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Plistrllanrous.
■f JO
■
r THE TWELFTH NIL.
L I'limKK 111. TilK H.MIIIT,
■ All next day Kli/.a was paler
Can her wont ; Iter I’ace wore a
■stless, troubled expression, and
lie weld about the house in an
Pbseut, pre oeeupied manner, ve
iv different from usual,
kMary Conlan, who watched her
day, thought that the o
|H~ of the nigld before, which
■pried lo indicate some <i i i• mi'
Frluiie, had roused her to serious
idlcction, and that she was inak
Kop her mind lo abandon all
■oughts of Croft on forever, and
■turn to her allegiance to Hogan,
w>ing it might yet be possible
Hivert tin* threatened evil,
,w hate ver her t lion aid'
that evening tumid
e- i
HHHKi do an if'' ro.i.i.
her leaning over the
in conver
('rollon. Thu . on
jjSfpJsuooecdina evening. lie
Those who had
.l < lold < ano- lo
HE Hf\|ee Hid \\
alool and shook their
“Sure, it's 110 Use," I lie V
She can't help tile doom
■j^^^^^Jier.
■Hk.il""
too, seriously re
lonstrated with her. lie did not
Bdoed know how frequent her!
Beetings with Croft on were, for
man, was generally
■Bring in his chair alter hi day's
HHBllell the intel-MeW al the
look
and -een enoii di to
• 11 "PP"-
1 oil A. I 1 II! . II lie I
lo mam Kliza. lie fell
Hm* that such ail unequal mar
wiage would not bring happiness
to her in any way. And hesides,
lie had set his heart on her wedd
ing Hogan, whom lie cordially
liked, and with whom lie could
trust her; and everything would
he open and straight forward, she
living on tile spot and among the
people with whom she had lieen
brought up. lie tried to re pro
sent the thing clearly to Kliza,
how t'has. <'rollon's family would
lie od'ended, and how lie would
needs break his engagement to
Miss Courtney, lie tried to show
her all the unpleasantness that
must result.
She heard him in a silence that
seemed dogged, pouting her lips
when he spoke of the advantage
she would have in always remain
ing among them as Hogan’s wife.
In the same manner, she listened
to all the rest who spoke to heron
tin* subject, but no promise could
be extracted from her to discon
tinuo her meetings with Croft on.
From that time, how ever, the gar
den interviews were given up,
but only as it appeared for a more
secret meeting place.
()ne evening, after dusk, as Ho
gun was walking along a path be
tween some tields, he heard voi
ces behind the hedge, lie stood
still a moment. He could not
mistake that tone, with its accent
of refinement. It was certainly
Croft on and Kliza. They seemed
as if taking leave of each other,
lie could not overhear t heir w ords
save a few disconnected ones.
“ To morrow morning," Crotton
was saying, “ before any one,"
the remainder of the sentence
was lost.
Then came Eliza's voice, low
and somewhat tremulous, and
Oroftou again in impassioned
tones. Then there was a few mo
meats silence, and they seeded
to part. Hut the footsteps re
turned, and again he heard their
voices, as it' they could not bear
to tear themselves from each otli
er without more last fond words
and (Hogan clenched his hand as
llic suggestion arose) caresses. A
Hniurmur only reached him
gw. followed by another short
fkce. How was it tilled up? lie
and he ground hi- teeth
ranger, and the hot blood mono
■L to liis forehead. Steps now
along by the hedge.
|HVJkcd on. He knew ('rofton
him. In a few min
the latter eaine up. and as
H ,ASM 'and looked at lloiran sharp
an expression of anion
InV on his handsome face ; but
li<- said gayly, though with a
t/>uch ol' insolence in his tone :
‘‘Wandering absorbed in thoughts
of Joye, iiogan, or only eon-ider
iiMfeuhat crops you will sow this
Which may 1 inquire?"
concern
TO&I^MiiLL lk - >'•' : hm in\
! I ■i j■ i •■ ■ ■ !
that somebody. Hut I assure you
my good fellow, I have not the
slightest intention of filching any
thing from your barns, or commit
ting ot her depredation upon you."
“ I don't know,” muttered Mo
gan. as the other passed on milt
tering an air.
“She must pass just now," he
said to himself, and stopping lean
ed on part of a broken wall, half
concealed from view. In a little
while lie heard the rail le of a dress
and a light tread. Kliza came by,
a bright flush on her cheek. She
started a little on seeinghim, then
with a nod and a careless “Good
evening," was going on, when he
detained her.
“Yoii’ye just parted from Mr.
< 'rofton ?" he said.
“ Well," she answered, looking
full at him; "and what then ?”
•* Kliza," lie burst out passion
ately, “is it all over between
ns ' Tell me at once, and crush
me with one word. I would rath
er know. This suspense is more
than I can hear; it is killing me.”
She hesitated. “ Well, Will, 1
suppose so."
“ You suppose so. You cun say
it then coolly, and call me by the
name you used to speak so tend
erly once, and not so long ago ei
ther. < )h, Kliza!” Ill's voice fair
ly broke down, and he covered his
face with his hand.
She stood by, her cheeks a deep
crimson, her e ves cast down, heat
ing her palm with a flower she
held, a rare hot house flower. Ho
gan knew well who had given it
to her.
“And will In* marry you?" he
asked.
She ceased the restless move
ment and looked up quickly.
“ Will In* marry me !" sin* re
pealed indignantly. “ Will I mar
ry him ! Ask t hat, rather. //<
thinks (lit* compliment’s there."
“ Me is so much above you, Eli
za. Take care you are not mak
ing your own misery. I speak
now only as a frieml, one interes
ted in your welfare. Oh, take
care; I warn you, before it is too
late !"
She stamped her foot on the
ground in sudden anger, and her
eyes flushed. “I am sick of t hese
warnings!" she exclaimed. “I’m
not hound tustund here and listen
to them from you, and what’s
more, I won’t either." She darted
past him and sped swiftly along
the path.
“Good bye, then, Kliza,” call
ed he alter her. “And may you
never feel (In* sorrow anddesolii
tion that I do this evening.”
But she neither stopped nor
glanced round at him. lie w alk
ed on, sighing as he went. The
••hill November wind whistled
droarih over the fields; it was
November, too,in bis heart. All
that night he lav sleepless, tossing
about, unable to tind rest for body
or mind. At one instant he was
cursing him w ho had alienated t he
heart that had been wholly his
own, vowing vengeance, and re
solving to wrest Eliza from him
by some means, before it was too
late, l lie next moment he bitter
ly reproached her for her faithless
ness, called her vain, and wordl v,
and worthless, undeserving of se
rious love; half hoped that she
might suffer for her treatment of
him, and proudly resolved to ban
ish her from his mind; then groan
ing and covering his face with his
hands, as the thought of all she
had been to him rushed overwhel
mingly to his mind, and he felt
how impossible it would he to for
get her. Next morning, it was la
ter than usual when he rose, for
about daybreak lie bad slumbered
a little. Ongoing out, whether
by accident or design, his steps
turned in the direction of Daly's
farm.and his eves sought tlu* win
dow of Eliza's apartment. It ap
peared to him that there was an
unusual commotion in the house.
Figures moved hurriedly shout
the rooms and flitted past the win
•low s. As In* gazed up. the door
was suddenly thrown open, and
some of the farm sonants, who
slept in the house, rushed out and
ran down the garden. At the
same instant, Daly appeared, his
lace pah* and litli of distress and
agitation. Hogan hurried for
ward, some half formed fear and
alarm in his mind, to ask what
was the matter. On seeing him,
Dal\ exclaimed; "She's gone
gone from us forever! disappear
ed during lhe night !”
“Who?” cried llogan. “ Not
Kliza ? It can’t have conn* to that
so soon ? Yon don't menu to say
sin* has fled, fled with him?" He
asked the question in a kind of
desperation, hoping against hope,
and probability, for what else
could the words he had heard
mean ?
" Yes, fled, and of a certainty
TII E F IEL1) AND F IR E SIDE.
with Crofton," answered Daly.
•• But they may be overtaken.
Let us try to save her before it is
too late.”
••It is too late, I'm afraid. From
what I am told, she must have left
about four o'clock this morning.
Mary says she heard a slight stir
in the house about that time, but
did not mind it then.”
Hogan turned away and walked
to a little distance. "Gone!" In*
murmured in accents of deep des
pair. At that moment, Mary Con
lan ran up to her uncle. She held
i a letter in her hand. “ See !" she
exclaimed, “ we found this on the
floor, under the table. It must
have fallen down, and no one saw
it till now.”
Daly seized it eagerly, and tear
ing it open, began to read. It
seemed short, lor after a minute
or two, he called to Hogan and
liande< to him. It was from
Eliza,and addressed to her father.
She began by saying that when
he read it, she would be the wife
iof Charles Crofton. As she saw
that they would all be against her
marriage with hint—though why,
j she did not know, unless some
\ did'nt wish to see her in a posi
i tion so different from her own—
j and as there would he so many
| obstacles from Mr. Crofton’s fami
ly, they thought it best to take
j this step, and avoid useless re
monstrances. She then mention
; ed the church were they had been
married that morning and the
name of the clergyman; she hoped
her father would not be angry; he
ought’nt to be, for should lie not
be glad of her happiness and re
joice in her social elevation.
“Now, good hye, dear old dad,”
she concluded. **l know Mary
will take good care of you, and
believe that I am still your affec
tionate daughter, Eliza. To-mor
row I may sign myself Eliza Crof
ton. Tell Will Hogan not to he
fretting after me.”
“Careless and cold enough, isn’t
it ?” said Duly, sadly, as the other
handed back Eliza's letter to him.
“ I'm afraid she does’ut mind
much what either of us feels,
thinking of the*grand life that is
before her. I'll go to town at
once and see if it is as she says ”
Hogan made no reply; he walk
ed away, and when he had gone a
little distance, threw himself
down on the ground and groaned
aloud in agony of spirit.
Daly’s enquiries proved that the
marriage had actually taken place
that morning in the church Eliza
mentioned. He was even shown
her signature in the hook, and
there remained not a doubt that
she was actually the lawful wife
of Charles Crofton. Daly felt a
certain pride in his daughter’s po
sit ion, hut lie sorely missed her
bright face and laughing, teasing
ways. He felt that he had lost
his daughter forever, and it al
most seemed to him as if she had
died.
As time went on, an occasional
letter came, dated at tirst from
London, afterwards from the con
tinent ; hut they were as brief as
they were far between, anil told
almost nothing. She hoped he
was in good health ; she was well
and seeing many things she had
not heard of before, and going in
to a great deal of gay society.—
This was usually their substance.
From the time of Eliza’s depar
ture, a great change came over
Hogan. He grew so gloomy and
irritable that those with whom lie
had formerly been a favorite be
gan gradually to shrink from him.
Few w ill take misery as an excuse
for broken spirits, and all steal
away from the stricken one—
As tin* ancients shunned the token
Of a lightning blasted tree.
But there was one who never a
voided Hogan. Mary Conlan was
often by his side, always ready
with sweet smiles and cheering
words. She never alluded to his
grief, hut lie saw by her actions
and her sympathetic eyes how she
felt for him in his' sorrow. And
though it seemed sometimes when
he turned from her with a dark
brow and monosyllable answer,
that her task was an ungracious
one, yet he blessed her in his
heart, that she still did not for
sake him, and cherished the kind
and gentle wairds she spoke as the
only tiling that made life not u(
terly a burden.
CHAPTER IV.
TMKGLAMUI 111 FADE**. i
In an elegantly furnished [a
partnielit of one of the most lash
ionable hotel- of Paris a foetaig
lady sat alone. The rich sun
shine of a warm .July afternoon
streamed through the room.—
Now and then, a gentle breeze
strayed in tlmiiigii the open win
dow beside which she was seated,
and sounds of life, careless, out
wardly happy life, floated up
wards.
It was a brilliant and varied
scene to look on : the handsome
equipages dashing by, the gayly
attired ladies, the city itself, of
which the window commanded a
fine view, with it- sungilt trees
and white glittering domes; a
scene that might well attract the
eye.
But this gazer, though beauti
ful and young, no more apparent
ly than twenty years of age, one
for whom it might he supposed
to have every attraction, appear
ed indifferent to it. Her attitude,
as she leaned hack in her chair,
her head resting on its cushioned
top, betokened weariness ; and
the beautiful large black eyes
fixed so wistfully, appeared to
look far away and beyond what
lay before her. It might he that
it was a scene she was well accus
tomed to from childhood—that
she w as worn out after last night's
gayety. Yet she did not look
like a horn Parisian. There was
a light in those eyes that seemed
as if reflected from limpid, rip
pling streams, a something a
bout (hat form which told of
mountains and heath covered
paths. She roused herself from
her reverie with a deep sigh and
sat upright in her chair.
“Oh, if I could see it once a
gain!” she murmured, “the dear
old place, and my father, and all
the familiar faces ! It is a long
time since I wrote to him. I nev
er care to do it, because 1 can
tell him nothing. Yet why
should I not i What a relief it
would be if I might freely un
burden my heart to someone!
I must do it.”
She rose, and walking to a
small writing table unlocked the
desk that stood on it and took
out a letter. It was written in a
large masculine hand. She read
it over with fond brimming eyes,
then seated herself at the table,
and taking a sheet of paper be
gan to write rapidly, seldom
pausing for consideration, as if
she wrote straight down the
thoughts that were in her mind.
The letter abounded in fond ex
pressions of love and interest,
that seemed as if wrung from a
sad, home sick heart.
“I sometimes think,” she
wrote, “in the morning when 1
awake, that I am at home, and
fancy I hear the loud chirping of
the birds among the ivy round
my window, the lowing of the
cattle, yonr voice in the yard
talking to the laborers, and all
the sounds that used to rouse me.
Shall I never, never hear any of
these again ? l left them heed
lessly, thinking only'of him and
the life of enjoyment I w as going
to. Ido not think I cast one
parting glance on the hills and
lields that last evening, nor press
ed a warmer kiss than usual on
your cheek at night. There
seemed some glamour over me
that 1 could not resist, and that
made me cold and unfeeling to
all but the one. It is a just re
tribution that 1 should pine to
return now, when I never can.—
He may tell me that I shall yet
be there as mistress of CTofton
Hall; but shall 1 ( Something
in my heart tells me that I shall
see it never, nevermore! Would
you know me now, I wonder, if
you saw me ? lam changed, I
think, but the change within is
the greatest of all. lean hardly
recognize myself sometimes, as
the same livelv, thoughtless Eli
za Daly."
She then went on to tell how
she had at lirst enjoyed her en
trance into society. It was plain
that she had been greatly ad
mired, and that she had been able
to adapt herself quickly to her
new sphere of life. But as her
triumph became less new spots
began to tarnish its brightness.
With the murmurs of admiration
and praise that reached her ears
scornful reflections on her hum
ble birth were mingled; and she
began to notice a tinge of conde
scension in the manner of many
towards her. which at lirst, when
absorbed in delight at the novel
tv and grandeur of everything,
had not struck her. It was not
possible even that with all her
native quickness and tact, the
humble farmer's daughter could
at once be transformed into the
polished lady, and so occasional
ly slight breaches of etiquette
were observable , which did not
fail to excite criticism. She
would have thought much less
about all this, only she saw how
her husband was annoyed by it.
She found too that remarks which
she made in conversation fre
quently displeased him. He
would accuse her of. being too
naive, and of allowing her igno
ranee of some things with which
-lie should he familiar, and her
familiarity with others of which
she ought to be ignorant, to ap
pear. At first he would reprove
her laughingly but gradually,
whenever she offended, with more
and more displeasure. She soon
learned to seal her lips on such
subjects, and appear to know no
more of the ways among which
she had been brought up than
any of them—learned even tode
nv all knowledge of the familiar
spot itself.
But the gloss hail faded from
her pleasure, and she saw that it
was also fading from something
more valued still—her husband's
love. She feared that he was be
coming tired of her. She had a
mused him for a while, and he
had lavished the most pas donate
fondness on her; but that was
past now. She thought he re
pented, and was ashamed of the
unequal match lie had made;
and she resolved that her pres
ence by his side should no longer
remind people of it and wound
his pride. She absented herself
from every gayety. At tirst he
would ask her to accompany him
as usual, and seemed surprised
when she refused ; but lie never
pressed her. He thought, or
l’eighed to think, it was because
of delicate health she would not
go; but she knew that he was
glad.
Withdrawn from the excite
ment in which she had lately
lived her spirits sank, and as
they did so her husband grew
more and more careless and in
different. Still, lie was never un
kind. He brought her presents
and indulged every fancy; but
slie could not *be content with
the slight good nature that
prompted this. She was depend
ent on him only, and he left her
alone and unhappy, scarcely
seeming to know that she was so,
or betraying impatience at it.
As she finished her letter, the
outpouring of a sad disappointed
heart, which lias found in reality
so mournful a contrast to the
bright ideal, her tears fell heavily
one by one. When she wrote
the direction on the envelope
she sobbed aloud and buried her
face in her hands. In a few min
utes she composed herself to
read over what she had written.
Having done so she paused and
seemed to consider.
“No; I will not send it,” she
said aloud. “It would be a com
fort to get the affectionate reply
f know 1 should from him, but it
would grieve him too much to
think I was unhappy. It must
not go.’’
She was about to tear it across;
but a sudden thought stayed bel
li and. She folded it up and
placed it in the envelope. “If 1
die, let them send it to him. And
stay! I will put a little piece of
my hair in it.” She took up a
pair of scissors, and going to the
glass severed a glossy curl. She
folded it in a piece of paper and
wrote, “With Eliza's love then
laid it within the letter, which
she sealed with black wax, and
instantly locked her desk.
As she did so the door opened
and her husband entered. He
threw himself on one of the couch
es with some commonplace re
mark, such as people make when
they think it incumbent on them
to say something, but are urged
by no impulse from the heart.
“Paris is beginning to show
signs of getting thin,” he contin
ued lazily. “We must leave it
soon. I think of Rome for the
winter. What do you say ?”
“1 have no objection,” she an
swered, trying to speak cheerful
ly ; but there was a tremble in
her voice, and something that
seemed to strike him as unusual,
for he turned round and looked
at her.
“What is the matter?” he ask
ed.
“Nothing; there is nothing the
matter with me.”
“Very well; that’s all right.”
He closed his eyes.
She stood looking at him wist
fully'. Though her own love had
grown dim and faint as his for
her, and another face—that of
him she had turned from in her
infatuation—-was ever before her,
yet the change pained her. She
went to him, and taking his hand
said gently, but with a thrill in
her voice that told of deep emo
tion : “Do you remember that
evening—it is nearly a year ago
now—when you lirst told me
that you loved me, and asked me
to be youi wife ? I was frighten
ed. and said it was imnossble the
thing could ever be; but you
knelt at my feet and declared
that the happiness of your life
depended on me."
“Well, of course. And what
then ?" he aswered, somewhat im
patiently.
“It does not now, I'm afraid."
“Oh, do not talk such non
sense. dear. 1w as courting you
then; but now such raptures and
declarations w ould he ridiculous.
lon are altered. Y’ou always
meet me with a sad face now. It
is not very pleasant I assure you.”
He spoke peevishly, and getting
up walked to the window and
stood looking out with a discon
tnteil brow. She followed him and
laid her hand on his arm. “Oh,
do not—do not withdraw your
love altogether from me !” she
said pleadingly. “Y'ou are all I
have. Think of all I left to go
with you.”
“All you left!” he repeated.—
“And did I leave nothing, give up
nothing for yo®
was a bitterness in his tone as lie
asked tlHqiiestion, and she jier
eeived it.
“Oh, yes, yes ; 1 know you did,”
she answered. “Much; and that
is what grieves me; because 1
fear,” she added in a lower tone,
“that if it were to do again you
might act differently.”
“Oh, don't bother yourself and
me with such fancies. Of course
Ido not and never can regret
that step. There, let us say no
more about it. I’m going to the
opera to-night. Will you come ?
You are moping * yourself to
death.”
She hesitated. Slie felt no in
clination to go, but she thought
it might he some real concern for
her that made him ask, instead
ol the careless good-nature, more
than half selfishness perhaps,
which disliked to see sorrow on
any face near him, because it
made tilings less bright for him.
She consented to go.
“Very well,” he said. “It is
time for you to get ready; and
don’t let me see red circles round
your eyes again. You do not
look so pretty when you cry,
Eliza.” He bent down and press
ed a light kiss on her cheek.
[To be continued.]
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