THE ROBERT E. COWAN COLLECTION 
 
 runs! N i i:i> ii> nn: 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 C. P. HUNTINGTON 
 
 JUNE. 1897. 
 
 Accession Nc 
 
 Class 
 
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/W. 
 
 ARMADUKE JENVER 
 
 D 
 
 AND OTHEB STOEIES. 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY G. MAHONY. 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO: 
 WOMEN'S CO-OPERATIVE PRINTING OFFICE, 
 
 1887. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, by 
 
 MARY G. MAHONY 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 
 
The author offers this little collection of stories to her friends 
 with a sincere apology. Firstly, because some of them have been 
 published before in the columns of the newspapers, and secondly, 
 because I am compelled to reproduce them in this shape by stern 
 necessity. I seek neither name nor fame, but that which is much 
 dearer to me than either, your friendly forbearance and kindly 
 consideration. M. G. M. 
 
OF T 
 
 TJNIVERSITT 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was the sweet season of buds and blossoms; the fra 
 grant hawthorn breathed a generous largess of perfume 
 through the soft spring air and had already begun to spread 
 a gorgeous carpet of pink and white petals. 
 
 In the orchard at Redwood Farm two young people 
 were seated beneath a hoary-looking apple-tree whose 
 gnarled limbs, speckled with grey-white moss gave it a 
 patriarchal eminence among its more youthful companions. 
 From their Titian-like parent sprang vigorous young shoots 
 which triumphantly spread forth a lavish load of satiny 
 blossoms. 
 
 Florence Denver was a rosy-cheeked girl of some fifteen 
 summers, plump and healthy and sunburnt, but full of 
 promise of the glorious fruit of beauty which was sure to 
 follow this healthy blossoming. The soft, smooth skin was 
 tinged with a pink hue which seemed to come from the 
 great rose in each cheek; the somewhat large mouth was 
 clear cut and expressive, and the full eyes seemed to have 
 borrowed their color from the shifting hues of the sky 
 so changeable were they, now light, now dark blue eyes 
 that would be capable of expressing every emotion. 
 
 The boy at her side was so very boyish and awkward, 
 that an observer would never have lingered to bestow a 
 second glance upon him. A man in the chrysalis state 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 if we may so call it is rather an uninteresting creature at 
 best, while the pretty caterpillar which promises the lady 
 butterfly, has usually more attractions of color and 
 contour. 
 
 Harold Hereford was so obviously unfinished, so crude 
 from nature's mould, that it would be almost cruel to 
 describe him at this period of his existence, so far was he 
 from having yet " filled the measure of youth." Added 
 to his other disadvantages, he had just developed the 
 uncertain and certainly unmusical squeak which heralds 
 the transition from the voice of boyhood to a manly base. 
 In a word, our readers must take Master Hereford on 
 trust as we can promise nothing nor prophecy much for 
 such a piece of unleavened earth, and a present estimate 
 of him can only be gathered from his conversation with 
 Florence Denver beneath the apple-tree, and hencefor 
 ward by watching his career up and down the ladder of 
 life which lay before him. 
 
 "And so you are going away to college, Hal," said the 
 girl at his side, "and I sha'n't see you for ever so long," 
 and she gathered the falling blossoms into her lap with a 
 sigh. 
 
 " And you will be going to boarding-school," he replied 
 somewhat ruefully, "and you will soon forget all about 
 me." 
 
 "Oh, I'll be sure to miss you, Harold," she answered, 
 laughing at his lugubrious expression. " You see I have 
 known you such a long time I can't forget you." 
 
 Her reasons for remembering him did not seem to 
 afford him much comfort, for he looked at her reproach 
 fully, and swallowed an imaginary something. That he 
 was very fond of his playmate ever since the period of 
 mud pies, was a fact of about as much consequence to 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 her as the affection of her favorite dog, but when he 
 produced from its many wrappings of paper, a photograph 
 of himself, and presented to her very solemnly, the girl's 
 eyes filled with tears. 
 
 They had known each other since childhood, and he 
 had seemed as necessary a part of her life as her pet dog 
 or most cherished toy, and she felt that she would miss 
 him as such. Childlike they sat there and mapped out 
 their garden of life, as though they alone were the sole 
 and supreme gardeners, and as if there would be no adverse 
 winds to disturb the flowers therein. 
 
 A sudden breeze sent down a shower of blossoms upon 
 them, which lodged in her hair, and nestled in the folds 
 of lace upon her bosom. She laughingly bent her head 
 towards the boy that he might pick them out, and while 
 doing so he touched her hair sofily and reverently with 
 his lips. 
 
 With many good-byes tender and sorrowful on his 
 side they parted at the orchard gate, and as the grateful 
 incense of supper floated out upon the evening a^ir, our 
 heroine soon forgot all about love and lovers. Such is 
 extreme youth in love. 
 
 Florence was the eldest daughter of wealthy Farmer 
 Denver, who had leavened a handsome farm out of the 
 primitive prairie, which had, after years of toil, yielded 
 him a generous recompense, and now, at a hale and hearty 
 period of his life, he relegated the responsibility to his two 
 growing sons. 
 
 To farmer Denver's mind, the education of boys should 
 consist merely of "readin', 'ritin', and 'rithmetic," any 
 thing else he deemed superfluous nonsense. <; If/had 
 gone to college," he was wont to say, " and learned Greek 
 and Latin, and other darned dead langwidges, I would be 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 just one of them good-for-nothing fops as can spend mor'n 
 they can earn." This was his final clincher to any argu 
 ment on the subject, and the only concession his wife could 
 obtain in this matter was the promise of a tutor who should 
 be sternly cautioned against imparting any of his city non 
 sense to his boys. 
 
 Upper-ten-dom was, in William Denver's honest estima 
 tion, an artificial structure, whose veneering was often of 
 the thinnest and cheapest kind, and he found much of the 
 grandeur of life in the green glory of his crops and their 
 rich ripeness, wrought by the peaceful plowshare. His 
 great heart, unwarped by conventionalism, was guileless and 
 generous, and knew naught or the shallow artifices of the 
 effete elegante. He held the soft-clothed city man in sub 
 lime contempt, and eventually fell into the very venial 
 sin of judging them all from one standpoint hence his 
 stubborn antipathy to what he considered superfluous edu 
 cational and ornamental acquirements. 
 
 The pink and white petals of the blossoms had hardly 
 withered among the long grasses in the orchard when the 
 delicate little mistress of the farm sickened, and in one 
 week the patient hands were folded in placid resignation 
 over the dead heart. 
 
 Twenty years before Hattie Wilberforce had left her 
 refined home in a great city, and married " Wild Will 
 Denver," her handsome, uneducated country cousin. 
 
 She had always been delicate, and her being so seemed 
 to make her all the more dear to the strong, healthy 
 husband, and he had been as tenderly kind to her as if 
 she had been a little child, in all those twenty years. 
 
 Her death was a cruel stroke to him, now when fortune 
 had given them the wherewithal to make their declining 
 years still happier. The little wife had never grown old in 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 his eyes, and in his bereavement he thought of her only as the 
 blithe, blue-eyed girl, who had left a higher sphere to share 
 his uncertain lot, for love of him. 
 
 They saw but little of him for many days, and when he 
 came again amongst them the brown hair was thickly 
 streaked with white, and the feebleness of old age had 
 suddenly come upon him. 
 
 The summer had nearly gone and the leaves had turned 
 to gorgeous hues of crimson and gold before things had 
 resumed their wonted course at the farm. 
 
 William Denver had made a solemn promise to the dead 
 wife, as he kissed her white lips for the last time, and he 
 was going to fulfill it as an act of reparation, which was 
 sacredly due. To send her two boys to college had been 
 one of Mrs. Denver's dearest wishes, and it was the only 
 wish in which he had ever decidedly opposed her; but 
 now there was a great uprooting of many old hobbies in 
 the farmer's mind, and a gradual awakening to the con 
 sciousness that his whole life had been devoted to the 
 science of money getting, to the exclusion of many higher 
 or nobler objects. Now that his gentle wife had left him, 
 to think and judge alone, he found himself looking at 
 matters with her eyes, and thinking with her thoughts about 
 many things, but particularly of the future of the children. 
 
 In due time the two boys, Milton and Duke, were sent 
 to school to a distant city, Florence being sent to a 
 boarding school. Soon after the farmer found himself alone 
 with his grief, which became even more poignant when his 
 little five-year-old girl toddled from her nurse's care to 
 nestle in his arms. 
 
 Five years had passed away leaving their meed of joys 
 and sorrows. Gently they had touched the farmer's head, 
 silvering more of the brown hair; lovingly had they dealt 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 with his children bringing rare beauty to the faces and 
 forms of his girls, and magnificent manliness to his boys. 
 Florence's vacations were seasons of unmeasured delight to 
 the youthful Kataline and her father, and he longed for 
 the time when Florence would be the guiding angel of his 
 house, and in a measure fill the void in his heart. 
 
 A perfect picture of beauty was the little Kataline whose 
 sunny, blue eyes and tangled mass of sunny hair made a 
 rare picture of lovely childhood. 
 
 And now arose a new necessity in the farmer's house 
 hold; this "wee lamb" was fast freeing herself from the 
 shackles of the nursery, and the prospect of sending her 
 away to school was so distasteful to the farmer's widowed 
 heart, that he put it off as long as possible and compro 
 mised the matter for the present by advertising for a gover 
 ness who should make her home with them. 
 
 A few days later the Lefton Herald announced the 
 fact that a " lady teacher would find a comfortable home 
 at Redwood Farm." 
 
 Later on during that day the advertisement became an 
 important theme of discussion between two ladies, the 
 occupants of a dingy lodging in the cheapest part of the 
 city of Lefton. 
 
 " Do you feel strong enough to undertake it, Madeline ? 
 queried the older of the two ladies in question, with anxious 
 solicitude in her face, and a quavering note of apprehen 
 sion in her voice. "I'm afraid the doctor will not allow 
 you." 
 
 " But it is to the country, mother; going to the country is 
 a very different thing." Her voice was full of a feverish 
 entreaty. " I want the country air; it would do me all 
 the good in the world. The city feels like a prison to me. 
 Pray let me try it, mother." 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 Madeline Grey's face was almost ghost-like in the inten 
 sity and transparency of its pallor. A long and terrible 
 illness had left cruel marks of suffering upon face and 
 form, and the mother's heart sank within her as she gazed 
 upon her stricken child whose life had been blighted in its 
 very prime. 
 
 After a long and anxious consultation, it was decided 
 that Madeline should try the position thus offered, iff spite 
 of broken health and bruised heart, for the widowed 
 mother was dependent upon this slender reed for susten 
 ance. 
 
 She had written to Farmer Denver, and two days after 
 she was seated beside him in the comfortable spring cart 
 which he had almost filled with cushions and coverings to 
 render the thirty miles of rugged country road as comfort 
 able as possible. 
 
 William Denver lifted the slight form in his arms, and 
 his touch was almost of a womanly tenderness as he 
 wrapped her around with shawls and rugs, nor did he for 
 one moment stop to consider her apparent want of strength 
 for the duties of her position; in his kindly heart there was 
 only tenderness and solicitude for her comfort. 
 
 Madeline Grey was almost silent during the long drive, 
 but her eyes became brighter and a faint tinge of color 
 stole into the pallid cheeks. The pure country air was 
 already doing its work, and a great breath of thankfulness, 
 a wordless prayer welled silently up from the weak heart, 
 as her eyes feasted upon the majestic stretches of moun 
 tain and wooded valleys. The air was filled with the 
 glorious incense of clover and ripened hay, making a grand 
 tribute of fruitful nature to its Creator. In all this there was 
 to her an indescribable sense of rest, a very numbness of 
 quiet pleasure that barred out every thought of aught else 
 
8 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 save peace, to soul and body, and, if a wish could creep in, it 
 would be that this driving thus might go on forever, through 
 such scenes as these, an unending but peaceful and 
 beautiful day-dream. 
 
 The evening shadows were lengthening when they reached 
 the farm; the great house dog barked sleepily without open 
 ing his eyes, and wagging a lazy welcome to his master, 
 again resumed his slumbers. 
 
 For the first time in her life the little Kataline almost 
 ignored the presence of her father, and clinging to the new 
 governess held up her mouth to be kissed. 
 
 Farm life seemed to agree with the world-worn woman 
 whose apparent youth contrasted strangely with her shat 
 tered health and sad demeanor. There was a settled, 
 despairing sort of sadness in her dark blue eyes which gave 
 her a spiritual expression; her cameo-like features were 
 almost severe in their classical contour, and in repose were 
 cold and rigid as marble. 
 
 William Denver was no connoisseur of character, nor 
 was he in the least a diviner of the depths and recesses of a 
 woman's heart. His was not a nature to search beneath 
 the surface for materials to form his opinions about things 
 or people. The method of calculation by which he had 
 arrived at a satisfactory conclusion with regard to Mrs. 
 Grey must have been a short and simple one. He was 
 pleased with her, and would as soon think of uprooting a 
 beautiful flower, which was an unquestioned pleasure to him, 
 to look for suspected unsightliness at its root, as to probe 
 or pry into the hidden feelings of people who pleased him, 
 much less this silent woman who seemed intent only upon 
 doing her duty. 
 
 That Mrs. Grey was a widow, with a mother dependent 
 upon her for bread was all that he knew, and that much 
 was sufficient to enlist his warmest sympathy. 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 Kataline improved rapidly under her tuition, and the 
 girl's attachment to her beautiful governess grew stronger 
 every day. 
 
 Little improvements were soon visible through the house, 
 and when Florence came home during her customary vaca 
 tion, she was at first inclined to shed tears over some of the 
 deposed ornaments cherished of her childhood which 
 were replaced by dainty little miracles in needle-work, and 
 exquisite "bits" in pencil which modestly usurped their 
 places. 
 
 " Papa has got a governess for sister Kataline," wrote 
 Florence to her brother Duke, "and she looks like the 
 picture of a saint, but a very sad one. You could not help 
 thinking that she must have seen something that once 
 frightened her very much, and that she has never forgotten 
 it. I know what you will want to do when you see her. 
 You will want to paint her picture, but if you could leave 
 the great sorrow out of her eyes, Duke, you would surely 
 fall in love with your picture, like that poor sculptor that 
 fell in love with his beautiful statue. I wish you could see 
 her. Come soon. Love to Milton, from 
 
 SISTER FLORENCE " 
 
 About the same time Madeline Grey wrote the following 
 to her mother: " I am far happier here than I had ever 
 dared to hope. I seem to think that the things which you 
 and I dread cannot enter here as well might lightning 
 flash from a clear sky. There is only one clanger threaten 
 ing my peace now it is the home-coming of those young 
 men, which I hope will be deferred a long time. I have 
 seen their pictures, and one is oh, so like but I must not 
 think of this. Your child, 
 
 MADELINE." 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 Duke Denver, whose proper name was Marmaduke, 
 had developed some taste as an artist, while at school, and 
 had been sent to Italy to prosecute his studies. Milton, 
 the oldest, became an enthusiastic student of theology, 
 and so the vocation of the two young men seemed to be 
 decided. 
 
 Milton's letters from college were prayerful, pious things, 
 as became an embryo churchman, and Duke's, from Flor 
 ence, were brimful of life's pleasures, "much of which 
 maybe found," he wrote, " in fair Florence, that wonderful 
 treasury of books, pictures and music." Roseate, glowing 
 letters they were, yet boyish and light as the foam of an 
 effervescing draught. 
 
 Harold Hereford had become a clever doctor of medi 
 cine, and his visits to the farm were numerically like 
 to those of the angels. How matters progressed between 
 him and Florence will be learned in a future chapter. 
 
 One magnificent street in Naples, fronts the Bay for miles, 
 and commands many superb views. The shifting, opali?tic 
 colors assumed by the waters, the weird and varied lights 
 and shadows born of the voluptuous Neapolitan evenings, 
 and the beautiful as well as grotesque shapes presented by 
 Mount Vesuvius contribute inexhaustible treasures to the 
 poetic and artistic student. 
 
 Duke Denver and his companion, a young Frenchman, 
 had somehow managed to secure an attic in one of the 
 houses in this favored locality, which he had likened in 
 letters " to an obscure corner in heaven." 
 
 Those magnificent Neapolitan nights and they are 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. II 
 
 seldom otherwise can lull one's senses, wine-like, to a 
 dreamy languor. No one ever desires to stay indoors 
 after sunset. Duke and his brother artist were lounging in 
 the easiest possible attitude, too luxuriously lazy even to 
 talk. Smoking, under the circumstances, was out of the 
 question, and would have required a supreme effort, which, 
 in their pleasant, sublime state of ease, would be closely 
 akin to labor. 
 
 The Frenchman was the first -to break the silence. 
 " Monsieur Denver, what have you done with your little 
 model, that pretty Calabrian child of last year ?" 
 
 "Oh, gone back to her tribe, I suppose/' replied Duke, 
 raising his arms languidly and folding them softly upon his 
 bosom, " or, maybe, found a lover among the enterprising 
 heroes of the Abruzzi." 
 
 " A haughty elf she was, too," continued the French 
 man. k 'I tried to kiss her one day, but she flung herself 
 out of my reach and flashed a look of anger at me that 
 would have done credit to an abbess, though, by my faith, 
 there are dozens of fine dames who would not flaunt 
 Peirre Lacroix aye dozens." 
 
 Duke was not evidently pleased with his friend's remarks 
 for he vouchsafed no further comment, but turned his 
 thoughts to the pretty Sicilian girl of whom he had made 
 a sketch the year before a waif whose gypsy-like face 
 came sometimes into his dreams. She was one of the 
 people who whined in the usual Neapolitan fashion for 
 alms, but she sang for hers, and there was rare melody in 
 her plaintive voice that gained her more money than her 
 poverty could have done. 
 
 A pretty face is no rarity among the Sicilian street 
 singers, and artists' models with faces and forms of 
 marvelous beauty were as plenty in that " City of Sanctity," 
 
12 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 as "leaves in Vallembrosa;" even in the highest ranks 
 can be found fair dames who will graciously condescend to 
 pose for a satisfactory remuneration. Yet above and 
 beyond all, the modest peasant child retained a higher 
 place in his thoughts, and her sweet voice like the dreamy 
 music of an ^Eolian harp, often floated pleasantly through 
 his memory. 
 
 He had hoped to see her again when he returned to 
 Florence, and he longed again to hear her voice, which 
 seemed to harmonize with the soft twilight, blending her 
 plaint for alms with songs of love, whose import she was 
 all too young to understand. 
 
 There are surely many small byways as well as highways 
 to the human heart, and it is often reached by strangely 
 devious paths that are unknown to us and unguarded; 
 little things often impel us with a strength that is at once 
 subtle and supreme. Duke did not know which was the 
 strongest power that made him long so much to visit 
 Florence again. It might be a chain of many different 
 links, but he did not know the peasant girl was a link as 
 strong as any of the others. 
 
 Duke Denver's life had been soft-gliding and placid as 
 a stream without a ripple; he had passed into manhood in 
 unconscious possession of all the boyish traits and buoyant 
 hopefulness that belong to youth, and he felt as happy in 
 his unpretentious atelier in Naples, as a man whose 
 future was assured. 
 
 " I'm getting tired of Naples, Pierre, "he said at length, 
 " let us go back to Florence, again." 
 
 "You must be surely dreaming, Marmaduke," replied 
 his friend. " Why, we are not here a month yet, and you 
 longed so much to come here." 
 
 "I like Florence better," replied Duke, illogically, and 
 he relapsed again into meditation. 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 13 
 
 "Very well, mon ami, you shall go, you shall have your 
 whim, if you really mean it. When would you like to go, 
 mon comrade^ To-morrow? 
 
 " Yes, to-morrow," repeated Duke, brightening. 
 
 " Hurrah ! " responded the cheerful Frenchman. " To 
 morrow, then, we are en voyage again, and / shall not 
 unpack my valise when I get there until you manage to 
 get a little more backbone into your present weak reso 
 lutions." 
 
 " Merci" said Duke with a languid smile, "you are a 
 cherub, Pierre." 
 
 Pierre Lacroix liked the young American, who had an 
 unconscious knack of winning his way into many hearts, 
 his frank, boyish blue eyes could look the whole world in the 
 face making good people pause to give him a hearty hand 
 shake, and compelling the other kind to feel ashamed of 
 themselves. 
 
 Pierre Lacroix was a veritable Bohemian, good-natured 
 as he was reckless. He had conceived an intense liking 
 for Duke, chiefly because the young American was his op 
 posite in almost everything. Among innumerable other 
 French adjectives he called him " his ballast," "his buoy 
 and anchor," and in pathetic moods " his guiding angel." 
 
 He would have gone cheerfully to the end of the world 
 with Duke, and would then, as he expressed it, "hang on 
 by a peg to the outer edge for the pleasure of his com 
 pany." 
 
 The next day saw them en route for Florence. 
 
 A lovely landscape flitted past the hurrying train like a 
 panorama; the low, grassy hills were dotted daisy-like with 
 little white cottages; the glowing orchards and trim 
 hedges, looking almost artificial in their neat regularity, 
 presented an unrivalled picture of peace and beauty. 
 
14 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 They were fortunate enough to find apartments in the 
 old locality and soon found themselves comfortably housed. 
 
 Duke had spent a year in Florence and had made many 
 friends there. The day after their arrival invitations poured 
 in upon them from many old acquaintances, but the Prin 
 cess de Carillo's card was by far the most important in 
 Pierre Lacroix's estimation. The Princess was as popular 
 in Italy as a queen might be in her own dominion; her 
 power was potent in political intrigues, and her wealth al 
 most fabulous. She was a woman without a particle of 
 beauty, and yet whom to know was to love, and whose 
 slightest favor could draw men down upon their knees 
 aye, almost to death. "A dangerous siren" so said the 
 world. To-night her gorgeous salon in Florence was a 
 veritable fairyland of light, and music, and flowers. 
 
 Our young artists arrived late but were fortunate enough 
 to get a glimpse of the princess who was leaning upon the 
 arm of an Austrian Ambassador, whose very evident ad 
 miration seemed to weary her. A smile lighted up her 
 face when she recognized the two young artists. 
 
 " Mon enfants, how good you are;" (the princess was 
 barely twenty and invariably assumed a maternal air 
 towards the young men of her acquaintance) " how very 
 good of you to come and see a tired old woman. Seeing 
 you back again," she continued," is so pleasant; it is like 
 mending a broken chain, after finding two of the lost links 
 again." As she said this she dismissed his Austrian great 
 ness with a grace and sweetness that were inimitable, and 
 then motioning the two young men to a divan seated her 
 self between them. 
 
 Duke, as might be expected, was not much of a 
 courtier; his tongue could form no such honied speeches as 
 her ears were accustomed to hear, and yet, strange enough, 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 15 
 
 in this very defect lay his greatest charm in her eyes. The 
 unsophisticated American was a novelty to her, and there 
 was positive refreshment in his out-spoken, unstudied 
 thoughts and unconventional manner. A French woman's 
 life, it is said, revolves upon the pivot of matrimony, adu 
 lation and flattery being two of the most important levers 
 in the matrimonial machinery. Up to a certain period 
 Hortense de Carillo's life had revolved like most others of 
 her sex, and then she was married, at a tender age, to 
 a man who was older than her father, totally unable to 
 discriminate in a matter about which she was scarcely 
 consulted, and too young to realize what love meant. 
 
 The gorgeous vista pictured to her by a marriage with a 
 wealthy old man, completely satisfied the ambition of her 
 untutored school-girl heart, the release from a stern 
 parental rule being the most sublime sort of emancipation 
 in a French girl's mind. This was what she felt, standing in 
 the fairy portals of marriage, when the voice of the youthful 
 heart was easily stilled, when love was stifled even before 
 its birth, and then she was whirled into the vortex of a 
 soulless, gilded life, in which heart and conscience held 
 no share. 
 
 Hortense de Carillo had reeled through the maze but a 
 short time when the stifled heart-cry became a passionate 
 plaint. Her husband, a blase man of the world, had 
 never loved her, and his blunted sin-gorged sensibilities 
 were not a whit disturbed by the knowledge that she 
 found no pleasure in his society. They saw but little of 
 each other, and she was free to amuse herself after her own 
 fashion, provided, " she made no scenes," nor eloped 
 with any one. 
 
 Surrounded with all that could apparently gratify a 
 woman's senses wealth and adoration the princess was 
 
l6 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 restless and unhappy. Satin and diamonds cover, alas ! 
 how often, a starving heart, and the flashing light of jewels 
 can never warm its dreary chambers. 
 
 Without the sun no plant can be healthy, no fruit can 
 ripen, no flower can gain color or perfume, nor can the 
 human heart flourish without its meed of sunshine which 
 is love. Denied of this it will ever crave in its wordless 
 language, and mutely spread out its golden tendrils eager 
 to twine themselves around some loved object. Alas ! for 
 the poor heart whose hunger is unappeased; whose still, small 
 voice is unheeded; whose tendrils are flung back to shrink 
 and wither, hiding forever their dead leaves in the empty 
 heart. 
 
 Duke had been telling the princess about his pretty 
 model whom he had found in Florence. " Mon Dieu" 
 murmured the princess naively, "how I wish I were a 
 peasant girl, with soft black eyes and a sweet voice." 
 
 She sighed naturally enough as she said this, and bent 
 her brown eyes for a moment upon the young American. 
 
 "And you would console yourself with a lurking hope of 
 some King Cophetua's making his debut at the proper 
 time," laughed Pierre Lacroix, as he twisted the ends of 
 his mustache. 
 
 " You must let me see that picture sometime, Monsieur 
 Denver. I am quite interested in your gypsy queen," said 
 the princess lightly, "and I hope for your sake that she 
 may be the lost heiress of someone who is somebody; and 
 she has a sweet voice, too," she continued. " If you find 
 her again be sure and bring her to me. And now, 
 Monsieur," she said, rising, her billowy lace foaming 
 around her, " I must leave you ; but pray, don't forget 
 my request, nay, my command (this with mock sternness) to 
 bring the child to me," and with a charming smile, from 
 which a thousand sweet regrets shown, she left them. 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 17 
 
 Hortense de Carillo's face was not one to attract any 
 notice, if one did not happen to know her. The small face 
 was plain almost to homeliness, and the quiet brown eyes 
 were nearly expressionless, but when she smiled and in 
 that lay all her glory her lips and all her features assumed 
 the most bewitching expression, and seemed to be illumin 
 ated by a strangely beautiful light. " She should be always 
 smiling," said many of her admirers. It was her greatest 
 power a force that brought lovers by the hundreds, who 
 forgot their allegiance elsewhere while basking in the 
 entrancing atmosphere which this woman diffused around 
 her. 
 
 It is difficult to analyze the heart, to arraign its 
 thousanis of varying emotions before the tribunal of 
 reason. A year had passed since she had first met Duke 
 Denver, with his boyish, beardless face, and artless tongue, 
 and now the shackles, golden though they were, that 
 bound her, felt cold and tight, and cruel as death, and 
 the brave religious heart that had hitherto been as a giant 
 bulwark against dishonor, was, alas, even now reaching out 
 its weary tendrils towards him. 
 
 Duke had passed into manhood without losing any of 
 his boyish fancies. Before he was seventeen he had formed 
 an ideal for himself, one that he had conceived by the pure 
 light of an innocent heart, and because of this the wiles 
 and witcheries of society women had but little power over 
 him, and he emerged from many a gorgeous labyrinth with 
 his beloved ideal graven more deeply upon his honest 
 heart. 
 
 " Let us go, Pierre, I am tired of the salon," said Duke, 
 after the princess had left them. 
 
 "Certainly, mon ami," replied the other, smiling; "it 
 is only a dreary desert when she goes away. You are 
 
I 8 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 right" he added, "she will not come near us again to-night. 
 What an angel she is; but her visites resemble theirs a little 
 too much. A lions mon enfant." 
 
 In truth, Duke was not thinking of the princess just 
 then. He longed to get back to his rooms, and sit upon 
 the pleasant veranda where he had first heard the sweet 
 voice of the peasant girl whose face had often come to him 
 in dreams. 
 
 This soft-eyed child of the Calabrias, a beggar in the 
 streets of Florence, had a face which an empress might 
 stop to wonder at, and when she sang her simple chant for 
 alms, there were few indeed who did not pause to look and 
 listen. 
 
 Trustfully and innocently she had followed Duke to his 
 studio one day, coming again and again, without a thought 
 of danger, and she often sang for him when her voice 
 seemed a part of the twilight and the evening odors of the 
 flowers, while her great eyes, that Fra Angelico would have 
 loved to paint, tried to find him up there in the darkness 
 upon the veranda. 
 
 After he had gone to Naples she had come there night 
 after night, not knowing that he had gone, and when at 
 last she had realized that he was no longer there, she sang 
 from house to house through the whole city, caring but 
 little for the coins that were flung to her, heedless alike of 
 the coarse jokes and flatteries which were still more lavish, 
 hoping to find him, until at last, weary and hopeless, she 
 went, no one knew whither, perhaps to other cities to look 
 for him, for she had already made of her simple heart a 
 pedestal, whereon she had placed him, to be worshipped in 
 silent and sorrowing reverence. 
 
 The rich blood of Sicily becomes warmed to love's tem 
 perature at a tender age, and the kindly behaviour of the 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 young American, free from raillery or coarseness, had 
 reached the childish heart unlocking it all too soon with 
 its hidden treasures of love. 
 
 Night after night Duke sat and listened on the veranda, 
 hoping to hear her again, and by day he often peered 
 anxiously among the groups of peasants on the streets, but 
 he never found her. 
 
 " She will find you some day, be assured," the princess 
 had said to him one evening, "and then you shall make 
 me a present of her, and some day," she added thought 
 fully, "you shall hear a charming singing bird whom you 
 shall want to capture for yourself." 
 
 " What a romantic web the princess can weave around 
 a prosy old fellow like you, Duke," laughed Pierre La- 
 croix, looking at Duke in mock admiration. 
 
 It was Duke's habit on such occasions to allow his friend 
 full scope for the witty and polite retorts upon which 
 Pierre prided himself not a little, and although the prin 
 cess laughed good-naturedly at them, she never failed to 
 look expectantly to Duke for some reply. 
 
 "HI remember aright," said Duke, slowly, "the nymph 
 or siren who knitted or crochetted those mythical materials 
 was called "Daphne." 
 
 " Yes/' suggested Pierre, " something that begins with 
 a D, I think." 
 
 "Oh, yes," chimed in the princess gayly, "and the 
 materials she used were c rays of sunshine/ and 'threads 
 of moonbeams fringed with dewdrops ' and other airy 
 nothings." 
 
 " Oh, but madame la princess would need some stronger 
 stuff to enclose that young Hercules," said Pierre, pointing 
 to Duke. "The finer web might do for me" he added, 
 plaintively. " I'm slight and tender ," "And innocent 
 
20 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 as a child," interrupted Duke, with a genuine American 
 grin. 
 
 "Oh, golden warp and silver woof," sang the princess 
 softly, as if her voice was away in the distance, and a 
 sudden shade of sadness came into her face. In all that 
 gorgeous maze of music and mirth, and the perfume of 
 flowers, her heart was beating heavily and becoming more 
 than ever conscious of its terrible void. 
 
 She arose to accept the arm of a white-haired old 
 general, who claimed her for the waltz which was just 
 then commencing. 
 
 Duke followed her with his eyes, thinking the while 
 how pleasant it was to be near her, and listen to the voice, 
 which had such lulling power. 
 
 There was an indescribable something about the woman 
 which pleased one in an easy, passionless way some 
 thing more akin to the nature of music or sunshine, or the 
 pleasure that one derives from the presence and perfume 
 of flowers, inspiring the reverence that one might feel for a 
 thing of beauty and goodness. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 About this time the fact began to dawn upon Duke's 
 lazy imagination that he was becoming a hopeless idler, 
 purposeless arid indifferent. He roused himself just 
 enough to wonder at it, but did not inquire very closely 
 into the matter it is not easy to grasp at will or define 
 the oft-times intangible causes of our failings for analysis. 
 Duke was a little puzzled about it, but at length comfort 
 ably concluded that it was nothing worse than the inevitable 
 ennui that one is sure to succumb to in the lazy, luxu 
 rious indolence of an Italian climate. But he was ex 
 ceedingly conscientious, and deeming himself too partial 
 a tribunal to be arraigned before, complained to Pierre 
 of the growing inanity which was besetting him of late- 
 
 Your case is just this, mon chere enfant " replied Pierre 
 tenderly, as if he dreaded to hurt some sore spot on Duke's 
 mental person. "You are very young. Mon Dieu! hor 
 ribly young. An American is always an enfant in his own 
 land, but in Paris, Florence Gods, he is a babe. Then 
 your appetite is not regulated for these climates; you take 
 over much wine at your repast, mon frere" 
 
 " Wine," echoed Duke, staring in astonishment, "you 
 know I never drink, Pierre." 
 
 " Oh, I mean your banquets of pleasure, your feasts of 
 reason, etc.; your sun-bathing in madame's eyelight, 
 the wine of her smiles. You are a glutton, mon chere, a 
 drunkard, a-a but you don't know it, you don't know 
 yourself, you are a babe, you " 
 
 " Oh, stop, for heaven's sake!" cried Duke, throwing up 
 his hands as if to defend himself from blows. " You are on 
 
22 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 the wrong track, as they say in America, and that eloquent 
 peroration of yours is a tissue of nonsense." 
 
 " I will prescribe for you, I will save you," cried his 
 friend, tragically. " You shall be more moderate; you shall 
 do violence to your weakness; you shall live; henceforth, 
 thou shalt labor with thine hands." 
 
 "Yes," sighed Duke, flinging the end of a cigar away, 
 " but you talk nonsense, Pierre; I am not in love with 
 anyone, least of all with another man's wife." 
 
 " Of course not," replied his friend calmly, with a grin 
 that would have made his fortune as Mephistopheles; 
 " men seldom get mad in a minute, or drunk in a moment. 
 You are not quite poisoned yet; some potions work slowly* 
 but they ///all the more surely." 
 
 " Nothing so common as that hallucination of yours, 
 dear boy," Duke retorted; "you are the one who is in love, 
 and think, naturally enough, that everyone must needs see 
 with your eyes." 
 
 "Time will tell," responded Pierre, prophetically; " this 
 air is my native element, old man, and you can't drown a 
 duck in water." 
 
 " Well, granting that all you say is true, what would you 
 prescribe for the sad case ?" inquired Duke. " What shall I 
 do that I may be saved ?" 
 
 " Keep away from the salon of the princess for a month 
 and paint something me, for instance; it will take some 
 bitumen, but the exercise is good try it." 
 
 "All right," replied Duke, tilting his chair back and 
 closing his eyes; " 'tis a cruel punishment, but it is some 
 satisfaction to know that you must suffer some of it." 
 
 For the first time in his life Duke found himself medi 
 tating seriously. In this shower of nonsense which his 
 friend had jocosely launched upon him, he seemed to feel 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 23 
 
 a slender shaft which pricked him with a keen sting. The 
 influence of his simple country home was still strong upon 
 him; as yet there had been nothing in his life to awaken 
 strong emotions. He was a religious man, too, and a will 
 ing prisoner in the chains with which the Catholic Church 
 guards the passions of its followers. That anyone should 
 suspect him of being in love with a woman who belonged 
 to another was inexpressibly shocking to him, when put 
 into words. Even if he had been unconsciously drifting into 
 a liking for the society of the princess, these words of 
 his friend rudely dispelled any self-illusive shading there 
 might have been, exposing a naked and hideous fact, and 
 proved him by the light of his own conscience, a criminal) 
 and he began to feel like a man who had just been dragged 
 from the brink of a dangerous precipice. Under the in 
 fluence of these feelings, he resolved to keep away from 
 the salon of the princess, and at least disabuse the mind 
 of his friend of this monstrous idea. 
 
 More than a month had passed and Duke had kept his 
 resolution bravely. His abstinence, as Pierre termed 
 it, was not as easy a task as he had imagined, though they 
 both tried to "make merry" over it, and Pierre grimly 
 intimated at times, f ' that it was hard to live without the 
 light of the sun." There was more truth in his wit than 
 either of them dreamed of. 
 
 It had been an unusually warm day in Florence, and 
 people gladly welcomed the evening with its drowsy hum 
 of softly dying noises, which lessened gradually until 
 snatches of laughter and occasional bursts of music alone 
 broke the stillness. A little later the theatres commenced 
 to pour forth their throngs, whose merry voices and laugh 
 ter sounded wonderfully distinct through the still air of the 
 city. 
 
24 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 Our two young artists had been to the theatre and were 
 elbowing their way out through a dense crowd, which be 
 gan to scatter as they approached the Piazza de la Signora. 
 Here a good many people paused to listen to a serenade 
 which was going on before one of the houses. Duke 
 Denver stood for a moment to listen, and then started 
 quickly forward as he recognized a well-known voice. 
 Pierre tried to hold him back. "Wait 'til the song is 
 over," he said, in a low voice; "then we will find her." 
 
 The crowd listened breathlessly to the wildly-beautiful 
 music that welled up from those untutored peasant 
 
 throats: 
 
 In Venice, when the sinking sun 
 In blushing beauty seeks the West, 
 When purple shadows softly blend 
 Their colors with the deep blue sea, 
 A sound comes stealing near and near, 
 Until it rests within my heart, 
 And of its pulses seems a part-- 
 The singing of the Gondolier. 
 
 When tender flowers droop and swoon 
 Beneath the perfumed pall of night, 
 And trembling trees show leaflets white, 
 All silvered by the pale moonlight; 
 Now faintly near, now sweetly near, 
 Now faint and far, now deep and clear, 
 A lingering memory ever dear 
 The music of the Gondolier. 
 
 Many carriages had crashed past the little group of 
 listeners and had rumbled softly away in the distance. 
 As the song ended the people turned to disperse, and no 
 one seemed to notice the nearness of a vehicle, which was 
 close upon them, until the fiery eyes of a pair of runaway 
 horses flashed upon them, and in a moment more they had 
 dashed through the crowd, tramping a path over prostrate 
 forms. It was all so sudden, that no one saw the driver 
 crouching in helpless terror upon the box, holding on 
 with both hands and clutching one side of a broken rein, 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 25 
 
 and inside a woman's face white and rigid with fear. All 
 was now confusion and screams, where a moment before 
 was only music and peace. Duke had been borne down 
 in an attempt to grasp the horses, and was mercilessly 
 crushed beneath their feet. A square further the maddened 
 brutes crashed blindly against an archway, one falling 
 dead, and so entangling the other as to render it helpless. 
 The driver, almost paralyzed with fright, now clambered 
 feebly to the ground and thrust his head into the still un 
 injured carriage, with the ghastly expectation of finding his 
 mistress a corpse, but the Princess de Carillo for it was 
 she had recovered from her terror and stepped now firmly 
 on to the street. Through the whole hideous crush she 
 had never lost consciousness; she had seen the horses 
 beating down the little crowd in the Piazza, and knew that 
 some of then must have been injured or killed, and in spite 
 of the lateness of the hour and the remonstrances of the 
 still trembling coachman, she walked quickly back to the 
 scene of the accident. The rough pebbles almost cut 
 through the thin satin shoes, and there was but little pro 
 tection in the flimsy lace shawl around her head, but she 
 was a generous and kindly-hearted woman and did not con 
 sider herself when people needed help. 
 
 " Come, Leon, and be quick," she said almost angrily to 
 the coachman; "I'm not afraid." When they reached 
 the place they found that five people had been hurt, and 
 were being carried to their homes by friends. Pierre had 
 gone in search of a carnage. At a little distance from the 
 rest she saw a group bending over a prostrate form. There 
 was an ominous stillness among them. As the princess 
 approached them one of the women rose to her feet; an 
 other, a mere girl, sat upon the ground, and held the 
 sufferer's head on her lap. The princess stood over them 
 
26 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 for a moment, and then sank weakly upon her knees, as 
 she recognized the deathly white face of Duke Denver. 
 She forgot the people who were looking on, and the girl 
 who sat supporting his head, and who now glanced jeal 
 ously up at her, and in a moment the white jewelled arms, 
 bare and cold, were around him, drawing him towards her. 
 The young girl arose and fell back a pace or two, and 
 stood gazing, with tightly folded hands, at the woman in 
 white, who looked so like a beautiful apparition. 
 
 " Quick, Leon, go get a carriage. I know him. I will 
 take him to his home. Come to me to-morrow, if you 
 need help. lam the Princess de Carillo/' 
 
 Her voice sounded harshly, as if the utterance of 
 words pained her, and she bent again over the still, insen 
 sible form, holding him as tenderly as one might hold a 
 child. They brought him to her house, where the doctors 
 were soon in attendance. Pierre was almost distracted with 
 grief and forgot his own bruises. He remained with Duke 
 all night, and mourned his young friend as already dead. 
 
 Duke did not become conscious until the next day, and 
 then he lay helpless and speechless, the graceful young form, 
 quite paralyzed. No murmur of pain escaped him, and 
 the princess could only tell by the look in his eyes, when 
 she came into the room, that he knew her. She could 
 notice a faint flush on the pallid face, as she bent over 
 him with sad beseeching eyes. It was unutterable agony 
 to her to see him lying thus, and she would have shed her 
 heart's blood, if it would have given him life enough to 
 speak one word to her. 
 
 The doctors were puzzled about the case, and would 
 not give much hope. " A severe injury to the spine had 
 affected the brain. It was dangerous very dangerous," 
 they said, "but his magnificent physique might surmount 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 27 
 
 it." Every voice in the house had been hushed to the 
 softest whisper. Three days had passed since the accident, 
 and there was still no change in Duke's condition. The 
 princess was almost in despair, and now looked for the 
 death which would surely take some of her life with it. 
 
 One evening when the crimson glow of the sunset stole 
 into the sick chamber, a broad beam fell upon the 
 sick man's face, and surrounded his head like a halo. The 
 princess sat near him, her head drooping upon her hands. 
 She looked up suddenly and saw the glory of light upon his 
 face, and making a golden aureole of his fair hair. The 
 wide blue eyes were looking straight at her, full of melting 
 pity, as if he fain would speak and comfort her. She 
 thought with a thrill of fear that this must be death 
 holy and awful to her. For a moment she sank upon her 
 knees, awed and reverent in its presence, and then, some 
 thing that had become infinitely stronger than holy fear, 
 arose in her, and she drew the unresisting head close to 
 her and kissed the still dumb lips again and again. Then 
 she laid him back softly upon the pillow and went away, 
 covering her face with her hands, as if to keep that last 
 look of his in her eyes forever, and walked unsteadily to 
 the room where the doctor was still waiting. 
 
 But the "grim white steed" took his departure at last, 
 and a change for the better set in; even the doctors were 
 surprised. The rigidity of his limbs began to relax and 
 he gained strength rapidly; his own vojce was the first to 
 break the long silence in his chamber, and her name was 
 the first word that he uttered. 
 
 They sent for her and she came quickly, but paused in 
 the doorway so that she might hear his voice and compose 
 herself. She waited in the darkness of the doorway until 
 the doctors should leave the room by the door leading to 
 
28 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 the main hall, "for no one must see the Princess de 
 Carillo weeping over the young American stranger." 
 
 She could hear his voice, weak and querulous as that of 
 a child, asking to see her, but she could not stir then to 
 save her life. She dared not go in yet, but not a word, 
 not a sigh of his escaped her. The doctors went away 
 at last and then she went softly in; she had composed her 
 self, although her face bore ineffaceable traces of acute 
 anguish. 
 
 His eyes lighted up joyously as she came towards him; 
 there was a questioning, too, in their blue depths that he 
 could never put into words it was soul speaking to soul, 
 in which no words could avail. 
 
 " You have been suffering for me," he said softly, as 
 she put her hand into his, "and it nearly killed me 
 
 to '* but she put her hand gently over his mouth and 
 
 he said no more. Great tears of thankfulness were in her 
 eyes and dropped upon his face as he held her hand in 
 happy silence. 
 
 The doctors soon returned and she became her own 
 superb self again. Pierre Lacroix was with the doctors 
 and his joy was like that of a schoolboy, a mixture of 
 laughter and tears. 
 
 In his boyish, affectionate way, Duke had liked the 
 princess, and had actually felt very young and insignificant 
 in her eyes. To submit to her kindly patronage seemed 
 quite natural to Ijis simple, glowing nature, and matters 
 might have gone on thus for a lifetime without awaken 
 ing any other sentiments in his heart; but such friendships 
 are often dangerously blind as well as beautiful. 
 
 The princess left the room with a sweet smile upon her 
 face and walked slowly to her own chamber, where her 
 pride and fortitude deserted her, or rather, were flung 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 29 
 
 aside, and a wretched woman grovelled upon the floor 
 because of the love which was a shame. 
 
 Some souls grow stronger as the body weakens it may 
 be that the spirit detaches itself from its earthly shell 
 gathering its scattered strength unto itself, and stands 
 alone in its own purity. 
 
 So also does the spirit sometimes weaken as its earthly 
 rind withers and falls away. Duke's soul and body sank 
 together and were now craving, child-like in their weakness, 
 for the comfort that his soul would, in its strength, have 
 rejected. With returned health he might beat this 
 weakness back from heart and brain, though quelling the 
 surging tide of a young heart is an Herculean task and 
 might be more than he could accomplish. 
 
 Just now he did not trouble himself about the right or 
 wrong of it; he had no strength for any mental exertion, 
 but lay quietly, a strange, happy languor upon him which 
 he did not care to disturb. 
 
 The princess came to see him but seldom now, and he 
 understood her reasons; she only came when the doctors 
 were there. The memory of that kiss, given, as she 
 thought, in his dumb and dying moments, seemed to 
 linger upon his lips, and was freshened by the loving mem 
 ory in which he held it. There was in it much of boyish 
 longing for her woman's kindly touch, but its fatal sweet 
 ness gathered strength with returning health, eating its 
 way to his very soul, and fanning the dormant fire in his 
 nature to an unquenchable flame. 
 
 He sprang quickly into health and strength, now, and 
 as he did so, the visits of the princess ceased entirely, and 
 he could have wished that he might lie there maimed and 
 helpless all his life. 
 
 We are taught to buffet what is antagonistic to body and 
 
30 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 soul; and most of us are educated and strengthened by 
 religion to combat the sins which we know by name, but 
 there are innumerable untrained emotions, intangible 
 weaknesses, which are our most fatal foes, because they 
 are born of the human heart, every day and hour of 
 our lives, and for which we have no laws, no rules, for 
 ever troubling us with questions which we know not how 
 to answer, and menacing us with danger which we are 
 almost powerless to ward away. 
 
 Duke Denver's boyhood had passed quickly out of sight 
 forever. The placidity of the calm, religious-tinted soul in 
 him, which had been like a clear lake in the sunshine, was 
 now stirred to its deepest depths, bringing much that was 
 earthly in it to the surface, and a swift and troubled cur 
 rent into his life. 
 
 A few days after Duke had left the house of the prin 
 cess, her maid came to her with a puzzled face. 
 
 " Madame, there is a person, a girl, who has been here 
 very often, to enquire about the health of M. Denver; 
 some creature, no doubt, who should be sent away." 
 
 " What does she look like, Marie?" questioned the 
 princess, with a thoughtful air. "Perhaps," she added 
 hastily, " she comes from some of the people who were 
 hurt by my carriage. Did she wish to see me ? Let her be 
 brought to me." 
 
 "Yes, madame, if the porter has not sent her away; he 
 has grown tired of her coming so often." 
 
 "Go quick, Marie," said the princess, angrily, "and 
 bring her back." 
 
 In a few minutes the maid returned, followed by the 
 Sicilian peasant, the girl whom Duke Denver had told her 
 about, and the princess recognized the girl who had been 
 holding his head upon her lap when he lay for dead. 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 31 
 
 The princess gazed at her in silence, as if her mind were 
 occupied with something else, and then begging Marie to 
 leave her, she motioned to the girl to come nearer. 
 
 " I know what you would ask, child for M. Denver, is 
 it not ?" 
 
 "Excellenza, yes, pray tell me that he lives, that he 
 will not die," replied the girl with an imploring gesture, 
 " He has been kind, ah! so kind to me;" here she quailed 
 and clasped her hands beseechingly. 
 
 For a moment a wild, unreasoning anger filled the bosom 
 of the princess against this wretched child, who could and 
 might love him without sin or shame, but only for a 
 moment, and then the woman's better nature asserted 
 itself, and when she spoke again her voice had a broken, 
 pitiful tone. "Yes, girl, he is well. He has been kind 
 to you?" Her voice grew softer now. " Ah, who would 
 not be," she murmured more to herself, as she noticed the 
 slim, graceful outlines of the form, which promised a mag 
 nificent maturity. The thin, clinging garments upon her 
 were old and faded, but there was in every wreath and 
 fold an unconscious beauty. 
 
 The faint dusk of red in her olive cheeks deepened as 
 she stood there, embarrassed and irresolute. " She is not 
 a bold girl," thought the princess, "Oh, far, far from it. 
 Mon Dieu" she murmured, " but it nearly cost her her 
 life to come here, and yet she would walk upon burn 
 ing brass to get news of him. Sapristi, what a face she 
 has. But you are standing, my child," she said; " I had 
 not noticed. I am sorry. Pray sit down." 
 
 The princess now relapsed into deep thought. " And I 
 am the one who has destroyed him," she said to herself, " and 
 I am, alas! powerless to save him, to help him. Mon 
 Dieu" she sighed almost aloud, "my help would only 
 
32 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 complete his ruin. Presently she turned to the girl: 
 " You can sing, I believe." 
 
 "Excellenza, yes; in my poor way/' the girl replied. 
 
 "Will you sing for me now?" the princess asked, with 
 one of her sweet smiles. 
 
 The young peasant looked at the gorgeous surroundings 
 for a troubled moment, and then her eyes rested upon the 
 face of the princess in a mute appeal, as if she thought 
 her singing would be incongruous in the presence of so 
 much magnificence, but the reassuring smile of the prin 
 cess, who quite understood her, gave her some courage, 
 and she commenced to sing. The sweet mouth quivered 
 at first and the words came tremblingly, and then the 
 sound of her own voice seemed to render her oblivious of 
 her surroundings, and it grew and swelled in strength and 
 sweetness, the stream-like flow of the melody scarcely 
 rippled by a word, so soft is the accent of Sicily; even the 
 patois of the peasant is so softly lipped as to be scarcely 
 distinguishable in song. Not till her song was finished, 
 so wrapped was she in her own exquisite music, did the 
 girl's cheeks redden, but now the rich blood diffused her 
 face until it fairly burned, and she seemed sadly conscious 
 of having done a very bold act. 
 
 " Charming," murmured the princess, though somewhat 
 absently. Already she had commenced to plan a scheme 
 in which this young girl might play an important part, and 
 her brain had become so busy that she had not paid much 
 attention to the girl's singing, but she had heard enough to 
 know that she possessed the germ of a superb voice, and 
 with such a face and form, too, she thought, could be 
 easily improved into a magnificent woman. The prin 
 cess was thoroughly herself now; all the womanly kindness 
 and generosity of her nature were aroused, and became 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 33 
 
 powerful factors in the plans which her busy brain was now 
 weaving. She dismissed the young girl with a request 
 that she would come to her on the morrow with her 
 parents. 
 
 The next day Veronica, for such was her name, arrived 
 with her parents, who were easily persuaded to allow the 
 girl to be sent to school, where the princess assured them 
 she would be taught all the arts of music and singing, and, 
 moreover, promised to help them, as they were very poor, 
 and Veronica had been their chief support. 
 
 The princess attended to all the arrangements for send 
 ing the girl to school with a feverish sort of joy which had 
 in it a linking pain. Her noble efforts in this matter were 
 wrung from the keenest self-sacrifice, but, when all had 
 been completed, and she had kissed the girl farewell, a flood 
 swept through her soul, calming, consoling, and purifying, 
 because of this act of God-inspired justice and atonement, 
 the conception of which was worthy of a goddess. 
 
 But there was something more to be done she must see 
 Duke Denver again, though she knew it would wring her 
 heart to its very roots. Her note to him was without name 
 or date, and ran thus: "I ought not to send for you, and 
 cannot blame you if you refuse to come. I want to ask 
 your forgiveness. I am trying, with God's help, to undo 
 the wrong which I have unintentionally done. 5 ' This was 
 the hardest part of the task which she had set herself to do, 
 but she would shrink from nothing now. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Pierre Lacroix was too kindly hearted to plume himself 
 upon the fulfillment of his jocose prophecy, but was now 
 cursing himself unmercifully for what he considered was his 
 fault in allowing his young friend to fall into trouble. He had 
 regarded Duke as a mere boy, whose love, he thought, 
 would be only a youthful effervescence which would 
 quickly boil over, and vanish like a bubble. He loved 
 Duke as a brother, and loved him well, after his own 
 fashion. Wild, blase, and godless, he had scarcely an 
 atom of feeling for men of his own mould; though he 
 played, drank and caroused with them all his life, not one 
 of them found room in his thoughts an hour later. 
 
 To the young American, whose boyhood seemed to be 
 ever freshly springing within him, whose rare honesty and 
 purity were ever mildly reproachful to him, Pierre had 
 given all the affection of which his reckless nature was 
 capable. 
 
 To other men he could freely boast of his excesses, but 
 he could no more tell of such things to Duke than he could 
 to a refined woman. He was terribly pained because the 
 unruffled calm of the young man's life, which was hitherto 
 like the placid bosom of a clear lake, was now tempest- 
 tossed to its deepest depths. The thing which he had 
 dimly feared had actually occurred, and Duke, for the 
 first time in his life, had sought a wretched oblivion in the 
 treacherous wine-cup. 
 
 The Frenchman had seen intemperance in all its stages, 
 unmoved, but a pain which had in it the bitterness of 
 death, had wrung his heart when he came home one even- 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 35 
 
 ing, and saw the fair boyish face flushed and feverish, a 
 reckless light in the blue eyes, and the handsome form 
 flung in utter helplessness upon a lounge. 
 
 He had seen wrecks of men who were once of the " pur 
 ple and fine linen" order, he knew of such things every 
 day in Paris, but they seemed as nothing beside this this 
 destruction of what was to him almost an idol. 
 
 The princess had secretly dreaded this also. She feared 
 for him because he was so young, and, to her mind, with 
 out a man's endurance of disappointment. 
 
 She waited, day after day, for ne<vs of him, but no 
 answer came. 
 
 In sheer agony she said to herself, "If he does not come, 
 I will go to him," as visions of his despair, of possible self- 
 destruction haunted her; but it came at last a little note, 
 written in an unsteady hand, and ran: 
 
 "I would come to you, oh! so quickly, but not in the 
 spirit you would wish. God has given you the grace which 
 he has denied to me. If I look upon your face again, I 
 will be something that you would abhor. Pray for me, 
 that I may be enabled to take your image out of my heart. 
 It is so filled with you that I dare not ask God for help." 
 
 The note dropped at her feet, and she clasped her head 
 between her hands. She knew now that he still loved her 
 hopelessly that he was suffering, and that she could do 
 nothing to help him. 
 
 "He cannot come to me," she moaned, "and he is right. 
 I should not have asked him; but how shall I know that 
 he is safe ?" There was only one thing now for her to do, 
 though it would be a bitter humiliation -it was to send 
 for his friend, Pierre Lacroix, to take him into her confi 
 dence. But that meant nothing less than a total loss of 
 dignity of disgrace to name and race, and she could face 
 
36 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 death a thousand times more willingly than even the 
 shadow of dishonor. There was a bitter struggle in her 
 heart now, between humility and pride, but her love was 
 truly that in which " self was lost and slain." Body and 
 brain must now suffer for the guilt of the heart if guilt it 
 was. The struggle was fierce and brief, and out of it came 
 a woman with throbbing brain, and white, bloodless lips, 
 but with a heart purged and purified by self-humiliation. 
 
 The very quintessence of love is assuredly a total 
 annihilation of selfishness. True love can only exist in the 
 light and sunshine of another's joy happy only in the 
 reflection of another's happiness. There was none of the 
 "barren bulb of selfishness" in this w r oman's love; the 
 pleading heart-plaint was no longer for herself, the love 
 flower which had grow r n unbidden in her sunless path, now 
 lay crushed and fruitless. 
 
 Such a woman as Hortense de Carillo could be great 
 in her deepest humility. To succor a man who could be 
 naught to her on earth, and make him happy, was now 
 the dominant desire of her life; to write to Pierre Lacroix 
 was a task easy enough now, and she sent for him. 
 
 He came quickly and brought news which chilled her 
 blood. He was very ill, he said, and if she wished 
 to come he would not recognize her. She went back 
 with Pierre Lacroix in her carriage, humbly and passively, 
 listening meekly to all that he said. 
 
 Duke lay in a hot fever, his young body scorching in 
 pain. He never knew who bent over him for many days, 
 waiting humbly and reverently upon him, feeling neither 
 shame nor cowardice the task was to her now one of 
 holiness. 
 
 Again the fingers of death were clutching at his heart, 
 striving with cruel kindness to still forever its hopeless 
 pain. 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 37 
 
 His fevered brain was busy with images thousands of 
 miles away. "How cool your hand is, Florence. Oh! 
 don't take it way. How changed you are, my sister. I 
 had always thought your eyes were blue, but they look 
 black now, and your hair is streaked with grey." He 
 thought himself a boy again, playing with her the old 
 games of childhood. " How strong you must be, Floy, to 
 drag me out of that river where I might have drowned/ 1 
 he murmured with a shudder. Anon his face would 
 brighten as he fancied himself once more among his native 
 fields and forests and the surroundings of his home, which 
 had constituted a wide and happy world to him. The 
 present seemed wholly eclipsed by the memories of his 
 boyhood, and the woman who listened in anguish to his 
 fevered ravings could not help thinking that it would be 
 a rare mercy if he died thus his mind filled only with the 
 unsullied memories of childhood. At times his mind 
 came back in a hopeless jumble, to the present, dragging 
 the tired brain into labyrinthian realms of confusion; 
 this, she could only read in his troubled face, but his 
 tongue never uttered a syllable of the present. 
 
 A change for the better came at last, and he came 
 slowly back from the doors of death. 
 
 At the first assurance of the doctors that the danger was 
 past, the princess went away, leaving her secret, if such 
 he might deem it, in the possession of Pierre Lacroix. 
 
 The doctors had ordered Duke to return to his native 
 land as soon as he was able to travel, and a week later 
 saw him ready for the journey. 
 
 When a woman tries to rise above the earthly grossness of 
 her pride, the journey upward is slow and painful, the steps 
 thereof, cruel and cutting, but they soon grow smooth by 
 suffering, plainer and more accessible by the clear light of 
 
38 MAR.MADUKE DENVER. 
 
 a pure motive, and the final award is the grace which can 
 only be purchased with pain. 
 
 On the journey home Duke was too helpless, both 
 mentally and bodily, to think much about anything. He 
 felt like a person out of whose hands the business of life 
 had been taken forever, and was dimly conscious of 
 having been drifting aimlessly, giving himself up to a sort 
 of blind-folded happiness, and following helplessly a beau 
 tiful mirage which had now faded quite away, leaving him 
 in troubled darkness. He had also a pitiful sense of 
 paralyzed energies, as a man who had become suddenly 
 old and feeble. These were some of the glimmerings 
 which his brain weakly grasped as he journeyed home 
 wards. 
 
 There was a sort of mental comfort in the winding and 
 rushing of the train, the moving without effort, being 
 carried along through sunny scenes of field and farm, of 
 smooth-flowing rivers and majestic mountains, now near, 
 now distant all being bathed in a soft haze. To many 
 weary souls there would have been something of mockery 
 in all this peace and beauty, but Duke's was not a mind to 
 envelop itself in " sheets of bitterness," however gloomy it 
 might be; it was somewhat of an open-work fabric, which 
 could not entirely resist the sunlight, and could even 
 absorb some of its rays. He was not keenly miserable 
 now; no doubt, he might realize that with returned health. 
 Betimes, too, he felt like a man floating upon a boundless 
 sea, a white ship appearing ever and anon in the dis 
 tance, the soft lulling waters seeming to carry him 
 farther away from it. In his dreamy, half-convalescent 
 state, this strange sea became, in his imagination, the cold 
 stream of conscience, pure and limpid, in which he saw 
 his own life clearly mirrored. He could see his errors 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 39 
 
 reflected, not in great crimson stains, but in softened 
 color and outline, as objects seen through depths of water. 
 It was a gentle, silent stream, which seemed to flow 
 through the inner channels of his soul, purifying and heal 
 ing, and ever bearing him away from the snow-white 
 ship, which still remained in sight, and though it had 
 never beckoned him on, he knew that it contained for 
 him a delirious and deadly happiness. 
 
 He reached home in the mellow autumn when the 
 woods were assuming gorgeous hues of gold and crimson. 
 Soft winds moaned with a lonely cadence among the 
 whispering leaves, as if mourning the departed summer. 
 The few remaining flowers were about to breathe their last 
 perfumed sigh before the rude hand of winter should lay 
 them with their sister leaves. 
 
 William Denver drove to the railroad depot in the next 
 town to meet his favorite son, who had left home five 
 years before, a strong, lusty youth, with life enough in 
 his young body to last a century, and now the shocked 
 father scarcely recognized him, so pale and thin he looked. 
 They had known from his letters that he ' ' had not been 
 well," but were totally unprepared for this. The poor old 
 man made a great effort to hide his grieved surprise, and 
 replaced it with a feeling of secret indignation born of the 
 old objections which still lay dormant in him, against all 
 processes of refinement and improvement. Hot, angry 
 tears rushed to his eyes until he could hardly see. This, 
 he thought, was the result of tasting the poisoned fruit of 
 fashionable life. He would a thousand times rather have 
 seen him a healthy, sunburnt farmer those small, blue- 
 veined hands of his, rough and horny from toil. 
 
 The father eyed his son furtively as they drove home, and 
 did not dare to look broadly at him, fearing that he should 
 
40 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 see the anguish which he knew must be in his face. Duke 
 was glad to see his old home again. There are lew cases, 
 indeed, of mental trouble, that are not alleviated in some 
 degree by a visit to the scenes of youth, that bright and 
 pure period of our lives athwart whose undimmed light the 
 world seldom casts a shadow. 
 
 Florence was waiting for them at the gate grown to a 
 tall and beautiful womanhood. When she saw Duke's pale 
 face the smile left hers, and the cheery words of welcome 
 died upon her lips; she could only open her arms wide and 
 bring his head down to her lips in silence. 
 
 A few weeks at home improved him rapidly. Florence 
 had lovingly constituted herself his nurse and he gladly 
 relinguished himself to her care. 
 
 " Do you know that you have grown to be a beautiful 
 woman, Floy?" he said to her one day as she sat upon a 
 low chair by the lounge where he lay. " But you have 
 not told me anything of Harold Hereford. When is he 
 coming ? " 
 
 " Oh, he only makes a flying visit once in a while," she 
 replied with a slight blush; " he has been busy since his 
 appointment to the asylum." 
 
 " When have you seen him last, Floy ? " 
 
 " About a month ago, Mr. Curiosity." 
 
 " Love him as much as ever, Floy ? " he continued. 
 
 " Oh! Duke, what a merciless inquisitor you are; how 
 many more questions must I answer ? " she exclaimed, 
 putting her hand over his mouth. " No'v I am going to 
 ask you some." 
 
 " Oh, as many as you please," he said, laughing; " but 
 you don't happen to remember any apple blossom period 
 in my existence, and," he continued, with a twinkle of 
 mischief in his eyes, " and you did not care a pin about 
 him, did you, Floy?" 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 4! 
 
 ' ' And you were mean enough to watch us from the 
 summer-house," she retaliated, with the air of a person who 
 had suffered from an unpardonable injury in the past. 
 
 " Milton was a party, in fact, the ringleader in that out 
 rage; but he was an awful gawk, Floy, and one could not 
 help making fun of him; but don't be angry, Floy," he 
 laughed, seeing that she made no answer, "I won't tease 
 you any more," and he drew her head down to him and 
 kissed her. 
 
 " But where is your Mrs. Grey?" he resumed, after a 
 pause. " I have been home a week and have not seen 
 her yet. Where does she keep herself ? " 
 
 " She has gone home. Duke, for a week or two; she 
 went a few days before you came. Her mother has been 
 ill. We feel quite lonely without her. Oh! Duke," she 
 continued, " she is lovely, and you must be careful or you 
 will lose your heart to her. Oh! won't it be my turn 
 then," she continued, laughing. " I will have you both 
 right under my watchful eye, and will have a chance to 
 pay you back." 
 
 " You are welcome, Floy," replied her brother, " when 
 you do get the chance. I think, "he added, "you said 
 something to me in one of your letters about her hair being 
 grey." 
 
 "Yes," replied Florence; "the contrast between her 
 grey hair and young face is very strange, and her eyes are 
 simply divine," she added enthusiastically. 
 
 " I have been dreaming," said Duke, somewhat absently, 
 ''a weakness peculiar to idle artists, I believe, of a woman 
 with just such eyes as you have described, but I'm afraid 
 I have already found my realization in a peasant girl of 
 Sicily, who once honored me with a sitting. I found her 
 begging in the streets of Florence, whining in the usual 
 
42 MAKMADl KK DENVER. 
 
 continental fashion, but her voice had a pathetic sort of 
 melody in it; but your description of Mrs. Grey also sug 
 gests something of a mystery. I'm curious to ee her. By 
 the way, Floy, is she aware of my existence ?" 
 
 "Oh! yes," replied Florence; " she knows that I have 
 two brothers, and she has seen your pictures." 
 
 " Which of the pictures did she consider the better-look 
 ing? " asked Duke, with feigned anxiety. 
 
 " I don't know, Mr. Vanity; we may find that out after 
 she sees you both, and besides," she continued archly, 
 " there is more pleasure in making those kind of discov 
 eries yourbelf." 
 
 The winter was pleasant at the farm-house, and Duke 
 felt it doing him good. Though rapidly acquiring health 
 and a certain peace at heart, he felt very much like a 
 dark silhouette against the bright background of home 
 happiness, and knew that he could be no contributor to it. 
 
 Moreover, he had lately essayed the lugubrious task of 
 self-analyzation, "a complete going over," as he grimly 
 phrased it to himself, and having found himself sadly 
 "wanting in the balance," he manfully endeavored to 
 impose upon himself the Herculean labor of self-punish 
 ment. 
 
 To dilute with coldness the warm liquid in youth's 
 veins, to calm and stem its impetuous current, were tasks 
 as easy, indeed, as the turning backward of a mighty 
 river; to deaden the dull pain in his heart, to live 
 stupidly and forget forget would be about as easily ac 
 complished as the rest, but he conscientiously undertook 
 the task, with what results shall be seen anon. 
 
 About this time he went to spend a few days with an 
 old school-fellow in the next town, and had not expected 
 to be back until the day before Christmas, but he came 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 43 
 
 sooner than he had intended. He arrived when it was 
 dusk and entered the house unnoticed, going straight to 
 the low-ceilinged room which they had dubbed the library; 
 he threw himself into an easy chair, and, without intending 
 it, was soon fast asleep. He was awakened by someone 
 touching the keys of the piano very softly. Whoever it 
 was only the treble notes were sounded, and an air picked 
 out with one hand. He listened quietly, thinking that it 
 must be Florence or Kataline. The air was unknown to 
 him, an old-fashioned, weird thing that reminded him of 
 Sicily and Veronica. 
 
 Duke had become somewhat lazy of late, and luxurious 
 of habits. He liked to sit still and have his senses pleased, 
 and the simple old tune in the dark accorded wonderfully 
 well with his feelings just then. To disturb him at the 
 time would have been a species of cruelty. 
 
 But it was neither Florence nor Kataline, for they both 
 came in together soon after and spoke to her. 
 
 It must be Mrs. Grey, he thought, as she answered 
 them out of the darkness. 
 
 "We are so glad to have you back again, dear," said 
 Florence, " and Duke will be back in a day or two," 
 chimed in Kataline, joyously. 
 
 By this time Duke began to feel like an eavesdropper, 
 and rose to his feet, feeling uncertain what to do next. It 
 was quite dark and they could not see him; the old boyish 
 bashfulness and irresolution were strong upon him, and he 
 finally beat an inglorious retreat through the door leading 
 to the garden, and no one knew of his return until he 
 presented himself at breakfast the next morning. 
 
 A slight figure in black standing by the fire-place 
 turned to him as he greeted his sisters, and Florence said, 
 u Mrs. Grey, my brother, Duke." 
 
44 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 The first thing that impressed him was the peculiarity of 
 her handshake. Unlike most women she did not allow 
 her hand to lay passively; there was a perceptible clasp, a 
 kind of clinging retention, as though she had entertained 
 kindly opinions of you, and was determined to make 
 friends with you, "taking you by storm." Duke thought 
 there was something in it also that brought to his mind 
 the old Eastern custom of securing protection from an 
 enemy by snatching a morsel of bread and salt. 
 
 She regarded him steadily for a moment, as if trying to 
 find something that she had feared, and then she turned 
 away with a relieved expression. 
 
 What a tell-tale face, Duke thought, as he warmed 
 his hands before the fire; she is plainly trying to hide 
 something something that is not her fault either what a 
 pity. I have read and dreamed of violet eyes, but have 
 never seen the real kind until now. In his poetical 
 imagination she was like a beautiful flower with a cruel 
 weight upon it. 
 
 "Duke," said his sister about a month after, "I want 
 you to do something." 
 
 " You do, Floy," he answered, laughing; "pray what might 
 the great something be ? " 
 
 "It is a pleasant pastime, I promise you that" she 
 replied decidedly. 
 
 " I'm ready sister mine; unfold your plans." 
 
 "Duke," she said in a solemn voice, that forbade all 
 further joking, "I want you to marry Mrs. Grey." 
 
 "A decidedly novel request, Madamoiselle Manage 
 ment," laughed her brother, with genuine amusement in 
 his face; " but would it make any difference to your favor 
 if she refused me ? " 
 
 "Never mind about that, Duke, "she answered seriously, 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 45 
 
 "that will all come right in time; I have my heart set on 
 it, and you must not disappoint me, Duke." 
 
 "Of course you are joking, Floy," replied her brother, 
 trying to look serious, "but really among my numerous 
 sins I have not yet developed the fungus one of vanity, 
 and if I were the best fellow in the world I don't think she 
 would care about me. Now there is Milton, for instance; 
 don't you think he would be a more suitable parti ? " As 
 Duke said this he really for the moment stepped down 
 from the comical standpoint from which he had been 
 regarding Florence's novel proposition, and began to take 
 a more serious view of the situation wherein Milton and 
 Mrs. Grey might be the principal figures. 
 
 "But you know Milton can't marry," said Florence. 
 "He is to enter the church, and you will be the only one 
 left," she added, with an air of desolation. 
 
 "Florence," said her brother, "you might as well 
 expect me to fall in love with a picture or a statue, and I 
 fear I lack the necessary ambition to make a modern 
 Pygmalion of myself. She is very interesting to me from 
 an artistic point of view, but love is a warm feeling that 
 needs something more of flesh and blood to rest upon." 
 
 "Oh, you artists are all conceited," replied Florence, 
 impatiently, "and you have queer ideas about women." 
 
 "To convince you that I am not conceited, Floy," 
 replied her brother, "I will say just this much: you must 
 know, mon enfant" he commenced oratorically, "that no 
 one can consistently admire man, woman, or thing for 
 beauty or goodness, unless they possess, in some degree, 
 the attributes of that which they admire; ergo, I am not 
 vain cr presumptious enough to admire things that are 
 infinitely superior to me, not having the shadow of a 
 corresponding quality to warrant me in aspiring." 
 
46 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 "Oh nonsense!" replied the sister, giving the fire a 
 judicious poke. " You are good enough for any woman 
 and every one likes you and 
 
 "I don't deserve it, Floy, it's a mistake; no one will 
 ever fall in love with me but tell me something of the 
 modus operandi, Floy. I'm a mere novice in affairs de la 
 c&ur; you have been eminently successful, and could give 
 me some 'points." 3 
 
 " Oh, Duke, you are a humbug. Have you never made 
 love to anyone, never seen a woman that you could love ?'"' 
 
 " Leading questions, every one of 'em," he answered, 
 running his fingers through his hair; " but women are all 
 so different, you know, and what might win one would 
 scare another away. Now Milton is the sort of fellow she 
 would take a fancy to, I'll bet you, Floy," he continued 
 with a sudden inspiration of prophecy; " but wait till he 
 comes." 
 
 At this junction Florence was called away, and Duke 
 was left to his meditations. Mrs. Grey was a sort of 
 study to him. She was different from any woman he had 
 ever known, and, unlike any that his imagination could 
 have conceived; there was nothing decided about her, but 
 an unobtrusive suggestiveness of all that was sweet and 
 good, leaving you space, as it were, to magnify each quality 
 a thousand fold. She seemed to breathe a pure atmos 
 phere around her, and one could no more harbor an 
 unholy thought in her presence than he would within the 
 sacred precincts of a sanctuary. She was a woman that he 
 could revere with all his soul, but she could never touch 
 his heart. 
 
 "I wish Milton would come," he thought, as he flung 
 the end of a cigar in the fire. " There is a leaf folded down 
 in some chapter of her life, and it strikes me that he will 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 47 
 
 be the one to find out what it contains." Duke liked to 
 weave romances for other people, and he was now busily 
 manufacturing a web for his brother and Mrs. Grey. 
 
 Milton came home one snowy day in the new year 
 when the snow shone like diamond dust in the winter sun 
 shine. He was a good-looking fellow, very thoughtful, 
 and grave and cold. 
 
 Florence adored him in silence, actually seeming to feel 
 that he was composed of holier clay than herself, and Duke 
 was thoroughly disappointed in his brother and not a little 
 disgusted to find that because a man studied for the church 
 he should become a solemn and silent misanthrope. In his 
 inmost heart he thought it a shame that all the natural life 
 and spirits should be knocked out of, or worse still, re 
 pressed in, a man because he " takes care of other people's 
 souls.". For a couple of weeks he had Milton steadily 
 under his mental microscope; he was much given to study 
 ing people lately. "But it won't last" he said aloud to him 
 self one day, as he had concluded a brown study con 
 vincing the present mental mould of his brother. 
 
 " Oft what seems a trifle, 
 
 A trifle, a mere nothing by itself 
 
 In some nice situation turns the scale 
 
 Of fate, and rules the most important actions." 
 
 A month had elapsed since Milton came home and 
 there was a troubled look in Florence's face and a shape 
 less fear in her heart. She longed to take Duke into her 
 confidence, but being something of a philosopher, she 
 shrank from giving actual shape and substance to her fears 
 by telling them. 
 
 The first time that Milton and Mrs. Grey met she had 
 watched them attentively, some indefinable impulse urging 
 her to do so, and she had seen Mrs. Grey's face blanch to 
 an awful whiteness, and she also noticed that she had 
 
48 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 avoided him since then. These things worried her, but 
 she kept her peace. 
 
 "What do you think of Mrs. Grey, Milton?" she said to 
 him one day, in a tone of apparent unconcern. Milton 
 lifted his quiet brown eyes from the book which he was 
 reading and looked at her in an enquiring manner. 
 
 " What do I think of Mrs. Grey?" he repeated. " Well, 
 Floy, I have not thought much about her, that is," he 
 added, " I have not tried to form any opinion of her, if 
 that is what you mean." 
 
 " But you can't help seeing that she is very nice, 
 Milton," persisted his sister, gaining courage from his 
 evident indifference about the matter. 
 
 " I don't think I ever had a very good look at the lady, 
 yet," said Milton, laying down his book, " but if you say 
 that she is nice, Floy, I am certain that she must be so 
 but she usually sits in a corner and seems to envelop her 
 self in shadows when I am around. Wait," he con 
 tinued, laughing, " 'til I see her in broad daylight and 
 then I will tell you what I think of \iti face, at least, if I 
 may be pardoned for presuming to criticise her." 
 
 Florence had, woman-like, developed some match-mak 
 ing abilities, and considered herself a necessary lever in 
 that subtle machinery, as far as the interests of her 
 brother Duke were concerned. That Milton should 
 renounce the church and marry, was to her mind little less 
 than a heinous crime, and the two dearest wishes of her 
 heart just now were to see Milton enter the church, and 
 Duke to marry Mrs. Grey. 
 
 Though Madeline Grey was exceedingly reticent about 
 her affairs, and never spoke of her past life, Florence 
 shared her father's opinions, and had perfect confidence in 
 her. If there was some secret trouble in her life, and 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 49 
 
 Florence could not help thinking sometimes that there was, 
 she respected her silence on the subject, and never con 
 sidered it as a fault, but loved her all the more because of 
 the shadow which seemed to follow her. 
 
 For the present she made up her mind that there was noth 
 ing to fear concerning Milton, and she knew that Mrs. Grey 
 was not a woman to fall in love with any one in a hurry. 
 
 So little interested was Milton in the study of Mrs. 
 Grey that he soon forgot his compact with Florence, and 
 would possibly have given her one of his absent-minded opin 
 ions the next time she asked him for it. But one day a slight 
 circumstance aroused a lazy sort of curiosity in him con 
 cerning her. He had not noticed that she had been avoid 
 ing him, and he came upon her unexpectedly one day in the 
 parlor. She was looking very intently at an old picture of 
 his upon the mantel-piece, and did not hear him approach 
 until he was near her, and when she turned her face to him 
 it was deathly pale and her lips were bloodless. She 
 made a movement as if she would leave the room, and he 
 saw that she staggered. He came quickly to her side, 
 saying quietly: " You are not well this morning, Mrs. Grey, 
 allow me to help you." He led her to a chair, and left 
 her, saying, "I will bring some water." 
 
 She would fain have risen and fled before he returned, 
 but something held her there, as if some powerful will had 
 laid its fiat upon her, and she was compelled by it to sit 
 there and await the return of this man, from whom she 
 might well flee to the uttermost ends of the earth, and yet 
 he had never given her a thought, much less an evil one. 
 
 She raised her eyes to his as he handed her the glass of 
 water. There seemed to be an unspoken command that 
 she should do so, and it was the very thing which she 
 wished to avoid. 
 
50 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 Milton was a stolid, undemonstiative fellow, and it 
 required something almost miraculous to awaken any 
 strong emotion in him. Just now he felt only a species of 
 curiosity, mingled with some pity for Mrs. Grey, and a 
 very man-like inclination to hand her over to Florence's 
 care. He did not think for a moment that the mediocre 
 likeness of himself upon the mantel had anything to do 
 with her faintness. After that day he saw but little of her, 
 and the fact began to dawn upon him, dimly at first, that 
 she was avoiding him, and he became more convinced of it 
 from the fact that when he stayed a few days in the 
 next town which he did frequently of late he could 
 learn from their conversation, when he returned, that 
 she had been more among them during his absence. 
 This, coupled with other little things, which became more 
 apparent each day, had the effect of finally exciting his 
 curiosity, and creating a desire to know more about her. 
 It was a decidedly new sensation to find a woman even 
 faintly mirrored in the dull lethargic depths of his mind. 
 
 The grim study of theology is well calculated to con 
 geal the tender sap in a man's heart, creating a sort of 
 frozen surface whereon a woman's face could hardly ever 
 make an impression. 
 
 He liked to look at Mrs. Grey, because away from her 
 his memory retained no definite image, and this, he 
 thought, was partly due to the fact that she never yet had 
 looked directly at him long enough to allow him to study 
 her face. When they sat around the fire in the winter 
 twilight, she usually placed herself where only an indistinct 
 outline of her face ard form were visible to him, and 
 then it was exceedingly pleasant to listen to her voice 
 with its low, sad cadence, when her face was half hidden 
 by the flickering fire shadows. Her conversation, too, 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 51 
 
 was singularly free from hackneyed phrases, and was in 
 variably tempered with mild, but firm, individual opinions, 
 given with a soft decision that made willing converts cf 
 her listeners. 
 
 They all began to notice that Milton made himself more 
 sociable lately, "owing, no doubt." observed Duke, "to 
 the cheerful comfort of the fire which brought them to 
 gether more.' 3 
 
 Duke generally accompanied a remark of this kind with 
 the most innocent expression, which only those who knew 
 him well could interpret into mild sarcasm. Milton was 
 more sociable now and did not pay as much attention to his 
 studies as heretofore, but yet he did not seem to bestow 
 much attention upon Mrs. Grey. If he was studying her 
 he was certainly doing it in about as cold and deliberate a 
 fashion as he would with the very driest, theological 
 treatise. He had, however, made u.p his mind about two 
 things: that she was very beautiful and that she had some 
 secret sorrow which had been unjustly laid upon her shoul 
 ders. Thinking about her, even in this very dispassionate 
 way, made his conscience feel a reprehensive twinge, but 
 he quieted it by the reflection that it was certainly part 
 of his prospective calling to consider the cases of those 
 who were evidently weighted down with sorrow, and he 
 honestly began to think that he might in time win her con 
 fidence, and as a minister of God try to lift the burden 
 which seemed to be crushing her life out. 
 
 About a month after her meeting with Milton in the 
 parlor, Madeline Grey wrote the following letter to her 
 mother: 
 
 " As a blight mars the verdure and healthfulness of a 
 tree or flower, sapping and searing it to the very roots, 
 so again has this misery come upon me. Oh, not comj 
 
52 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 yet, dearest, but it is close upon me, so near, so threaten 
 ing that I have not strength enough to flee from it. 
 My cure is so evenly mixed with poison that I long, yet 
 fear, to drink of it. Oh, why does not God take away this 
 dread burden from me! It is a thousand times more 
 cruel than death. They are all here now, happy, and I 
 feel like a serpent among them, dangerous to them and 
 to myself. There is one here who looks like him. Advise 
 your poor MADELINE." 
 
 It was several days before the answer came, blurred with 
 tears, an unhappy mother's heartache between every line, 
 yet blended with a last feeble hope. 
 
 "My poor child: If it is as you fear it would be best to 
 come home at once. You must trust more and more in 
 Him who is greatest in his mercy. Your returned health 
 will be a strong shield. Use every effort to divest your 
 mind of the past; in this lies your greatest safety. I know 
 God will help you, and give you back your lost happiness. 
 Come, if you think it best. I am praying for you. 
 
 MOTHER." 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 Three years had passed away. At this time Pierre 
 Lacroix was speeding from a distant part of Normandy 
 towards Paris; he had been hastily summond to a death-bed 
 there, and would not have lost a moment for the worth of 
 France. He took little heed now of the vine-clad banks 
 of the Seine, and was utterly blind to the blue mountains 
 of Normandy, whose graceful outlines were barely distin 
 guishable from the summer sky oblivious to everything 
 save the shocking knowledge that the Princess de Carillo 
 was dying. 
 
 Arrived at the Rue Saint Domineque, he went quickly 
 through the gorgeously pillared halls where masses of 
 dying flowers shed their petals at his feet. A softly trick 
 ling fountain alone broke the silence. Grandeur impresses 
 one but sadly when the presence of death chills its bright 
 ness and breathes an icy mist upon all that was wont to 
 glitter. He had been often in that house before; its mag 
 nificence had pleased his artist eyes, its music and flowers 
 had charmed him, but to-day every one of its beauties 
 palled upon him; the mirrors flashing from the walls seemed 
 to mock at him, the marble pillars were like so many grave 
 stones, the whole house a gorgeous, gloomy vault. A 
 minute more and he was ushered into the chamber of 
 death. The attendant left him noiselessly and he found 
 himself gazing upon a sad and strange scene. Between 
 the opening of the heavy bed-curtains he caught a glimpse 
 of a pallid face; it seemed to him like the shadowy face 
 one sees in a dream, and he saw it as if through a mist. 
 The faculty of hearing is wonderfully acute in the dying. 
 He had not been announced, yet she knew that he was 
 
54 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 there, and she motioned to him to come nearer, with the 
 same old smile upon her poor white face, as if there was 
 nothing wrong. 
 
 There are some warm natures among human-kind 
 that are fond and foolish and brave enough to be angry 
 even with death, wanting to drive it forth, to fight it 
 away. 
 
 Pierre Lacroix had no religion. God was a mere myth 
 to him. He could not pray even for the greatest boon that 
 prayer could bring, but, instead, his loving heart, his 
 strong arm, his life, were ready to be offered to be inter 
 posed between death and those whom he loved. There 
 was chivalry enough in his heart now to fight a thousand 
 deaths, could it be done, to give this woman life. He 
 approached the bedside, but could not utter a word. 
 Our deeper emotions seldom reach the lips. With the keen 
 instinct of those about to die, she understood much of 
 what he felt. She held out a thin, transparent hand to 
 him, and then, like the last flush of a dying sunset, a 
 faint tinge of color replaced the deadly whiteness of her 
 face. She had waited for the last moments before she 
 ssnt for him, and for what? The aching outcries of the 
 heart are seldom heard; many of them we dare not utter; 
 sometimes they can be read, but are not always written. 
 Pierre Lacroix could easily read a pitiful want in the dying 
 face, and he knew also that she would ask for nothing. 
 He had heard of her illness, but never dreamed that it had 
 come to this. He knew now that she had waited until the 
 last before she sent for him, and impotently cursed 
 himself for not finding out the true state of affairs before it 
 was too late. 
 
 Question and answer passed between them without words, 
 a despairing query in the dying eyes and an answer in the 
 stricken face of the man whose heart bled for her. 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 55 
 
 He raised the wan hand to his lips and bowed his head 
 low over it; there was little need of words here. In her 
 faithful heart she said, " // is better not'" in his, he said, 
 " // is too late, now." 
 
 She felt his hot tears dropping upon her hand, as it lay 
 in his amid a long silence. She felt, and he knew it, 
 as a modest being who sends for a physician and must 
 needs show wounds which they fain would hide. She had 
 sent for him and yet could not show him the miserable heart- 
 sore which had never healed. 
 
 " It is better, Monsieur Lacroix," she said at length, as 
 if resuming a conversation which had occurred only in 
 both their thoughts, "and it is not so awful to die after 
 all, when it comes near. I am glad that this " 
 
 "Die!" he interrupted almost fiercely, "you must not 
 speak like that, madame." He could think of the 
 possibility of her death, although certain of its nearness, 
 yet to hear it from her own lips, was like receiving a stab 
 into a fresh wound. It was terrible to him to hear her 
 speak of death with the light and brightness of youth in her 
 eyes. She seemed to grow more beautiful as the embrace 
 of death closed around her. 
 
 " Ah! ne'er was beauty's dawn so bright, 
 
 So touching, as that form's decay 
 Which, like the altar's trembling light, 
 
 In holy lustre fades away." 
 
 The doctors had diagnosed the case, and had dignified 
 it with some unpronounceable name, but it had simplified 
 the matter soon enough by turning into rapid consumption 
 "of the heart," thought the poor patient with a smile, 
 which was an equal mixture of grief and gladness. 
 
 She lay back upon the pillows now, completely exhausted. 
 This last scene, which she had dreaded and longed for, 
 was too much for her waning strength. A faint pressure 
 
56 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 of his hand as he gently released hers, told him that she 
 was still conscious; then a faint whisper he had to bend 
 low to hear it: " You will write to him and say good-bye 
 for me. It will be all over soon. I want him to 
 be happy; come again to-morrow; you are very 
 good." 
 
 Pierre Lacroix left the room softly, and the house very 
 quickly. "It is impossible, I fear/' he said to himself, as 
 if following out some train of thought, as soon as he reached 
 the street, " but I will try. Great God! what an idiot I 
 have been; I should have been here long ago. True, she 
 would never see him living, but it would make her death 
 less bitter. I think she would see him now." The poor 
 fellow began to hope wildly, and against all reason, that 
 Duke Denver could get to Paris before she died; aye, 
 Pierre Lacroix, a scoffer at prayers and miracles, prayed 
 now for the first time in his life, that she might live until 
 Duke came, and bslieved that his presence would, miracle- 
 like, save her from death. He rushed to his rooms and 
 searched with feverish haste for Duke's address, and then 
 hurried to the nearest telegraph office. "Come quickly," 
 he said, "the princess is dying; lose not a moment." 
 
 He had dared to do this and felt relieved when it was 
 done. He knew that Duke would come, and he would 
 dare to bring him to her; he would save her in spite of 
 herself. 
 
 He knew also that Hortense de Carillo's lips would 
 never say, "Let him look upon my dead face," but that 
 her heart cried out for it. 
 
 After Pierre had left the chamber of the princess, the 
 door of an ante-chamber opened and a young girl entered. 
 She came into the room with such a softly gliding move 
 ment that she might have been taken for a beautiful appari- 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 57 
 
 tion. She was dressed in a splendid robe of gold colored 
 satin, half covered with rich lace. Her neck and shoul 
 ders were quite bare, save for a necklace of natural rose 
 buds and leaves, whose dewy loveliness seemed fitting 
 ornament for the fair young flesh which they seemed 
 to caress. The rich dress looked more suitable for an 
 older person, and the sweet, child-like face, seeming to 
 rise from a circlet of flowers, was a unique contrast to 
 the dress, and the massive jeweled bracelets, which were 
 much too heavy for the small wrists. She was a very lovely, 
 but strangely inconsistent picture in that chamber of 
 death. 
 
 "You are already dressed, my love/' murmured the 
 princess, as the girl approached her. ' How beautiful 
 you look! Come nearer," she added, and she took the 
 girl's hand and put it to her lips. To have this girl, so 
 full of youth and life near her, seemed to imbue the 
 dying woman with new vitality. Her eyes brightened, 
 and her face became animated, and she seemed to feed her 
 sinking spirit from the magnificent largess of the girl's 
 youth and health. 
 
 "You sing to-night before the Empress, Veronica. 
 How I wish I were there to see your triumph! I know 
 it will surely be one. The Empress herself will fall in 
 love with my singing bird," she continued, smiling, "you 
 are so lovely and so good so good. But you have an 
 hour yet, mon cher," she said looking at her watch, "and 
 it would be charming to hear the rest of your history. 
 I think we stopped last night at the beginning of your love 
 affair." 
 
 " Dear madame, you dignify it by too grand a name," 
 replied the girl, blushing. "Poor girls do not dare to 
 love great people. They only worship at a distance, and 
 
58 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 Monsieur was only kind and charitable to me; oh, so good 
 and kind!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together. 
 " It made me good. I could think of nothing evil. I could 
 do nothing evil while I thought of his kind face and his 
 gentle voice, and and I was thinking of him all the 
 time, and I still think of him," she added, after a short 
 pause, as she covered her face with her hands. 
 
 " And he went away?" said the princess, softly. 
 
 " And he went away," echoed the girl, her bosom heav 
 ing now, and her eyes filling with tears, " and I searched 
 and sang for him from door to door, and then from city to 
 city, but he never heard me until until " here the small 
 mouth quivered and she hung down her head, as if the 
 bearing of her long concealed secret was a shame. 
 
 " Until he was hurt," said the princess, "and went 
 home to America. But you shall see him again, Veronica. 
 Monsieur Denver will come back again to you." 
 
 The princess lay back upon the pillows now, her eyes 
 closed and her lips moved as if in prayer. It must have 
 been communion with God in the unreadable language of 
 the soul, intelligible only to Him. There was an inde 
 scribable radiance in her eyes, when she turned them 
 again upon Veronica a light such as a star might have 
 lent to them. She drew the girl's head down to her and, 
 kissed the fresh, young lips Imgeringly. "You shall see 
 him again, sweet," she murmured. "When you do, tell 
 him that I loved you ." 
 
 That night while the plaudits of a vast multitude, were 
 ringing in the theatre Francaise, and the young prima donna 
 was almost smothered beneath the flowers, which literally 
 rained upon her, the spirit of Hortense de Carillo was 
 winging its way from earth. 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 59 
 
 A hopeless and desperate man walked the streets of 
 Paris as the bright spring sun lighted up the roofs and 
 shining spires of that great city. His heart almost as dead 
 and cold as that of the loved one who lay beneath a marble 
 slab in Pere-la-Chaise. Marmaduke Denver had arrived 
 in Paris the day after the princess had been buried. In 
 his quiet American home he had been growing calmly 
 content. His dormant love had hedged him round like 
 a delicate lattice work, through which he had learned to 
 gaze out upon the world in subdued sorrow. The memory 
 of this hopeless love became a hallowed thing, which was as 
 pure and holy as it was hopeless, but the shock of her 
 death had completely shattered this beautiful illusion, 
 which might have been a holy seam in the fabric of his 
 life. He felt now as if the light of the world had gone 
 out forever, for him, and a pitiful numbness had grasped 
 every faculty. There was only one thing clearly before 
 his mind, and that was, that which he thought he had 
 conquered was only sleeping, and had now arisen with 
 renewed strength so assert itself. 
 
 He knew now why she died he knew also, too late, why 
 she would not send for him, and the knowledge was ter 
 rible. 
 
 To love and lose is, indeed, like unto standing upon 
 heaven's threshold, and drinking for a space of its intoxicat 
 ing pleasures. To be driven away, and remain forever 
 thirsting for that which is irrevocably lost, is but a faint 
 comparison to the sufferings of those who have truly loved 
 and lost. 
 
 Oh, love! thou art a powerful factor for good or evil; 
 searing and blighting like a curse, or blessing us with the 
 greatest earthly happiness, dispersing the darkest shadows, 
 or bringing darkness to the brightest places. Thou art a 
 
60 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 priceless jewel in the humblest home, and miraculous as 
 the wand of a magician, and without thee we are as the 
 unripened fruit and colorless flowers. 
 
 Pierre Lacroix's great heart throbbed in unison with the 
 grief of his young friend, and he wished that he had not 
 summoned him at what was indeed the " eleventh hour." 
 He knew that Duke's love for the princess, as the wife of 
 another man, would ever be a thing apart from selfishness 
 or sin that it became purer and holier with time. He 
 understood also, as well as Duke himself, that he had 
 manfully resolved never to look upon her face again, and 
 would be content if he only knew that she had put him 
 out of her heart; but Pierre felt that all this was changed, 
 now, that his telegram had revealed a thousand things 
 that he had better never have known, and that Duke 
 would now regard himself as the destroyer of her life and 
 happiness. 
 
 People had paid but little attention to the young girl who 
 had bent over the dead princess, and clung so passionately 
 to the lifeless lips. There was no society reserve to stem 
 the natural outflow of the singing girl's love and grief, and 
 Veronica Venella nearly broke her young heart when they 
 bore away her kindly benefactress from her sight forever. 
 
 Looking upon her grave in the gorgeous cemetery of 
 Pere-la-Chaise was a poor sort of comfort, but it was the 
 only spot in the world in which Duke had any interest now, 
 and Paris, with all its brightness, was a hideous desert to 
 him. He came to the cemetery every evening, when the 
 frost was crisping the grass and early flowers. He was 
 later than usual one evening, and it was quite dark when 
 he reached there. He could distinguish a woman bending 
 over the grave in an attitude of prayer, and he saw that she 
 held some flowers which she touched with her lips, and 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 6 I 
 
 then laid them tenderly and reverently upon the grave. 
 Her rich dress was trailing upon the damp earth, and when 
 she stooped to gather it up, the shawl fell back from her 
 head, and the moonlight showed a face that Duke thought 
 he had seen before. She had now seen and recognized 
 him, and drew back tremblingly, as though about to fall, 
 but he came quickly to her side, saying in a gentle, reas 
 suring voice, "Veronica?" 
 
 "Yes," she replied simply, " lam Veronica; and you 
 you are Monsieur Denver ?" 
 
 He took her face between his hands, and raised it to 
 the moonlight, gazing into it long and earnestly. 
 
 " You knew tier, Veronica ?" he said, very softly. 
 
 "Yes, oh, yes, Monsieur," she replied sadly, "and she 
 bade me tell you that she loved me" 
 
 He still held her face between his hands, as if she had 
 been a child, and there were great tears in his eyes as he 
 bent lower and reverently kissed the unresisting mouth, 
 and then, taking her by the hand, he led her to her home. 
 
 Hortense de Carillo would fain have lived to complete 
 the work which she had so nobly conceived, but even now 
 above her grave the unseen chain was forming, which 
 would link those two young lives together. That this girl 
 should be the saving angel who would lift Duke's heart out 
 of the withered weeds in which it lay buried, had been the 
 cherished ambition of her heart. 
 
 Veronica lived with her mother in a pleasant home 
 which the generosity of the princess had provided for 
 them. She was now the youthful star of an opera com 
 pany which was about to travel, and they were to sing 
 only one night more in Paris. 
 
 " You will come to hear me sing," she said one even 
 ing to Duke and Pierre. "We are going away." The 
 
 ' 
 
 CAI 
 
62 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 girl longed that Duke should hear her and she felt that 
 his presence would be dearer to her than that of ten thous 
 and people. 
 
 Going to a theatre now would have been ghastly even 
 in thought to Duke and his friend, but it was " to hear 
 Veronica," and they would go. It was the last night of 
 opera in Paris, aye, and they little thought that it was the 
 last amusement that the gay city should see for a long 
 time, or that the red cloud of war which was now gathering 
 over unhappy France would drench the nation in blood 
 in a few weeks. 
 
 They went to hear the young debutante sing. They were 
 both very fond of music Pierre passionately so. They 
 found that the young Sicilian star was "all the rage." 
 People were wondering as they do when rich volumes of 
 music well up from the tiny bosom of a bird where the 
 wondrous wealth of voice came from, when they beheld 
 the small, frail form of the singer. 
 
 Veronica's voice had in it a rare quality; its strongest 
 notes were tremulous and sympathetic. It was a voice 
 " with tears in it " that seemed to reach the heart like a 
 balm, soothing and healing and awakening feelings that 
 lay deeply buried. It was like a magic key opening the 
 locked chambers of the heart and bringing forth goodness 
 that might have lain forever hidden. 
 
 Veronica came upon the stage nervously and looked 
 straight at the audience, as if she would fain find her 
 friends' faces. The poor child felt that the theatre would 
 be empty if they were not there. The small, child-like 
 form in its old-fashioned dress, the complete absence of 
 theatrical "make-up," and her perfectly natural manner, 
 brought her closely to the hearts of the people, and they 
 greeted her night after night with a generous meed of hon 
 est love in their applause. 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 63 
 
 When the opera was over they went to the green room 
 where her mother was waiting for her, and took them 
 home. Duke felt refreshed and pleased. This evening 
 had, indeed, bsen like an oasis in his desert, and Pierre 
 was in ecstasies with Veronica's singing. When they bade 
 her good night she came out to the door and held out her 
 hand the second time to Duke in a excess of child-like 
 pleasure. It had been a very happy night to her, they had 
 been her audience and she had sung only to them, and had 
 forgotten the rest of the people. 
 
 Whether it was her unconventional, trusting manner, or 
 the extremely youthful form, he could not tell, but Duke 
 could only look upon her as a child still like the little 
 singer in the streets of Florence and he stooped and 
 kissed the beautiful lips. 
 
 Two days later Pierre Lecroix joined the ranks of a 
 volunteer regiment to assist in the war against Germany, 
 and Duke flung himself into it with as much enthusiasm 
 as a desperate man could command. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Florence Denver was puzzled. Duke had gone away 
 so suddenly and had scarcely given any explanation; she 
 knew that someone was very ill and that was all. Duke 
 had told her so with poorly feigned unconcern, but his face 
 had contradicted it, and she knew that it was a deeper 
 grief to him than he would admit. 
 
 William Denver was pained to see him go away again 
 and felt that he was going to lose him just as he had 
 flattered himself that the boy had had enough of "that 
 confounded Paris with all its works and pomps." 
 
 Florence had loved to hold counsel with Duke about her 
 little fears and troubles, Milton was so very reticent and 
 Mrs. Grey was like a beautiful but sealed book to her, 
 and she was terribly afraid that Milton was falling in love. 
 The time for his return to college had come and gone 
 and he did not seem to notice it. 
 
 Mrs. Grey was, if possible, sweeter and kinder than ever, 
 but she very plainly avoided Milton. Florence would fain 
 have asked her about the matter, but there was always a 
 something in her manner that forbade any approach to it, 
 and she knew that the strangely silent woman could never 
 be questioned on any subject relating to herself. 
 
 Mrs. Grey had spoken lately about going away. Kata- 
 line could be sent to school now, and she gently intimated 
 that her presence would be no longer necessary. After 
 that Milton seemed to watch her movements more closely, 
 and availed himself of the smallest excuse to see and 
 speak to her, but she gave him little opportunity to do so, 
 until one day when Florence had driven to the depot in 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 65 
 
 the next town to meet Harold Hereford, who was coming 
 to spend a week at the farm. 
 
 Milton had seen Mrs. Grey walking in the garden alone. 
 She had done so since the spring days had come; she 
 loved to watch the tender green grass, that commenced to 
 peep above the ground, and the budding trees that already 
 showed a dim coloring of green. 
 
 She was standing at the farthest end of the garden, gaz 
 ing out upon the bleak expanse of country that had not 
 yet commenced to don its spring garb. She seemed to be 
 taking a long, last look at everything, and when she turned 
 to retrace her steps, there were tears in her eyes. Milton 
 was walking straight towards her; he was sorry to hear her 
 speak of going away, and at once attributed her tears to 
 that cause. With this thought in his mind, he said ' ' I hope 
 you are not going to leave us, Mrs. Grey, we would all miss 
 you very much." 
 
 She looked at him through the mist in her eyes, and 
 said quietly, " I shall be sorry to go. I have been very 
 happy here, but the time has come when I must return to 
 my home." They were walking towards the house now, 
 and he stopped and said, " Will you walk with me a little 
 more? I am also going away very soon." 
 
 " You are going back to college?" she said. 
 
 "No," he replied, " I am not going back." 
 
 " Not going back," she answered with a good deal of 
 surprise in her face, " not going to finish your studies?" 
 
 "No, Mrs. Grey," he replied, smiling. "I have lost 
 my vocation. I would make but a sorry churchman, at 
 best, and I have given up the notion entirely." 
 
 Mrs. Grey was not a Catholic, but she had a deep rev 
 erence for churchmen of any denomination, and regarded 
 any defection of this kind as little short of sacrilege. 
 
66 MARMAMUKE DENVER. 
 
 "Oh, no;" she said in a protesting way, "you must not 
 give up so easily." She was looking at him with beseech 
 ing eyes, and there was a weak quavering note in her voice. 
 " It was your own choice," she continued, "and you will 
 never be happy in any other path of life, and I think you 
 will return to it after after awhile." She seemed to 
 substitute the while for something else that was in her 
 thoughts just then. 
 
 " I don't think so," he replied. "I was never an enthu 
 siast about the matter. I shall never be a priest," he said, 
 turning and standing directly in front of her, "because I 
 love you, Mrs. Grey." 
 
 She must have known what was coming, and had been 
 prepared for it, because her answer was too methodical, 
 and came readily and coldly: 
 
 " I am very sorry for this, Mr. Denver, because I do not 
 love you." 
 
 Her answer did not seem to surprise him, and there was 
 a cool determination in his manner as his hand closed with 
 a tighter pressure upon hers. He did not seem disposed 
 to take this for an answer, because he did not believe her. 
 
 She was a strange woman in all her ways, and he had 
 half expected that she would also be different from other 
 women in her love affairs. He understood her enough to 
 know that begging or pleading with her would be utterly 
 useless; that a stronger will than her own would be the only 
 power that she would submit to. 
 
 To anyone else her answer would have seemed an 
 unnecessarily heartless one, but he did not think of it in 
 that way, because he did not believe it, and he was certain 
 that she was holdinga powerful rein upon her feelings. 
 
 "I must go into the house," she said, " Kataline is 
 alone;" and she tried to release her hand, which he still 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 67 
 
 held, but he raised it and held it now closely against his 
 bosom . 
 
 " Kataline is all right," he said, very coolly, " I hear 
 her at the piano. You shall not go until you tell me the 
 truth" 
 
 There was a quiet, but powerful mastery in his voice, 
 which she seemed to feel, and when he said, "We will 
 walk a little longer," she turned, without a word, and 
 walked very submissively beside him. When they had 
 reached the end of the walk, he turned and faced her 
 again, looking steadily into the eyes which she tried in vain 
 to avert from him. 
 
 " Madeline, I will not take that answer. You are a 
 truthful woman, and that was not the truth." There was 
 not an atom of entreaty in his tone. It was more like a 
 command. 
 
 "What is not true?" she answered weakly. " I have told 
 you nothing but the truth." 
 
 He could see that she was only trying to gain time to 
 parry; that she knew very well what he meant, but he gave 
 her no time. 
 
 " You said a moment ago that you did not love me; 
 that was not true. I know that you love me, and I want 
 you to say so." He was holding both her hands so tightly 
 that they must have hurt her, and kept his eyes upon her 
 almost sternly. 
 
 " I dare not. It would do no good," she almost wailed, 
 letting her head fall upon her bosom. 
 
 "But you do love me," he persisted, in the same 
 unchanged voice, if and you will tell me so now." 
 
 Her answer, which came slowly, was like an effort born 
 of infinite pain, and he had to bend low to catch it. 
 
 " Yes; but " 
 
68 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 His cruel grasp upon her hands relaxed in an instant, 
 and his arms were around her, drawing her closely to him. 
 
 " But it is useless," she began again; "I cannot there 
 is " but his lips prevented her from saying more. 
 
 " I don't care what you say, my love; I don't care what 
 the trouble is; I don't want to hear it. You love me, and 
 that will make everything right." 
 
 He little knew that because she loved him it would make 
 everything wrong and wretched, that il was what she had 
 most dreaded, and had sought to avoid; that because of 
 it her life would henceforth be, not one of happiness, but 
 of incurable pain. 
 
 They had entered the house now, and he led her to 
 a chair in the parlor; she could not have stood a moment 
 longer, and she sank into it in sheer exhaustion. He 
 brought a chair and sat near her, holding one of her hands 
 fondly in his. 
 
 " You are not sorry for telling me the truth, my darling," 
 he said, raising her hand to his lips. 
 
 " But you are to enter the church," she said, after a 
 little silence. "What would the world say of you and of 
 me ? Is it not considered, in your community, a sort of 
 disgrace to combat or renounce your vocation ?" 
 
 " I believe so," he said, a little impatiently, " but that 
 comes of our being so much a community of one idea. 
 If we were less so, we would be much happier. What is 
 the world to you and me, Madeline ?" he continued 
 warmly. " Why should its opinions hinder our happiness, 
 or hem us in? If you were my wife, I could laugh at the 
 worst verdict the world could give. We would be happy 
 enough to defy ten worlds." 
 
 "But we cannot," she replied sadly; "we cannot 
 always do what our hearts dictate." 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 69 
 
 " We have a right to do what our hearts dictate. We 
 should make our own world, and if we did, the other one 
 would soon forget us." 
 
 Mrs. Grey was standing now, and was nervously folding 
 and unfolding a scrap of paper, which she had taken from 
 the table. 
 
 " Your family, your father would never forgive me," she 
 said slowly. " They want you to be a priest; I can never 
 marry you, Milton." She had moved away from him, as 
 if to gather strength to say this. Whatever were her rea 
 sons for refusing him, this was plainly but an excuse with 
 which she tried to conceal the real cause. 
 
 An impatient answer rose to his lips, but he repressed 
 it, as he saw the terrible depth of pain in her eyes. He 
 followed her, and took her hands again. "That is all 
 nonsense, Madeline," he said; " thousands of men have 
 done the same. The Catholic Church does not want 
 luke-warm apostles, neither is it a tyrant that compels unwil 
 ling votaries. I am my own master, and shall choose for 
 myself. You shall be my wife, Madeline, and I will take 
 no refusal." 
 
 The noise of wheels warned them that Florence and 
 Harold Hereford had returned. Mrs. Grey^made a move 
 ment to leave the room, and he released her hand sud 
 denly, only to put both arms around her for a moment, 
 holding her close to him, and then let her go. 
 
 When she was gone, he stoopedand picked up the scrap 
 of crumpled paper which she had dropped. It was a 
 twisted unsightly thing, but every fold and crease could 
 tell more of mental misery, more of despair, than words 
 could ever have told. 
 
 Mrs. Grey went quickly to her room; she was glad to 
 get away. Her heart had been forming answers to his 
 
70 MARMADrKK DKNVER. 
 
 arguments, but she could not utter them while he was there 
 looking at her. It was only of /its happiness that she 
 thought now -there could be none for her. She should 
 let her hidden love burn itself out, even though it con 
 sumed her life. To keep suffering away from him, to con 
 vince him by some clever argument that they would be 
 better apart, were the things paramount in her thoughts. 
 
 Whatever her miserable secret was, it confronted her 
 now like a hideous spectre, and stood grimly between her 
 and her happiness pointing with a warning finger to the 
 danger lying in her path. She sat in the window, staring 
 with wide, dry eyes into the night, fighting the miserable 
 battle that had self for an opponent and self was 
 triumphant, and a heart-beaten woman left the window 
 only when the first faint streaks in the east warned her 
 that it was morning. 
 
 There was wonderful sunshine in Florence's face next 
 morning, when she came into Mrs. Grey's room and 
 kissed her in bed. 
 
 " Do you know that someone came last night ?'' she said. 
 " Try and guess who." 
 
 "Oh, easy enough to guess, my dear," said Mrs. Grey. 
 " How long is * somebody ' going to stay ?" 
 
 "Oh, maybe a week perhaps a whole day one can 
 never tell anything about his movements." 
 
 " Florence," said Mrs. Grey, after a pause, and she 
 made an effort to look cheerful, " I must begin to think 
 about going away very soon. Now don't say anything 
 against it, dear," she added, smiling, and putting her hand 
 over Florence's mouth; " mamma is getting quite anxious 
 for my return." 
 
 Florence's face fell upon hearing this. They had come 
 to look upon Mrs. Grey as a member of the family, and 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 they were anxious that she should remain with them. 
 Florence was thoughtful for awhile, and when she spoke 
 there was an unusual note of quiet resolution in her voice. 
 
 " Mrs. Grey, has will you tell me has Milton - 
 She had struck the right key, and before she could finish, 
 Mrs. Grey answered quickly, " Yes, Florence, he has 
 and now you know, dear," she added faintly, "that it is 
 time to go." 
 
 Florence arose silently, but stooped again and kissed 
 the pale face, without a word, and left the room. 
 
 Mrs. Grey complained of a headache, and did not leave 
 her room that day. Next morning, when Milton and 
 Harold had gone to the next town, she arose and walked 
 with Florence in the garden. They were both very silent 
 as people usually are who have much to say upon a subject 
 that both are loth to mention. It was a splendid spring 
 morning, and one could almost see the soft green buds un 
 folding, and the tender grass springing beneath their feet. 
 
 Mrs. Grey's eyes were humid, and she seemed to look 
 at things as if she was never to see them again the trees 
 and plants and promised flowers that she was never to see 
 in bloom. They were about to return to the house 
 neither of them having the courage to speak of the matter 
 which was uppermost in their thoughts. The noise of 
 wheels announced that Milton and Harold had returned, 
 and they had not reached the house before the young men 
 had seen them. Another moment and Milton was saying: 
 " Mrs. Grey, 1 believe you have not met Dr. Hereford." 
 
 It was well for Mrs. Grey that neither Milton nor Flor 
 ence could see her face just then, and Harold looked for a 
 moment as if he had seen a ghost. Mrs. Grey looked at 
 him with tightly-closed lips, and he seemed to understand 
 that she was imploring silence. Then Harold tried to say 
 
72 MARiMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 something pleasant, and they both regained composure 
 without being noticed. In a little while they all returned 
 to the house. They made a pretense of playing and sing 
 ing a little, but there seemed to be a weight upon everyone's 
 spirits, and they soon gave it up. 
 
 Mrs. Grey escaped to her room before the lights were 
 brought, and did not join them at supper. This woman's 
 misery had now reached its zenith. An hour later she lay 
 prone upon the floor of her room, despairing and defeated. 
 
 From her window she saw Dr. Hereford in the garden, 
 next morning, and went quietly out there and joined him. 
 
 He came quickly towards her, noting the terrible change 
 in her face since yesterday. When they had walked far 
 enough from the house, she turned a beseeching face to 
 him, and said hurriedly, " You will not tell them? You 
 will have pity on me, will you not? I am going away, and 
 they will never see me again. I should have gone long 
 before now, but it is so hard. I have been almost happy 
 here. But I am going now, only spare me," she continued 
 piteously, "and they shall never hear of me again." 
 
 "Yes, Miriam Walton," he said gently, " you will have 
 to go away, and at once. If Milton had not " Here she 
 laid a hand upon his arm, saying, " Florence has told you 
 that ? 
 
 " Yes," he answered, "she has told me. Only for 
 that 
 
 " Yes," she interrupted, "only for Hiat" 
 
 " I have tried to find you," he resumed, after a painful 
 pause, "but never thought of finding you here. That 
 name," he added, hesitatingly "Yes," she replied, "my 
 mother's. I thought it best." 
 
 " I am very sorry for you," he said, " but you know there 
 no alternative. You must go at once, and never let them 
 know where you are." 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 
 "Yes," she said, more as if following out a train of 
 thought, than in reply to him, "I must go away, and 
 never let them know where I am. Is is there no hope for 
 me ?" she asked, weakly. 
 
 "Oh, yes certainly," he replied, hastily, "but it will 
 take time perhaps years. I will do all that I can for you, 
 if you will let me know where to find you." 
 
 "You are very good, Dr. Hereford," she replied; "and 
 you promise not to tell them? Oh, it would be dreadful," 
 she continued, clasping her hands together, "to let them 
 know that all this time they have had such a thing as I am 
 amongst them." 
 
 "They shall never know, Mrs. Walton," he said kindly, 
 ' ' and if you wish to go to-morrow, I will take Milton away 
 for the day. Don't you think it would be better so?" 
 
 She answered mechanically, "Yes, it would be better so; 
 take him away." 
 
 At this moment they saw Milton coming towards them, 
 laughing and saying, " that he was getting abominably 
 jealous; another instance of the 'early bird,'" he added; 
 but his face fell when he saw the misery in Mrs. Grey's, 
 and the grave expression upon Harold's. 
 
 " Hereford," he said, trying to look cheerful, "Florence 
 wants the assistance you promised her last night, in the 
 new-fangled creation of coffee she awaits your highness in 
 the kitchen." 
 
 "All right," Harold replied, " make Mrs. Grey con 
 tinue her walk, she has her headache still," and he left 
 them. 
 
 When he had gone, Milton looked at her long and 
 searchingly. " You are ill, my darling," he said. 
 
 "Only a headache," she answered; "it is getting better." 
 
 "What has Dr. Hereford been saying to you, and why 
 
74 MAKMADIKK DKNVKR. 
 
 did you both look so grave this morning ? You seem 
 like old friends, too," he added, with a little touch of 
 resentment in his voice. 
 
 " Yes," she answered evasively, "I knew him many 
 years ago; but you have no right to be jealous," she added, 
 trying to turn the conversation into a cheerful channel, 
 " as long as Florence is not." 
 
 " Oh, that shows that Florence is not as much in love 
 as I am," he said; " if she were, she would not have been 
 so magnanimous about lending her lover to you this morn 
 ing." 
 
 "It shows that she has good sense, not to be jealous of an 
 old woman like me," she answered with a faint smile. 
 
 She was making a supreme effort to appear cheerful. 
 It was an Herculean task, when she felt like one who was 
 standing upon the verge of her grave, looking death in the 
 face, and actually feeling its cold current in her veins; 
 even with all her youth and beauty, with a man close to 
 her for whom her heart was full of love, who might bring 
 sunshine and happiness into her darkened life, could she 
 but dare but the hideous spectre that followed her had 
 said no, and she must per force obey it. 
 
 Kataline came to announce breakfast, and they returned 
 to the house with her. 
 
 Harold took Milton away to a distant farm next day, to 
 visit some old friends of his, and Mrs. Grey was thus given 
 the opportunity which she desired. Florence and she had 
 agreed that it was better not to let Milton know of her 
 departure. Florence could tell him that she had been 
 sent for hurriedly, and that she had promised to write to 
 him. 
 
 Florence was grieved, and her father, who little sus 
 pected the under-current of things, was satisfied only 
 
MAKMADUKE DENVER. 75 
 
 when she had promised to come back again. She had be 
 come closely interwoven in their affections and they found 
 it difficult to part. The two women had agreed that it was 
 better, and Florence had a secret hope that Milton would 
 return to college when she was gone. 
 
 Milton was terribly disappointed when he came home 
 in the evening and found that Mrs. Grey had gone. He 
 waited anxiously for the promised letter but it did not 
 come, and then, in spite of all remonstrances, he started 
 in search of her, and they saw nothing of him for a week. 
 At the end of that time he came back, appearing like a 
 ghost at Harold's door one night, as he was about to retire 
 to bed. 
 
 Harold asked him kindly if he had seen Mrs. Grey. 
 He had flung himself into a chair and answered with a 
 sullen ' 'No ! " After that he remained silent for a long time 
 with his head bowed upon his hands a thousand improb 
 able fancies were rushing through his brain. What was 
 the matter? had she hidden from him that one short week 
 had seemed to him like an eternity ? She might be sick, 
 perhaps dying; and now, also, the memory came back to him 
 of the trouble he had seen in her face the morning he had 
 found her walking with Harold in the garden, and out of 
 this grew a suspicion that Harold had something to do 
 with her going away, and now he flamed up angrily and 
 said: " I think you know something about her, Hereford; 
 tell me what you know." 
 
 Harold was very sorry for his friend, but hardly knew 
 what to say; in fact there was but very little that he could say 
 under the circumstances. He did not expect this question 
 and he hesitated before answering it, which made the 
 other still more suspicious. 
 
 " Yes, you know where she is," he added, "and you 
 are hiding it from me." 
 
76 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 Harold had no idea that Milton's feeling for Mrs. Grey 
 had been anything more than a mere fancy that would die 
 out when she had gone away. He would rather not have told 
 him what he knew of her, and besides he felt bound to 
 keep, in a measure, his promise to her. To guard against 
 the possibility of her return to the farm he had been 
 obliged to give Florence some reason, and he had told her 
 simply that Mrs. Grey was not a fit person to live among 
 them, and she did not question him further. But here was 
 something that he had not calculated upon the young 
 man before him was in a desperate mood and must be 
 answered. He saw also now that any attempt at con 
 cealment Mould only make matters worse; it must be told 
 to him, he thought, and he will then become disenchanted 
 with his unhappy idol. 
 
 " Milton," he said, in a very gentle voice, " Mrs. Grey 
 was not a fit person to live in this house." 
 
 This was like putting a match to a smouldering fire. 
 Milton was aflame instantly and before Harold knew what 
 he was about he had struck at him with his clenched hand. 
 
 "It is a lie," he shouted, "an infamous lie, and you 
 have a purpose in telling it; you drove her away and you 
 will find her by - 
 
 " Come out of here, Milton," begged Harold. " Come 
 out where Florence will not hear us, and I will tell you all 
 I know of this." He put on his slippers, and Milton 
 went out before him without a word. 
 
 "Now, sir," queried Milton, when they had reached 
 the garden, " tell me quick, and no more of your con 
 founded lies tell me where she is." 
 
 Harold kept his temper, and still spoke in the same 
 even tone: "Mrs. Grey is a dangerous lunatic, and has 
 been under my care for a year." 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 77 
 
 But he found that he was talking to a man who was 
 determined not to believe him; his great love for this 
 woman had blinded him to all reason. 
 
 "You are a liar and a coward, Harold Hereford, and 
 you are in love with her yourself . You know where she is, 
 and if you do not tell me, I will kill you." 
 
 It made no matter now that those two had been children 
 together, had been companions at school, and as men, 
 had been the warmest friends. Love and friendship were 
 swept entirely away by the demons of anger and jealousy. 
 
 Harold, who was the coolest and most forbearing, saw 
 now that there was little use in arguing the matter any 
 further, anything more that he could say and there was 
 worse still to be told would not help matters any, so he 
 said as quietly as he could, " I have nothing more to say, 
 Milton; I have told you the truth, and you are determined 
 not to believe me." 
 
 He did not want to quarrel with his old friend and school 
 fellow, he had taken no notice of the unjust names that he 
 had applied to him, his better judgment telling him that it 
 would be best to seemingly submit to anything that Milton, 
 in his present mood, would say. "You have wronged me," 
 he continued, "but you will find out that I am not deceiv 
 ing you." 
 
 But the other was getting more exasperated by the 
 coolness which Harold showed, and burst in with, " I 
 don't believe a word you say, and if you are not a worse 
 coward than I take you for you will meet me in the morning.'' 1 
 
 "Very well," Harold replied in the same even voice, 
 " any place you wish." 
 
 "The Hill field will do," answered Milton sullenly, 
 " what have you?" 
 
 "Colt's." 
 
78 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 "All right," answered Milton, "I'll find one. Five 
 o'clock," he called back, as he turned on his heel and disap 
 peared in the darkness. 
 
 Harold bitterly regretted the turn that affairs had taken, 
 and was sorry that he had not taken Florence into 
 his confidence, and told her the truth concerning 
 Mrs. Grey. Milton might have believed her, but 
 he certainly would believe neither of them now. He 
 went to his room and arranged his affairs as one might 
 who was certain of death in the morning. He cared little 
 for his own life, and the greatest regret he would have in 
 dying was for the gentle girl, who was to have been his 
 wife in a few months. It was hard to die because of this, 
 and he knew that in his present temper, Milton would try 
 to kill him, and he had resolved that he would not touch a 
 hair of Milton's head. 
 
 He was a brave man and was capable of making a gener 
 ous sacrifice, and he weakened only when he remembered 
 that he could not even say farewell to the girl whom he had 
 loved all his life; to hold her in his arms and kiss her for 
 the last time would make death less bitter. He even 
 thought of calling her and making some excuse for having to 
 leave unexpectedly, but he dared not trust himself, 
 there would surely be something in his last despairing em 
 brace that might arouse her suspicions. No, he must deny 
 himself even this. 
 
 He woulfl be obliged to go to a distant farm to procure 
 a young friend to act as second, and before he started he went 
 softly around to Florence's window and stood before it fora 
 minute. During that space of time he was an abject coward. 
 It was the most supreme moment in his life, and the weak 
 est. He felt, while standing there, that nothing on earth 
 could make him go, but he recalled himself by a 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 79 
 
 desperate effort and turned sharply away, hurrying from 
 the place; had he stayed there a moment longer his heart 
 would have broken, and Milton would have had a blood 
 less satisfaction. 
 
 He arrived with his friend at the " Hiil field " while it 
 was yet almost dark, and found Milton and his friend waiting 
 for them. The seconds, who were old friends, shook hands 
 sadly enough. Milton handed a case containing a pair of 
 bright, new revolvers to Harold, one of which he took 
 and silently returned the other. 
 
 The " Hill field " was about four miles from the house 
 and was quite secluded,bordered almost entirely around with 
 tall trees. The shadows in the early morning were gigantic 
 and reached far into the middle of the field this morning 
 they looked ominous and ghostly. There was promise of 
 a beautiful day for the rest of the living world. The deli 
 cate streaks of crimson and cream had begun to appear in the 
 east, and there was just light enough to show the faint fairy- 
 like glimmering of hoar frost upon the tender young grass. 
 The widening, glowing streaks of light shooting upwards 
 from their gorgeous dawn-bed in the east, promised a 
 gracious and peaceful spring day. 
 
 The few stars that still shone palely in the east seemed 
 to twinkle a farewell and a welcome, at the same time, to 
 the coming god of day, but these harbingers of beauty, and 
 peace, and harmony formed a strange and incongruous 
 frame to the ghastly picture beneath. 
 
 "Suit yourself about the distance, as near as you 
 please," Milton had said. Before Harold allowed himself 
 to be placed he walked up to Milton and said, "Take my 
 hand for Florence's sake, it is the last time, and then you 
 may kill me as soon as you please." 
 
 " No," replied Milton, savagely, "I would not touch 
 
8o MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 you; don't mention her name." That was all, and in 
 half a minute more they had faced each other, and 
 Milton's pistol rang out upon the air first. 
 
 Harold felt that he had been hit in the shoulder but he 
 did not fire. He could easily have killed his man now, but 
 instead, he flung his pistol away as far as he could, and kept 
 advancing towards Milton. 
 
 " Why don't you fire ?" cried the other, angrily. "I 
 want no favors from you," and he backed away from him 
 doggedly. 
 
 "I did not come here to kill you, Milton. You can 
 fire again and finish your work; then, perhaps, you will 
 believe that I have told you the truth." 
 
 The blood was now running in a thick stream down his 
 arm, and his shirt-sleeve, soaked with it, was clinging to 
 his wrist. 
 
 Milton had not been aware that he was wounded until 
 now, and the sight of the blood seemed to recall him to a 
 more rational state of mind. A dawning sense of his blind 
 injustice and brutality towards his old friend, brought a 
 flush of remorse and shame to his face. 
 
 " Hereford, - " he began, but by this time Harold had 
 become so weak that he was about to fall forward had not 
 the young men grasped him, each by the arm, and laid 
 him gently on the ground. 
 
 Milton's anger-wrought feelings had now changed to 
 remorseful horror, as the conviction that he had killed his 
 old friend and school-fellow came fully upon him, and he 
 felt that he was a murderer. 
 
 They stanched the bleeding as well as they could, and 
 lifted him into the carriage, which Milton had ordered, 
 and which had been waiting for the grim possibility of con 
 veying one or the other of them from the field. 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 8 I 
 
 They drove quickly to the Columbia Hotel in R n, 
 
 and the doctors pronounced the wound "not dangerous." 
 
 When Harold recovered consciousness, his first words 
 to Milton were, " Go home quickly, and tell Florence 
 that I had been summoned late last night to see a patient 
 who was in danger. Lose no time, Milton," he said 
 anxiously, "I am all right, old fellow; there, take my hand." 
 
 Milton wrung it in shame and silence, and then left him 
 to the care of the doctors. When he arrived at the farm, 
 he found Florence and his father in a state of painful 
 anxiety concerning their absence. He had accompanied 
 Harold, he said, and they had thought it best not to awaken 
 any one, hoping to be back before morning. "Harold," 
 he said, "might be delayed there a few days, the case 
 being more serious than they had expected." 
 
 A letter had come for Harold that morning marked, "in 
 haste," and Milton found it an excellent excuse for return 
 ing to R n at once. He found Harold very much 
 
 improved and in great spirits. He tried to make light of 
 the whole thing, and persisted in laughing at Milton's very 
 lugubrious countenance, and asserting that he was furiously 
 hungry. 
 
 Milton was thereupon dispatched in search of some 
 provender, and while he was gone Harold took up the 
 letter, saying, as he looked at the envelope, " I wonder 
 what this is!" It was a woman's hand, and strange to 
 him. He tore it open. It ran: * 
 
 " Come, all of you. Milton and Florence come quickly 
 in pity, I am dying. The stage will bring you in an hour 
 to ' Harshaw's ranch.' 
 
 MADELINE GREY." 
 
 "Doctor," he said, turning to Dr. Hale, "can you fix 
 me up for an hour's journey ? " 
 
 6 
 
82 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 "It would not be safe," he replied, "there is every 
 danger of inflammation. I don't like 
 
 "But I must go/' he persisted "there is no alterna 
 tive and at once." 
 
 When Milton returned he was astonished to find Harold 
 out of bed trying to dress himself, and arguing crossly with 
 the doctors. 
 
 "Milton," he said, "get a mouthful of something as 
 quickly as you can. I want you to do me another favor 
 I won't tell you until you have eaten something." 
 
 Milton, to please him, turned to the table which a 
 waiter had by this time fixed in the middle of the room, 
 and emptied a glass of sherry. "Now," he said, "your 
 commands, my lord." 
 
 " Get a carriage, quick, Milton, and go back for Florence; 
 we have found Mrs. Grey. Take that with you," he 
 added, putting the letter into his hand. "Don't lose a 
 moment." 
 
 Milton glanced at the note and saw all as if it had been 
 but one word, and rushed from the room. 
 
 Dr. Hale, to whom Harold had confided the matter, 
 agreed to accompany, them, and Milton having arrived in 
 a very short space of time they were all soon upon the 
 journey to " Harshaw ranch." 
 
 They found Madeline Grey in the secluded farm-house, 
 where she had hidden herself from the world for the last 
 time. The stricken mother, a veritable ghost herself, was 
 hovering around the death-bed of her only child, and 
 came out to the door to meet them. 
 
 ' ' Could they see her now ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, they could come in at once; she had been 
 waiting and could not die until she had seen them." 
 
 Florence was the first to enter the sick-room and the 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 83 
 
 pitiable, wan face brightened wonderfully when she saw 
 her. Then Harold came, but her eyes did not rest upon 
 him, but looked past him into the hallway. She could 
 see Milton away out there, and could read the agony upon 
 his face. He was coming in, and she held her arms out 
 to him, her eyes full of love and pity. 
 
 " There is nothing to come between us now, my darling," 
 she murmured, as he bent over her. "Oh, why did you 
 go away from me!" was all that he could say. " You shall 
 not die; you shall come home with us now." 
 
 The dying woman smiled sadly into his eyes. "No," 
 she said, " but you will stay with me to the last. My life 
 will be short now, but it will be very happy, because you 
 are here with me." He had raised her up and was hold 
 ing her in his arms. The end was, indeed, very near, but 
 he would not believe it, she looked so radiantly happy. 
 
 "I have had such a troubled life," she said, " but it is 
 gone now forever, and I am oh, so happy, and you will 
 be glad," she said softly, stroking his hair, " because I died 
 so happily but tell me, "she added, imploringly, "that 
 you have not been angry with Dr. Hereford. I dreamed 
 last night that there was some some trouble Here she 
 glanced from one to the other with the keen perception of 
 the dying, and guessed what they would have given worlds 
 to hide. 
 
 "Come here, Florence," she said, in a voice that was 
 now wonderfully strong and clear, "and you, Dr. Here 
 ford I have not strength to tell them. I want you to 
 explain to to tell them what /have been what I am. 
 You will not ?" she said, seeing his head droop, " then 
 I will have to do it, but, oh," she added shuddering, "it 
 is hard to tell. Wait until I am dead, Dr. Hereford, and 
 then it will be but no," she resumed in a calmer voice, 
 
84 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 "it is better that /should tell it. Florence, Milton, I have 
 been an unhappy lunatic for more than five years. It was 
 inherited from my poor father, and I was not aware that / 
 had the terrible malady, until after my marriage, when my 
 first child was born. When it was a year old," here a 
 terrible spasm of pain crossed her face, <( I destroyed it, and 
 and a few months afterwards," here she looked appeal- 
 ingly at Dr. Hereford, but he only said, "There is nothing 
 more to tell, Mrs. Grey, nothing more." "Oh, yes," she 
 answered, "this this, that I destroyed my husband also." 
 
 " My poor darling," said Milton, "why speak of these 
 things? Your cure is almost complete now. Dr. Hereford," 
 he added, looking appealingly to him, "says, that it has 
 nearly died out and " 
 
 '* Yes, my poor love," she interrupted, " I am all 
 right until I love that is my madness. I want to kill the 
 beings that I love most. Had I never met you " here 
 her arms closed around Milton's neck. The poor, over 
 strained heart drank in one last, long draught of happiness, 
 and then must have broken. When Milton raised his 
 head again, there was a sweet smile upon her dead lips. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A year had passed away. Milton had gone back to 
 college, and was about to fulfill the dearest wish of 
 Florence's heart by preparing for his ordination. 
 
 It was within three months of Florence's wedding, and 
 the old farm-house was gaily alive with preparations. 
 Katalme was masquerading in Florence's bridal dress and 
 sailed demurely up to her father, who had grown very gray 
 of late, and his eyes filled with tears as he kissed the mock 
 bride, and then she was captured by Florence just in time 
 to save the magnificent train from being tampered with by 
 an irrepressible cat. 
 
 There was only one shadow upon Florence's happiness 
 lately it was that there was no letter from Duke. They had 
 heard of his career from the papers a brilliant one -and 
 of the honors which would have been heaped upon him, 
 had he cared for them. 
 
 They were proud of his deeds, and did not know of the 
 despairing recklessness which had given birth to them. 
 
 The war of 1870-71 was over, and the sun shone as 
 brightly on the blood-stained fields of France, as if it had 
 never happened. 
 
 Duke and his friend were back again in Paris, beaten, 
 tear-stained, but still living Paris, in which the con 
 querors were still revelling over their victory. 
 
 The excitement of war had been a sort of buoy that held 
 Duke from sinking in the ocean of his sorrow, but now 
 that it was over the old vacuum in his heart made itself 
 felt again, and he could almost have wished that it had 
 lasted longer, for even that which had brought sorrow and 
 
86 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 death to many, had brought at least oblivion, to him. 
 Paris now indeed was like a huge sepulchre, it was the 
 grave of his happiness. 
 
 In his grief for his country's defeat, Pierre Lacroix had 
 ignored an ugly sword cut upon his arm, and his great, 
 loving heart and brain were already" planning a new ruse 
 whereby he would courageously "take the bull by the 
 horns," and strangle this beast of melancholy, which had 
 so fatal a hold upon his blithe young friend, and , when 
 things looked the most hopeless to the vivacious young 
 Frenchman, he was wont to infuse a dash of desperation 
 into his plans, and could thereby actually accomplish 
 seemingly impossible things. 
 
 ''What are you going to do, Pierre?" said Duke, a few 
 days after they had arrived in Paris. "What are your 
 plans de campagne now?" 
 
 This was exactly the opening Pierre had wished for, and 
 he replied briskly, " You mean, what are we going to do, 
 man comrade. Remember that we are artist brothers, sol 
 dier brothers, brothers in misfortune, brothers in everything. 
 I refuse to be separated from you. I cannot work without 
 you. You have become, in fact, my necessary sail devil, 
 if you like. I cannot live without you, and shall not leave 
 you unless you kick me out; and you will have to kick me 
 before I go." 
 
 Duke could not help laughing. It was all said in the 
 Frenchman's own serio-comic style, but there was an un 
 mistakable chord of seriousness ringing in every word. 
 
 " Very well, Pierre," said Duke, " but I shall be sorry 
 to burden your life with such gruesome companionship as 
 mine is sure to be, but you won't be able to endure it very 
 long, and then you are at liberty to kick me out." 
 
 " Laboremus" said Pierre, meditatively, as if he had not 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 87 
 
 noticed Duke's reply, " that is the watchword now. Mon 
 Dieu!" he murmured still to himself. " We must work. 
 We are homeless beggars, beaten soldiers. We are nothing. 
 Let us be something. We are nobodies, and have no right 
 even to growl. Let us be something, first, and then growl 
 because we are not greater." 
 
 Duke laughed until his heart really felt lighter, and they 
 did not go to bed that night until he had succeeded in 
 making Duke take an interest in the earnest work which 
 they were about to commence at once. 
 
 " Work is the thing for him the very best medicine," 
 thought Pierre, " and I will keep him hard at it; and my 
 name is not Lacroix if I give him time to think." 
 
 Pierre had also cautiously and cunningly instituted a 
 short disquisition now and then upon the subject of melan 
 choly, adroitly substituting Veronica Venella as an example. 
 Only a loving heart could conceive the ruse. 
 
 Duke had not yet visited Pere-la-Chaise. In fact, he 
 could not escape long enough from Pierre to go there 
 alone, Pierre having magnanimously promised to accom 
 pany him "when he could spare time," and resolutely 
 ignored the fact that Duke would have preferred to go 
 alone. In his inmost heart Duke had felt obliged to 
 accuse him of a slight want of delicacy in this matter, but 
 he said nothing. War makes men regardless of the finer 
 feelings, and Pierre, he thought, must certainly have lost 
 much of the consideration which he had had for his 
 Duke's feelings. 
 
 And strangely, too, it was not of Duke's grief that he 
 talked now, it was of Veronica's. He never seemed to 
 think of Duke's loss any more, it was always of Veronica's; 
 he talked about it night after night, depicting in sorrowful 
 colors the loss of the poor girl's only friend in the death of 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 the princess. Now, indeed, he spoke of the princess only in 
 relation to her lovely protege. It was no longerthe woman 
 who had died for love of Duke Denver, and there was 
 nothing to be regretted now but the heart-breaking of the 
 tender girl who had been loved and cared for by her. 
 
 Pierre could draw the most pathetic pictures of the 
 sorrows of the girl thus rudely severed from her bene 
 factress and thrown now, no doubt, among an element 
 which must surely be repugnant to her exquisite feel 
 ings. He (Pierre) could not bear to go to Pere- 
 la-Chaise and find her; they would be sure to find 
 her there weeping the life out of her young heart, and 
 why should they, strong fellows, yet with plenty of 
 work in them, worry about anything. Should they not 
 rather do something to save this gentle child from the 
 grave which her grief was surely digging for her ? They 
 should at least try. Poor Veronica! 
 
 His plans were succeeding admirably. By continually 
 striking upon the sad chord in Duke's heart he had 
 almost deadened it, and had fully awakened his sympathies 
 for Veronica. 
 
 Duke was forgetting his own sorrow; he would now, 
 indeed, be ashamed to have pitted it against that of the 
 girl whose life must have been a very sad one since. 
 
 " It seems strange," said Duke, one day, "how we had 
 almost forgotten her." 
 
 "/ never forgot her," answered Pierre, loftily. "I 
 thought of her very often, indeed, and I am anxious to see 
 her again, very anxious," he continued, with a furtive 
 glance at Duke. 
 
 The other looked at him, wonderingly, but said nothing. 
 One day, when he thought he had escaped the lynx eye of 
 Pierre, he went to the cemetery with more of the lonely 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 89 
 
 Veronica in his thoughts than had ever been there before. 
 He might have gone to her house, but a feeling that he 
 should like to meet her again at the grave seemed to 
 influence him. He had been thinking about her a good 
 deal lately, and Pierre's eloquent portrayal of her sorrow 
 had wrought powerfully upon his kindly heart, and he felt, 
 indeed, that he would have been very much disappointed 
 if he did not find her in Pere-la-Chaise that day, and 
 the hope grew stronger until it outweighed the motives that 
 had hitherto drawn him there. 
 
 The evening shadows were dimming the dazzling 
 whiteness of the marble in Pere-la-Chaise. When he 
 found himself again at the cherished grave a great 
 wave of grief swept over him, opening afresh the miser 
 able wound in his heart. A feeling that Veronica 
 was near, that she would surely come to share his grief, had 
 in it a sort of balm. When he had breathed a reverent prayer 
 for the beloved dead he thought again of the young face which 
 he had kissed here over the grave, and he was glad that he 
 had kissed her, although it had been a somewhat selfish act 
 on his part then it was as if he would rob her of the last 
 kiss which the dear dead lips had left there, but he was 
 glad now that he had done it and thought, too, that if 
 he should ever kiss her again it would be more for Ver 
 onica's sake than that of the loved one gone. 
 
 It had grown dark, and he had not noticed it. He was 
 still standing there in deep thought, when two women 
 approached the grave. He felt sure that one of them must 
 be Veronica. Would she recognize him was his first 
 thought. He knew that he was very much changed. He 
 was standing in the deepest shadow, so that they could 
 scarcely see him until they had come very close. Veron 
 ica, for it was she, was talking to the older woman, who 
 
90 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 was evidently her mother, and her voice, he thought, had 
 sad notes in it like the music of an /Kolian harp, and it 
 thrilled him as he listened. 
 
 Veronica laid some flowers upon the tomb, and in 
 doing so, saw him, and started back in affright, but it was 
 only for a second, and then she went quickly around to 
 where he stood even in the dim light she had recognized 
 him then she stopped, as if ashamed of her boldness, and 
 murmured falteringly: 
 
 " Monsieur Denver?" 
 
 They were only a few feet apart now, and he opened 
 his arms without a word, but there was a world of love and 
 joy in his eyes, and a prayer of deep thankfulness in his 
 heart, as she went straight into his arms, and laid her face 
 against his bosom. 
 
 Truly, across that holy grave the unseen chain of love 
 had at last linked those two young hearts together. 
 
 When he had, as he thought, outwitted Pierre that 
 day, and had succeeded on reaching the cemetery alone, 
 that individual had been perfectly cognizant of his doings, 
 and when Duke was clearly out of sight, he proceeded to 
 indulge in a grin of such diabolical nature and dimensions 
 as would have astonished anyone who had the luck to 
 witness it. His " prophetic powers," which were coming 
 into play again, told him that Veronica would be in the 
 cemetery, and that Duke would be sure to meet her there. 
 Had Duke gone any place else but there he would have 
 been anxious and impatient for his return, but he sat now 
 smoking contentedly, seeing wonderful pictures in the 
 smoke-wreaths in which Duke and Veronica were the 
 happy figures. 
 
 Duke came home late that night, with a rather bashful 
 air, and a very happy light in his eyes, upon seeing which 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 91 
 
 Pierre proceeded to behave himself in an atrocious and 
 unaccountable manner. First, he sent his shoe through 
 the canvas, upon which he had worked industriously the 
 day before, upon a head of Petrarch. 
 
 He then put on his boxing gloves and sparred furiously 
 at Duke, who knew nothing of the noble art, until he, 
 Duke, was sore all over. When he had tired of that, he 
 practiced the "William Tell trick" upon a valued bust of 
 Chaucer, and was seemingly overjoyed when he succeeded 
 in knocking the nose off. If it was exuberance of spirits 
 Duke thought it was brandy he cught to have been satis 
 fied by this time, but to Duke's alarm, when the landlord 
 came up to enquire what all the noise was about, Pierre 
 ordered a supper which would have appalled a millionaire 
 ordered it with the air of a prince and concluded by mak 
 ing the landlord, a venerable old man of sixty years, stoop, 
 while he performed a complicated feat of leap-frog over him. 
 After that, he sat down, from sheer exhaustion, and dropped 
 into a meditative mood, which lasted until the supper was 
 announced, and which he ate with as much gusto as if he 
 knew how it was going to be paid for. 
 
 " Eat, my friend," he said, waving his hand towards 
 Duke. " We are but creatures of the moment; let us 
 enjoy each one as if it were to be the last. What do we 
 know about a future? Why worry about it ? Who can 
 assure us of an hour's existence ? Then let us get all we 
 can out of the present one. Fall to, man," seeing that 
 Duke was regarding "the lay-out " with a stare of dismay. 
 "It is the rich," he continued, "who should fast, the 
 gourmand, the glutton, the gorged. Why should we not 
 feast? What is left to us when luck fails us ? An appetite! 
 When the fortunes of war go against us, when love is 
 denied us, when friends desert us, what stays with us? Oh, 
 
92 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 what indeed, but our faithful appetites ? They cheer and 
 console us, and lift us out of the mire of melancholy. 
 Here's to the appetite, Duke, let us respect it. Fill your 
 glass, old man more more fill it to the brim. Now, 
 then, if we die to-morrow," he continued, laying down 
 his empty glass, " we shall die like gentlemen, and let the 
 devil pay the piper." 
 
 When the table had been cleared away, and they had 
 settled down for a comfortable smoke, the little French 
 man grew very serious, and again relapsed into deep 
 thought. 
 
 "What are you thinking about now, Pierre?" said 
 Duke, "trying to sift some sense out of all that nonsense?" 
 
 " Yes, and no," replied Pierre. " I was just wondering 
 if I could persuade some woman to marry me. I'm 
 getting old and lonely, mon comrade" he added, with a 
 sigh, " and am, in fact, tired of myself. Now, if I be 
 longed to somebody else to some nice woman, for instance, 
 I would begin to set some value upon myself again; in fact, 
 I would take a little more interest in the respectable 
 married Monsieur Lacroix." 
 
 "What are you going to do with me ?" Duke asked, 
 laughing. "If you cast me out what will become of me ?" 
 
 " Go and do likewise," Pierre replied, with a grin. "If 
 you don't, you are no longer respectable in my eyes. A 
 man without a wife is an incomplete animal at best an 
 incomplete animal, and should have no consideration. He 
 is a useless spoke in the world's wheel, a soulless, selfish, 
 loveless weight. Duke," he said, changing his tone sud 
 denly, "whom did you see to-day?" 
 
 Duke blushed to the roots of his hair, but he answered 
 simply, " Veronica." 
 
 "Veronica," echoed Pierre, " alive and well. I was 
 
MARMADUKE DENVER. 93 
 
 afraid something might have happened to her,'* here two 
 great big tears actually rolled down his face, "and we had 
 almost forgotten her beasts." Duke could not resist the 
 great womanish tears and they unlocked the secret which 
 he would have hidden a little longer. " She is alive and 
 well, Pierre," he said, his eyes shining with a suspicious 
 moisture, "and and " 
 
 " And she has consented to marry you, you dear old 
 goose," Pierre shouted; " you beloved old sneak, and you 
 are going to desert me, you unfaithful wretch, and I am 
 the man with the 'broken heart' now." He was holding 
 Duke around the neck with a grip that tightened with each 
 word and he let go only when Duke reminded him that he 
 did not wish to die of strangulation. Then he released him 
 rather reluctantly and went to see if there was anything 
 left to drink to Veronica's health and then he sat down 
 and vowed that he was "going to be an American." 
 
 " Duke," he said, quite seriously, "don't all your great 
 men begin by being beggars, or backwoods men, or some 
 thing of that sort ? I want to begin life all over again. I 
 want to be re-born in America and thereby become a sort 
 of cousin to you, mon ami."" 
 
 "All right, old man, you shall" replied Duke, " you 
 shall come over there with me, and begin your great 
 career as soon as you please." 
 
 And it turned out that there were two weddings instead 
 of one at the farm, and Pierre and Veronica's mother were 
 there, and they go over regularly every year and spend 
 three months there, and William Denver is the happiest 
 old man in the country because his favorite boy has given 
 up the "crazy picture business," and settled down to 
 "decent farm life," and moreover he had the sweetest 
 little wife in the world. 
 
94 
 
 MARMADUKE DENVER. 
 
 When Florence and her husband came to visit them 
 they compared babies, which were always ridiculously 
 alike in looks and years, and such occasions were gener 
 ally like Fourth of July celebrations on a small scale. 
 
 And there is forever enshrined in the hearts of the young 
 farmer and his wife, a saint, whose grave is in Pere-la- 
 Chaise, and their memory of her has become a holy rever 
 ence into which grief and regret no longer enter. 
 
 The mother of Madeline Grey did not long survive the 
 death of her unfortunate child, and William Denver pro 
 vided comfortably for her remaining years. 
 
Oql 
 
 "Why Ella, child, what have you been doing ?" exclaimed 
 Mrs. Winter, raising her hands and eyebrows in mild sur 
 prise, as a beautiful girl stood before her with an armful of 
 flowers. Great crimson roses mingled their dewy loveli 
 ness with pure white ones, and velvet pansies lay with 
 their faces half hidden beneath a tangle of heliotrope and 
 srnilax. 
 
 "Oh, these are for Willie, mamma!" replied the fair 
 culprit, laying her beautiful burden upon a table, and she 
 picked out a yellow rosebud, which well deserved its 
 name, " Gold of Ophir," and pinned it in her mother's 
 bosom an act which immediately disarmed the old lady of 
 rising displeasure, Ella's depredations among her beloved 
 flowers being of frequent occurrence. 
 
 Mrs. Winter had been a widow for many years, her 
 husband, a California miner, having, in mining parlance, 
 " passed in his checks, "leaving her in comfortable circum 
 stances, and she lived a secluded life, with her only 
 child, in a pretty suburb of San Francisco. 
 
 Willie Gaynor was a distant cousin, whom Ella had 
 never seen, but she was almost in love with a handsome 
 boyish face, which looked at her from an old daguerreotype 
 upon the mantelpiece, and whose somewhat saucy mouth 
 she had often furtively kissed. His father had written 
 that he was coming to spend a vacation with them. 
 
96 ONLY A TRAMP. 
 
 " I trust, dear Margaret," ran the letter, "that he shall be 
 the link which will unite again the chain of our long 
 severed, but never forgotten friendship." 
 
 And now Ella was about to behold her girlish ideal, 
 whom her imagination had so often pictured! 
 
 He lived " away up" in the mountains where they dis 
 embowelled the earth of its golden treasures, and to Ella's 
 romantic mind must belong to the primitive heroes 
 depicted by Joaquin Miller and Prentice Mulford. 
 
 To-day was a very happy one for Ella. The sun was 
 certainly brighter, the flowers had a sweeter perfume, and 
 seemed to have gained more radiant colors. They are 
 waiting fora letter, which would tell the time of his arrival. 
 Ella gazes expectantly towards the gate, and is at last 
 rewarded by the appearance of the gray-coated postman, 
 whose homely face looks positively handsome to her 
 this morning. With a dexterous twist of finger and thumb, 
 " the result of constant practice," he sends a letter flying 
 up the garden path, and as Ella runs lightly towards him, 
 it lands softly and significantly against her lips, and then 
 drops at her feet. She picked it up with a blush, which 
 put all the pretentious pink flowers in the garden to shame. 
 
 The letter is for her this time the first she has ever 
 received from her cousin, and her hands tremble as she 
 tears open the envelope. She walked back through the 
 garden slowly, and Mrs Winter coming to the window is 
 just in time to see the joyous, expectant look die out of her 
 face, and an expression of the deepest disappointment 
 succeed the happy one which brightened it a moment 
 ago. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, Willie says he cannot leave for a month. 
 I'm so sorry." There is a sad cadence in her voice as 
 she softly utters the word "sorry," which would have told 
 
ONLY A TRAMP. 97 
 
 Mr. Gaynor a good deal could he have heard it. A great 
 big sigh accompanied her words, as she looked regretfully 
 at the flowers which she had gathered especially for him, 
 and which now seemed to droop their lovely heads in 
 unison with her sorrow, but young hearts are made of very 
 elastic material, and blithesome Ella was soon herself again. 
 
 I hope my reader will not find fault with my heroine 
 when I disclose the fact that she never tried to conceal a 
 strong partiality for dogs. They were her playmates and 
 faithful protectors in childhood and all of the dignity of 
 young ladyhood lacked power to banish them from her side 
 now. Great, shaggy fellows, with big, affectionate brown eyes, 
 were her especial favorites, but every canine, from the petted 
 pug to the slim and graceful greyhound, had a place in her 
 affections, but in all her life she never had occasion to find 
 fault with any of them until to-day, when her prime favor 
 ite covered her with shame and humiliation. 
 
 This is how it happened: Donning her big sunhat and 
 calling her pet, Nigger, and a small specimen named 
 Ruby, she sallied forth for her usual ramble, with spirits as 
 light as if the disappointment of the morning had never 
 occurred. All went well until Nigger encountered a 
 casual acquaintance, in the shape of a pugilistic-looking 
 black dog, who was evidently on the "war-path." He 
 sniffed around Nigger for a few moments and then threw 
 down the glove, so to speak. Nigger, to his eternal dis 
 grace, lent an unwilling ear to the agonized entreaties of 
 his young mistress, wavered just a moment and then "went 
 for his opponent with a vim which promised to make 
 ' things lively ' all around." The " small specimen " made 
 a few spasmodic dashes toward the combatants, but deem 
 ing ' ' discretion the better part of valor " in this case, sat 
 down at a safe distance and watched the fight uneasily. 
 
98 ONLY A TRAMP. 
 
 Ella is in despair and looks vainly around for help; 
 espying a stick she picks it up and pokes aimlessly at the 
 dogs, in a futile effort to separate them. She has just 
 given up all hope, when, to her great relief, a man appears 
 upon the scene. He is grimy and ragged, but she takes 
 no notice of it, but begs him, earnestly, to save her pet 
 from the monster who is bent upon devouring him. An 
 amused smile flickers around the man's mouth for an 
 instant as he looks at her, then grasping a dog with each 
 hand, he flings one clear over the fence and is about to 
 fling the other in an opposite direction, but Ella grasps 
 him by the coat sleeve and claims her dog, all dirty and 
 disgraced as he is. 
 
 "I am very grateful, indeed," stammered Ella, as she 
 held out her hand with some money toward the stranger, but 
 he took no notice of her action, and lifting his apology for 
 a hat, with a bow which would have done honor to a Ches 
 terfield, was soon out of sight. 
 
 That identical tramp, for such he proved to be, called at 
 Mrs. Winter's cottage a few days later, and Ella recognized 
 her casual acquaintance, and in truth he looked the typi 
 cal tramp from his shirt-button, conspicuous by its 
 absence, to his dusty shoes. 
 
 Mrs. Winter's pet aversion was a tramp; the very name 
 suggested fire, and robbery, and murder; every rag and 
 tatter had a terror for her, and when, perchance, she did 
 give employment to such people, it was under the pressure 
 of stern necessity, and always with fear and trepidation. 
 
 An anxious and hurried consultation with Jane in the 
 kitchen disclosed the fact that the split kindling was 
 exhausted, and upon the assurance of that intrepid person 
 that she would " keep an eye on him," she was permitted 
 to lead him to the wood-pile. 
 
ONLY A TRAMP. 99 
 
 After sitting him down to dinner in the kitchen, Jane, 
 acting upon pre-arrangement, took the liberty of giving Mrs. 
 Winter "a wink," whereupon that wise and worthy woman 
 ensconced herself behind a convenient ambush, and pro 
 ceeded to study Mr. Tramp. 
 
 For the first time in her life the good woman's opinion 
 wavered. The hat which nearly concealed his face when 
 she first saw him, was now laid aside, disclosing to view a 
 broad, white forehead, surmounted by a handsome crop of 
 brown curls; his face was not over clean, but there was no 
 mistaking the beauty in every line of it; a very youthful 
 face, with not even the shadow of a mustache to hide the 
 clear-cut, refined mouth. Truly, she " came and saw, and 
 was conquered." The kind, motherly heart even felt a 
 gentle thrill of pity for this poor boy, whose face, strangely 
 enough, brought the memory of a dear dead boy back to 
 her as she gazed. 
 
 " I will find some work for him," she said to herself. 
 
 She thought also of the flower garden, which needed 
 looking after, and resolved to give him work for a few 
 weeks. 
 
 They were soon busy among the weeds and flowers, 
 Ella, and even Mrs. Winter taking a hand. The tramp 
 proved himself a valuable acquisition. He preserved a 
 stolid silence unless when spoken to. He never recalled 
 the incident of the dog-fight, and looked blankly at Ella, 
 as if he had never before seen her. 
 
 Ella thought there was something interesting in this slen 
 der, brown-eyed youth, who so badly played the role of 
 tramp. 
 
 Owing to her secluded life, Ella Winter's ideas of men 
 and things had been mostly gathered through the doubtful 
 medium of the modern novel, therefore, she cannot be 
 
100 ONLY A TRAMP. 
 
 blamed if her romantic and highly imaginative mind found 
 food and ample exercise in the daily study of this man, 
 who was a perplexing mixture of gentleman and vagabond. 
 They actually found it difficult to address him as an infe 
 rior, his manner leaving them in doubt as to his social 
 standing among them, and Mrs. Winter had evidently 
 divested herself of all her old prejudice and fears concern 
 ing tramps generally. 
 
 "What do you think of our gardener now, mamma?" 
 inquired Ella one morning over her teacup. 
 
 "Oh, I think he's just splendid," answered her mother, 
 looking radiantly at Ella through her glasses. 
 
 "What do you think I found him doing yesterday ?" 
 went on Ella. 
 
 Mrs. Winter looked up now and a shade of alarm crossed 
 her face. Was she mistaken, after all ? Was this fellow 
 but her fears were allayed by the smile upon Ella's face. 
 " I surprised him reading this" said Ella, triumphantly 
 holding up a small edition of " Les Miserables " in French. 
 
 "Oh, you should see him blush, mamma, and I think he 
 was angry, too, for when I apologized, and told him to con 
 tinue reading, would you believe it, he hardly thanked 
 me." 
 
 The momentary doubt which crossed Mrs. Winter's 
 mind, brought a little qualm of conscience with it. Did 
 she do right, she questioned herself, in allowing her fears 
 to be allayed by the fair face of the vagrant, who might be 
 a thief or murderer in disguise ? 
 
 The toast is drying up and the muffins are growing cold, 
 but neither of these ladies seem to have any appetite this 
 morning. Mrs. Winter's thoughts reverted to Willie Gay- 
 nor, and an earnest wish formed itself in her mind that he 
 would come very soon. 
 
ONLY A TRAMP. IOI 
 
 Ella is helping the tramp to tie up some rose trees 
 to-day, and drawing him into conversation, he aston 
 ishes her by his knowledge of books and their authors. 
 His face lights up with enthusiasm, completely transform 
 ing the man. He speaks with rare judgment, and evinces 
 undoubted taste and culture, but he soon checks himself 
 as if by an effort, and assumes again his servile and almost 
 sullen manner. He is more than ever an enigma to her. 
 A few hours later he presented her with an exquisite half- 
 blown rose, and she accepted it from this handsome tramp 
 with as much grace and thanks as if it had been given her 
 by a prince, aye, and blushed to her chagrin under his 
 gaze, as she pinned it in her bosom. 
 
 There is not a word spoken about Willie Gaynor now, 
 although he is expected in another week, and Ella wonders 
 even to herself why she bo seldom thinks of him. She has 
 certainly lost much of the fervor with which she regarded 
 his coming a month ago. She is afraid to question her 
 heart, which could tell her a strange story from which she 
 would almost recoil, could it give voice to the truth. For 
 all troubles Ella invariably found a panacea in a chase with 
 her beloved dogs. Calling " Nigger and Ruby," she held 
 up a dainty forefinger, and then admonished them: "Nig 
 ger, if you quarrel with any of your relatives to-day, you 
 shall never, never come out with me again." The dogs 
 winked in an apologetic way, and wagged their tails in a 
 manner suggestive of compliance." Tying her ample sun- 
 hat under her chin, and putting tramps, troubles and 
 cousin out of her mind, for the time, she set out for her 
 beloved chase. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Winter is holding an anxious and 
 confidential confab with Jane in the pantry. She ques 
 tions her closely concerning the movements, demeanor 
 
102 ONLY A TRAMP. 
 
 and possible designs of the still-to-be-feared tramp, to all 
 of which Jane gives the most favorable answers, more 
 over, winding up with an emphatic assurance of his being, 
 to her mind, "a perfect gentleman, never asks a question, 
 and always, speaks to her (Jane) as if she were a born 
 lady." The warmth and enthusiasm of the girl's defense 
 showed plainly enough that he had captured that side of the 
 citadel, but she is still in doubt and uncertainty, and is 
 glad that the time of Willie Gaynor's arrival is near at 
 hand. 
 
 Ella finds herself a long distance from home; her nerves 
 are at their highest tension to-day, and excitement renders 
 her oblivious of time. The lengthening shadows warn her 
 that it is growing late. Nigger and Ruby begin to look up 
 appealingly to their young mistress, who, as yet, shows no 
 sign of returning. She is walking now 7 down a steep 
 and rugged decline, an old water-course, whose rough 
 stones, and fragments of rock make it extremely hazardous. 
 She is thinking deeply, and takes little heed of her sur 
 roundings. Stepping upon a stone which looks firmly 
 imbedded in the ground, it turns treacherously; she bal 
 ances upon it for a moment, then falls forward heavily. 
 She attempts to rise, but to her dismay finds that her 
 ankle is sprained, and sinks down with a cry of pain. 
 There was little prospect of help in that desolate place. She 
 wondered despairingly, what w^ould become of her. In her 
 extremity, she clung to Nigger, who whined piteously in 
 sympathy with her. It was quite dark now. Nigger, real 
 izing the hopelessness of the situation, set up a dismal and 
 prolonged howl, which was, had he but known it, the 
 most effectual mode of assistance he could have rendered, 
 for it fortunately reached the ear of a solitary wanderer, 
 who was about to betake himself to his quarters for the 
 
ONLY A TRAMP. 103 
 
 night. He stood still for a moment and listened; again 
 the melancholy cry was wafted on the night breeze, this 
 time more distinctly. He set out quickly in the direction 
 of the sound, and in a short time was beside our unlucky 
 heroine. She looked up with great tearful eyes, full of 
 thankfulness, to behold the "tramp." 
 
 "Oh! Fm so glad/' she began brokenly, "I think I 
 should have died here, if you had not come." 
 
 "And Fm so sorry that you have hurt yourself," he 
 answered, with tender compassion in his voice. Presently 
 he kneels down, and lifts her from her painful position. 
 There is a softness in his touch, and a womanly tenderness 
 .in his movements, that fills her with a sense of rest and 
 protection. She looked at him wonderingly, and can 
 scarcely believe that he is the same person. 
 
 She is obliged to lean her head against him, and as it 
 was a case of absolute necessity, no thought of compro 
 mising her dignity entered her head. Together they dis 
 cuss the best means of getting home. She advises him to 
 go to the cottage for the basket carnage, to which he 
 agrees after some argument, but when he is ready, she 
 positively refuses to be left alone, and finally agrees to be 
 carried home in his arms. 
 
 If there is any one virtue in this mundane sphere of ours 
 sufficient in itself to make a saint, it is the self-abnegation 
 of the ordinary young man, who could bear such a pre 
 cious burden for fully two miles, and not tighten his hold 
 just the smallest perceptible bit. Whether Ella took this 
 fact into consideration or not, no one can tell; but certain 
 it is, that when he laid her tenderly and almost reverently 
 upon her mother's lounge later on, she thanked him with a 
 look in her eyes that spoke as plainly as words, her deep 
 respect for him. 
 
104 ONLY A TRAMP. 
 
 Willie Gaynor is coming to-morrow. Ella is confined 
 to her bed. Mrs. Winter is worried and anxious. Jane 
 announces later on that the " hired man " has not put in 
 an appearance to-day, but at the same time, assures them 
 that everything is in the " best of order." Mrs. Winter 
 draws a sigh of relief, and Ella says nothing. She is ac 
 tually cross to-day. There are times when even the most 
 amiable girls are out of sorts. No one suggests a fresh 
 flower, and there seems but little gladness in the house, 
 somehow. Next day they carry Ella down to the parlor, 
 and prop her around comfortably with pillows. Her 
 golden-brown hair is Iving loosely, forming a pretty frame 
 work to her face. 
 
 At five o'clock there is a grinding of wheels on the 
 gravel outside, and a minute later Mrs. Winter is holding 
 out both hands to a tall, grey-haired man Willie's father. 
 After the congratulations were over Mr. Gaynor looked 
 around as if he expected to see someone else, and, at last, 
 to everyone's astonishment, asked where Willie was. 
 
 "Just what I was going to ask you," replied Mrs. 
 Winter. 
 
 "I suppose the young rascal is not willing to go home 
 yet," continued Mr. Gaynor, with a sly glance at Ella, 
 and not seeming to notice Mrs. Winter's remark. Ella 
 returns his glance with one of blank bewilderment, and 
 while they are all looking askance at each other the door 
 bell gets a peremptory tug, which nearly starts them all to 
 their feet. 
 
 ' ' That's his ring," said Mr. Gaynor; " he always turns it 
 into an alarm." Jane opens the door promptly enough, 
 but afterwards stands rooted to the ground in astonish 
 ment, as "the tramp" stalks past her and goes sans 
 ceremonie straight towards the parlor. She retreated to the 
 
ONLY A TRAMP. 105 
 
 kitchen in a sort of stupor, which took away the power of 
 thought. The worthy woman sinks helplessly into a chair. 
 Meanwhile the cause of her perplexity is endeavoring to 
 explain how his love of adventure induced him to adopt the 
 role of tramp, and looks as contrite as the laugh in his 
 mischievous brown eyes will permit. 
 
 "I should have cautioned you, Margaret," said Mr. 
 Gaynor, trying to look severe. "I might have known he 
 would do something of the kind. You young rascal!" he 
 continued, trying to concentrate a ferocious glare through 
 his spectacles upon the culprit. " Even his own father is 
 not safe from his pranks." 
 
 Mrs. Winter protests valiantly that she knew him all the 
 time, and as for Ella, she flashes one reproachful look at 
 him, and then hides a very crimson face among the pillows. 
 
 "And by way of punishment you shall march home 
 with me to-morrow," said Mr. Gaynor. "I'm certain 
 these ladies won't think of tolerating you any longer." 
 
 Willie Gaynor is stooping over his cousin and tries to 
 read her face, which is a difficult task, owing to the dif 
 ferent feelings which have been depicted thereon for the 
 last half hour. Her heart, which has been eddying round 
 in a whirl of distress for the last month, is settling down 
 and a sense of rest, and peace and certainty is stealing 
 upon her, but a little throb of revenge alone mars the 
 present still. She makes a silent and secret vow to have 
 satisfaction, in some way, for this joke, of which she has 
 clearly been the victim. 
 
 "He shall never, never know that I cared for him. He 
 shall never say that I fell in love with a 'tramp. '" And 
 her face crimsoned at her own thoughts. 
 
 " You will not send me away," said he in a low voice, 
 and he tries to take her hand. "I claim pardon on the 
 
106 ONLY A TRAMP. 
 
 score of at least one good service. What would have 
 become of you if I had not been playing my role the night 
 of your accident ? Even 'tramps' can be useful some 
 times," he said. 
 
 Her anger is fading, dying miserably; the tell-tale color 
 comes and goes beneath his glance, making her face an 
 open page. 
 
 "Shall I go home with father, to-morrow?" he inquired 
 softly. 
 
 "You ought to," she replied petulantly, making a last 
 desperate effort to appear unconcerned. " You have lost 
 a whole month for nothing, and scared us almost to death 
 into the bargain." 
 
 "A whole month lost," he answered musingly, not seem 
 ing to notice her last sentence. 
 
 The belligerent blood came into her cheeks again, as 
 she half defined his meaning, 
 
 " What will people think ?" she resumed, not deigning 
 to notice the hint conveyed in his last words. " What will 
 Jane say ?" Here a faint smile betrayed itself in the cor 
 ners of her mouth, as the intense ludicrousness of the situ 
 ation became more apparent. 
 
 Willie Gaynor is making an effort to assume a contrite 
 expression, but at this juncture he laughs outright. 
 
 "As for Jane, I think," he says, "I have a stout ally in 
 /ier, and am certain that s/ie, at least, will have none the 
 less welcome for me." 
 
 There is little more to be said. The mischief-loving, 
 prank-playing tramp, had so far won his way to all hearts 
 at the cottage, that he did not leave it until he carried off 
 the owner of the most rebellious, but withal the most 
 lovable one. 
 
Sweet 
 
 I am a passionate lover of music, and never miss an 
 opportunity of gratifying my desires in that respect. A 
 woman's voice in song, has for me, a peculiar and power 
 ful charm. Under its influence I am swayed, entranced; 
 my faculties become enthralled until I am oblivious to 
 surroundings, forgetful of past and present. 
 
 Going to hear a debutante fills me with the most deli 
 cious anticipation. My friend, the young Prince de N , 
 
 had asked me to accompany him to^ hear a young English 
 artist of whom great things had been promised. 
 
 " They say the English cantatrice has a lovely face 
 also," observed the prince that evening, as we sat over our 
 coffee, " a lovely face and a sweet voice," he murmured 
 more to himself than to me, as he leaned back in his 
 chair, and gazed through the heavy fringes of his half- 
 closed eyes at the chandelier. 
 
 This Italian was a handsome fellow, with the face and 
 form of an Apollo, fascinating beyond description, bright, 
 debonnaire, and gay alas, too gay, for his pleasures were 
 often obtained at a heavy cost, and an utter disregard of 
 consequences. Actresses, young and pretty, were his espe 
 cial prey, and as I watched his face that night, I sighed 
 involuntarily for the web of danger which was certainly 
 being woven for one more woman. 
 
 We were early at the Port Saint Martine. The prince's 
 
I08 A SWEET SINGER. 
 
 box, close to the stage, was a marvel of silver and velvet and 
 glass mirrors multiplied you from all sides, affording ample 
 and elegant views of back, front and profile. 
 
 The curtain had not yet been raised. I occupied the 
 spare time in studying the prince, which was an easy task, 
 as his face was at all times like an open book; he never 
 took the trouble to mask his feelings, good or bad. He 
 spoke but little to-night, and kept his eyes continually 
 upon the stage. It was the opera of "La Sonnambula." 
 ; ' Amina " was the part chosen by the young debutante, 
 who came upon the stage with nervous footsteps, looking 
 very white and tremulous. I felt a pleasurable disappoint 
 ment. The sweet cameo-like face was quite guiltless of 
 what is known in stage parlance as "make up," the 
 youthful, almost childish figure was clothed in an inartis 
 tic, almost clumsy manner, suggesting nothing of the 
 actress, but a great deal of what was pure and womanly. 
 
 I fancied I could hear a murmur of disappointment from 
 the vast crowd. The effect upon the generality of theatre 
 goers was not a pleasing one. Most people expect to see 
 even in a debutante the " chic " and stagy style to which 
 they are accustomed. But the fancied murmur soon died 
 out and the great audience held an expectant breath. She 
 commenced to sing; tremulously came the notes at first, 
 her lips, like a cupid's bow, trembled pitifully for a 
 moment or two, then the wavering words grew sweet and 
 strong, soaring upwards as if the music bore them on its 
 wings, sowing the air, as it were, with wondrous melody. 
 
 What an awakener of sweet and sad memories is a sym 
 pathetic voice! Truly there are depths within our hearts 
 unsounded, good lying deep and dormant, to which only 
 good music, pleading and passionate, can reach. 
 
 The pallid, lily-like face was transformed now, life and 
 
A SWEET SINGER. 109 
 
 light shone from it, faintly at first, then came radiant color 
 to the cheeks, and the large, lustrous eyes seemed to emit 
 light from their lovely depths. 
 
 She sang as if her very soul went out with her song; the 
 frail figure swayed in the ecstasy of emotion; she looked 
 and must have felt, like a goddess of music, ready to im 
 molate herself upon the altar of her God. 
 
 "Dios!" exclaimed the prince, whom I had forgotten, 
 and who, I have no doubt, was oblivious of my existence. 
 
 " What a voice," I replied. 
 
 Without seeming to hear me, he murmured, "What a 
 face." 
 
 There must have been a serpent-like fascination about 
 his expression just then, because I tried to turn my eyes to 
 the stage, but they seemed riveted upon him. 
 
 While my gaze was still upon his face, Amina had been 
 discovered in the Count's chamber. Her pathetic protes 
 tations of innocence, simple, child-like, though powerful, 
 crept into callous hearts, and moistened eyes that had sel 
 dom known a tear. I am a man of the world, sinful, 
 mayhap, but never can I forget the feeling of pure love 
 and charity which that woman's voice created in my hard 
 ened heart. She felt the part, and made others feelfor 
 her; you knew she was a wronged and wretched woman, 
 sobbing out her suffering heart. 
 
 Women cried audibly, and men were busy with their 
 handkerchiefs; by an effort I took my eyes from the stage, 
 and turned them upon the prince. Heaven! what a 
 change was there. I scarcely recognized my friend of 
 fifteen years. Amazement was so visible upon my face that 
 he must have seen it, for he looked uneasily at me and 
 turned away. His face was haggard and old, great drops 
 of perspiration stood out upon his forehead, and a strange 
 
110 A SWEET SINGER. 
 
 light, which I had never seen before, was in his eyes. His 
 thoughts were evidently far away, for I spoke to him and 
 he never heard me. 
 
 I felt alarmed, and shook him by the arm. He came to 
 himself with an effort, and grasped my hand in seeming 
 gratitude, then he put the other hand to his forehead with 
 an air of weariness and begged me to accompany him 
 home. 
 
 The opera was not yet over, but he did not seem to 
 care. I looked once more at Amina, and involuntarily 
 closed my eyes so they could retain the last glimpse of her. 
 
 That the prince had undergone some great mental 
 change, was apparent. What memories of remorse that 
 singer's face and voice might have brought vividly back to 
 him, even I, his bosom friend, never knew. 
 
 I lost sight of him for many days; at length he sought 
 me. He was very pale and quiet, with traces of suffering 
 on his handsome face. 
 
 " Pierre, I am going to see the English Madamoiselle," 
 he said, " Will you come with me?" 
 
 I replied, " Certainly." 
 
 Would I be ready in an hour? Yes. I thought of many 
 things within that hour. Times were when this man would 
 have been in the "green room "the very first night, and it 
 was a rare case, indeed, when the prima donna's name was 
 not linked with his through the mud and mire of Paris next 
 day. I dreaded nothing of the kind now, and yet I could 
 wish that he might not meet her. 
 
 We were soon at Miss R 's hotel, sent up our cards, 
 
 and found ourselves confronted by the manager a 
 suave and smiling little Frenchman, who declared himself 
 " heartbroken because he could not induce the beautiful 
 English madamoiselle to be honored by an interview with 
 
^tBR^ff) 
 
 OF THB 
 
 UNIVERSr 
 
 A SWEET SINGER. II 
 
 us." In words which were honied over, as it were, he 
 vaguely intimated " that slanderous tongues (no doubt) had 
 linked our illustrious names, with deeds which he would be a 
 monster to credit, but alas! you know, messieurs, ho*v 
 easily a woman believes," and with a heavenly smile which 
 was beautifully tinged with a becoming shade of sorrow, 
 he bowed us out. 
 
 The prince was miserable and I had a fellow feeling for 
 him. We watched her day by day, walking and riding in 
 the parks; he was never absent irom his post, and my pity 
 for him grew stronger, for I knew that my love for her was 
 but a shadow compared with his. Yes, I dared to love 
 her that first night, and yet, if I could, I would not touch 
 the hem of her garment. 
 
 I began to fear for the prince's reason and made the 
 most extraordinary efforts to get him introduced, but all to 
 no purpose. 
 
 Things went on in this way till at length he rushed into 
 my room one day; his eyes flashed with some of their old 
 brilliancy, and his cheeks were flushed with excitement. 
 
 ' 'I have it at last," exclaimed he. " Oh, my good friend, 
 you will help me, you must help me." 
 
 I grasped him he was weak as a child and made him 
 sit down. He held on to my hand and looked up beseech 
 ingly. 
 
 "I can sing, Pierre," he continued, "I used to sing 
 well I can do so again. They want a tenor I will pre 
 sent myself I will disguise they will never know me. 
 Pierre, don't stop me," he begged, seeing signs of disap 
 proval in my face. "I shall and must." 
 
 I promised to help him and he grew calm, then going to 
 the piano he commenced to play snatches of opera, 
 then he drifted into the old ballads of the " Vandeville." 
 
112 A SWEET SINGER. 
 
 He had an exquisite voice, and yet I had never heard him 
 sing. 
 
 He made his application and strangely enough was 
 "accepted. When he came to me again I scarcely knew 
 him. He was minus the handsomest mustache in Paris, 
 but a whole sun of happiness shone from his face. 
 
 "I have seen her, oh, Pierre, and she has heard me 
 sing, and praised me." He would be with her, near her, 
 and that was heaven enough for him. 
 
 Oh, love, what a powerful factor thou art for good or for 
 evil! After he left me, a miserable pang of jealousy made 
 a contemptible wretch of me, but I fought against it. The 
 little good in me asserted itself and I was soon able to re 
 joice in my friend's joy. 
 
 He traveled and sang with her for two years. ' ' This 
 woman," he wrote to me, " has taught me how to live 
 how to love. She is a bright light upon my path without 
 which I must have forever groped amidst the dead sea 
 fruit of a misspent life. 
 
 Eventually he won his way to the heart of the prima 
 donna, who never knew that she was marrying the Prince 
 
 de N- until the eve of her nuptials in London, when I 
 
 had the happiness to be present. 
 
Sfokeq fiekit 
 
 Down in the heart of Kent, that most beautiful of 
 English counties stands the grand old Norman castle of 
 Avonleigh. Built upon a gentle elevation, it commands a 
 splendid view of the richest scenery, broad stretches of 
 forest, whose giant trees dwindle into mere atoms in the 
 distance, gently undulating hills, merging into the bluest 
 skies, with here and there a tiny glimpse of silver sea. 
 
 It was the eve of that most disastrous internal struggle 
 "The War of the Roses," when the fair flag of England 
 was stained with the blood of her noblest sons. Lord 
 John de Grey, the master of Avonleigh, had already de 
 clared himself a warm adherent of the house of York, and 
 when the tide of war mingled its turbulent stream with the 
 pure and peaceful waters of domestic life, the grey-haired 
 earl was found fighting bravely beside his only son. 
 
 A mellow day in autumn is drawing to a close; the soft 
 light of a harvest moon is contending for supremacy with 
 the shadows of a sinking sun. In a little while the castle 
 is bathed in the tender moonlight, the clinging ivy leaves 
 glisten like silver and tremble from the faintest perfumed 
 breeze. 
 
 The earl's only daughter, Lady Miriam, a fair-haired 
 maiden, with a wondrously beautiful face, is down in the 
 quaint old garden, drawn thither by the singular beauty of 
 the night; and, verily, moon never shone upon fairer form 
 
114 A BROKEN HEART. 
 
 than hers, and the flowers sent forth their sleeping incense 
 to greet this living " Rose of Avonleigh." 
 
 As she stoops to pluck a white rose from its thorny stem, 
 the delicate finger was pierced and a crimson drop stained 
 the rose's purity, but no murmur escaped her, and gather 
 ing up the folds of her white robe, she walked slowly back 
 to the castle. 
 
 Young and beautiful, surrounded with wealth and pleas 
 ures, this young girl knew not what unhappiness meant; 
 like a bird whose gilded cage protects and shelters her, 
 life, indeed, was all sunshine without a shadow. 
 
 Though rumors of war were in the air, and men spoke 
 in serious tones of the strife which seemed inevitable, no 
 thought of danger marred the calm happiness of her exis 
 tence. 
 
 Already she had given her heart to young Wilfred 
 Aylmer, as brave and handsome a youth as the sun ever 
 shone upon, and whose strong young arm shall also be 
 wielded in the cause of the noble house of York. 
 
 Through the wide, dimly-lighted hallway Lady Miriam 
 walked slowly and almost unconsciously, clasping the now 
 half-crimsoned rose to her bosom, until she reached her 
 father's study. 
 
 The old earl sat in profound thought, and did not heed 
 the soft footfall until a tender cheek was laid against his 
 own. 
 
 "What a dark, brown study my dear father is in," mur 
 mured the sweet voice. 
 
 The earl's face was seamed and shadowed with care as 
 he lifted his head, and a sudden paleness overspread his 
 features when he saw the white rose which she laughingly 
 held up to his gaze. 
 
 "I was thinking of you, my pearl," he replied, drawing 
 
A BROKEN HEART. I 15 
 
 the fair head down to him, and kissing the sweet, childish 
 mouth, "but now that you are here," he added, "like a 
 gleam of sunlight among my shadows, I am no longer 
 sad." But seeing a shade of pain in her eyes, he added 
 hastily: 
 
 "I was indeed thinking of the time when someone would 
 rob me of the fairest flower in my garden of roses." 
 
 Shechided him lovingly for "thinking too soon, "and with 
 her accustomed prayer and good-night kiss, left him. 
 
 Up the wide staircase she goes, slowly and thoughtfully, 
 now through the great picture gallery, where the old- 
 fashioned but beautiful faces of other Lady Miriams looked 
 down upon her. Was it the weird moonlight that made 
 those dead faces seem to bend from their stiff frames and 
 cause a gleam of sadness to light the dead eyes that seemed 
 to follow her as she passed beneath them ? 
 
 She soon reached her favorite room, high in the west 
 wing, a cozy nook, where she loved to look upon the moon 
 light scene without, and inhale the faint fragrance of the 
 garden beneath. 
 
 Lady Miriam's life had indeed been like to the unruffled 
 bosom of a clear, calm lake. Her placid bosom had never 
 been disturbed by a sad thought. True, within the past 
 few months her heart had awakened, bud-like, to the new 
 and sweet knowledge of another love. That very morning 
 she had been plighted to Sir Wilfred Aylmer, and their 
 marriage would be solemnized when this war-cloud had 
 rolled past. 
 
 Long and sadly the earl mused that night; his heart was 
 full of foreboding of coming sorrow. What if in this war, 
 which every day seemed more imminent, he should fall ? 
 What if this, his one ewe lamb, should be orphaned 
 desolate ? He tried to drive away his gloomy imaginings 
 
Il6 A BROKEN HEART. 
 
 by recalling the sweet face of her who had just left him 
 with words of love and hope, and prayed that this " bitter 
 chalice" might pass away. 
 
 But. alas! a month later saw the rival parties engaged 
 in determined and deadly strife saw also the white-haired 
 earl and his son fighting side by side with young Wilfred 
 Aylmer. 
 
 Oh, selfish kings and avaricious princes, how little ye 
 reck the cost of your crowns! how little ye care! News 
 traveled slowly in those days, but mediaeval maidens did 
 not sigh and pine like us of modern times, but looked 
 hopefully for the triumphant return of their victors, their 
 minds being molded and tinted by their warlike surround 
 ings, Battles boded only an access of honor and glory. 
 
 Rumors at length reached Avonleigh that a great and 
 decisive battle had been fought, in which the house of 
 York had triumphed. Preparations on a magnificent scale 
 had commenced at the castle for the return of the victors. 
 Joy bells rang from every steeple and belfry in the village. 
 All were jubilant in the belief that their noble lord was 
 coming home covered with honors. Ah, but here was a 
 messenger at last riding in hot haste, who looked neither 
 to the right nor the left as he rode past the gay banners 
 and the resounding cheers of the happy villagers. Both 
 horse and man were sore, jaded, and covered with foam 
 from long and continued riding, but he never drew rein 
 until he reached the castle, whose gates are thrown wide 
 open, bar and bolt giving way to graceful arches and 
 emblems of welcome. 
 
 In the outer courtyard he flings the reins to a servant, 
 who stares at him in silent wonder. Another astonished 
 lackey is requested to lead him to the presence of the 
 Lady Miriam. 
 
A BROKEN HEART. 1 17 
 
 Through gorgeously decorated halls, where the air is 
 heavy with the odor of flowers, huge vases of white roses 
 greet the eye at every step, dropping, as if in welcome, 
 their rich petals at his feet. Truly the fairest and fittest 
 welcome to the victor. 
 
 Geoffry Vane was a brave gentleman and a gallant 
 soldier, who had often confronted death in many shapes 
 a man to whom fear was a word without meaning yet to 
 day his heart sank weakly and his limbs trembled as the 
 rustle of a woman's dress fell upon his ears. In another 
 moment he is bending low before Miriam Grey, who is 
 his cousin, and whom he has never seen until to-day. 
 
 There is a glad and gracious welcome in her face and 
 her voice as she holds out her hands to him. Ah! how can 
 he tell her the story which may quench the light in those 
 bright eyes forever, or mayhap chill to death the white 
 hand now lying in his own! 
 
 Oh, victorious white rose, whose beauty is sullied by 
 the life-blood of father, lover, and brother, well may you 
 droop your heads in the great halls below, and shed your 
 pale leaves in pity for her whose peerless head is well-nigh 
 leveled with the dust. Aye, this day of glorious victory 
 
 brings grief unutterable to the now desolate Lady Miriam. 
 
 * 
 
 * * 
 
 The red October winds are sighing among the gables and 
 turrets of the castle, whispering the woeful tale to the leaf 
 less trees and dead flowers. The crimson and gold leaves 
 are being buried beneath the snow which is piling high 
 above them, and all nature puts on her saddest garb as the 
 magnificent mausoleum at Avonleigh closes its ponderous 
 doors upon the dead victors. 
 
 Like a white shadow the hapless Lady Miriam paces 
 ever through the lonely halls and galleries, where the dead 
 
Il8 A BROKEN HEART. 
 
 roses are still untouched. No hand has been allowed to 
 remove the withered emblems of welcome since that fatal 
 day. 
 
 Frozen and cold as the beauteous eidelweiss she has 
 buried herself from the world. Patiently and hopelessly 
 has Geoffry Vane tried to warm the dead heart to life. 
 Long and tenderly he has hoped that the stricken heart- 
 tendrils might revive and bloom again in the sunshine of 
 his love. 
 
 * 
 
 * * 
 
 The spring-time has come again with its soft blue skies. 
 The tender flower buds are unfolding to the sun-god, 
 whose breath nurses them from the brown bosom of the 
 earth. The summer has come with all its gladness, but 
 yet no bloom comes to the cheeks of the widowed girl 
 no brightness to the sad eyes. 
 
 * 
 
 * * 
 
 Again the October moon is bathing the castle of Avon- 
 leigh in its yellow light, flinging grotesque shadows upon the 
 stately mausoleum, and the dying flowers are sending forth 
 their last perfumed sigh ere the rude touch of winter comes 
 upon them. Up in her boudoir the golden head is bowed 
 in prayer; she hears not a footstep until Geoffry Vane 
 utters her name reverently. She lifts her head, looking 
 at him with eyes which seem to emit the very light of 
 heaven itself. His heart bounds with a great joy. At 
 last she is awaking to his patient love. The cold hands 
 are not withdrawn from his now. For the first time the 
 weary head is resting against his heart. At last his unwearied 
 love has found an echo in the sweet bosom and moistened 
 the parched heart. The lips which his warm kisses fall 
 upon for the first time are cold, but oh, the love and life 
 
A P.ROKEN HEART. 
 
 and promise that he sees in the ineffable smile with which 
 she tries to 'reward him! It was truly 
 
 A moment's gleam of sun, 
 
 Sweetening the very edge of doom; 
 The past, the present all that fate 
 Can bring of dark or desperate 
 
 Around such hours, 
 But make them cast 
 Intenser radiance while they last. 
 
 Speechless with his great happiness he holds her closely 
 in his arms. For one brief moment the beautiful lips are 
 upraised to his, and in that one long kiss the wounded 
 white rose breathes her last loving sigh, and Geoffry Vane 
 holds the dead Lady Miriam in his close embrace. 
 
' 
 
h*"'