dukes were to run the race in sail
boats ; humbler mortals were to compete with the
oars. Several young officers had inscribed them
selves for podoscaphs and drowners, that are the
comic elements of the regatta, on account of their
almost inevitable—but not dangerous—accidents,
and difficult and awkward handling of the pagaie.
When the Princess and her company arrived at
the lake, a crowd composed of all the wealth and
elegance of Tsarskoe Selo and its neighbor city
were assembled around that immense crystal cup.
Some had come too from Saint Petersburg and
vicinity. The lower clf^js were but few and gen
erally occupied retired places frem' which only a
part of the lake could be seen. As for the nobility
and princes of finance they crowded around the
imperial wharf from which the sovereign family
presided at the regatta.Velvet carpets and gorgeous
seats covered the marble floor. On the immense
steps that run down below the water level was
the graceful garland of t&e maidens of Honor, the
pages and officers on d<*fy, all in brilliant array of
dazzling summer-uniforms. A little further up
were old generals blowing under the weight of
their too-tight dress and too-heavy epaulettes.
The Princess Sophie had a reserved place near
the wharf, and her friends formed a compact
guard of honor around her.
The signal was given, and the graceful boats
started. Sails of all shapes and sizes traced ele
gant curves on the horizon, then disappeared
behind the island which occupies the center of the
lake. They were seen a moment later through an
opening to disappear again. All eyes were in
tensely fixed on the extremity of the island where
the boats would soon appear. A snow white sail
emerged first from behind the green bushes and
pointed towards the shore. The Grand Duke A.,
who handled the rudder, turned its course at right
angles and so gained a considerable advance on his
competitors, who had followed a curve to turn the
island.
A cry of admiration rose from all around, and
half a minute later, the firing of a gun announced
that the young victor was receiving the reward of
his boldness. ‘
The military band played a march, and the
second race began.
The weather was beautiful; the sun, reflected
by the waters of the lake was dazzling in spite of
the parasols. Dosia did not notice it; she was ab
sorbing the spectacle offered to her as a young
plant absorbs the morning dew.
‘I wish I could have won the prize,’she said to
the Princess.
‘So that you might get the silver pitcher?’ asked
the latter.
‘No. But that I could have had steered that boat
so skillfully. That was a fine handling of the
rudder, right square. I must have a skiff brought
to the country.’
‘Why not say a steamer?’ whispered Pierre in
his cousin's ear.
She turned to him with lightnings in her eyes
ovpment towards him. Had
XIL
The flotilla of Tsarkoe-Selo is a very curious
one. It has its admiral—not a sham admiral, in
deed. The command is generally given to a marine
officer as a reward for some wound that renders
him unfit for active duty. The flotilla is composed
of a specimen of every light boat employed in the
Russian empire. Everything is found there : the
microscopic mahogany drowner, the elegant pod-
oscaph, the yawl, the Chinese junk, the flat boat,
in which old matrons dare to go, the seals-skin
canoe used by Esquimaux, the long plrugue that
needs long transversal poles to keep its equilib
rium. The original model of each kind, brought
, . and made a slight imovpmi
nA PP ent;a
have publicly received a slap on the face; but
Dosia had improved since their recent stormy
meeting. Mourief was scared, however, and ins
tinctively dodged back. Dosia, having noticed
his backward motion smiled, thinking herself
sufficiently avenged.
The regatta over, the Princess secured a boat.
She and Dosia took each one an oar like the young
men and they pushed outat random upon the lake.
‘Great heavens! how badly thou rowest, Pierre,’
exclaimed Dosia, impatiently.
Perceiving that according to an old habit she
had used the familiar word thou, she blushed and
repeated in a contralto voice ;
‘How badly you row, my cousin.’
The company burst into a laugh.
‘Dearest and most respected cousin,* retorted
Pierre, *it is not everybody's good fortune to have
as brilliant and natural disposition as you have
for all exercises-pertaining to boyB.’
Dosia looked at him crossways, and straighten
ing the boat with a vigorous stroke, she said:
•It is true; I ought to be a boy. How funny it
would be ! They would order me to do precisely
all that is forbidden me now. Is there any justice
in that ?’
Although the sun had given Plato a painful head
ache, he couldn’t help laughing.
‘Stop !’ said Dosia after a moment.
They all rested on their oars, for Dosia had
effectually taken the command of the boat. The
spectacle that surrounded them was grand. Dosia
was looking at the shores, the Turkish Bath they
were passing, the innumerable roses in blossom,
the falls that empty into the lake, the beautiful
marble bridge with its lines of rosy columns and
its elegant balustrade, all that harmonious ensemble
that is characteristic of Tsarskoe-Selo. She was
looking at the elegant crowd promenading on the
shores, the friendly shaking of hands and she
expressed her many impressions by these words :
‘Is that the world ? It is nice. I wish I could
go there!’
‘Before going in the world, one must be well
raised at home,’ saia Pierre to her.
He thought she would reply in anger, but she
simply sighed and resumed her oar without say
ing a word.
The boat moved again, but slowly.
‘Is it true, Princess,’ asked Dosia, after a few
moments of silence, ‘that I am so badly raised?'
She had spoken low, and the Princess answered
on the same tone :
‘No, my child, not so bad as you think, but not
very well, indeed.
‘I am sorry of it,* sighed Dosia, ‘but will that
prevent my enjoying myself in society? You know
that mother will introduce me next winter?’
‘That would certainly be an impediment to your
enjoyment, should you not change, but before
three months you will be a- great deal more .’
‘Acceptable,’ whispered Pierre, and he kept
rowing (aster than before.
Dosia seemed not to notice what he had said, and
her cousin began to be uneasy about such an un
usual placidity, when the boat neared the landing
place.
Plato landed first and helped the ladies to get
out of the boat. Dosia alone was behind with her
cousin, who was engaged in picking up an oar
that had fallen into the water; but as he took it
by the flat end instead of the round one he exper
ienced much difficulty.
‘Cousin, can you swim ?’ Asked Dosia, softly, at
the same time gathering the folds of her dress.
‘Well—yes, cousin. Why?’
‘Swim, then,’ she answered, giving a strong
impulse to the boat as she jumped to the shore,
without touching the hand offered her by Plato.
Pierre rolled down the back part of the boat,
and had he not got hold of one of the seats he
would have fallen overboard. Without getting ex
cited, he rose, looked for the oars, and finding
only one of them—the others had been given to a
sailor on the shore—he coolly folded his arms and
looked to the shore.
‘What is the matter, Pierre ?’ asked Count Sourof.
‘Do you intend to spend the night on the lake ? If
so, let me send you a guitar.’
‘You had better send me a steamboat to get me
out of here,’ answered Pierre, at the same time
hoisting his cap at the top of his only oar, as a
sign calling for assistance.
Dosia, evidently satisfied, was calmly contemp
lating her work. The Princess gave signs of dis
satisfaction; the others laughed.
Plato was looking at Dosia, and he felt convinced
that Pierre had said the truth, and that this child
was really but a child.
‘It is impossible,’ he thought to himself, ‘that
she would so treat a man she would have loved.
That would be supreme impudence.’
A feeling of real satisfaction entered his heart
absorbing his headache. His pain disappeared in
proportion of his conviction, and he felt he was as
light as a feather.
There was no vacant boat to be sent after Mour
ief; but fortunately a podoscaph steered by an of
ficer of his regiment came in sight.
‘Who are you down there?’ asked that officer.
‘Are you an audacious navigator, or simply a waif?’
‘A waif, my friend, a genuine wreck. Bring
me to the shore.’
‘Catch hold of the corner of my handkerchief; we
will use it as an awser to tow your ship’, said the
young man.
They gained the wharf after a senes of awkward
handlings of both boats which the company enjoy
ed heartily.
When on land, Pierre bowed to his cousin as if
thanking her for what she had done.
‘Well! what does that prove?' she said, with a
shrug of her shoulder.
‘Just what I ask myself, what does that prove ?’
‘That proves that you dont know how to get out
of trouble. I would have jumped into the water,
swam with one arm and towed my boat with
the other.'
‘Thank you, cousin, such amusements are good
for you, but I have no desire for an unexpected
bath.’
‘Come, ehildren,’ said the Princess, ‘make
friends. Shall I be always obliged to reconcile
you!
Oh ! to reconcile us is an impossibility. We
have been quarrelling ever since we were born.
We never could agree together.’
Pierre looked at her, with a glance of irony. She
blushed and added as a corrective :
‘That is for any length of time.’
Plato felt his headache coming back with new
intensity.
(to be continued.)
Waiting for the Dawn.
BY IRENE INGE COLLIER.
farther down the coast at a beautiful place quite
near the sea where she could have splendid
bathing and a fine beach to stroll upon. The
lady had a daughter nearly grown, whom she
wonld no doubt be glad to put under her mu
sical instruction upon his (Eugene’s) reeomen-
dation which he would give if she desired.
Would she ? It was left entirely to her pleasure.’
His voice and manner, calm and convincing,
had their old persuasive power, and she had
consented before she suspected that Eugene’s
motive was an interested one. He was taken a
back by her advent so near him when he
thought her thousands of miles away and he was
anxious for her to keep secluded until he could
manage some way of spiriting her off again.
When she had consented to remove to the pri
vate house if Mrs. Sullivan wished her, he told
her that her former friends, the Farnams, were
living in the country a few miles away, but he
did not tell her of Anna’s engagement to her
brother. He refused to believe this himself,
though he had heard it avowed as certain in A-—
and if he had given it credence he would still
not be willing for Eloise to know it. She might
feel it an irresistible link between herself and
Anna. She might seek Anna and confide the
secret to her. Before he left her, however, he
said, looking at her steadily;
‘Eloise, did you know that Sydney Farnam
was dead. He was killed in the battle of Sliarps-
burg.’
She kept back the cry that rose to her lips,
but she could not keep herself from turning
deadly pale, from trembling like an aspen as
her white lips murmured, ‘Dead !' Something
like a malicious smile flitted over his face. A
moment after, she rose and excused herself.
Hurrying to her room, she encountered Guy
Lawrence walking up and down the corridor
impatiently. He turned to her eagerly as he
saw her, but his smile faded as he noticed how
pale she was. She inclined her head and passed
on. Alone in her room, she threw herself upon
the bed and gave way to the tempest of grief
pent up in her bosom.
‘ What have you been saying to that lovely
cousin of yours, Guy ? She was pale as a ghost.
You haven't had the heart to hurt her feelings
in any way I hope? She is divinely beautiful.
I never saw so loveable a woman. And there is
a sweet sadness About her that is irresistible.’
Eugene looked at him with a displeased ex
pression.
‘ You are a very susceptible youth,’ he said
with a halt sneer on his lip.
He did not see Eloise again that day, but a
note was sent up to her two hours after, con
taining these words:
‘ I have seen Mrs. Sullivan and made all ar
rangements. She will be glad of your society.
She will send her carriage for you to-morrow.’
‘He is bending me to his will as he always
did,’ Eloise said to herself with a feeling of lit-
terness. ‘But this chimes in with my wishes.
I desire to live secluded. I am willing and anx
ious to earn my bread, and to be where I can
have solitude and leisure to practice in the hope
of my voioe becoming restored.’
CHAPTER XXVIII.
He knocked on the door. ‘Come in,’ said
a low voice. He entered: there she sat, dressed
in black silk; a pale rose brightening up her
dark hair, her face pale still, but her eyes bright,
her mouth proud and firm.
He approached her rapidly.
‘Eloise, my darling, do I see you at last ? ’
She rose and stood before him looking at him
with a curling lip, an eye that was keen and cut
ting as a sword. Involuntarily he stepped back,
this look cowed him, and checked even his as-
snrence.
r»„v. RArfrana. and I
know full well that it is no agreeable surpriss to
you. I am here, no thanks to you. I am sure
you have hoped that not even my ghost would
ever be seen in America again.’
‘Eloise you do me great injustice. You are
angry because I have not been to Europe to
seek you. I could not go, business held me here,
though if you had written to request it, I would
have gone; but you did not write, not even to ac
knowledge my letters and the money I sent.’
‘I received none sir. After the first eight
months, I heard nothing of you.’
‘Is it possible. Well it was because of the
irregularities of mail conveyance that lasted
some time after the war. Indeed I wrote punct
ually and was surprised and troubled that I
coulu not hear from you.’
‘Eugene do you speak the truth ? ’
‘Of course I do. Why do you doubt me ? ’
‘Have I not had cause to doubt you Eugene
Bertram? How have you acted towards me?
You have blighted my life, ruined my fair pros
pects for happiness, thrown a dark shadow over
my future that was so promising. Oh ! that
fatal hour when I yielded to your persistent will
and promised to keep that wretched secret.’
‘Still harping on that secret. You have told
it doubtless long ago . Have you not ?’
‘It does not matter.’
‘It does not matter true, because it would not
be believed after all this time has elapsed, still I
would like to know if you have told it.’
‘I have not.’
‘Ah ! ’ evidently relieved. ‘You are one wo
man who can keep a promise.’
‘It was no promise that kept me from making
it public, I considered all promise to you fully
annulled. It was because I was hopeless of any
good result that would follow, I felt indifferent.
I had so long worn the chain, I had grown cal
lous; and I thought—but never mind.’
‘I will tell you what you thought. You feared
that you would be doubted and suspected even
by your brother, and you shrank from the pang
of knowing yourself suspected. You were right,
you would be doubted and disbelieved and you
can bring no proof.’
‘No proof? You forget sir.’
‘No, I don’t forget. You forget what changes
time may have wrought. Death and fire, they
can destroy all testimony.’
‘And you are coward and villain enough to
shield yourself behind them. You will not
acknowledge this secret if I make it public ? ’
1 will not.’
Then Eugene Bertram, I tell you, as God
lives in heaven—
Hush; ’ he said. ‘Hear me out. I will not
acknowledge it just yet The reason still re
mains, is more obstinate than ever, bat cannot
long endure. In a little while, I will be free to
give you permission to reveal the secret to the
world.’
She looked at him with scornful doubt in
every line of her face. He bore the scrutiny
this man of iron nerves. He returned her look
—grave and pale; not a muscle of his massive
face moving. She faltered in her certainty as to
his baseness and presently when his soft per
suasive voice came to her ear, she listened toler
antly at last almost believingly, though when he
was gone from her the doubt would return. He
sat down by her, he begged her to believe that he
had always had her interest at heart; he had al
ways tried to make her happy, he reminded her
of other days and of fond hopes and tender ties.
She had asked the question that lay near her
heart and received an answer that seemed satis
factory. Then he asked concerning her future
plans; learned that she had none except to try
and reoover her voioe, and quietly, and with
seeming disinterestedness he advised her to se
clude herself and practice her voice in the mild,
soft air, and it was highly probable that her
glorious gift might be restored to her. But in
order to keep her mind serene, it was necessary
that she should lead a retired life. The hotel
was too public; there was a lady living a little
CHAPTER XXIX.
The plain old fashioned carriage of Mrs. Sul
livan drove to the door the following morning.
The lady herself alighted and asked to see Miss
Clues and introduced herself to Eloise, who
found her a handsome, kind and refined look
ing lady of thirty, with a little daughter of
twelve—a quiet, intelligent child. Mrs. Sulli
van still wore deep mourning for the loss of her
husband, but she was cheerful and talkative.
Her home was a pretty one, embowered in ce
dar trees and quite near the sea. Eloise had
all the leisure and solitude she could desire.
.fiffcox trcavl Ixexard •£'U>rono« , ft Fren^i 1688011
and given her her hour’s instruction on the pi
ano and listened to her practice foranother hour
in the afternoon, she had all the rest of the
day to herself. She passed hours walking alone
on the beach, a sheet of music in her hand,
practicing her voice, running the scales over
and over again and still hearing the harsh notes
that discouraged her, though often she felt sure
the harshness and hoarseness were wearing
away, that her tones were becomibg clear and
fuller. Then, she would note some falling off'—
some discordant sound that jarred on her trained
and delicately sensitive ear and she would once
more grow despondent, though never wholly
despairing. This she would not allow herself.
She would redouble her exertions, meantime
doing all she could to restore her general health.
She was successful. Exercise and sea bathing,
the wonderful balmy air, the varying beauties
of nature around her and the kind atmosphere
of friendship in which she lived wrought beuif-
icently upon her. Her form rounded, her
cheeks became suffused with a delicate shell
pink and her lips took the ooral glow that they
once possessed. Eugene looked at her with gloat
ing eyes. He was a warm admirer of beauty, and
he could but acknowledge that Eloise was the
loveliest woman he had ever met and yet his
cold, calculating nature urged many prudential
considerations why he should not install her
mistress of his fair home. One consideration
that weighed more heavily than ever was
that Eloise Ennis was now under a cloud of sus
picion. He knew well that if it were known
she still lived, Scandal would shrug its shoul
ders and add:
‘Yes, but better for her if she were really dead
and in her grave.’
One other found Eloise fairest of women and
would have flung himself at her feet, however
loudly Prudence might remonstrate. Guy Law
rence came occasionally to see Eloise. She did
not encourage his visits, but his society was
pleasant, he was frank, ardent, well informed
and lively and Mrs. Sullivan gave him a cordial
welcome to her home. He never came with
Eugene. Indeed, Bertram’s visits were very
rare, and were made at times when they could
excite no observation. He continually enjoined
upon Eloise the necessity of prudence and se
clusion and he did all he could to keep Guy
away, representing Eloise as an invalid and a
student who cared for no society. He even
went so far as to hint of incurable consumption,
but Guy’s passionate admiration turned a deaf
ear to these admonitions and he framed every
pretext to call at Mrs. Sullivan's and was deeply
annoyed that Eloise would never see him alone
and that she expressed her preference for soli
tary walks.
Those walks were a great consolation to her.
Out of sight, out of hearing of anything but the
deep murmur of the waves that flung themselves
on the beach at her feet, she would give herself
up to the passionate effort to reoover her lost
gift Over and over would she try scales and
trills, sound high and low notes. Once, she
had been doing this for hours. She was pale
and tremblifig with nervous excitement. She
thought she saw a decided improvement. Oh!
if she were not deceived. Stretching out her
arms towards the sky in which the stars were
beginning to appear she oried in impassioned
appeal while tears poured down her cheeks:
•Oh God ! pity me. I am thy child. Thou
gavest me this one talent, deprive me not of it$
restore it to me. Oh merciful father! be piti
ful. I have sinned, but I have suffered. Oh I
I have suffered so deeply. I found such com
fort in my gift. Such hope for myself and for
another. Oh God restore it to me; restore it to
mel beseech you here upon my knees.’
With white face uplifted, and kneeling on the
hard white sand she remained for many min
utes. At last, a voice seemed to speak hope and
calmness to her souL She rose, she smiled
brightly through her tears. *God has heard
me, she said, and she began to sing the grand 1