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THE SUNNY SOUTH.
3
A BROKEN LINK
-OR,-
The Sirange Man of Carreg-Cennin.
BY EMMA. KIRKLAND,
Author ot “Strathmore Diamonds” and “A Fair Eurasian.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
Three weeks passed. To Maud and Louise
the old Impatience had returned. The latter
had recovered sufficient strength to ipove feebly
about the house. She crept from room to room,
out to the kitchen aud back again, pausing at
the windows to look towards town. She carried
the tallsmanlc chain in her hands, or about her
person; wound It in and out between her fingers,
round her slender wrists, tossed it gently from
hand to hand, caressed, kissed it, wound It
about the flower stems, and played with it in a
thousand other ways. To her It was a golden
foundation for new hopes; she had prayed so
long, so earnestly; and when it seemed that she
must fall under a burden and die, this was sent
as a token of memory, she hoped.
“Maud,” said she, “I feel that it is like the
§ olden light which shone about Paul. It threw
lm to the earth and struck him blind, but it
waa the light of salvation, nevertheless.”
Maud did not know whether it was best to let
ber hope. The chain with the broken link was
a horror to her. She could hardly bear the
sight of It. How was it broken, that strong,
solid link? By a projecting rock on the face of
a cliff? By the hands of a maniac? Had Louise
toyed with a serpent she could hardly have giv
en Mand more pain. To her it revealed a cer
tainty of a cruel death. She, the wife, the other
self, felt no hope, but a dread, a horrible dread
of hearing the truth. Added to this was the
dread of the consequences attendant upon its
revelation to Louise. She remembered her hus
band saying once, “If it were not for the strong
religious basis of her character, we would not
have her with us now.” “It Is best to let her
hope,” Dr. Carne had said, and therefore Maud
obeyed bis Injunctions in regard to encouraging
as far as she could. She began to fear as Louise
strengthened physically and still coniinued to
hope that her mind had not been seriously in-
jnred by the shock and the fever. How could
she hope without reason? In opposition to rea
son? Bruce McDonald had not been found,
though bis place of business had been easily
discovered. He had come to Swansea in the
excitement, and slipped away before it subsid
ed. Why was he biding? Murder, Reason an
swered decisively; and now could Louise hope
In the face of these stern, pitiless facts? She
went to Mammy with her trouble. She could
confide this to no one else. While Louise crept
out In the sunshine to pluck a few pale, ambi
tious blossoms, like herself, frost-bitten because
of an adventurous spirit, Maud stole back to
the kitchen to consult with her tried friend.
“Honey, I think,” taking a peep at some
bread that was doing finely, “dat you better be
glad she done ria up er little. Keep er dat way
ef yer kin a leetle while longer an’ mebbe she
hab strenf ter stay. I’s noticed dat when yer
git so low down yer cant git no furder, it take
mighty little sometimes to fotch yer up again.
De chile say she prayed and prayed fur It, fur
sump’in ter On out what bercome ub ’im, an’
now she feel like de lord goin’ ter be murciful
case he shown her de faber. l's seed you nlgher
crazy dan she is, honey. Ter my notion she
look more like she crazy fore she git 6ick dan
she do now. Onsartalnly comes nigber killin’
den any kin’ er’ trouble. I members once when
I wus a young gal bein’ onsartin fur a long time
whedder Sam like me er Lize de bes’, an’ it gib
me heep er trouble; but, bless de lord, when I
fin’ out be like ber de bes’ fur sbo, I keers no
more bout it. You see it were de onsartainty
dat made de trouble. Dar she come wid er note
fur yer, honey.”
Maud went to meet her and saw that she was
endeavoring to conceal some new excitement.
Glancing at the chirography of the address It
proved to be Will Arrington’s. Opening it has
tily, she read:
'■‘Dear Maud:—I traced Bruce McDonald to
Carreg-Cennin, and found that another man,
who, I feel sure,is Donald McDonald, lives in
the lower part of the ruin. I saw him by moon
light. He is old. grey, withered, bent. There
are reasons why 1 should not See or speak to
him. Mr. Friedenthal knows where the ruin is,
not far from Carmarthen. They know that we
are after them. Wiu Arrington.”
Maud handed it to Louise, who read it with
many changes of countenance. Looking up
from its perusal with a glad smile, she said, ber
lips quivering:
"He is helping, too. Maud, it must go imme
diately to Mr. Friedeathal. Call the boy, show
him the house, and it will reach him sooner than
if you or mammy carried it. Make haste, dear
est,” her face aglow.
Maud hurried out to the gate, gave the bearer
directions, and then hastened back into the cot
tage, saying in a hard, dry, constrained tone;
“I will go down myself, Lulie. We will want
to know what is done.”
“I will sit here by the window and watch you
as you say you watched me. It will seem a long
time until you come back. Kiss me, dearest,
and do not look that way. Are you sick? You
look as if you were not glad?” questioningly,
shade of perplexity in her pale face.
“You are too imaginative. Louise;” giving the
kiss and hastening out of the house. She longed
to sav “It means nothing but deatb, darling.
The death of our loved one, and the death of
bis murderers.” Her real motive for following
the note was to bid them be very, very careful
how they communicated any intelligence to
Louise. She found Mr. Friedenthal and Dr.
Came both making preparations to leave in
haste. They seemed enthused with a serious
thankfulness and amazed to see her so calm and
cold. When she made known her motive for
following the messenger, they understood her,
they thought.
“It will be like raising the dead for her, if we
find him alive,” said Dr. Carne, with a smile.
“Why, my boy, you have no hopes of any such
thing,” exclaimed Mr. Friedenthal, dropping a
valise he was hurriedly packing and starring at
his companion, who was examining a brace of
pistols. "I de, though 1 am almost ashamed to
confess it against the facts in the case. Per
haps you would, too, if you had the same feeling
towards the McDonald’s that I have. They
were honorable men, the old man, at least; and,
as I told you, the younger was known to con
tend for honor against money aud position. Old
Donald was devoted to the family from early
manhood. Why would he harm a Carne like
Stradling Carne? It is my belief ”
“There is the train! Hurry up, we’ll be left!”
A rushing out, a run for the depot, a pushing
and elbowing, a hiss and a shriek, a clang and a
clatter, and they were gone.
“It is well,” said Maud, as she turned to look
at the flying train, “that I was crushed, put
down, trampled upon at home; that i was com
pelled to put my feelings out of sight and keep
them hid. Now that I need to do it, I can. and
I am thankful that I can. I would lose all I have
left if I could not,” stooping to cull a flower for
Louise. “I wonder if there is ever really a tri
fle in our lives. I do not believe there has been
one in mine. I need every harsh experience or
the lesson it taught to keep me from giving up,
and every sweet one to save me from becoming
hard. We gathered flowers on the hillside;
wild violets like these, but, oh! so much fairer!
He lay at my feet in the grass and said that he
saw himself In my eyes, and I feared that he
saw himself in my heart. Oh! my love. If you
could only come back one hour it would not be
so hard.”
through a long line of them. What fearful rag
ing there must be here in a storm! We are
nearly there, I fear. Listen! there is the boom
ing sound he said we’d hear. Do yon not dread
it, sir?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Friedenthal; “I shrink from
it like a nervous woman. I almost wish we had
not come. What good will it do? We can nev
er tell those desolate women that he died in this
way. v can not;; can yon?”
“I—do—not—know. I have some hard things
to do sometimes. They will have to know that
he is dead, and I do not know how we can bring
the criminal to justice without telling all about
the murder. It is the most outrageous villainy
I ever heard of. The horror of it has been mak
ing my flesh creep, and I can not throw off the
feeling. Poor Louise! Mr. Friedenthal she
must not know it, and I know if that devoted
wife could hear that damnable noise— Hello!
Are we not nearly there? ’
“Yes. Hurry on. There is a storm coming,”
from Bruce, the younger of the two men in ad
vance.
A brisk wind came in from the sea. It became
stronger every moment, and the booming sound
became more distinct. The travelers in front
dismounted.
“Are we there?” called the doctor.
“Nae, nae,” cried the old man in a nervous ex
cited tone; dinna ye hear the hollow, hatefu’
sound? Dinna ye hear it, my laird o’St. Do
nat’s?”
‘Do not call me that here, for God's sake 1
Let us go back, my friend! I do not wish to see
it!”
"Nae! nae! ye maun see it. It war ye that
couldna take the old mon’s faithfu word. Ye
maun come an’ see that place that made ye the
laird.”
“Hush! or by—
“He is an old man, my friend. Put that thing
away!”
“I would not lay a rude hand on him for a
kingdom. He has one there to fight his battles,
and he will fight or run when that is said
again!”
“Ha! ha! I wlllna say It again, my brav lad
A look passed between the two men that neith
er of the gentlemen understood. They could
not comprehend it, and began to feel a vague
uneasiness, aside from the unpleasant feelings
they had bad before.
“Bide a wee,” said the old man, sitting down
on a faded plaid, which Bruce had placed for
“I am going to watch those fellows. Lie down
and sleep. It may be all a cheat. I had such a
confuted notion of the fall that I was easily de
ceived. I’ll declare I never bad such a relief.
Why did you not tell me hours ago, doctor? 1
have been lying there thinking of—or, rather,
trying to think of—some way of keeping it from
Louise.”
“Why, you helped me to find it yourself. I
felt sure that ttiey were reserving something, by
the elated looks they gave each other. I be
lieve now that Bruce had an active band in the
affair, and the old man is trying to shield him.
He will slip away at the first opportunity. I
told the host to watch him, and I have been ly
ing here listening while I thought.”
"Sleep now—it is c ff your mind. I’ll keep a
strict watch. If I need you, I’li call.”
He left the close little room and went out into
the crisp night air. He beard Bruce and the
old man talking as he passed out. It was near
morning, and in the clear, cold, bracing air be
thought with every faculty invigorated; but he
came no nearer solving the problem of Carne’s
disappearance than if he had thought in his
sleep. When day dawned there was a general
stir about the inn. The doctor came out unre
freshed, weary, but looking less jaded than on
tne preceding evening. “Why, you look like
you had taken a good rest,” said he to Mr. Frie
denthal.
“I do not have to be up at all times of night
tiding hither, as you do, to heal the sick. You
were pretty well jaded when we started, and
now look as blue under the eyes as a delieate
woman. Had you not better rest to-day? The
old man will hardly be able to travel, and ”
“He is more anxious than any of us to be
going. I heard him up an hour ago hurrying
Bruce. What can be the cause of hurry do you
“I think so,” said the calmer man, his voice then, and could not be treated as such. She
thick and husky. ‘ Let us go down to the head was a beautiful, gentle, confiding woman; and
of the hollow, my boy.” as he looked at her and realized how alone In
Iro be continued.!
iOliHTIC EIPEBIKINT
him; “I'm sair weary ni the lang way, an’ I
canna gang to the fearfu place nl me auld bones
shakin’. Ye maun be strang, strang wad ye
stan’ it like a mon.”
Dr Carne threw himself on the green sward
and placed his bands upon his ears, but he could
not shut out the sepulchral booming. Mr. Frled-
entbal walked restlessly to and fro, thinking of
the deatb and the manner of it. Bruce stood
like a statue, scowling at the storm. The wind
Increased in violence, the sea swelled and broke
upon the beach. With every rush of the wild
winds the sea climbed higher up the cliffs. They
' gave the old man some wine aud wrapped him
In a plaid. “I wore it wi pride in my youth,”
said he, “an’ it keeps the auld mon warm when
the youthfu fires bae a’ burned out.”
The winds roared, and yelled, and shrieked.
A noise like the discharge of cannon came from
the direction of the booming sound. The old
man waited until the spray dashed high over
their heads, then arose and motioned them to
make ready for a departure. He was placed
upon bis donkey by which Bruce walked. The
others felt safer upon their feet, off which the
mad winds nearly lifted them at Intervals of
every five minutes. The frightened animals left
behind, snorted and reared, neighed and plung
ed round their fastenings.
“Let us go back?” shouted Mr. Friedenthal.
The old man beckoned them to come on. The
cannonading became more and more distinct,
until they could hear nothing else when its thun-
derings resounded. They passed round a huge
pile of rocks that had obstructed the view and
saw, thirty yards ahead, a column of water leap
ing high into the air. The old man threw out
his withered hand towards the spot, and the two
? ;entlemen gazed at each other with white set
aces. There was a murderous gleam in the
blue eyes of Dr. Carne and inexpiessible pain
in those of Friedenthal. As the column of sea
water fell, they could see a large round bole in
the earth. Tney could hear a rumbling and
rushing and crushing underneath the earth
few seconds and the water leaped up again,
high above their heads, with reverberations like
the firing of cannon. When it fell and receded
rapidly to the sea, they felt a rush of air to fill
the vacuum produced, and each stepped further
back from the hole of death. The old man mo
tioned them to stand back further still.
“I’ll have his life.” shrieked Carne above the
roar of the sea. Mr. Friedenthal gazed at him
with that Inexpressible pain in his eyes. Bruce
picked up a heavy stone and threw it near the
edge of the circular cavity. With the next re
ceding of the waters it was carried in with
rasping, grating sound that told how rough was
the cavity through which It descended to the
sea. Carne turned away, shuddering. As he
did so bis eyes fell upon the two Scots, who
were again exchanging that peculiar look
which, this time, had in it a hardly concealed
gratification. Making no sign of discovery, he
sat down at a safe distance and covertly watch
ed them. Mr. Friedenthal came and stood near
him, his eyes fascinated by the fearful ascent
and descent of the mad waters. The weird old
man sat upon his donkey with the bright plaid
wrapped closely about his withered form. Bruce
kept the animal quiet by winding an arm about
bis neck and caressing him with bis free hand
Thus they waited for the storm to subside.
When the wild voices of the elements were
hushed sufficiently for them to hear each other
speak, Friedenthal and the doctor moved over
to where the old man sat.
“Tell us where you were, exactly how it was
done, and let us go,” said Mr. Friedenthal with
a weary, heart-sick intonation of voice.
“I was there,” said he, pointing to a hill not
far distant. Mr. Carne stood there by that
stone. His lordship stood a few paces behind
him. It was a worse storm than the one you
have just witnessed. The column spouted high
er aud the roar was louder. Of course the
young man didna ken o’ the danger. A column
fell—he bent his bonny form tae see it gang rol
lin’ down tha hole—tna devil bahind gae him a
strang push wi' his slnfu hands, and he went in
wi’ tha rush o’ air.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Two men following the lead of two others
along a rugged part of the superbly rugged
coast of Wales. The day is warm for ' the sea
son, and the unusual heat is enervating. They
are weary, fatigued, though they do not walk.
The old man In the lead is too old to walk. A
child mav see that at a glance. His face is sal
low and wrinkled and shriveled; his sharp black
eyes peer out from very deep hollows; his hair
is long and white with age; his form is bent and
shrunken. His companion is a young man and
a very goodly sight to the eye. He has a fine
frame and a large, handsome face. His voice
is kind when he speaks to the old man, but very
gruff when he is compelled to speak to either of
the two in the rear.
"Do you not think it will storm?” asked he of
the old man.
“Ay, it will, an’it cames lucky tae the ole
mon.” A cloud hung over the sea in the far
distance, the air was heavy and still.
“We’ll reach the place about the right time,”
said the young man, “but 1 fear you will suffer.”
"Nae. nae, my lord; on the sea.”
They continued their wearing journey. There
was no road. They had tofollow near the shore,
and, as the coast was very much broken, many
wide detours were necessarv. The way was
reeky. The beasts were footsore, and they bad
often to walk and have the old man change
from one to another of the weary animal*
“Think we are going to have a storm, Carne,”
said one of tne gentlemen in the rear.
“Yes, but it will not reach the land. The
cloud is too far off. We’ll see some grand ef
fects of it, though. What fantastic shapes these
broken rocks have. A half mile back I thought
that huge shaft a man. Yonder one under the
red strata of the projecting cliff looks like a
fisherman with bis coracle on his back There
are three split off from the cliffs from summit to
base. Come this way and you can see the sea
“Mr. Friedenthal!”
“Eh! doctor!”
“Can you sleep?”
“No; my brain is too full of that villainous
treachery.”
The two men were resting in a miserable little
roadside inn. They were put in the same room
and the same bed. “I’ve been thinking,” said
the doctor in a low whisper, “that our friends
might desert us if we both sleep.”
“Why, my boy ?” rising on bis elbow and gaz
ing at his bed-fellow by the moonlight which
sifted in through a curtainless window.
“Well, I hardly know; tut I am certain that
they have kept something back from us. I saw
them exchanging looks of elation. They have a
great deal to say to each other when they think
themselves unobserved. Let us go back when
the tide is low and go inside the cave, if there is
one there. I do not believe there is.”
“Oh! there is, my friend; I looked over the
cliff and saw It. The opening is abont half way
down the cliff; farther down than that. I be
lieve. It is about as large as that door. That is
why there is such a strong suction—the ocean
runs in at the cave and up the tunnel, driven by
the storm; when the waves recede, a vacuum is
produced. I believe he has told us the truth,
but I wish we could make it untrue.”
“I understand the philosophy of the thing, but
I think he said there was no floor in the cave.
Now, how did he get in and secure the chain?”
“He said a part of the cave had no floor, and
that the tunnel from the top of the cliff commu
nicated with that part which bad a floor. I
could discover no inconsistency In anything he
said, doctor. I believe he told us the truth.”
"The waves then washed iff the body into the
infernal abyss, but left the chain.”
"Yes, the body must have been suspended by
the chain until it broke. He said-Iet-me-see;
he said he found it suspended by the round link
upon which we fasten a watch to a small spar.”
“There were two pieces of it. Where did he
fird the other piece, eh?”
“He did not say; perhaps because we did not
ask him. My mind was in such a turmoil that I
could not think.”
“Do you believe that those strong middle links
would break before the slenderer, circular one?”
“The chain was secured at the other end
also.”
“Well,” impatiently, “that strengthens my po
sition. He descends through the tunnel, his
watch is torn out cf his pocket, it catches by the
ring to a slender spar, he hangs there until the
chain breaks near the middle. Do you not see
the inconsistency ?”
“Yes, I see it now,” climbing out of bed.
“What art you going to do?”
The desire of the old to be at home.”
Shall we leave him there?”
“I think not. We had better bring them both
to justice and put an end to this suspense. We
win watch them today. Perhaps we may dis
ci ver something mere. If they meant to deceive
us, they can hardly conceal their satisfaction.
I have noticed that they have seemed as anx
ious to have thejourney over as we; they have
hurried more. They have traveled as if to save
a life, instead of to show the place of a man's
death. They are in tne same haste yet, you
say. doctor?*’ very thoughtfully.
“It is increasing instead of abating. They did
hot want to wait for breakfast,” setting bis
searching eyes on the face of his friend. “See
anything in it?” he said, tossing aside a cigar
which he had been smoking without moving his
eyes. “I have had a wild thought; perhaps you
entertain the same.”
“May be so; but it is only the young man’s
haste to be back at his work, I suppose.”
The journeying was resumed immediately
after breakfasting. Bruce hurried the obstinate
donkey with frequent and vigorous applications
of ihe rod, when she seemed indisposed at the
foot of a hill or exhibited a spirit of contrari
ness at other difficult points of the journey.
The old man would not agree to stop an hour
at noon. After sunset they came in sight of a
handsome country seat.
“We will stop there for the night, Mr. Don
ald,” said Mr. Friedenthal, “if they will take
us in.”
“Well, me auld banes are sair wi’ tha wav,
but tba old mon maun gang alang hame; gude
night ta ye bath,” passing the gates of the in
viting residence.
Bruce smiled cynically as tbe two took up the
march again. “Do you not see?” said Dr. Carne.
“That old creature can hardly sit on his donkey
from sheer fatigue, yet pressed on. How tired
he must be! I’d be glad to stretch my limbs in
the grass.”
They traveled late in the night, stopped at a
farmer’s house, and resumed their journey be
fore tbe stars bad quit shining. Tbe same haste
was discernible through this day and the fol
lowing, in the dusky evenirg of which they
came in sight of Carreg-Cennin, the home of
the wizard-like old man.
“This castle stands on the summit of an insu
lated rock, whose entire area—about an acre—
it completely covers with its walls. The per
pendicular cliff upon whose top the ruins tower,
is on three sides a sheer precipice of three hun
dred feet, utterly inaccessible.”
“Let us go up again and look down into those
yawning gulfs from the battlements,” said the
doctor. “Tbe sensation was one of the finest I
ever felt. Sublime! and the view is magnifi
cent.”
‘Granted, but I’ll not risk my neck by an un
necessary venture. What would we do with
Bruce, in the meanwhile?”
“Take him with us as we did before.”
“I would not now trust myself with him on
those stupendous heights. He is a regular
young Hercules.”
They rode on in silence, both thinking seri
ously and glancing up at the lonely ruin now
and then.
“Suppose,” said the doctor, usually the first
to speak, "that we ride on, leaving the impres
sion that we are going to Carmarthen, and then
come back?”
“ You have forgotten the old adaga about a
bird in the hand,” said his companion.
“He will not have time to escape. It is dark
now, and the old mau will need him some time
yet. He is utterly exhausted. We need not be
gone a half-hour; the hills are high; we can
leave our horses behind one and creep round
their bases back to the castle. Bruce will not
leave tbe old man to-night unless he suspects
that we suspect him of some complicity in tbe
murder.”
“Perhaps it may be best,” said Mr. Friedem
thai, rather reluctantly. “ We may learn
whether he really wishes to escape us. If he
does we may know that he has helped with tbe
murder, or perpetrated it for gain. I cannot re
concile the fact with his face, though it is not
what I’d call an open, frank one. I wonder if
we will be requested to share the humble hospi
taltty the castle affords.”
“I hope not,” said the doctor, “for more than
one reason It was an audacious mind that
perched it there, and I have no doubt there are
places in it, or about it, which would long re
main secret to a casual observer. They know
that we need sleep, rest and food, but I hope
they will not ask us to remain.”
When they reached the path that wound up
the hill to the grand old ruin, the two McDon
alds turned into it without a w x ord to the other
weary travelers, who rode on "Rewards Carmar
then.
“When will you want us?” called Bruce, when
they were some distance.
"It will be some time yet.; we will let you
know,” replied the doctor, in a careless tone.
Riding half a mile they secured their horses
and stole back within view of the castle. They
stretched themselves on their extra wraps, feel
ing a delightful sense of rest while they
watched. A light had been kindled in that part
of the ruin occupied by the old man. A few
minutes and they saw another moving about in
the most dilapidated quarter, which was appro
priated to the use of tne donkey.
' Did you ever know of anyone else taking
quiet possession of an old ruin and making a
home of it?” asked Mr. Friedenthal.
“No; that is an evidence of the man’s bold
ness of character. He lives there without leave
or license, so Mr. Arrington ascertained, but I
do not suppose any one but an adventurous
tourist would ever find him. There are few in
this country, and—look! there goes a light down
the hollow.”
They could not see the person who carried it,
It moved very slowly.
Where did it come from?” asked Mr. Fried
eathal, who had closed his tired eyes a moment.
He sat bolt upright now, gazing at the light. It
went out suddenly after bobbing here, there,
and yonder a few moments. "Fell down,
gue3S,” said Mr. Friedenthal.
It appeared all at once at the head of the
hollow,” said the doctor; “did not come down
from the castle, but one needs a light to get
down that hill on a night like this, isn’t that
caution?”
It may be an ignis fatuus; those hollows are
very damp. I observed the mist creepiug up in
thin clouds the other morning, and when we
left, the castle was almost completely concealed
in it,” observed Mr. Friedenthal; but he still
looked for ihe reappearance of the light. They
waited in silence full thirty minutes.
Do you suppose the gas has floated off down
the hollow?” asked the doctor. “I thought the
things were stationary, only appeared to move;
that they were created by an evolving of the
luminous gas from some marsh place, and—
hello! there’s a light in a tower. They bad
nothing in the towers; what are they going up
there for?”
A broad square of red light poured out in the
mist-laden air.
Why does it only shine out of one window?”
asked Mr. Friedenthal, laying his hand on
Carne's shoulder. There was light enough in
the doctoi’s eyes to illuminate the whole castle,
had it been of a material nature. “Answer my
question, and I will answer yours,” said he,
trasping his friend’s band and nearly wringing
t off the wrist; why should the light shine out
just there? There is no window there? The
windows are in the centre of each face. They
are small, long, narrow, oval at the top?”
Yes, and this is a perfect square, a large
one. Could the misty atmosphere refract light
from a square reflector through the windows to
produce— ”
“Through the windows! Do you see any com
ing out of them? Put on your spectacles, my
friend!”
I do not use them, and, fortunately, I do not
need them to see that you are right, my boy; for
that is the tower which has no floors in it, the
oldest, most dilapidated.”
Certainly it is, but there was no crevice, no
large opening in its walls. The light comes out
of that very tower, and, as there are no floors
and hardly any roof, we ought to see it pouring
from the lower and upper windows and out of
the roof, to have it consistent with the tower,
we saw it. My friend, there is a secret
chamber there and the light is the same we saw
going dou-n the hollow! ’
It very rarely happens that we have any pre
sentments and fore-warnings as to the Influen
ces that are going to tell powerfully upon our
lives, and so it was not strange that, when
Henry Dupont turned aside, one evening, from
the frozen city streets and entered the warm
and brilliant theatre, to beguile a weary hour,
he had no sort ot premonition that this occasion
was to introduce him to the most Important in
fluence of his life, and furnish the key to his fu
ture history.
The theatre was one of the best in the city,
and of course its performances were up to a
good standard, but on this occasion there hap
pened to be a ballet introduced. Henry Dupont
was just past thirty, but he had seen a good
deal of life, and it certainly would not have oc
curred to him to be shocked at a ballet, and yet,
as he found bis gaze arrested and enchained by
one figure of the whirling throng before him, he
suddenly became aware of a sense of keen dis
comfiture. He had hitherto concerned himself
but little with the fate of ballet-dancers, but
now it flashed across him what a bard and per
ilous Hie it must be for a frail youug girl such
as the one on whom he now bent his fascinated
gaze.
It was not only that she was very young and
wonderfully beautiful, nor yet that her face and
figure and whole bearing showed such extreme
refinement, that be felt this quick concern
about her. It was principally aue to the fact
that she looked timid and frightened, and in
spite of her surpassing skill and grace, showed
tnat her task was an irksome one. When the
ballet finally came to an ena and the glittering
cavalcade of oylpbs and naiads swept from the
stage, the young mau found it bard to rouse
himself from the profound reverie Into which he
had fallen. All that night tbe memory of that
dainty lorm and face and those beseeching,
timid eyes, haunted him, and by morning he had
firmly made up his mind that be would seek
this young girl out and make an effort to offer
her a helping hand. He knew it would proba
bly be a difficult thing to do, but he was a man
of honor and knew he could trust himself, and
he looked to the absolute goodness of his mo
tives to carry him through.
It would not be worth while to recount the in
tricate course ot events which finally led to his
admission to the poor dwelling where the kind
woman lived who had befriended little Nina
Feme and taken her into her humble home.
She was a widow with several children and very
poor, but she told Dupont very frankly and
simply that when, many years back, she hap
pened to be spared in a railroad accident, in
which Nina’s mother received a fatal injury,
she bad been appealed to, to befriend the little
orphan boy and girl whom this poor mother was
called to leave, she could do nothing but con
sent, and bad tried her best to discharge the
trust faithfully. Her husband was living then,
however, and times were more prosperous with
ber, but even now she did not seem to regret
her act or feel herself burdened. When Dupont
enquired as to tbe boy, she explained that he
was some years older than Nina and had been
adopted by a man who was moving to tbe far
West and finally lost sight of entirely. Mrs
Moore, his informant, had in her possession
few letters and relics which bad belonged to
Nina’s mother, which she showed the young
man, in ail simplicity, and by which he was con
firmed in his first idea, tnat this young gill must
have come of a race of refined and educated
people. Nina herself was not present during
the interview with Mrs. Moore, and before she
came in, tbe visitor had managed to convey to
bis simple-minded hostess some idea of his de
signs and wishes concerning her charge, and
had furthermore managed to ingratiate nimself
securely in Mrs. Moore’s easily-roused affec
tions.
When Nina entered, sedate and quiet, in her
shabby dress and poor little shawl and bonnet,
Dupont thought her, if anything, more lovely
and appealing than ever. He talked to her a
little while, and found her full of the gentlest
modesty and dignity, and when be presently
touched upon the subject of her education and
asked if she had ever studied any, he was sur
prised to learn that, by dint of fitful attendance
at tbe public school, and an effort to study at
home, she had managed to acquire a little stock
of knowledge which did her great credit. In
his subsequent conference with Mrs. Moore, the
the world she was, but for him, a sudden lm
prise came over him to ask ber then and there
to commit herself, for always, to his keeping
and come from the monotony and tedium of her
busy school life into the radiance and affection
of his home and heart.
While these thoughts and suggestions were
rushing through his mind, Nina stood before
him silent and shy, and although one moment
he was resolved to try to counter-act the t ffect
of his sudden caress, the next brought with it
such a rush of tenderness and hope and warn
ing reaching into the future that when Nina
finally lifted those lovely eyes of hers, she saw
before her the figure of a tall and handsome
man, with longing eyes bent on her tenderly and
eager arms outstretched.
“Nina,” he said softly, in a tone that was it
self a caress, “Nina, my little one, don’t be
afraid to come straight to my heart, if you love
me indeed, as your dear eyes seem to say. I
never meant to tell yon this now, for fear it
might disturb you. But why should it? Let it
be a sweet and natural thought to you, my dar
ling, that I love you, and if you can only love me
in return, how happy we may be!”
Nina made no answer. Her eyes fell once
more beneath his and she begau to tremble, but
there was no fear or dismay in her look. A
great light had come into her eyes and illumin
ated her whole face as she said:
“It seems so strange. I don't know what to
say, or think. I only know I love you—that you
are all the world to me and that I would do or
endure or suffer anything to spend my life be
side you.”
“Then come to me,” he said, again extending
bis arms to her. “I will not come a step to
draw you. You must not be constrained by me.
if you love me indeed and are willing to crown
my life with the completest joy, by promising to
become my wife, come to me now, and we will
understand each other.”
An instant more she hesitated, but wnen she
met the strong tenderness of those earnest eyes,
she was conquered. She took a few steps for
ward and was folded in his arms, while over her
eyes and cheeks and lips, his kisses fell like
rain.
Well, It was a happy time—those Easter holi
days Every day, in the frte intercourse which
long habit had now sanctioned, they bad long,
sweet talks and planned their future lives to
gether with the eagerness of children. Some
times Dupont would reproach himself that he
had not given her some opportunity of seeing
the world and meeting other men, whom, as he
wouid tell her, with a deep humility. Inspired b;
a sense of her truth and goodness and lovell
ness, she might have found one more worthy of
her affection, but always her fond assurances of
the perfect happiness he gave ber, which he felt
so ardently reflected in his own, reassured h!m,
and he parted from her at tbe end of the holi
days, taking with him as happy aud satisfied a
heart as the one he left behind.
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young man was almost appalled to see bow easy
his way appeared. When he explained that be
had no near relatives and lived quite alone, and
that he had inherited a good deal more money
than he needed lor himself and would be very
jad to have the means of doiDg some good wltn
Hs, Mre. Moore seemed to think it a perfectly
natural thing that he should follow this up by
offering to give Nina some assistance in her ed
ucatioD. When he enquired about hertheatri
cal performances he was rejoiced to learn that
this was her first engagement, and also
to see that little Nina bad no man
ner of wish to pursue that career far
ther. She explained, with tearful eyes, that
she had never liked it—that It alarmed
and terrified her to have all those people look
ing at her, and to wear those strange, uncora
fortable clothes. But she went on to say that
some of the girls she knew had joined this bal
let corps, and it was the only way she could
think of of earning a little money to help her
kind friend, Mrs. Moore, to provide for her fam
ily during the unusually hard winter.
Dupont’s swift thoughts were occupied, du
ring her simple recital, with casting about for
ways and means of executing his purpose. At
first he thought of personally conducting her
education, but that wild idea his better judg
ment soon scouted. Then it occurred to him
to put her at a well known school in the city,
but he soon saw that that would involve cer
tain complications he must avoid. Presently
he turned to Nina and said gently:
“How old are you, Nina?”
“Fifteen, sir,” she answered demurely.
“And—as I happen to be so fortunate as to
have the means to spare—will you be willing
to let me send you to school and educate you,
so that, by and by, you would be able to earn
a good liviDg for yourself without any need to
go on the stage?”
To his delight, the child showed only the
greatest gratitude and pleasure at his proposi
tion, and Mrs. Moore seemed no less content.
So the next day Dupont went back again, and
for several days to come; and tbe final result
of his arrangements was that Nina was placed
at a boarding school in a Northern State, some
distance off--Mr. Dupont appearing, in his let
ters to the Principal, as her guardian and trus
tee, and cleverly avoiding all questionings by
being able to give except onable references.
He impressed upon Nina the necessity of reserve
about her former life; and as she made it her
chief aim to follow, to the letter, all the instruc
tions he gave her. she gave him no apprehension
in that regard. With the simplicity of a ehhc
she let him provide for her wants, satisfied with
the assurance that if she studied well she would
some day have tbe means of repaying him for
everything; and finally the day came for them
to set off. What a happy trip they had to
gether! Nina—elegantly equipped in the plain,
neat garments that he had procured from such
a fashionable source that they could not help
being elegant—was not only a beautiful young
girl, but a very striking and high bred looking
one as well. He did not choose to go all tbe
way with her—distrusting, perhaps, his youth
ful and handsome appearance; but when ke
parted with her, after putting ber into the clr
that was to take ber to her destination, he
promised—when the summer vacation should
come—to escort her home himself. So he re
turned to his usual pursuits and avocations
cheered at heart by Nina’s regular letters,
which marked a rapid and consistent Improve
ment.
And so the time went by. The summer found
Nina grown and developed into a blooming
young maiden, whom every one loved and
praised. One more year she was to go to the
school, and then she was to take her place as
a grown woman in tbe great world. What that
place was to be she did not know, but sbe bad
a sweet trust and confidence about it. As to
Henry Dupont, in many quiet, happy moments
he bad bad a possible vision of Nina’s place in
the world which he had never hinted to her by
word or sign.
It happened, dutiDg Nina's last term at school,
that Mr. Dupont found it necessary to make an
expedition—in connection with some business
appertaining to his legal profession—to a place
not far distant from Nina’s school. It was
about the time of the Easter holidays, and so
he yielded to an urgent impulse and went on
to pay Nina a visit. She had grown by now in
to a tall young lady; and if ever a human crea
ture was fair to look upon it seemed, to Henry
Dupont, that this sweet girl was. And how
honestly and unaffectedly glad she was to see
him! What a radiant smile of welcome her face
wore as she came hurrying down the long par
lor to meet him, eagerly reaching out both her
hands. Before he realized what he wis doing
he had drawn her to him and kissed t er.
It may be a strange thing—bis friends would
have called it quixotic, but that they would
have called the whole affair—but he had never
kissed her before. A strong instinct had pre
vented, and only an instinct as strong could
have forced him now to forget himself so far.
In an instant he realized how unwise he had
been, and could only hope fervently that—as he
had always treated Nina as a sweet child—she
“When I come for you in June, my Nina,” he
said, “to take you home for good, I will bring
you a lovely ring, to wear for my sake, but, un
til tben there must be no sign of our engage
ment except the blessed signs we carry in our
own hearts.”
And so it was purposed between them, and
scupulously executed. The months of spring
and early summer roiled rapidly along, and
June, with its lrultion of April’s promise was
come. As the time drew near, Dupont grew
restless. He found it hard to stay at home and
devote himself to his business and ordinary av
ocations. At length, the beat of the city and
the tedium of waiting grew so unbearable that
one day be suddenly resolved to pack his trunk
and go, for a week, to a large watering place,
which was on his route to Nina’s school. It
seemed aweary time that be had to wait there,
and he grew infinitely tired of the endless ef
fort of renewing acquaintances with friends
and accepting or shirking invitations, as the
case might be. When he set off, at last, to reach
his desired goal, he was one day in advance of
tbe time he had appointed, but he could not
restrain his Impatience to see his dear sweet
heart and be hoped to make his peace with ber
teachers. Lo, when he bad reached his desti
nation and settled himself at his hotel, he dined
and dressed and strolled out, in the quiet Sum
mer evening, to beg, with all humility, to be al
lowed to see Nina.
When he reached the school, he found the
door open and one of the pupils standing
on the porch. She recognized him as Nina
Fern’s guardian and when he enquired for Ni
na, she told him he would find her in the
grounds and conducted him to the rear enclos
ure of the house, in such a natural way that he
followed ber very gladly. The grounds were
extensive and densely planted, and the young
man felt so eager to be allowed to 9eek Nina
out by himself that he managed to get rid of
his conductor and strolled on alone, until be
came in view of a little vine-covered arbor.
Here he caught, through tbe leaves, the glimmer
of a white dress which an instinct told him was
Nina’s. He approached noiselessly, wishiDg to
take her by surprise, but as he drew near tbe
arbor, he became aware of a sound, and recog
nized Nina’s voice, speaking in fervent eager
tones:
“I never dreamed that I could kDow such a
happiness as this,” she said, “I have nothing
left to wish for now.”
Dupont felt bis heart leap within him, and
tben seem to stand still, but he forced himself
to be perfectly silent. Gently parting the boughs
of a bush that intervened he looked into the
arbor and this is what he saw: Nina, his beau
tiful, gentle, loving Nina—his no longer, now he
told himself!—was seated on the music bench
and, bv her side, there sat a tall young man,
with his arm passed around ber willing, pliant
waist and ber hand in his. It was a pretty
picture. Nina, in ber white dresq, was lovelier
even than his ardent fancy bad pictured her.
•Fool, fool that 1 have been,” he thought hot
ly. “It is what people would have told me—
what I might have knowu. I will never believe
in youth and innocence agaiD. I cannot bear
the sight,” and, with a sickening feeling of bit
terness and despair, he turned to go away.
But his gait was unsteady, and he could not
control bis motions, so, as he was attempting
to leave the spot in silence, he half-stumbled
and the sound he made attracted the attention
of Nina and her companion. As the young girl
caught 9igbt of him, she started up suddenly,
and with a glad cry ran to him. But he checked
her by a sudden motion of his cold, uesteady
hand, and she drew back, pained and surprised.
“What is it?” she said id a tone of grief and
fear, “you look a9 if you bad some dreadful
news, and yet, what can the world do to us, it
w<- have each other?”
She seemed to have forgotten the existence of
tbe young man beside ber, but Dupont recalled
it to her mind as be pointed to bim saying:
“Yes, you have each other and my presence
here is an intrusion. I will leave you together.”
A sudden light broke over her face but mixed
with it there was a look of keen reproach.
“And could you think,” she gently said, “that
I would be untrue to you? You do me a great
injustice.”
Then sbe turned and took tbe young man by
tbe band.
This is my brother, Mr. Dupont,” she said
g> avely, “the little brother from whom I was
iarted long ago, and whom I thought I had lost
'oiever. He has been to see Mrs. Moore, tak
ing with him such relics of our mother as have
proved his Identity, and she has sent him on to
me with ber blessing and congratulation on our
re-iimoD. He called to see you before leaving
the city, but you were absent, and so he came
on at once, rerching here yesterday. I have
told him all your goodness to the poor orphan
girl, and he wanted to thank you for it. He has
met with friends also, and had set out to seek
his sister and to offer her a home. I have con
fided to him what my dreams of the future were,
but If you can so far mistrust me as—”
Her voice faltered and broke, and sbe turned,
as if to seek the sympathy of her brother, but he
had suddenly disappeared.
Dupont advanced toward her, and held out
bis arms, and in an instant she had flown to
them like a weary little bird and nestled down
in his embrace.
“Forgive, forgive, forgive, my Nina,” he said.
I never will doubt you again, no matter what
my eyes may tell me. He shall be a brother to
me too, my dear and gentle one, and I will take
my little bride at his hands. It seems such in
credible happiness that you should be willing to
belong to me that 1 think it was that that made
doubt of your trust seem possible to me. Give
me your band now, my sweet one, and let me
put on your fetters.”
He took from bis pocket a sparkling object,
wbicb, tbe next moment, was gleaming on ber
finger. When he had put it on be stooped and
kissed it there, and tben the hand itselt, and
then the lips that smiled above.
A month later they were married, and Nina
now presides with perfect grace, over Henry
Dupont’s luxurious home, where they often en
tertain the beloved brother, who comes on from
the far West, and not very far away from them
Miss Moore lives in a near little house, supplied
with many comforts by Nina’s Indulgent hus
band, who never can forget the tender keeping
she bestowed upon his treasure during ber child
hood’s years. They often go and sit by her
cozy fire-side in the evenings, and, surrounded
by the widow’s children, who are old enough to
be a stay and support to her, talk over, with
never failing delight, the incidents of what the
world would call this very Quixotic Experiment
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