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SONIA.
Truitattd from <b« Frcach of Hear!
OrcTille.
BY ANNIE MURRAY.
CHAPTER X
This struggle of two hours with the bad disposi
tion of the little boy had wearied Boris. His spir
its, sad for some time past, had lost their habitual
elasticity; leaning his discouraged head upon his
hand, he closed his eyes.
A slight noise caused him to turn bis head; he
saw Lydia. The poor tutor suddenly forgot his
fatigue and his cares. Into the unpleasant studv-
hall a ray of sunlight seemed to have entered with
her he loved.
“Lydia,” he murmured, in a low tone, “Lydia,
you are my joj and my consolation. You will not
forsake me, will you?”
A bright flush mantled Lydia's face. For a re
ply she placed her hand upon the young man’s head.
He raised his eyes; the look he encountered, not
very confident at first, gradually strengthened ami
Lydia pressed her lips lightly on the forehead of
her lover.
“You love me, do you not?” he asked, in a low
tone.
“I do love you,” replied she, overcome by the
strength of that love which she confusedly felt was
superior to her own sentiments.
“I have a thousand things to say to you, Lydia;
you will come to the spring after dinner, will you
not?”
“Yes,” said she.
“Listen to me. 1 have suffered much lately. I
dared not speak to you.”
Lydia’s face grew more and more crimson; her
cheeks were burning from shame no doubt and she
turned her head away.
“I have lieen wrong to doubt you,” he continued.
“It seemed to me that you loved me less. Forgive
me, Lydia: tell me that you are not angry with
me. You forgive me?”
And he covered the young gill's hands with pas
sionate kisses. The scene of the morning hail weak
ened him; if he had not restrained himself he
would have wept like a child; but he recovered
himself quickly, and folded Lydia in his arms.
“I love you, said he. with ardor, “you are my
life, and for you I will struggle against the whole
world. Kiss me.
Lydia lowered her cheek towards him. He made
a quick movement and pressed his burning lips to
those of his betrothed.
The door opened wide.
“Mama, look: my teacher is kissing my sister!”
cried Eugene, in his shrillest tone.
Madame Goreline rushed towards them like an
enraged lioness. The loving couple had not time to
disengage themselves liefore she saw them.
“Miserable wretch.!” cried she, advancing to
wards Boris with uplifted hand.
She protiably intended to slap his face, but he
seized the threatening hand and pulled it down with
a firm hold, while she. tried to reach him with the
other arm.
“Madam,” said he to her in a deep tone in which
unspeakable anger mingled with the emotion of a
decided step, “I ask you for your daughter's hand.”
“Wretch!” repeated the mother in a furious pas
sion.
Boris relaxed his hold of her hand and regarded
her calmly.
“I am a gentleman,” said he, “and I am not act
ually poor; besides I have courage and the future
is before me. I ask of you the hand of your
daughter Lydia: without a marriage portion,” add
ed he, after a short silence.
Suffocated with rage, Madame Goreline had re
tired some steps and fell on a sofa. She looked at
the young man with terrible eves. Lydia had es
caped and a piercing cry from Eugene proved that,
in return for his good conduct, she had probably
boxed his ears.
Under any other circumstances this cry would
have alarmed the motherly heart of Madame Gore
line, but she did not even hear it. Her eyes fixed
upon Boris, standing before her, she searched for
w -irds and could not find any strong enough to ex-
prV - hfl feciings. \ , » > —
“(Jo. robber!’ said she. finally “how Ware you
aspire to the hand of my daughter!”
He had reached that degree of excitement where
one possesses a marvellous calmness far aliove mis
erable mortals, whom we regard with disdain.
“The hand of my daughter! related Madame
Do you think she is made for a poor devil like you?
Haf ha!” and she burst into a nervous fit of laugh-
te “Then you refuse her to me?” said Boris, un
moved.
Madame Goreline continued to laugh, making an
affirmative sign with her head.
“Very well,” continued the young man. “I will
go and ask your husband ”
More furious than ever Madame Goreline bound
ed to her feet.
“To my husband? I forbid it!”
“I receive orders from no one,” said Boris, direct
ing liis steps towards the door.
“You shall not see my husband! I discharge
you.
eontin-
‘Tlie more reason for not obeying you
ued he, coollv.
Madame Goreline followed him, overwhelming
him with invectives, until she had reached the end
of all resources.
“Moreover,” she said, with disdain, “if my hus
band is stupid enough to listen to you, it will be ex
actly the same as if nothing had" been said. He is
an imbecile and he does not rule here.”
“I have already had occasion to jx-reeive that he
is not master here.” replied Boris, tranquilly, “and
I have more than once had occasion to regret it.”
The servants, excited by the cries of their mis
tress. regarded this walk of Boris with Madame
Goreline following him step by step with malicious
curiosity. He could not obtain from them any in
formation as to where the general might l* found.
He was not in the house and he turned back still ac
companied bv Madame Goreline.
“Leave!” repeated she to him, in a rage.
“When you provide me with horses,” replied he,
finally, turning to face her.
“Horses! for you? You are able to go on foot
with your boots hung to the end of a stick across
your shoulder, like a peasant as you are!” cried she,
purple with rage.
"I am of noble birth,” replied he. unmoved, “and
if you will not give me horses, 1 will find some in
the village.”
“You shall not have any,” said she. with a mal
icious smile. “I w ill have the first person flogged
who dares to furnish you with them.”
“Y T ou are not up with your age, madaine,” re
plied Boris, politely. “Thank Heaven! it has been
several years since we could whip peasants with
impunity, but you seem to have forgotten it.”
“You shall not have horses in my village,” re
peated she. “1 will ruin the one who prepares
them for you.”
“I will find some at the prince’s, your neighbor,”
said Boris, abruptly, his patience exhausted. He
closed in her face the door of his room and locked
himself within.
Sonia tremblingly waited under the low window
and hearing no more n<iise, called the young man
by name. He approached the window.
“My master, have they sent you away also?”
asked'she, in a low voice.
“Why also?” asked Boris, in astonishment.
“Yes, they discharged me this morning, and
you ”
“Very well.” interrupted Boris, “then I will take
you away. For this moment you are in my ser
vice. Here are five roubles; go to the other side of
the river, to the first village of Prince Armianoff
and tell them to get ready tor me, immediately, a
chaise and a horse to go to the post-station. Run
quickly; show the money, but do not give it to
them.”
Sonia flew like an arrow, and Boris began to pack
his effects into his valise. He hardly knew what
he had in his head or in his heart: in the midst of
his confused ideas, an acute suffering caused him at
moments to start suddenly, as in the thick smoke
of a burning building,the unfortunate ones who can
not escape, feel from time to time a tongue of flame
lap their bodies, benumbed by terror and suffoca
tion.
He had only one clear thought—to leave that ac
cursed house. But he left Lydia there! Then a
keen consuming desire took possession, to raise
Lydia in his arms, to seat her in that humble chaise
which would bear him away, and to fly with her no
matter where. , , ., ...
The sky was blue, the road was.wide and the
horizon would always retreat lief ore them. Could
he not find a modest roof to shelter two happy
hearts? He thought of his mother—and the desire
to carry away Lvdia gave place to an inexpressible
longing towards his old mother, so good, so worthy,
seldom sad, but always calm. When would he see
them, under the shade of his birches, seated on the
same seat, those two beloved women, his betrothed
and his mother ?
“Never!” said he, disheartened. “Never!”
He went out of his room to try and see Lydia, if
only for a second—to see her through an open door.
Labor in vain; all the doors were closed. At the
end of the house one could hear the sharp voice of
Madame Goreline scolding her husband.
Boris re-entered his chamlier..and seated himself
near the window. This garden, the walk which led
to the spring, those last flowers of summer almost
faded, the autumn flowers already bright—all was
indelibly engraven upon his memory, like the frame
of a picture, in which he had loved Lydia. He re
membered then that he had forgotten some books
in the study-hall, and went to get them.
It was so sail and cold now, that hall where he
had lieen insulted, where his happiness had been
shattered.
Forcing back all thoughts, for he felt almost over
come by grief, he occupied himself mechanically,
in collecting what belonged to him. Lydia’s exer
cise lxxik was upon the table, where she had placed
it when she entered; he took it up, looked at it a
moment, then put it in his pocket.
What long nights he passed after that in reading
again those lines—and how many times he stopped,
his heart too full, over the verses of Lamartine,
who had sung for them in the springtime of love.
But stronger now he forced himself to see nothing,
to read nothing, and toxik the little yellow volume
of “Jocelyn” which had lietrayed them, wrote on
the fly-leaf the name Lydia, placed it between a
grammar and a book of exercises, hoping it would
escape the notice of Madame Goreline, mid went
out of the room without casting a last look behind
for fear of being overcome.
Sonia w-as waiting for him under the window,
and called him when he opened the door of his
room.
The chaise is on the other side of the river,”
said she. “The peasant who will carry you has not
dared to come this far.
Why ?” asked Boris, irritated by this last and in
significant obstacle more than all the rest. “If he
wishes to earn bis money, let him come here to the
gate: if not, let him return and I will go on foot.”
Sonia left again, and about two minutes after the
chaise entered noisily into the yard. The peasant
muttered some humble excuses that Boris did not
listen to; he had his valise and a small case of books
put in, he installed Sonia upon the seat amid the
jeers of the servants, and said in the tone of a mas
ter, turning towards the footman.
“Tell the general I wish to sjieak to him.”
Under the threatening gaze of the young man,
the sneers ceased, the servants disjx;rsed, and in an
instant the general appeared on the steps, His
wife marched at his heels. As for Eugene he had
dissappeared altogether: liis malice had succeeded
too well and in a corner he wept hot tears at the
departuie of bis preceptor, whom he really loved.
“General,” said Boris, “I wish to thank you for
the esteem that you have shown me,” and his loyal
hand was stretched towards the general who placed
his own within it, without knowing the reason. He
had for an instant thought of withdrawing it. “I
have this morning asked your wife,” continued Bo
ris. “for the hand of your daughter; I received a
formal refusal. I repeat this request to ycu; what
will your answer lie?”
Madame Goreline was about to interpose when
Boris said to her, politely:
I believe, madame. that'the affair is settled be
tween us. It is your husband that I have the hon
or of speaking to. I await your reply, general.”
“But,” stammered the old man, “my wife said—”
“It is your reply that I desire to know,” said Bo
ris, ]x>rsistently.
“As for me, I do not know. I love you well and
take you for a perfectly honest man, but I do not
interfere in these things; they are my wife’s affairs,
and then, the prince ”
“You refuse, then?” said Boris, with the same
apparent indifference.
“But ”
“Yes,” cried Melanie Goreline, “how many times
' - k tj , .c-iiytci iell you?* ‘ S
' The general bent bis head in 5 ilenee.
“Well,” said Boris, “I have yet a request to make
of you. Your wife has driven away from the house
and grounds, this little orphan. I beg you to trans
fer to me her papers, that I may be able to take her
to my mother’s, where she will have all the atten
tion that her age and destitute condition de<r and.”
The general regarded Sonia sadly, who, seated in
the hack, shed bitter tears. The servants no long
er laughed; the hospitable instinct, which vibrates
so strongly in the heart of every true Russian, hud
been touched by the last words of Boris.
“It is true she is an orphan.” said they to them
selves, “and God loves the poor and the orphans.”
“You wish to carry her away?” cried Madame
Goreline. “I am not willing. I have ran her off it
is true, but I forbid you to take her away. Sonia,
come here, little unfortunate!”
General Goreline assumed his full height, and for
the first time in his life, lie looked his wife in the
face and dared to act against her.
“And why should the young man not take away
this child since you have turned her off?” said he,
in a voice so clear and stern that the servants ex
changed surprised looks.
“I do not wish him to take the child away because
that will give him pleasure, and ”
“It is a bad act that you wish to do. Julia,” said
the general, in a severe tone, “and you have been
cruel to the orphan ”
“What! you censure me and in the presence of
my servants? It is too much! and for this outcast.
Come here, you little villain!”
“1 will not have it!” said the general in that
thundering tone with which he commanded liis bat
tery. “The child shall follow this young man, who
has been good to her and who wishes to take her to
his mother.”
“But, Stephan Petrovitch ”
“That is enough. I have the right to govern this
house and I say that this young man shall take the
little girl, so you need not lie uneasy, Boris Ivano-
vitcb,” said he, to the tutor, “before eight days you
shall have the necessary papers. Give me your ad
dress.”
Madame Goreline foamed with rage, hut she felt
that here resistance would lie vain. She had never
known her husband to speak to her thus, and her
habitual scorn gave place to a sort of deference for
a will so firm. She kept silent, chafing at her re
straint.
“Thank vou, general,” said Boris, relieved of a
great weight. “Adieu.”
He was about to mount into the hack wiien Mad
ame Goreline called to him:
“But your money—we must give you that!”
This crabbed woman was honest in all her dealings.
“No,” replied Boris, “I do not want the money;
you owe me nothing. I take away your servant—I
am paid. Adieu.”
For the second time that day Madame Goreline
felt her disdain give place to respect. This young
man was truly disinterested.
The general took from the hands of his wife the
package of roubles destined for Boris, and dividing
it into two parts, he gave one to his surprised wife,
and, approaching the hack, placed the other in the
hand of Sonia, who wept more than ever and kissed
the hand of her first protector.
“I will come to see you,” whispered he, in her
ear; “hush! do not speak of it.”
“Adieu, general,” said Boris, in moved tones,“yon
are a brave man.”
“Good-bye,” said the general, winking mysteri
ously.
“Have you not finished yet, general?” cried
Madame Goreline sharply, from the steps.
Boris raised his hat ana saluted the servants. All
—servants and peasants—raised their hats.
“Try yourself now,” said he to the coachman.
The hack rattled off, the poor little horse trotted
away and the roof of Lydia’s dwelling was hidden
among the trees.
CHAPTER XI.
The peasant who drove Boris longed to question
him. He made two or three attempts to draw him
into conversation, but without success. Soon the
green roofs and the cupola, shaped like an inverted
turnip, which surmounted the church of the little
district town, could be seen at a bend of the road,
and less Hum a quarter of an hour afterwards the
calache drew up before the wooden building, which
represented the post station.
No one put himself to any trouble to receive a
traveler of so little importance. The peasant was
about to leap from his seat, but Boris told him to |
wait, and entered alone the greasy apartment where
the post-master smoked his pipe in a sulky manner.
“At what hour does the diligence pass for Mos
cow?” asked the young man.
The post-master drew two or three whiffs from
pipe before replying; then, without disturbing his
Olympian tranquility he lazily dropped these
words:
At eleven o’clock, if it is not delayed.”
“Is it necessary to enter my name to obtain a
place?”
“There is no use; the diligence is full when it {lass
es here.”
“I can always find a space of four square inches
to seat myself,” said Boris by way of consolation.
Then he returned to the hack.
Sonia, uneasy, turned her anxious gaze towards
the door through which her protector had passed.
“Listen, Sonia,” said the tutor, taking her in his
arms and placing her on the ground. “You must
be very good. 1 will make them give you some
tea, arid you will remain here and wait for me. The
diligence will not pass here until late this evening;
you will watch my things till I return,”
“Are you going away?” murmured Sonia, full of
fear.
“Be calm; I will come Imek again. As for you,”
said he to the peasant, “do you lielieve that your
horse is ab’e to return and bring me back here by
nine o’clock?”
The {leasant who neld his hat in his hand, turned
it over two or three times, examined attentively the
inside of it, scratched his head and finally replied:
“How much will you give me for that?”
“How much did you promise him to bring us
here?” asked Boris of Sonia.
“One rouble and a half,” replied the child.”
“Very well, I will give you four in all. Are you
satisfied ?”
The peasant looked at Boris, then replied in a low
tone: •
“My horse is tired sir; why do you wish to re
turn?”
“Boris was angry, but he remembered that the
greatest prudence was necessary.”
“I have forgotten something which I cannot do
without,” replied be.
“ Then, sir, you will give me a little blue paper,
(equal to five roubles); I have another horse that is
idle; I will harness it and we will return as fast as
the wind.”
Agreed.” said Boris. “We will leave in half an
hour. ”
He had his baggage carried into the travellers’
hall, a large apartment, with greasy furniture, and
1 floor of marvelous cleanliness.
He ordered supper to lie bronght in and prepared
several eups of tea for Sonia, which she drank with
aviditv ; and without taking anything himself he
left, after having cautioned the child not to leave
the valise and little case of books, which was all
he possessed.
Sonia seated htiaelf on the ground at the side of
the precious charge and guarded it with canine fi
delity, long after the rays of the sun had ceased to
enter the 01*11 windows of that dreary room.
The little horse carried Boris rapidly back over
the ground he had so recently traveled. It seemed
to the young men that the long, white road,
stretched out to an infinite length.
His whole lieing was concentrated upon this single
thought:
“Should they kill me like a mad dog, I cannot
leave thus! I must see Lvdia again.”
He finally arrived at the village where the peas
ant lived. He told him to be ready to leave without
losing time, and directed his way towards the Gore
line house, still distant nearly a verst. From where
a grove of trees concealed the village, he turned to
the left, plunged into the wood and descended the
ravine, with a iKiund he crossed the brook, which
murmured over the pebbles, then advanced softly
along the* garden hedge.
In all this agitation the time had passed like a
dream, and at the hour the young man reached the
ravine, the rays of the sun, robbed of their warmth,
flickered like a golden vapor through the forest
trees. It was nearly five o'clock, the hour when
the general and his wife took their nap; it was the
hour when the young people had promised to meet
at the spring.
“She will be there.” said Boris to himself; “she
will be there unless the}' have shut her up.”
He approach lit ijtoppirjB at times to still the ex
cessive Lis'; ' irt? he no longer thoi’ght
of being seen-AoT* xir d.Ling him ignominiously
away; he thought only rl.at lie was going to see
Lydia, that he would see her or that he would die
from pain and anguish.
“She is there,” said he to himself, as the gurgle of
the spring told him that, he had reached the place.
A thick foliage separated him from their place of
meeting; he tried to look through the branches and
thought he saw a white dress upon the meadow-
grass.
Without minding the scratches, he forced his way-
through the hedge and advanced rapidly toward the
spring.
She was not there. His heart seemed to sink
within him. Overcome by unspeakable grief he
fell upon the grass where she was accustomed to sit
and pressing his lips to that cold anil lifeless earth,
he wished to die—yes to die, since he could not see
her again.
A bird piped sweet’y, as if to warn him that it
was late, and that the servants would soon come for
water for household purposes. A whole hour pass
ed away, and Boris did not think of leaving. It
mattered little to him who found him there; his life
had 110 further value in his eyes.
A footstep aroused him. For the safety of Lydia
it was necessary that lie should keep concealed, so
he secreted himself behind a thicket of barberry
bushes and waited. The little pebbles rolled down,
the sound of the heel of a boot resounded on the si
lence of the wood, then a rustling of skirts; it was
not a servant. Boris listenad attentively, a feeble
sigh. then a cry .4 stifled grief.
"My God! It was she! Boris sprang to his feet,
not without frightening her, for she nearly fainted.
“Lydia,” murmured lie. covering her face with
kisses, “did you think that I would leave without
seeing you again: I should have died of grief, my
Lydia. In order that I may live, that I may lalior
you must tell me that you iove me, that you are
mine, that you still wait for me.”
He might have spoken thus for hours. Charmed,
she listened to him without replying, her eyes fixed
upon the radiant and transfigured visage of the
young man. He was no longer the poor tutor in a
dependent position, he was no more a lover of hum
ble birtli: he'wusthe man who loved her, who spoke
to her as a lover and as a master; he was more than
all that, he was the impersonation of love itself,
passionate and irresistible. Dazzled by the splen
dor of that apparition, she felt a sort of vertigo
steal over her.
“Yes,” replied she finally, “I am yours: I will
wait for you, for I love you—I love you!” repeated
she more' sli ivvly. as if to hear herself pronounce
that word, of which she did not well comprehend
the importance.
Boris was about to reply; the song of a servant
girl caused him to keep silent.
“We are discovered,” said he, in an under tone,
seized with fear not for himself, but for her.
The song drew nearer, but as yet they had seen
no one.
They are coming for water for the tea,” said Lyd
ia. “Follow me.”
She went away rapidly, urging Boris on before
her. She opened a little" gate in the hedge and they
found themselves in the forest.
Farther yet,” she said to Boris who wished to
stop.
They went a few steps farther and placed them
selves in the shadow of the bushes. There they re
newed their pledges and made arrangements to cor
respond without 3anger. The sun had disappeared
behind the hill, the birds were no longer heard, save
a rare and sle epy chirp; a blue vapor began to con
fuse the distant borders of the ravine.
“I must go,” said Boris, desperately.
He stopped, looking at Lydia, whom he held in
his arms and who, was crying with her head upon
his shoulder.
“Lydia,” continued he, if you would—”
She raised her head with a questioning air.
“I have a good horse above here,” said he rapidly
and passionately, “I am going to my mothers.
Will you go with me? We will be married imme
diately, the priest of Grebova will raise no objec
tion, and afterwards we will tell your parents. Say,
will you do so?”
And he pressed Lydia to his heart as if to con
vince her more easily.
His whole life seemed concentrated in that ques
tion, his eyes penetrating the depths of the young
girl’s soul, he waited her answer. Herarens, which
she had passed around the neck of Boris, relaxed
their hold.
“No,” murmured she, feebly, “I dare not—I can
not.”
Was it the anger of her parents or was it pov
erty that made her dread that decisive moment?
She scarcely knew herself—the anger of her
parents alone would probably have not stopjied
her.
“As you wish,” said Boris sadly. “I scarcely
thought you would consent to do it—Good-bye,
Lydia, my life—”
She sobbed bitterly; many confused impressions
agitated her and caused her grief.
She felt guilty towerds whom, she scarcely knew.
She wished to do more for him, whom she had free
ly accepted for a husband, yet felt herself weak and
powerless before him—and who knowsthatshe was
not near lieing persuaded by him? She thought a
moment of leaving with him; to live by liis side, du
ring her whole life. Was it not the "happiness of
whieli she dreamed? Why should she not say yes?
“My duty,” thought she, to justify herself in her
own eyes. But at the liottom of her conscience she
scorned her father and thought of and judged her
mother severely. Those thoughts’ tormented her
cruelly; she eliased them hack like a troublesome
fllock of pillaging birds and turned towards her
lover.
Strangely enough Boris suffered more than she,
but his grief had a character of deep serenity—
which the young girl inwardly thought was cold
ness.
“Adieu.” said she, with internalanguisn, pressing
him convulsively in her arms.
“No, not adieu,” replied he. kissing her; “an re*
voir. Rememlier, Lydia, that my life is yours.”
“Mademoiselle,” called a voice from the garden,
“where are you? Some visitors have come.
The two lovers left each other in separate direc
tions. An hour after Boris reentered the station.
In spite of the prediction of the most-master, the
diligence which passed towards midnight had two
vacant seats on the imperial for him and his little
protegee.
To be Continued.
Tragedy at Glenford Chase.
BY KATE PEMBERTON.
Showers of moonlight fell in softened shadows
over hill and vale and shone 011 the placid waters
of the sea in sparkling rays. Everything was
bright, glad and lieautiful. But to me the beauty
of the scene seemed only to sadden my heart.
A sense of utter desolation swept over me as I sat
alone in my chamber that bright June evening be
side the great wide window that looked out on the
sea lielow. My future life appeared suddenly to
loom up liefore me and strange misgivings filled my
heart; yet many would have called this a foolish
fancy; which one wit limy splendid prospects should
never indulge in.
Hardly an hour since I had promised Sir Leslie
Copeland to be his wife by the coming autumn.
Yet strange as it may seem my heart was not as
light as the heart of the betrothed bride of a rich
Nobleman should be.
“But alas!” There was reason enough for this. I
did not love Sir Leslie with that fervent love;
which springs lip from the deepest recesses of the
heart. Although I promised to be his wife my
heart was not given with my hand. I simply re
garded him as a friend, and try as I would no deep
er emotions stirred my heart. It was my father’s
wish that I should marry this man, and I had
seacely a voice in the matter at all.
I was yet scarcely 17 and all my life had been
sjient with my father at “Glenford Chase” a great
roomy old house near the sea. We lived here alone
with the exception of the housekeejx'r, and an old
butler the only servants we had kept since I could
remember; with hardly a visitor to break the dull
monotony of our lives. My fatner disliked company
and seldom asked any one to vjsit us.
Glenford Chase was a lonely place. The house
stooi 1 on a high cliff direct 1*' above the sea. A
bleak stretch of sea coast lay Jl about it, below the
hill a little way stood a nolilcfcirest whose waving
boiiA'is nmrmeredlsCSes - to tin- resljbrt*. sea.>
it. nil rlra.i . in il ifinlo Vi n rrnrn. I
“Marcia,” he said, gently, “I want to talk with
>0 “Well, father, what is it?’I said
As he sat down beside me, I fancied there was
something more than usual troubling him.
“Has Sir Leslie been here?’ he asked, hesitating-
^"“Yes, he was here only a moment since.’
“And he asked you to be his wife?
“He did,” I replied simply.
“And your answer?”
“I accepted him as you wished me to.
“My child!” he cried joyfully, “you have made
me very happy—a great weight has been lit ted from
my heart. Sir Leslie will make you a good hus
band; he is rich; you will want for nothing and in
time you will learn to love him. Your future is
peat
“re- , , , ,, T -
‘Father,” I said, trying to speak calmly, I
it that I do not love this man though I h
have
1 tigered.
, happy one, isolated
had lived devoid < if
Und now had only a
,mally to Glenford
fetentious early din-
|ick Atwood, the
I. wood our nearest
[bringing with him
er than lie; whose
‘Go away! marry!” said the young girl, turning
pale, “and Mamina—how angry she will be!
“So much the worse for her,” replied Boris quick
ly. “I do not wish to speak harshly of her to you,
wit your mother “Well, let us not speak any
more of her. Will you go with me, say?”
Aliove it all a dre’i J- solitude
My life had been altogether
as we were from the world,
companions in my childhood,
few friends who came occa
Chase and partook of our un
ners. Among these was R<
youngest son of Sir Gilber'
neighbor. He came some ti
two merry sisters both you
cheerful voices awakened pleasiFiit echoes in the dull
old house. But he came of teller alone and I learned
to regard him as a brother and look upon his coming
as a matter of course.
I did not know how much dearer he was to me
until one day he came into the old fashioned parlor,
where 1 was sitting with my needlework in my lap
and the gleam of an autumn sunset falling about
me, and told me that he was going away, an a long
journey and would be gone many months. He
wished to complete bis studies under the shadow of
“St. Peter” with the old Masters to guide him. He
was an artist and had often before spoken of this:
he had his dreams and aspirations, some of which
he was about to realize.
Then there arose liefore me like the blank waste
of a sterile desert what my life would lie without
him; his very presence seemed to add a new lustre
to tilings around me which in his absence must
tarnish and fade.
I was silently pondering this over in my mind,
when he took my hand in liis and poured in my ear
the story of his love, and asked me to be his" wife
when he returned, and I promised in the gathering
shades of that autumn evening ever to be true to
him.
He lingered by my side a while, and then with a
sadly spoken good-bye, he was gone.
During the first weary days of liis absence letters
cams by almost every mail, breathing of the love
and devotion of a trusting heart: hut after this
came a long silence: weeks, months and even a year
went by and yet no tidings came from him to cheer
niv drooping spirits.
Then came a rumor that lie was dead.
I shudder now wiien I think of those wretched
days. A dull apathy seemed to settle down upon
me, which try as I would I could not shake off.
People came and went as in (lays gone by; but
to me the house never before appeared so utterly
gloomy. About this time an event took place
which broke in some degree the sluggish current of
mv life.
My father who had been absent for a few days
returned, bringing with him a friend whom he "had
met in the city and who he invited to spend some
months with us during the “shooting season.” Sir
Leslie Copeland, (that was our guest’s name) had
once done my father a great service and thereby
won his lasting gratitude.
Sir Leslie was some years my senior, a tall, hand
some man, with a pleasant expression about the
face and a smooth, well modulated voice. I liked
him from the first; and I fancied with some sur
prise that my father encouraged this feeling. And
liefore Sir Leslie had been with us a month I was
destined to receive a still greater surprise. He
made me a formal offer, urging me to give him a
definite answer during the coming week. 1 told him
that I could not lie to him more than a friend.
“Our feelings are always liable to be modified or
altered by time,” he said, gently, “and I shall yet
hope to win your love.”
In a short time after this my father come to me
and urged me to accept him. I told him that I did
not love Sir Leslie, and reminded him that I had
given my sacred promise to Roderick Atwood.
He laughed.
“Roderick Atwood is dead,” he said, coldly.
“True,” I replied, “but I cannot forget him so
soon.”
“Nonsense! It is foolish to spend time in useless
repining; it cannot bring the dead back to life ”
my father said, still coldly. Then he went on to
speak of the advantages in wealth and social stand
ing to be derived from such a union, and I saw that
he had set his heart upon it. I will not go over the
arguments that he used.
Looking back now to that time I can hardly tell
how I was brought to consent, for that was the end.
And when Sir Leslie placed upon my finger a glit
tering ring I felt that the bargain was sealed. “The
bargain” ves, for though submissive to my fate I
was literally bartered away! ’
I was thinking of these things as I sat by the win
dow that lovely June evening when the door opened
and father entered the room.
promised to be bis wife, and be knows it: but
strange to say is willing to take me all the same for
his bride. Please do not talk of my learning to love
him for I am sure I never shall.”
“Marcia,” he said, gravely, “I am greatly in
debted to Sir Leslie for having once saved my life
at the risk of his own. There is no one in the world
that I honor as much as he, and if you cannot love
him, I trust that you will at least respect him for
my sake.” Then in a softer tone, he added: “Some
day you may think better of what I have done for
you in desiring this marriage. ”
He bade me good-night and left the roam.
After that father never alluded to my marriage.
He seemed to consider the subject settled. And it
was. I suppose, since I had acceded to everything
which was required of me.
As the summer waned preparations were made
for the wedding. The day was drawing near. Sir
Leslie and father had arranged everything. The
wedding, would be a quiet one; only a few guests
were to be invited. We were to visit the contin
ent on our bridal tour. I had manifested so little
interest in the whole affair that the programme «as
marked out almost without consulting me at all.
It was early in September, just a week before my
wedding thut I rambled out along the sea coast.
The mournful sighing of the wind and and the dull
roaring of the mighty sea seemed to soothe my
troubled mind. I paced up and down the beach
wrapped in a ^ loomy reverie. I did not hear the
approach of footsteps until my name was spoken.
Then I turned with a sudden "start toward the in
truder and found myself face to face with Roder
ick Atwood!
A cold shiver ran over me. Had the sea given
up its dead? I strove to speak; my tongue was
paralized! I think I would have fallen bad he not
sprang forward and caught me in hi- arms; for a
moment all else was forgotten! Then his wild, pas
sionate words recalled me to myself. I drew myself
away.
“d! Roderick,” I moaned, “they told me you
were dead! that you would never come back to me
again!”
“Who told you this?” he cried, fiercely.
“My father, Sir Leslie, everyone,” I answered,
in broken !-obs.
“Yes, yes,” he said, bitterly, “I see how they
have deceived you. And they thought when I
reached here the bird would have flown. Sir Leslie
knew that I was alive; that 1 had been cast on a
wild, uninhabited island where I was compelled to
stay for weeks and months until I was picked up
by a vessel passing that way: he knew that when
I landed I was seized with a dangerous fever that
confined me for weeks to n.v room, and he knew
too, that when I recovered I would come and claim
you for my bride. He is a traitor! a villain!”
"Oh, Roderick,” I said, trying to speak calmly.
*‘I have promised to be his wife—if you iove me
go away and leave me!”
“Marcia! Marcia! are you mad? You do not
love that man! You are mine! I will not give you
up!” and he looked with an almost fierce gaze into
my eyes.
“Kush! Roderick! you are breaking my heart
I cried.
He seized my hand and looked eagerly into my
face:_ his lips moved but before he could speak, a
tall figure strode through the purple shadowed twi
light and confronted us. I knew without looking
up that it was Sir Leslie Copeland.
“Marcia,” he said, touching my arm, “will vou
retujm to the house with ...e; YKir father «s look
ing'or you.” \
He said this without deigning to notice my com
panion. He offered his arm. I did not take it; 1
did not speak -I only turned away with a throb
bing at mv heart to retrace my steps aione.
Roderick Atwood cried out:
“Marcia! Marcia! tell me truly, have you ceased
to love me? I must hear it from your own lips!”
A dark frown gathered on Sir "Leslie's face. He
glared at Roderick savagely, but only said: “She
is my promised wife."
"She shall choose between us," Roderick replied
coolly. He held out liis hand to me as lie spoke.
Mechanically I placed mine in it.
Sir Leslie stood silently watching his dark,
handsome face bearing traces of emotfon.
“Y ou have deceived me,” I said in a cold, hard
tone: “you knew that Roderick Atwood was still
living. I hate you!” I spoke recklessly, not
pausing to consider the consequences, as I would
have done in a more sober moment. My brain
seemed whirling about and all my thoughts were in
a sea of confusion. I raised my eyes to his face. It
was deathly pale.
“Yes,” he said bitterly, “I knew that he was liv
ing. Come,” he added sueeringly, “you will allow
me at least to take you home. If is growing late.
Mr. Atwoi id and 1 will settle this affair between
ourselves. ”
“No, said Roderick, decidedly: “she is under mv
care. I w ill escort her home if she will permit
me.”
“Yes. please take me at once,” I said trembling.
A sudden fear had come over me; before this I
could think of nothing. Now I began to think mv
recklessness had placed Roderick in danger.
Sir Leslie Copeland I knew was my nature wicks
ed ami revengeful: how far bis anger would carrv
him I could not tell. He turned away when I laid
my hand on Roderick's arm; “Good night. Marcia.”
he said lightly, “to-morrow we will meet again!”
and in moment later he luul vanished.
Not a Word was spoken between Roderick and my
self as w e w alked side by side. I was too agitated
to talk, and he seemed deeply absorbed in his own
thoughts. When we stopped"beside the little wicket
gate leading to the house, he silently opened to ad
mit me, and, raising my hand to his lips, he kissed
it tenderly, then with a hurried good night, walked
quickly away toward the lonely beach.
I entered the house and at once sought my cham
ber. I had no wish to encounter mv father just
then; my mind was filled with dire forebodings. 1
suffered a world of anguish and remorse. I felt
that 1 had acted rashly.
0! how would it all end! Overcome with emo
tion I sank upon my couch and wept bitterly. The
old clock in the hall below chimed the hour of mid
night before 1 closed my eyes to sleep. When I
awoke it was with a start. The room was full of
dim, shadowy light. Morning was dawning. 1
arose with a strange prescience of evil ham,ting
me. Just then there came a noise from below fol
lowed by loud ejaculations. I listened breathless
ly ; presently I heard the rash of feet along the pass
age leading to my room. The door was throw n
open and the house keeper but st in.
“Child!” she cried, wringing her hands. “An aw
ful crime has been committed. Have you seen
him! Did you know? ’ she went on wildly, in bro
ken sentences.
A sudden terror came over me. “Oh. Janet!” I
gasped, "what has happened? Tell me quickly for
the love of Heaven!”
“He is deadP' she said in a frightened whisper.
“Murdered last night on the lonely beach. Oh.
Heaven, your father; this will kill him.”
I tried to cry out, but a strong hand seemed to
choked my agony into silence: “Sir Leslie has done
this,” flashed through my tortured mind; “where
is he f'
My voice seemed cold and strange. The house
keeper scanned mv face curiously.
“He is in the hail below. They brought him here
not an hour since, together with the one who is ,
suspected of having killed him.”
“Suspected *" I repeated.
“Yes; and it muSt be he that did it, for they were
known to have met last evening and had high words
near where his body was found. Ah, me, we thought
him dead in the bottom of the sea. He must have
came home to do this deed last night.”
“Who?” I asked, in a dazed way.
“Why, Roderick Atwood, child; he is the (
is suspected.”
I turned away from her and sped down stairs. In
Continued on 6th page.