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4
the sunny south, atlanta, Georgia, December 10,1892
DONOVAN.
[CONTINUED from first page. |
‘‘Certainly ; he is a great favorite,”
Mrs. Charicote faltered. “But Mary
might do much better, Kosa,” she said,
hesitating.
“Better?” Lady Gilderdale arched
her dark brows. “True, in one sense.
But my, dear, it does young people
good sometimes to begin quietly, and
George Donovan is a man with a fu
ture before him, you know.”
“Do you think so?” Mrs. Charicote,
an easy and persuadable woman, had
reliance upon the judgment of her
brilliant friend.
“I am sure of it. He would get on
well by himself. How much better
with the man he has to back him!”
“Serjeant Ryder,” said Mrs. Chari
cote. “True, Rosa. I confess that I
have not been over favorably disposed
towards the affair for Mary. Robert
Enderby wanted her, you know. Per
sonally I like George Donovan much,
and Mary—I think Mary cares for
him.”
“Undoubtedly !” affirmed Lady Gil
derdale, emphatically.
“Yes,” assented the placid Mrs.
Charicote. “By the way, I have not
seen the Serjeant, Rosa. Is he here
tonight?”
“Certainly. There he is, talking to
Colonel Dayrell. So good of him
to come! I was charmed. Ah,
there is the Baroness signal
ling me! I must go;” and
her ladyship glided away, leaving her
friend to sink into a chair, while her
eyes rested involuntarily upon the fig
ures of the two gentlemen who stood
talking together close by her daughter
and George Donovan. •
The Colonel, a portly man with the
orthodox military figure and the or
thodox military moustache, had noth
ing especially striking about him
The Serjeant, to an observant eye, had
much. A tall man, thin, and wonder
fully active; his every movement in
stinct with life, energy, expression; a
man with a sharp-featured, clean
shaven face, with thin, humorous lips,
and light-blue, penetrating eyes, and
a large head, from which his forensic
wig had rubbed his gray hair. An
odd, unique, striking man, whom past
failure had not daunted and whom
present prosperity had failed to
harden. Moreover, a man who was
popular with many wonderfully di
verse people.
He was popular with pretty Mary
Charicote, perhaps for Donovan’s sake.
Her soft, hazel eyes, resting upon his
shrewd, humorous face, turned from it
to that of her companion.
“He—Sergeant Ryder—does not look
much the worse for it.”
“For it!” Donovan started. “I beg
your pardon—for what?”
“How foolish of me I” cried the girl,
with a laugh. “Of course we have
been discussing a thousand things
since you mentioned it. I meant the
case that you say is troubling him so
much. What is the name?”
“Palascovitza.”
“Oh, yes! I should have remem
bered it. Russian, surely, is it not?”
“Polish, I believe.”
“Well, it is a dreadful name. What
do you think about it?” said Mary,
raising her pretty eyes with an
equally pretty confidence an flattery.
“Will the man be found guilty?”
“I think so.”
“And I am sure I hope so. I don’t
properly understand, you know; but
I should hope it just the same if Ser
jeant Ryder w 7 as not the prosecuting
counsel. It seems, from what I have
heard of it, a dreadful case.
“Dastardly,” Donovan said, briefly.
Miss Charicote had spoken with cer
tain hesitancy, doubt. She was clever
enough to appreciate its existence in
others, but, nevertheless, intellect was
not her specialty. She was sweet,
candid, bright, intelligent, but in no
sense startling. She had no more idea
of taking up anything like advanced
or strong-minded notions than she
had of neglecting her complexion or
wearing unfashionable gowns. And
she was aware—sometimes almost
painfully aware—that there was
a good many things in which
she did not quite understand
the man she loved, although for
herself she was quite content to adopt
and take for granted all his views and
opinions. She was very fond, indeed
of George Donovan—so fond that she
had rejected Robert Enderby and his
prospective baronetcy and seven thou
sand a year—so fond that had he ask
ed her, she would have married him
and buried herself in his Pump Court
chambers with all possible fondness
and cheerfulness, and kept the inevi
table regrets and bewailings strictly
to herself. As for his meaning to ask
herj: she no more doubted than that
Dorirbvan himself did. For quite three
months he had made up his mind that
he wanted to marry Mary Charicote
And he had never felt so much in love
with hex* as he felt tonight, looking
into her soft, hazel eyes, which were
so sweet, so innocently trusting and
fond. They have been very quick to
droop shyly before his own.
“Dastardly,” he repeated, thinking
more of her than of his subject; and
then he echoed her words—“Yes, it a
dreadful case,”
It was a dreadful case—a case of a
type which at that particular time
was all too common. It was a plot
threatening destruction to certain per
sons high in the government, a plot
which was suspected of being a mere
off-shot of a far wider reaching, more
deeply laid conspiracy. Its organi
zers, rumor declared, were a not of
desperate Polish exiles and a number
of not iess desperate Russian Nihilists.
At present, there were three prison
ers for trial. Two were elderly Rus
sians, accused of maliciously conspir
ing and combining, the third, and for
some reason the most prominent fig
ure. was a young Pole, by name Palas
covitza. He was handsome, he was
mysterious and romantic; and public
interest as regarded the case, had be
come so centered in him that the mat
ter was most commonly referred to as
the “Palascovitza Case.” The charge
against him was of a different and
more specific character. He was ac
cused of having written a letter in
violent denunciatory and threatening
terms—terms that threatened murder
—to a gentleman who was a powerful
and popular member of the Cabinet.
The general opinion was that things
would go hard with the handsome
young Pole with the extraordinary
name. For the rest, the case would
come on in a day or two; and Serjeant
Ryderj was counsel for the prosecu
tion.
Presently the girl spoke in a differ
ent, more animated tone, knowing
that her subject would interest her
companion.
“How is Frank? You have not told
me of him lately.”
“Have I not? Oh, Frank is flourish
ing!” The laugh that always lurked
in Donovan’s eyes gleamed out of
them merrily. “The other day there
was a holiday of his college—in honor
of some saint’s birthday or martyrdom
day, I believe—and my young gen
tleman and a brace of his school-fel
lows swooped down upon me at my
rooms. I was out; they were hungry,
and the result was havoc! They
cleared the cupboard—absolutely ran
sacked it, including my cigar-box.
When I woke the next morning I
found myself breakfastless.”
“The young rogues!” Miss Chari
cote cried, with a laugh. “How they
must have enjoyed themselves! And
Master Frank—did you scold him?”
“Oh,I jacketed him!” Donovan said,
with a laugh, as though he were boy
ishly amused too. “Threatened that
I’d stop all tips for the next three
months, too, I think.”
“Which you won’t do,” said Mary.
She well knew with what a tender,
almost paternal affection the elder
loved the younger brother, whom he
had taken completely off the timid, in
capable hands of his widowed mother.
“How does he like school now? Is he
getting reconciled to it?”
“I think so; reconciled not to go
back to Ireland at any rate. I am glad
of it. Too much indulgence was spoil
ing the lad.”
“You speak as though you were his
father,” said Mary, smiling.
“Do I? I feel like it.”
“I believe you do. But the charge
of him is a responsibility for you?”
“Oh, little enough!” Donovan re
plied, in a slighting way that would
have dismissed the subject had he not
changed it. “I’m afraid I am remiss,”
he said. “Perhaps you are tired of
sitting here? To monopolize and neg
lect you at once is too bad! Would
you like to move about a little?”
“I think not, thanks; I am very com
fortable,” the girl said in reply to the
last sentence; and she blushed her
vivid delicate blush because the pre
ceding sentence had been so tender in
tone and yet so delightfully matter-of-
course. He knew that she was happy
to be so monopolized, and that she ac
knowledged his right to monopolize
her if he would. So she blushed and
fluttered, feeling upon her face the
beloved eyes, and knowing that her
own could only helplessly answer their
speechless eloquence. Then she rallied
herself as society and propriety had
taught her to do, and looked up from
the foamy clouds of delicate white
upon which her gloved hands were
resting on her knee. “I would rather
stay here, I think,” she said. “I don’t
think that mamma means to remain
late, and I would rather keep her
within sight; she so dislikes any
hurry or confusion over going away.
But it is so warm; I should like an
ice,” she added.
Donovan stopped a passing waiter
and despatched him for the ice. Mary,
leaning back against the ruby-red
plush of the ottoman cushion, pla
cidly conscious of how charming and
becoming a background it made for
the prettiest hair and the most perfect
complexion in London, slowly waved
her large white fan. Donovan glanced
towards the Serjeant, now deep in
converse with a middle-aged gentle
man with a star on his coat. Some
thing of more than usual interest
came into the young man’s eyes as he
looked. He bent towards Mary.
“Do you know who that is?”
“Whom do you mean?”
“The man talking to Serjeant
Ryder.”
“Indeed, no; Lady Gilderdale has
always so many lions. Why do you
ask? Is he one?”
“Very much so. That is Lord Hunt
ington.”
Miss Charicote looked at the stout,
middle-aged gentleman, who seemed
to her like any other stout, middle-
aged gentleman, with respectful inter
est, for this was a very great person
age, indeed, almost as great as
the recipient of the Palascovitza letter
and very nearly as high in the Cab
inet. It added to the flavor of her ice
to sit and look at him—not that she
cared a pin about him, but it was plain
that Donovan did. Another moment,
and the Serjeant, leaving his com
panion, came up to the pair. He
shook Mary’s little hand, bowing over
it with the fine air of gallant defer
ence and politeness which no man
could assume with a more charming
grace; and then he looked at his fa
vorite. That the feeling with which
he regarded him was one of almost
fatherly pride and affection his ex
pression showed.
“You saw whom I was speaking to
just now, George?”
“Lord Huntington?”
“Exactly. You thought him espe
cially cordial, perhaps? I did,” said
the Serjeant, with a shrewd amused
look; “and I thought he wanted some
thing. So he does.”
“Of you, sir?”
“Ay! It's not much—only a fad; for
I don’t see what good end it can serve.
But that’s not the point. It is about
the Palascovitza case.” The Serjeant
lowered his voice. “It is this particu
lar Palascovitza letter; he wants to
see it. He has a notion that there is
some connection between our man
and those extraordinary letters which
were sent to the Home Office in 187—.
You have heard of them, of course?”
“Does he think it likely that Palas
covitza wrote them?”
“Something of the*kind.”
“That is a dozen years ago,” said
Donovan slightingly; “and, as Palas
covitza can’t be more than three or
four and twenty, I must say that I
don’t see where the chance of connec
tion lies, sir.”
The Sergeant gave a short laugh
This was his own opinion, which he
had just skilfully expressed to the
very great man.
“Nor do I; it is a fad, as I called it.
At any rate he wants to see the letter
—makes a point of it; and I want you
to fetch it.”
“Tonight, sir?” Donovan looked
surprised, perhaps a little vexed; he
did not wish to leave Mary.
“Well, yes, tonight,” said the Ser
jeant. “Lord Huntington makes a
point of seeing it, as I said, and he
can't wait until tomorrow; he is
off in the morning to preside at
that Birmingham banquet. Take a
cab to Lincoln’s Inn and back again,
said the Serjeant, drawing a small key
from an inner pocket—“you know
where to put your hand upon the let
ters as well as I do; it need not take
you an hour. Will you oblige me?
George Donovan was always ready
to oblige any one, more especially Ser
geant Ryder. He took the key.
“With pleasure, sir, of course,
afterwards, do you wish it taken
to Lincoln’s Inn?
“Well, yes—I wish you would
it back,” said the Sergeant, frankly.
“It won’t be very much out of your
way, and, as I’m going home to sleep
and don’t care to take it there, it will
be better. I need not tell you to be
careful of it. Properly speaking, it is
the whole case against Palascovitza—
quite enough, though, luckily. A
queer fad of Huntington’s? It seems
that Hallo!”
The Q. C. was arrested in his speech
and had this ejaculation forced from
him by an occurrence which was in a
small way sufficiently startling—a
sound of falling and breaking glass,
and a sharp, little cry of mingled as
tonishment and consternation from
Mary Charicote. The waiter had
stumbled, and a couple of empty glasses
and an ice, slipping from the salver he
held, had fallen upon the spotless folds
of her white dress. Mary rose hastily;
startled people turned their heads;
Lady Gilderdale, attracted by the
noise, came up.
“My dear child, how did it happen?
Did you have an accident? How ex
cessively vexatious!” cried
ship.
Oh, it dosen’t so much
Mary, recovering her usual
of temoer, smiled. “The evening is
nearly over, luckily, and most of the
beauty was off my poor frock—I have
worn it twice before, you know.” She
looked down at the wet patch and
shook her pretty head with natural
feminine regret and chagrin. “It
certainly was dreadfully careless of
him; but don’t scold him, Lady Gil
derdale, please. These little mishaps
will occur, and I daresay the poor man
was tired.”
“Man?” echoed her puzzled ladyship.
“My dear, I thought you had spilled
the tiresome thing yourself. Who did
it? One of the waiters?”
“Yes—he had brought me an ice.”
Mary glanced about her. “I don’t see
him now. He has disappeared down
the vestibule, I fancy.”
“Most unpardonably careless!” Lady
Gilderdale said, in vexation. “Can
you tell me which of them it was?”
“I really cannot. I hardly glanced
at him; I only know that he was
dark.” The girl was distressed, know
ing that Rosa Gilderdale, with all her
sweet temper, could sometimes be
sharp of tongue. “Pray, don’t trouble
about it,” she said, in entreaty. “It
must have been one of the extra hired
men, I think. I don’t remember hav
ing seen him here before.”
“Very likely. Well, I won’t scold
him since you don’t wish it, you good
little thing; but I am excessively
sorry, Mary. Emily, just see the state
of this poor child’s pretty gown! It
comes of hiring those wretched half-
trained men, of whom one knows next
to nothing, and who know next to
nothing about their business. Most
of them are awkw T ard to a degree!”
Mrs. Charicote had come up, and
now gently shook her head at the stain
to which Lady Gilderdale dramatically
pointed. She had less to say than
Rosa at all times.
“Which was the waiter, Mary?” she
asked. “That one over by the Baro
ness von Ernstein?”
“No, mamma. I’m not sure that I
should recognize him. I will point
him out if I can see him.” But,
although Miss Charicote looked about
her, she could see nothing of the
man.
And,
back
take
her lady-
matter!”
sweetness
CHAPTER II.
George Donovan making his way
out of the brilliant room, found his
hat and light overcoat with the help
of a sleepy footman, and went out into
the beautiful May moonlight. There
were plenty of cabs, and he hailed
and got into one. Glancing at his
watch, he saw that it w T as early yet,
wanting about a quarter of an hour to
midnight. He made good haste, and
it was not an hour later when his cab
rattled into Grosvenor Place again.
He found the Serjeant again deep in
converse with Lord Huntington, de
livered the letter, and, after an affable
word or two from the great man, made
his way to Mary, taking his seat by
her in a manner none the less confi
dent becanse Mrs. Charicote was close
at hand. The gentle non-assertive dis
approval of Mary’s mother did but
lend a zest to his wooing. He liked
difficulties—to overcome them flattered
and satisfied him; and so far, when he
had encountered a difficulty, he always
had overcome it.
An hour or so passed; people began
to tire; the crowd commenced to thin.
Mrs. Charicote, who never stayed late
anywhere, rose to depart, taking the
arm of an elderly gentleman with
whom she had been talking. Donovan
followed with Mary. As she stood
watching the brougham drive off and
the little hand that was waived to him
from its window, he found the Ser
jeant at his elbow. The carriage of
the very great man was just rolling
away.
“Thanks, my boy,” the Serjeant said
putting the Palascovitza letter into
his hand—“much obliged, and sorry
you had the trouble.”
“No trouble, sir,” Donoyan return
ed; and then added, “What does his
lordship think now?”
“That there are mostly addled eggs
in a mares’ nest,” said the Q. C.
quaintly, with a shrewd side look.
“Pshaw, I could have told him that!
You’ll take the letter back to Lincoln’s
Inn? I shall feel more satisfied if I
know that it is under its proper lock
and key.”
“I’ll be careful, sir.”
“Thanks! I am off now. Are you?
I have had about enough of it.”
“At once, sir—as soon, that is, as I
have got my coat ”
The Serjeant had his on already, and
his plain, dark carriage was drawn up
and waiting for him. He shook hands
with the protege, distributed a nod
here and there, and was driven away.
George went into the house again,
and, not returning to the now fast
emptying rooms, once more found his
coat and hat. He came out again
and stood hesitating. There were
no cabs within sight; Lady Gil-
derdale’s departing guests had taken
them all off. Should he wait? Should
he walk on on the chance of meeting or
overtaking one, or should he walk to
Pump Court? But for the letter in
his pocket, he would have decided
upon the latter course at once. He
put his hand into his breast, felt the
letter safely there, and strolled off to
wards the end of the place. A cab
would be certain to pass presently;
he would take it, and let it take him to
Lincoln’s Inn.
“1 beg your pardon. Am I speaking
to Mr. Donovan?”
Donovan, thus accosted, turned with
a start. He had heard no approaching
footstep, had not been conscious of an
figure hovering near him, and yet, at
the instant a hand had fallen lightly
upon his arm—fallen with a light flut
tering touch. A little startled, and
more surprised, he saw that the speak
er was a woman, and a woman who.be-?
longed to some religious or nursing
order, evidently for she was wrapped Ungers meVt!
lieve me when I say that I am sure no
serious consequences need be feared.
There has been an accident.”
“An accident!” His thoughts flew
to the only one dear to him to w hom
it could have occurred. “To my broth
er?” he cried, hastily.
“Yes—to Frank. I know his name,
you see; he he told it to us when he
recovered consciousness, poor boy!
But for his happily doing so, we should
not have know r n where to look for
you.”
“Is he seriously hurt? What was
it?” Donovan asked, rapidly.
In a sense it w T as serious, but there
did not appear to be danger. Nerv
ously and quickly the Sister explained.
Frank Donovan had been granted
leave of absence from his college for
an hour, that he might meet a
school-fellow who was returning from
an absence in the country, caused by
the sudden illness of his father. The
boy was young and timid, hence the
permission given to Frank to meet
him at the station. Tearing through
the streets, Frank had been knocked
down by a van and run over.
“And was taken, I gather, to your
home—your institute?” Donovan said,
with a little natural faltering, not
knowing how best to phrase this, and
in a tremor of impatience and anxiety
besides. “May I ask how it was that
he was not taken to his college?”
“One of our sisters was passing at
the time, and our Home, St. Cather
ine^, is close at hand,” the Sister ex
plained; “and to know where to take
him was impossible—the poor boy was
insensible.”
“True,” Donovan said, hastily; “and
he has now recovered consciousness?”
“More than two hours ago, and at
once begged that his brother might be
sent for. Until then we had no clue,
for he had nothing about him to yield
one.” She hesitated for a moment.
“I’ve been to your chambers—to Pump
Court—but you were out.”
“I regret it most sincerely; it has
given you so much trouble!” Donovan
said, heartily. He had no idea whether
the woman before him, with her shaded
face, her cloaked figure, and her
muffled voice, was young or old, beau
tiful or the reverse, but he spoke with
the ready courtesy just touched with
protective tenderness which it was
natural to him to show to all women,
and which made him popular with
them. “Were you,” he asKed, “di
rected where to find me?”
“Yes,” said the Sister, faintly. “I
mistook the name; I went to the
wrong house. I should not have found
you now, but that you were described
to me by one of Lady Gilderdale’s ser
vants.” She laid her hand lightly
upon his arm again. “Pray, come, Mr.
Donovan; I have been longer now than
I should have been. There is a cab at
the corner. The night is going so
fast, and we may be too late.”
“Too late!” Donovan echoed, draw
ing back. “You told me there was no
danger, he said, sharply.
“No—no—I did not mean that!
There is none, believe me!” the Sister
cried, incoherently. “But he, your
brother, expects you—is anxious for
you; and he must be kept tranquil.
Pray, come, and lose no time.
They were close to the cab, for she
had hurried on as she uttered the con
fused, broken sentences, and he had
involuntarily hurried after her. The
driver was holding open the door.
Donovan helped the sister in and en
tered after her, and the vehicle dashed
away. The moment it did so, the
woman, with a great gasping sigh,
shrank down into her corner, looking
a huddled heap in the folds of the gray
cloak.
Donovan was kindly; he bent for
ward.
“This has been too much ror you. I
am very sorry you are fatigued.”
“Yes; I am glad it is over,” said the
Sister, faintly.
“I cannot tell you how much I re
gret having been out,” Donovan went
on. “But for that you would have
been spared your searching, and I
might have been with my poor boy
sooner.” He hesitated. “Who,” he
asked, “is it that I may thank for her
kindness?”
“My name does not matter,” was the
answer; “and there is nothing to
thank me for, since, in going to seek
and find you, I did but the bidding of
those who have the right to command
me. We are all Sisters,” she added,
abruptly. “If you will, call me so.”
;“I will do so. In my brother’s name
and my own, I thank you, Sister.”
- He held out his hand. From the
gray cloak, hera glided out and lay
for an instant within it. Her hand
was very cold. Afterwards, he re
called with what a singular reluctance
and repugnance she had let their
He let the hand—it was
e-rjAv * n the folds of a large*j <oft and smooth as well as cold—slide
ino- J iin nvo’rTo^h capacious hood, com- ou t 0 f his, and then spoke again. All
ing up over her head overshaded lief - ®
forehead, leaving her face in deep
shadow. He got only a vague idea of
dark eyes fixed upon his own.
“That is my name,” he said. “What
can I do for you?”
“Mr. George Donovan?” said the
woman, eagerly and earnestly.
“I am George Donovan.” He caught
alarm from her manner. “I fear,” he
said, “that there is something wrong.”
“There is—there is!” Her hand
had been resting upon his arm;
now she withdrew it. “Mr. Donovan,
I grieve to tell you; but, pray, be- i
this while the cab was rattling along
smartly.
* “I have not asked you w T hat is the
nature of my brother's injuries, sister.
Are there broken bones?”
“No,” returned the sister. “There
is a dislocation of the collar-bone, but
that is all—all, that is, but the injury
to the head. 11 is bruised and cut, but
not seriously. It was the blow that
stunned him.”
Donovan drew a relieved breath. A
dislocated collar-bone and a cut and
a bruisj or two were not serious
things for a healthy lad of fifteen.