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she smiled into her own eyes shining upon her
from the glass, dilated with anticipations of tri
umph. Thie expression of her face changed as
she continued: ‘Allan is wonderfully good, won
derfully guileless; he can be firm, too, even im
perious, I expect. He would not choose me to
! apologise to any man!' She repeated that,
dwelling on the word choose. ■ ‘1 hate myself for
making him suffer, yet I take delight in it, too.
If he were not so good, I shouljj he more likely to
love him, I think. He is too good for me!’
Then, in strong contrast to her cousin’s frank,
fair face, she saw the dark iuscrntible counte
nance of Mr. Smith. ( 'lure had strange dreams
that night.
CHAPTER VI.
Clare's first thought on waking was of what she
had to do that day, and of how she should do it;
whether lightly and jestingly, or in away that
should make a serious seene.
‘After all, it is not much use deciding before
hand,’ she said to herself, as she went down stairs;
recognising by these words that it was not her
mood, but Mr. Smith’s, that would give its tone
to the interview. Mr. Smith was always up and
out early. She put on her garden hat and'gloves,
and with basket and scissors went down the ter
race-steps and passed the lawn to the sheltered
rosery. Bbe filled her basket; strowling slowly
back, through a circuitous well-screened path,
she, as she had anticipated, met Mr. Smith coming
from the direction of the river. He was passing
her with a bow, when she stopped him.
‘Are you implacable, Mr. Smith—nnforgivingly
resentful ? Will you leave us to-day ?’ she asked
with a winning smile.
‘I should have done so yeeterdsy, but that I
hesitated to give Allan that pain.’
‘And yon will go to-day?’
‘Most certainly. Having ascertained this hare
you any further commands ?’
‘I commandyoa to remain,’ Clare said, laughing,
but not, for all that, at ease.
Mr. Smith raised his brows, and gave no other
sign.
■Shall 1 teach you the proper answer to make
to a lady’s commands ? ‘To hear is to obey.’ ’
‘I render no obedience where I owe no allegi
ance.’
‘Seriously, Mr. Smith,’ Clare began.
‘1 am and have been quite serions, Miss Water
meyr.’
•Well, lam now quite serious. Will you recon
sider your determination ? I promised my cousin
thatl would ask you notio go/ Will you, for htf
sake, cousent to remain?’
•We—Allan and I—hardly need a mediator,
You have now in compliance with your promise,
asked me not to go. 1 will not disappoint yoq by
complying with your request. We understand
each other, 1 think, and things, of course, remain
as they were.’
‘I ask you, then, as a personal favor, to aban
don yonr intention of leaving us so suddenly.’
The ice so far broken, swayed by the impulse
of the moment, she went on to say a good deal
more than she bad intended, or than was fitting.
» ‘You made me angry. It seems just now as if
everybody combined to insult ur.d vex and per
plex me. If yon knew all—all I have to bear, all.
I expect to have to bear—l think you would not
be quite so harsh. 1 have no one to advise me,
there is no one to trust to. 1 have, I dare say,
seemed cold and proud, unkind to Allan—inso
lent, as you rightly called me. Rut if you knew
how miserable I am, how much 1 need help. You
will say, ‘there is Allan;’ but he is the last person
to whom 1 can go for help. Rut why should I
speak of this to you, who choose to consider ms
as an enemy ? Have I humbled myself euough,
Mr. Smith ? Will you stay with us for the pres
ent?’
‘lf Miss Watermeyr herself desires and requests
In her own name that I should continue to be her
guest, this altera the whole position of afiairs. I
will gladly remain here longer.’
He had watched her very keenly while she
spoke. Though he had seen her color change
and her eyes moisten, he did not believe in her.
‘Thank you,’ said Clare. ‘And if we are to be
enemies, may I not know why we are to lie so?
Why may we not be friends?'
‘I have your cousin’s happiness more at heart
than anything else in the and you <.t ike
him miserable. You received him on hi- arrival
in away that at once made me yonr enemy, be
cause it made me feel that you were his. Since
then have I not seen you torment him daily j
How, then, with* such hostile aims—l wishing his
happiness, you causing his misery—how can we
be otherwise than hostile powers?’
‘Do you think I suffer nothing ?—that all the
torment and misery are his? If you would but
judge me a little less harshly. Will you try ?’
Clare spoke with something of passion in her
appeal, offering her hand as she did .so.
Mr. Smith took the hand in his; it was not
gloved—the sunshine glistened on its snow.
•If yon would but make Allan happy,' he said;
‘wi 1 you try!’
Clare blushed angrily. Again she felt herself
|l mocked . but she felt more than that—something
.. m . . -
the s outhern field and fireside.
she did not understand ; tears of pain and morti
cation rnshed to her eyes.
‘I cannot, savage and cynic as I am, accept
yonr apologies and make none. Yon had provo
cation—there! I cannot make pretty speeches.
Consider all I should say mid thus ’
He kissed her hand; he raised it to his lips
with an air of careless condescension, as a prinoe
might a pretty peasant-maiden's bat the kiss
coaid hardly pass for one of careless condescen
sion, or of cold ceremony. A thrill of trinmph
pissed through Clare’e heart; hot when Mr.
Smith’s face was raised again, those lips had snch
a qneer smile upon them, that ahe knew not what
to think, ao she smiled coldly, saying, as she with
drew her hand:
■An interesting scene, which a spectator would
hardly interpret aright; ao wa will end, if yon
please.’ These words, and the manner of them,
neutralised any softening inflaence of what had
gone before.
‘You mean that yon withdraw the white flag of
truce?’ Mr. Smith said.
‘Look upon this in that light,’ she said, and
offered him a white rose from her basket, bnt as
he accepted it hesaid, ‘Yon have to teach me in
another way than this, whether it is war or peace
between ns.’
They walked towards the house together, si
lently. Again poor Clare was baffled and per
plexed. She felt that she had been played upon,
whereas she had meant to be the player, not the
instrument.
When at breakfast something was said about
Mr. Smith’s plans, he answered briefly,
'The event to which I alluded as most improba
ble has taken place; therefore, for the present, I
am quite at the service of the fair company here
assembled. Miss Watermeyr could not yen per
suade Mrs. Andrews to trust herself to onr tender
mercies on the river ? We should be proud to
show onr skill to yon ladles.’
'Are yon going on the river, then, Clare ?’ Mrs.
Andrews asked.
‘lf you will come too, auntie,’ Clare answered
promptly, though she had not been asked before?
though she did not much like the water, and had
no inclination to go on it that morning. She
wished for an iaterval of peace, and felt that her
refusal would be regarded as a declaration of
wav.
‘Auntie was always rather fond of the water,’
Allan Baid, and the matter was settled, to the
astonishment of two of the party at least,—Allan
and Clare. , .
' The exenrtton proved a sudftbe. elate was
gentle, Allan in brilliant spirits; ftfr. Smit’- bitter,
of course, bnt not at the expense of any member
of the party, which made all the difference to his
companions.
Mr. Smith added a postcript to his letter :
‘I was right; my superb young hostess has
begged me to remain her gnest; has asked my
pardon tor the words which gave me offence. Oh,
I shall be able to tame this lioness, and lead her
to her master’s feet. Tamed, or untamed, she is
obliged to belong to him, so I do a good work if
I can break her in for the qniet uses of domestic
life. I should be quite confldentof quick success
only that I fancy the beantifni creature is treach
erous as well as strong. I have a dim suspicion
that she is playing a game with me, or trying to
do so. 1 distrust her sudden gentleness, and shall
keep well upon my guard.’ '
CHAPTER Vli.
It was Indeed playing with edged tools, the
game in which Clare and Mr. Smith engaged.
Maturally the two antagonists occnpied them
selves much one with the other ; a mutual study
of character and a mutual observance of conduct
were, of course, needful. Opportunities for this
were not wanting; their intercourse was constant
if it was not intimate. Clare rode, walked, or
went on the river with the two friends daily now.
This charge made him very happy; from it he drew
all manner of good omens, as also from the fact
that Clare - id not, as she had done at first, avoid
being alone with him. At snch times she encour
aged him to talk about his friend, and perhaps
forgot to bqar in mind that from Allan she was
sure to hear of nothing that did not tell favorably
of her adversary. Mr. Smith was more on his
guard; he let Allan talk of Clare, but he made
ample aUowance for the blind partiality of a lover.
Among the cottagers round he tried to hear of
her pride and tyranny, bnt withont much success,
he hearij her spoken of not certainly with the in
timacy of love, but with gratitude rnd admiration.
‘Of coarse they feel bonnd to praise her,’ he
inwardly commented.
‘After all, if she could be brought to love Allan
as Allan loves her, then I say, Allan might do
worse; bnt if she marries him, as she will do,be
canse she is driven to it, because there is no alter
native which her pride could tolerate—in this case
Allan will miter not porgatory, but hell itself,
when he enters the estate of holy matrimony :
and it were better for him to hang a millstone
round his neck than snch a wife. What is aU this
'to me ? Nothing, only Allan is the one being in
the world whom I love, and I cannot have him
$
nude miserable. In one way or another I can
prevent this marriage, if needful.’
So Hr. Smith settled matters in his own mind;
having done so, he did not perhaps reconsider
either his resolutions or their motives ; he strove
with might and main to gain influence over Clare.
Here covertly and subtlety than at first, and al
ways on his guard before Allan, he contrived to
harass and weary her, putting a sting into his
words, or his manner constantly, yet so conning
a sting and so cunningly concealed, that often
when she afterwards picked his words apart and
analysed his manner, she would wholly fail to
discover what it was that had wounded her—
where was what had wounded her. Nevertheless
wounded she was often, stung to the very quick,
sometimes irritated, bewildered, yet she believed
still believed that she was playing a part, striving
for the difficult and only possible revenge. And
of course the more difficult the battle, the more
she set her heart and soul on victory. She looked
back to her former monotonous life with distaste !
just now she was interested, excited ; there was
always something to look forward to ; she could
•hardly tell whether there was more pain or pleas
ure in the excitement, but she would not, if she
could, have changed it for the life that had prece
ded it For the presedt she avoided looking to
any future beyond that of the next encounter with
Mr. Smith, the next day, or the next; how things
were to end between Allan and herself she would
not consider, much less decide.
Even on wet days, or daring the hours that were
too hot to be passed outdoors, she seldom sought
her own occupations now ; she played chess with
Allan, Hr. Smith looking on, loosing no opportu
nity for a bitter witticism or pungent joke at her
expense, if it could be indulged in in away that
should not attract Allan’s notice; sometimesshe
accompanied Mr. Smith on the piano when he
sang. He had, as Allan had assured her, a won
derfully rich and mollow voice—so much so, that
it seemed as if all the sweetness that should have
mellowed his nature had been concentrated in
this organ. When she did this, she was generally
subjected to some implied reproach for want of
taste or accuracy. Though she possessed, and
knew that she possessed, both, Mr. Smith could
make her feel like a blundering school girl in fear
of a strict master. Sometimes Aiian and Mr.
Smith read aloud by turns, while Mrs. Andrews
knitted and Clare idled over a piece of embroidery
in which she had lost all pleasure since Hr. Smith
had condemned both its design and execution, but
which she would not abandon.
t>ue morning whpn they wejmso occupied, Mr.
Stanner, who did not often IWYa member of the
party, came into the room, the county paper in
his hsnd, evidently under some excitement.
‘Old fools are certainly worse fools than young
fools,’ he said- ‘There is that old fool. Lord ’
mentioning a neighboring nobleman, ‘has married
a ballet girl, a pretty child of nineteen, he being
eighty, if a day. Did yon ever hear of anything
more scandalous, more disgraceful?’
‘ Than her conduct ? The little mercenary
wretch! No, certainly!’ answered Mr. Smith,
promptly, before any one else conld speak. Mr.
Smith was peculiarly ont of humor to-day; per
haps he had some secret cause for exasperation.
‘Thau his conduct, sir, I mean,’ Mr. Stanner re
plied, almost fiercely. ‘Bringing disgrace, dis
tress, contention into a noble family i'
‘Rathe* selfish conduct, certainly, at his age;
he might have got through his few remaining
years without a new toy ; bnt othefs have done
likewise, others will do likewise ; no use to make
a noise abont it. The girl was what the world
calls virtuous, of course, or he would not have
needed to marry her. But it is, I hold, the girl
whose conduct is really to be condemned —selling
her youth and beauty to an old ’
‘Perhaps, poor thing, she had great tempta
tions,’ said Mrs. Andrews ; ‘to lift her family ont
of poverty, ennoble herself, anil —’
Clare had not dared to speak.
‘Ennoble herself!' scoffed Ur. Smith; then
seeing that gentle little Mrs. Andrews, to whom
he was always comparatively gentle, looked
frightened at his vehemence, and remembering
that she was not his adversary, he said, ‘Forgive
my sgvageness, bat I think that any worn an who
gives herself away for anything bat mere and
&boßolute love, under any circumstances, degrades
herself beyond hope of redemption—becomes
about the meanest and most pitifttl thing on God’s
earth.’
Clare’s face blanched ; the color fled even from
her lips. Allan sprang np and was about to
speak when Mr. Stanner interposed. ‘Gently,
gently, Ur. Smith; your language is rather too
forcible for a gentleman to use in the presence of
ladies.’
‘Perhaps, then, sir, lam ‘no gentleman.’ ’ Mr.
Smith’s smile, as he added, ‘lndeed, l often think
that, with all my brain culture, 1 remain as moch
a boor at heart as my father before me,’ reassur
ed Mr. Stanner, who, at his first words, had a
sudden and dreadful vision, in which figured
seconds, and duelling pistols, and his own corpse
lying in a certain little glade of the near forest,
where, if tradition spoke true, other such sights
had been seen before.
‘When Lady , the ci-devant* ballet-girl
is a widow, it will be shown thstmsny gentle
men are not of Mr. Smith's way of thinking; she
will hare many suitors,’ Mr. Stanner remarked.
‘Kean curs, whom it would give me the greatest
satisfaction to horsewhip. By the bye, Allan, in
an article in that magazine you have in y our hand.
I saw on astounding statement. Hire it me a mo
ment, that I may read the passage. Here it is:
‘lt might be rash to marry a woman for her
beauty and accomplishments, if she and her in*
tended husband were both entirely without means;
bat a man would indeed be a wretched cur who
preferred an ugly and Tulgar woman with £30,-
000, to an accomplished and beautiful woman
who had but .ft,ooo, (so for so good, but observe
this same clause ; evidently the writer felt alarm
ed at his own rash position, at his enthusiastic
unworldliness,) supposing his own prospects to
be reasonably good. Ido think this the very
sublime of pathos.* ’
It certainly seems so much so that 1 should
charitably suppose some misprint or misconeep- .
tion of the writer’s meaning,’ said Allan. ‘The
thing implied, of conrae, being that a man whose
prospects are not ‘reasonably good’ is not to be
condemned as a ‘wretched cur’ if he takes the
ugly and vulgar possessor of £30,000 instead of the
beaatifhl and accomplished, but poverty-stricken
woman who only has Of course, if a man
worships Mammon and worldly, if the writer
reaegnizea these as the true gods who are to be
served, there is nothing so monstrous in this ’
‘Any woman, I am sure, would agree with us,
that such a man, whether his prospects are ‘rea.
sonably good’ or not, is a cur.’ No doubt any
woman would theoretically ’agree with me that
woman who gives herself away for anything but
love, as necessarily degrades herself as a woman,
be she who or what she may, who gives herself
away for love—let the man be who or what he
may, prince or ploughman—ennobles herself.'
‘Dear me, dear me,’ Ur. Stanner exclaimed,
‘your views are very extraordinary, Ur. Smith;
rather dangerous, too. Would you have a peer
ess marry a peasant? Do you hold that she
would ennoble herself by so doing V Ur. Stan
ner smiled blandly, thinking those questions very
neatly put, and quite unanswerable.
‘lf the peeress loved the peasant, certainly,
yes. Wjiy not ? What is a peeress but a woman,
a peasant but a man ? and is not any man in some
way superior to any woman? So laay, that if
the peeress could love the peasant purely and
truly, she would be ennobled by so loving. Love
ia only sud only glory. An
unloving woman ia in incomplete, most poor
and quite unbarmonized Creature—miserable in
all senses.’
Mr. Smith’s eyes were on Clare’s fade as he
finished—she felt them burning there; hers had
keen cast down; she had shrunk from speaking,
feeling most unsafe even when silent, and as if a
word might draw down upon her some intolerable
avalanche. When he ended, she felt compelled
her eyes to his ; he was startled at their
expression. A new somewhat—a want, a despair
—had wakened within her. It was dumb and
blind. She was nnconscious of it as yet; but it
lent a new meaning to her face—gave it some
thing of pathos he had not seen in. it before.
Nobody answered Hr. Smith; Ur. Stanner con
tented himself with a shrug and a look across at
Hrs. Andrews, meant to express his fear that the
poor fellow was not quite sane.
[TO BE CONTINUED IN OCR NEXT.]
(Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.)
TO .
When morn’s bright beams shall tinge the sky,
Bathing earth and heaven in light,
And the rising day-god mounts high,
To chase away the gloom of night;
Fragrant breath of dewy flowers
O’er fields are roaming light and free,
Bringing with it from the bowers
More fair and sweeter thoughts of thee.
When evening clouds the brow of day,
And deep’ning gloom seeks to enfold
The sinking sun, whose mellow rays
Bind fading earth in bine and gold;
The flickering, glimmering glow
Still lingers o’er the land and sea,
My thonghts, like golden sunbeams, flow,
And rest on sky and land and thee.
When night’s shades o’er us shall creep,
And bright stars peep from out their bed;
throngs are wrapt in sleep—
-1 Ancrtven nature’s self seems dead;
And as the beaming starq.above
Seem trembling in heaven’s bine sea,
I turn to one bright star of love,
With sweeter, brighter thosghts of thee.
Pbank.
Angusia, Ga., April 16, 1864.
As riches and favor forsake a man we discover
him to be a fool, bat nobody can find it ont in his
prosperity.