Who did it?
page: 0 (TitlePage) [View Page 0 (TitlePage) ]WHO DID IT? PHLADELPHA: CLAXTON, REMSEN, AND HAFFELFINGER. NEW ORLEANS: J. A. GRESHAM. 1870. page: 0[View Page 0] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by CLAXTON, REMSEN, AND HAFFELFINGER, in the Officlee of the Clerk of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern District of the State of Pennsylvania. WIHO DID IT? CHAPTER I. "You are a liar, as well, then, as a coward 1" The words hissed from parched lips, like the cracking of dried fuel under the warmth of fire. A death-like stillness followed-then low mutterings heard from groups of ex- cited men, breathing heavily from anxi- ety, as the party thus insulted seemed to shrink from the burning, settled gaze of his adversary. The person who had thus suddenly appalled these men, hardened, as they were by vice, and accustomed to the broils of dissipation, was apparently not more than twenty-five years of age; though from the quiet sternness that seemed habitual to his face, one might suppose him older. There was, too, a certain expression, only seen by flits, in his large brown eye, that rendered it still more difficult safely to assert his age: for at times this light shed as it were around his face a halo so soft, that the man looked a mere youth, fresh with purity and gentleness, and yet, whilst the observer gazed, a change so rapid as to seem incredible passed, and in an instant the whole countenance was lit with an expression so bright, and yet so horrible, that one might easily imagine the fires of hell were in his heart, the reflections of which were thrown out through those eyes, so beautiful and yet so terrible. He was pale, but the pallor seemed rather the result of thought, or study, than dissipation. His hand and foot, marvellously small, evidenced the aris- tocracy of birth, which, if doubted, would have been sustained, not only by the empty, though loud-sounding patent of nobility, granted some gallant ancestor for heroic deeds, but by the exquisitely proportioned frame, delicate and yet so muscular, bearing him with a loftiness that never ceased to excite remark. In truth, Ferdinand Vincent was the only son of parents tracing their gene- alogy, op the father's side, through the best of English blood back to the "Hu- perts ;" whilst the mother, a creole of Louisiana, boasted the blood of "Murat, the handsome sabreur" of Napoleon. Ferdinand had early imbibed this pride of family, and his magnificent generosity had won for him the title of Prince amongst his fond admirers. With the pride of birth had been engendered many traits of lofty nobleness, as well as indomitable resolution, brooking no restraint, that, unfortunately, misdi- rected, had given birth to foibles, weak. nesses, and irritability, which, though glossed over by the lavishness of gene- rosity, and hidden in part by the re- flection of his brighter qualities, stole out occasionally like a venomous rep- tile, and made him as much dreaded by some as loved by others. His father had died some years before. There was a mystery attached to his death, giving food for much speculation. He was in France (called thither on business for his wife). It was whispered that-a difficulty occurred at dinner-an old feud-apparently an amicable set- tlement was made; the next morning, however, at an early hour he left. the hotel. That evening he was brought back by the police a corpse; a ball through the left lung. Col. Johnstone had been his enemy for years. Rumor said that Vincent, when young, had supplanted him in the affections of a mistress to whom he was madly attached. Howheit, Johnstone hated him with his whole heart, and Vincent returned it with interest. Yet, as they grew older, time seemed to have page: 4-5[View Page 4-5] eradicated the bitterness of their ani- mosity, and when they met, which was seldom, a dignified reserve alone char- acterized their greetings. It was with Johnstone he had quarrelled, yet -the colonel had expressed a surprise touched almost with sorrow, when informed of Vincent's death, and to wash out any suspicion that might stain his conduct in the affair, had asked for an investiga- tion by the municipal authorities, before whom evidence had been adduced so sa- tisfactory to the judges, as to warrant them, on the request of Col. Johnstone, in publishing, through the leading pa- pers, a statement reflecting credit on Johnstone's forbearance, and yet leaving the mystery of Vincent's death un- solved. It was this card that an- nounced the death of his beloved father to Ferdinand, and a feeling of desola- tion, cold and alarming, crept over him, giving way suddenly to a burst of frenzy I that rendered him for many days a rav- 1 ing maniac. On his recovery, hBeqund 1 his mother had fallen senseless at the re.- ceipt of this sad news, and had awakened s only to feel that she was paralyzed for a life; a helpless invalid, still young, yet c bearing her affliction with a meekness f that insensibly wrought a change for v the better upon her son. A gentleness 1 came over him towards her that would E have been effeminate in any other; in tl him it seemed so natural, that you for- h got he was the quick, impetuous youth, st ungoverned and ungovernable. The in- Ic heritor of immense wealth in time, Fer- T dinand seemed to have buried his grief h in the light frivolities of youth. His a horses, his dogs, and his guns were the to admiration of the country, and at the u] "meet," where the full-mouthed pack in- fo spired the huntsmen with an ardor like H their own, there was none whose daunt- of less courage excited the wonder and ad- ti miration of all beholders, as his. t True, it was whispered there was a on recklessness almost amounting to in- va sanity in his way of riding; and on one fo. occasion, after a hard chase of four pr hours, through stiff, but treacherous' he ground, the fox headed for the "Devil's en( Ditch," a dark and dangerous sink, run- a s ning the length of the field. inc The hounds, fagged out by the obsti- du( nacy of the chase, were sufferingly mu clambering up the steep bpnk, which, as SW( ni- if actuated with a demon's spirit, would vas crashingly give way, hurling them howl- ar- ing back into the, green and noxious. ith looking water, from whence the ditch he derived its name. The few huntsmen ed who had continued the chase were of hastening on as best they could, circling ny by a long route this monster that had ct impeded their sport. A lad of twelve, a- hardy and resolute, the son of one of the re whippers-in, stood near, whimpering a- that he could not be in at the death. At Down through 'the open field, and e, straight for the ditch, rode Ferdinand a- on "Hecate," his black mare, known n through the country for her prowess and g speed, as well as viciousness of dispo-. i- sition. His eye caught that of the lad's, i- who stood enviously watching Ferdi- !r nand, forgetful of all danger, and in a L- moment the silent appeal had found a i, response; gradually checking his mare, y he stooped as 'he passed, and catching the boy with a hand delicate as a lady's, d but powerful as a giant's, threw him - gently in his front, and speakinga quick, 1 sharp command to his favorite mare, r away he sped towards the ditch. The t oldest huntsman stopped paralyzed with fear, for his feat of strength had been r witnessed, and the very dogs crouched 3 lower, ceasing their struggles as if awed. I Silent but steady he made for-the ditch, the mare pricked her ears, he pricked her sides, her devil's blood was up, and straining every nerve, until the veins looked like'whip-cord, over they went. The mare quivered from ear to tail her spirit seemed gone forever, and after a vain effort to continue the chase, she tottered and fell. When the party came up, they found Ferdinand bathing the forehead of the lad, who had fainted. He took no notice of the compliments offered him on his daring, but, giving the boy over to his father, mounted " Sir Hupert,".full brother of"Hecate," one of which was always led by a ser- vant, and, galloping on, overtook the fox in an opening, and, much to the sur- prise of the huntsmen, deliberately shot her, though the hounds were near enough to have caught her. There was a sternness on his face that forbade any inquiries on this unsportsman-like con- duct. The old whipper-in, however, muttered, " Mr. Ferdinand must have sworn to kill that fox himself when the boy fainted, and his oath, be it for good or bad, is always kept." Perhaps the whipper-in was right. - CHAPTER II. COL. JOHNSTONE was a man of wealth. There were strange stories told of how it was acquired; and his name was sometimes suspiciously connected with a band of pirates who, many years be- fore, had been a terror to the southern waters. It was said, too, that John- stone was not his own name-and his Spanish complexion -and black, piercing eye, together with a peculiar accent he had striven hard to overcome, gave v some shadow for this story; but he was rich-and wealth, like charity, covers a multitude of sins. His story that his mother was Spanish, being reasonable, was readily believed, and the fact that he had lived for many years in the In- dies, accounted as well for his complex- ion as his wealth. He was nearly forty- five, though time had been so lenient that 1i, looked at leastten years younger. N t tall, but noticed in every crowd, for his bearing. He said he was a widower. There certainly was no reason to doubt this, and his attentions to the fair sex indi- cated his widowership was oppressive; yet, strange to say, the rumor had brought him on several occasions near to matrimony, and, in truth, something always occurred to break off the en- gagement. His housekeeper was an old Spanish dame, sinister in her expres- X sion, but charitable to the needy or sick, a devout Catholic at home, yet never attending confessionals, one of the car- dinal doctrines urged by her church. She certainly possessed a most potent b influence over Johnstone, who seemed t to fear as much as hate her. Old ladies a through the country whispered she was t in league with the devil; her cures were 1 sometimes marvellous-others shook g their heads, but all agreed that, had it k not been for the housekeeper, the col- 1 onel might have had a thousand wives., Johnstone had lived for some years on s a magnificent estate, just above New t Orleans, and about two years from the i commencement of our story, Ferdinand w d Vincent had purchased the adjoining place. A short time after his removal hither, Johnstone had gone off, some said to the Indies, others to France. His housekeeper remained, and as the ser- vants were accustomed to regard her more as the mistress than a menial,'the plantation prospered, without the pre- v sence of the master. s Ferdinand had but recently returned ! from France, where he had spent two - years, quietly prosecuting his searches i for the murderer of his father. He be- lieved that Johnstone was, if not the 3 doer, at least the instigator of this foul r deed, and his very anxiety to wipe out "any doubts by a judicial investigation, ; served rather to strengthen Ferdinand's 3 suspicions than allay them. His so- journ, too, in Paris, for many years after the murder of Vincent, together with his studied and evident desire to avoid Ferdinand, rendered this conviction to him a positive certainty and he had sworn, in the bitterness of his heart, a fearful oath, made the more terrible by that strange flash of the eye, that he would live only to hunt him to justice, and failing in obtaining evidence suffi- cient to warrant the interference of the law, would fasten an insult upon him that could be wiped out only by the blood of one or the other. ,* In France he had conversed with those present at the dinner, questioned the ministers of justice, and spent large sums on the police, and as yet had dis- covered no other evidence than that already adduced. There was one doubt alone in his mind, that operated to the benefit of Johnstone. Vincent, the father, had a large sum of money with him when he left the hotel. He wore too, always, a peculiar ring, a diamond black as night, and yet so brilliant as to cast an effulgence on everything around. There was a mystery attached to this ring, a secret even from his wife. He prized it highly, affixing to it a sin- gular value, and it had never been known to quit his finger. Once, when he had sprained his hand in hunting, he suffered the agony occasioned by the swelling of the fingers, compressed by the ring, and though the pain was s intense as to force him to cry out, he would not, though pathetically urged, page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] allow the ring to be taken from his hand. When the body was found, the money and ring were gone. Ferdinand had heard the evil stories of Johnstone's early, life, but with the noble generosity that characterized him, had indignantly refused to credit them, even though the man was hated by him with the dead- liest of hates. Sometimes, therefore, he almost believed his father had been murdered by a common miscreant, who had robbed the dead, thus finishing his hellish deed; but then that spirit of ungovernable doubt came over him, and blinded to all else, he cherished, like a hidden treasure, his original belief; justifying it by saying to himself (for to others he never spoke), Johnstone is the murderer; the body left upon the ground was robbed by some hyena that desecrates the dead. So, sometimes, when the gentle goddess of charity and good-will to all men soothes our angry passions by the sweet softness of her whisperings, the demon of egotisnagteals near, and, apologizing to our greedy ears for the promptings of our weaker nature, drives from us, saddened, the sweet spirit of mercy. So with Ferdi- nand-he would not believe he was mistaken-and the red devil of revenge patted him encouragingly. Paris was too gay a city, and Ferdi- nand too young, to shut out all plea. sure ; so, insensibly, the fascinations of the gay metropolis began to hlave their v influence. Rich, extremely handsome, fearless to a fault, understanding the ( manners as well as the language of the f French, he soon became a "lion" ( amongst the fashionable circles in which 1 he visited. He was fortunate, too, in : meeting young Count de Poincy, to t whom he had shown many attentions s whilst on a visit to New Orleans. The t count's pedigree was as good as old ( wine, and as highly prized. His family a insisted on Ferdinand's making their a house his home, and inducted him into r society that had closed its doors, per- a haps, on better men. "t What," said t the old count, Henri's father, "would h you refuse to allow me in part to pay st my debt of gratitude? You are too gen- li erous to wish me always your debtor." si "You owe me nothing, my dear count." tv "Ma foi, I owe you my son; have I not d heard from Henri's lips, how once at p is the opera, by a mal-chance he trod on the ie toes of one of your bloodthirsty duel- d lists, and that monsieur, anxious to im- 's pale a real count upon his deadly rapier y -to prove, I suppose, the superiority y of democracy over French aristocracy e -would receive no apology? how I- Henri, a novice in the art, not to be 3, obstinate, proposed to fight? how mon- n sieur the duellist willingly assented, and o the next day, at the barbarous hour of s six in the morning, was to have fought? If -Ahl you Americans are strange be- d ing s-you fight on an empty stomach, a making a man more savage than if well ; filled with a good breakfast or dinner o -but then you are practical, and it may s be economy-how Henri, consulting e you, you promised to arrange matters t as his friend, and after you had seen , him quit the opera and drive to your I house, you went back, informed mon- r sieur that Count de Poincy'was your r guest, that it was you alone who was 3 responsible for any act of his that might be disagreeable? and in order that mon- ' sieur might not be balked in his desire to fight, kindly volunteered to pull his nose, thus furnishing himl a most excel- 3 lent excuse for fighting you Ifirst? Monsieur, being anxious to fight at once, together you quit the opera, and repairing to one of the salons where fencing lessons are given, set to with great earnestness before the 'maitre' and one of his friends, as seconds. After a few passes, the 'maitre' de- clared to Henri afterwards, he despaired for you. Your antagonist was the most celebrated swordsman in the South; a little excited, it was true, but fencing with a cold calculation that was horrible to behold, whilst you, au contraire, seemed indifferent, and parried the quick thrusts more by luck than with science. Once, the 'maitre' says, when your arm was touched, you seemed maddened at the sight of blood, and made a coup rarely executed even amongst the most accomplished. It was the slip that threw your adversary alone that saved his life. In an instant the 'maitre' saw you were a swordsman-though a little careless-and yet he was much surprised when, by a sudden, powerful twist of your arm, your adversary was disarmed; and still, however, more sur- prised when, instead of yielding a grace- ful submission and acknowledging his defeat, monsieur gave way to an unpar- donable anger, and insisted upon a re- newal of the engagement. It was then that all apprehension for your safety ended-and, he says, a flash came out of your eye not agreeable to look upon, as you said, ' Sir, I insulted you to save a young friend from death, and you from the crime of assassination. He was my guest, and had you fought him, your superior skill would have made. his killing murder I For this reason I have acted only on the defensive, know-. ing your code of honor was easily satis- fied by a meeting between us. Now, sir, you are the aggressor. Prepare-I am at your disposition.' Monsieur doubtless regretted the renewal of the fight, when, in spite of his finesse and address, six inches of your rapier had gone into his breast, besides other little mementos of your skill on his arm. "Fortunately for Henri, the next morning monsieur was unable to attend. You pacified him; saying you had learned that monsieur had met with a severe accident, which would keep him in bed for some weeks; and it was only by the merest chance that Henri, who had determined to renew his fencing lessons, selected as his teacher the ' maitre' who had witnessed the fight, and from him learned the story which you had be- sought him to hold in secrecy. Have I not, therefore, a claim upon you, never to be forgotten? and will you not gladden my heart by being my guest?" Ferdinand blushed, and yielded; his trunks were removed from the "Rue Rivoli" to the spacious mansion of the count, and Henri set himself busily to work to provide amusement for the entertainment of their honored guest. Thus it was that Ferdinand found him. self introduced into the choicest of : French society, whose mysteries are almost as sacred from the eye of the stranger as the secretsiof Eleusia. ] CHAPTER III. \ COL. JOHNSTONE was in Paris when f Ferdinand arrived, and though he had t made repeated efforts to meet hin, i Johnstone seemed to shun a rencounter. t 3 There were some who, had they known - the secret fires of revenge that, burned incessantly int Ferdinand, might have doubted the reputation for courage that Col. Johnstone so pre-eminently i sustained. It was true he had already fought, fatally to his adversaries, three duels; and his word upon mooted ques. tions of honor was a positive law. It was no motive of fear that induted this conduct. One year after the murder of Ferdinand's father, a letter, written on the deepest black, was handed to John- stone, as he lay stretched on a bed of sickness. A letter full of soft, womanly piety, indicating in every line suffering, and yet uncomplaining. It was a letter from Mrs. Vincent; she stated the ter- rible affliction that had overtaken her; the stroke of paralysis-she spoke of Ferdinand as her prop and hope-his fiery temper, unbridled and ungovern- able-his suspicions relative to his fa- ther's death-and wound up by an ear- nest appeal, beseeching Johnstone, as only a mother can, to avoid a rencounter with her son. It was the voice of the widow crying out to the strong man for her child, and his heart was touched. Sick, and with the fear of death before his eyes, anxious for pardon from the great God of all love, his heart was in the proper condition to be impressed with the purity of a mother's devotion, and with a solemn, sacred oath, he bound himself, if spared, to avoid at all times, and in every way, young Vin- cent. He had sacredly kept his oath, and though they visited many of the same houses, as yet either fate or foresight had enabled him to avoid a meeting. There was one house in which John- stone seemed to be established on a most familiar footing, and though Fer- dinand had prosecuted every inquiry that the ingenuity of the most skilful police could suggest, he had only ar- rived at the information generally known, that the house belonged to Madame de Linarez, a widowed lady, whose wealth seemed incalculable, and whose niece was rumored to be the most beautiful creature in Christendom. There were few servants about the establishment; these were as black as night, and either ignorant of the language as spoken by the neighbors (for creole negroes, we page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] know, have a vernacular of their own) or else taciturn, for some other reason. They rarely went out, and then only as attendants on the ladies, who both in their rides and walks usually wore a thick veil, shading the face and piquing the curiosity of the passers-by. 'John- stone was a daily visitor, and sometimes joined them in their drives. The servants seemed to show him marked respect, though few words were ever exchanged between them. The house was a large, old-fashioned build- ing, situated in a secluded part of the city, at one time fashionable but now the resident place for merchants and those of humbler cast. A large garden, much neglected, surrounded the house, and a fountain of sad-looking water only added to the sombre appearance of the premises. The interior of the dwelling was said to be adorned with a gorgeousness un- paralleled even in Paris, and the lights that nightly cast forth a brillianoMke the brightest sun on water threw forth the outlines of rich hangings, heavy draperies, and solid carved furniture, so magnificent as to seem almost unnatural. Occasionally, a voice like the breath- ings of angels through silver flutes was heaid stealing from the sombre-lookifig mansion. Rich, yegt soft, gentle, and pure, yet quickening the pulse of those who list- enid, with a fire unaccountable. Strange, wild vagaries, warbled with the melody of the nightingale, moving the limbs like the flute of Orpheus-and then, such plaintive strains, as if some erring angel besought the Master to whiten once again the darkened wings; so sweet and soft, so sad and tender, that tears alone were fit accompaniments, for music such as this. Madame de Linarez was the widow ofO! a West India planter, to whose memory I she was entirely devoted. Their mar- riage had been blessed with a little girt, 1 whose fair face gladdened the. hearts of i her parents for six short years, and then, 1 one summer's eve, with the last ray of 1 the sun, as it lingered, brightening the v earth, passed into eternity. A year I before her death, Paul de Linarez had r suddenly left home, and on his return h after a two months' absence, had brought \ back a little girl, whose large black eyes, f I) contrasting with her pure white skin and i. golden curls, gave her the look of a fairy ts sprite; and as she sat by the little brook n that gurgled in front of the plantation, a the fish would pop out their heads, look- g ingefor the nymph that sang so sweetly. i- Paul said her name was Hermione, and ,s that his only brother had bequeathed her to him. Her mother, he said, was n dead. A strong love soon sprang up e between the children, and just before e little Marie died, with a precociity seen - sometimes in the dying, she had placed e the tiny hand of Hermione within her v mother's and prophesied that through i her, comfort would visit the mother's , heart again. She begged her mother , to love Hermione as her daughter, and r Madame de Linarez, moaning in all the 3 agony of childless migery, had promised to love and cherish her as her own. I Hermione was so young, that her. grief soon passed away,Land she grew to lov- "ng her aunt with all the devotion of a daughter. No pains were spared upon her education, and evincing a most re- markable facility in acquiring know- ledge, she was, in a short time, admitted to be, not only the most beautiful, but the most accomplished young lady in the country. She had a passion for the water, and as her uncle spent the summers at his residence on the sea-shore, she found full scope for her aquatic humors. In a little skiff, made for her especially by skilful hands, she ventured sometimes so far upon the treacherous deep as to alarm her friends, who earnestly be- sought her to greater prudence. Then would she laugh, and declaring herself the daughter of a pirate, much to the indignation of honest Paul, vow that water was her element, and from it she AFared no harm. Paul de Linarez was a prudent and proud man; by dint of energy, in- genuity, and industry, from being a friendless boy, he had worked himself into both position and wealth. Some there were who pretended to have known him as Pierre Perrier--but as wealth begets respect, Paul de Linarez being more euphonious to his ears, was readily acquiesced in, as his name. He had married a creole of the country, whose untiring devotion had repaid him for all his earlier sufferings;. and al. though his affection wag unbounded, he had never disclosed the origin of his birth. Perhaps he did not 'know it. He told her that for many years he had been a sailor; that he had a brother, wild and reckless, from whom he had parted at the age of fifteen, and she, like a good wife, was content, and loved little Hermione all the more, on account of the father's wickedness. One dark day Paul died, leaving Hermione, as well as his fortune, to his wife. Hermione was then fourteen, and her loving attentions to the aunt soothed and softened her terrible affliction. It was wonderful to see, how the young girl, spoiled by caresses into a mere child, woke in a night, to all the dignity of womanhood-encompassing, as it were, her wounded friend, and managing the household with such easy dexterity, that the crushed widow partially forgot her grief in her surprise. A year had elapsed since the death of Paul, and the same quiet routine began to make the life of the young lassie monotonous. Beaux she might have had innumerable, for her expectations, as -heir to her aunt, were as well known as her beauty and accomplishments. But Madame de Linarez was jealous of her undivided affections, and, to say. truly, Hermione had created, from the rich romance of her exuberant fancy, an ideal that the neighboring beaux fell so far short of, that no immediate danger was to be apprehended. For hours would she pore over the life of Bayard or Charles the Twelfth, and her bright eyes would suffuse at the recital of King Arthur's dishonor and Sir Launcelot's, love. The old I knights of romance broke many a spear 1 for her amusement, and with a queenly smile would she crown the favored knight of her imagination. Out on the f sea, to which as ever she displayed a I strong attachment, would she sing with E her rich sweet voice, to the delight of t the fishermen, who all knew and loved { her, strange old tales of the crusaders f or mythological heroes, sometimes im- t provising to a quicker melody the say- 3 ings of her own heart. I Miss Hermione, be it confessed, was I rather romantic, and had a weakness c not unusual to the sex, for moonbeams I and murmuring waters. There was only t e one thing that threw a gloom over the is sunshine of her happiness, and like a t. dark cloud seen sometimes suddenly on d the brightest day, would cover her joy- r, ousness when at its height, casting her d into a black humor, lasting sometimes 3, for hours. She was now nearly sixteen, d and had learned that, with all Madame t de Linarez's devotion, she was not her k mother. Her aunt, at her persistent s request, had unfolded to her the scanty acquaintance she possessed of Her- r mione's birth, and, giving way to her I jealousy, had rather exaggerated the t wickedness of the father; thus hoping r to wean the child from an attachment , to his memory, which she dreaded. The f very mystery attending her birth en- , deared her to her unknown parents, a and, as the mother was dead, after a ; fervent prayer for her soul's salvation, ' mademoiselle lavished the greater por- tion of her romantic affection upon the lfather, picturing him always as a hero, sometimes suffering alone in a damp dark dungeon, but more frequently per- forming exploits of daring that could only occur in her fertile imagination. It was this uncertainty that rendered her at times so gloomy, and it was then that she would steal down to the water's edge, and, lost to all else, abandon her- self to morbid reflections. But youth is buoyant and elastic, and her gloom only heightened her merriment; so in that, EIvrmione was happy enough, and I verily believe, had her aunt made her father a preacher and her mother a saint, Miss Hermione would have cirossed her hands in meekness, and borne her afflic- tion (as she chose to call it) with a humility that would have done credit to good Father Francis. But this spirit of romance in her character was fully awakened by the faint outlines of her father, as drawn by madame-and had he been the devil, she would have worshipped him, at least until her curiosity was satisfied by a glimpse of his person. So, love for the father added another coat of mail to the invulnerability of her heart, and the young beaux, either laughed at for their pains or withered by her stinging sal- lies, gradually fell away--and "my own," as her aunt loved to call her, was left to revel undisturbed in her medita- tions. If she had been on the shady page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] side of twenty-five, possibly her father, when she got him inca dungeon, would have stayed there until he died, and lovers might have consoled her for the loss of this precious " parent," who, be it remembered, had parted with her when she was a little birdie of six. But as she was only sixteen, with the blackest eye, the fairest skin, and .a whole mine of pure gold curling around her head, we sha'n't scold her, especially since her aunt advocated the idea of celestial virginity. Yet, methinks, that for beauty like hers, had I at that time been a beau, the skiff should have been upset, and with a life-preserver buckled gallantly around me, I should have fished her from a watery grave, and struggled hard for a place in her romance. One night, after all had retired, Hter- mione walked down as near to the shore as was safe, for the wind had been howl- ing fearfully for two days, and the sea, lashed into a frenzy, was spitting forth its anger along the coast, in largegkes of foam, like a furious monster. The moon had just risen-and, in spite of the clouds, threw out upon the sea a path of light rendered the more brilliant and beautiful by its contact with the mad- dened waters. Way off in the distance was the black hulk of a vessel, laboring like some poor animal, panting; her tossings gave the appearance of tired lungs gasping for breath. She. was directly under the rays of the moon, mak- ing her desolation even more terrible. With masts all gone, helplessly she lay at the mercy of the waves, who, re- joicing like an ignoble conqueror, beat on her sides in a maddened ecstasy. Hermione's heart sank within her as she pictured the frightful condition of the unfortunate souls on her deck. No i help, no possibility of help. She fell I upon her knees, and the fervent prayer of a pure maiden was wafted by the s swift winds to Heaven in their behalf. That night, as she lay on her bed, } sleep brought no comfort. Frightful v dreams woke her with a scream, and the cold clammy hands of drowned men seemed to clasp her with a horrible 1 tenacity, dragging her down, down into the roaring waters. She welcomed the t first dawn of day with all the gratitude 1l of a shipwrecked mariner, and she t sprang from her bed and hastened to u :, the beach. The wild winds, as if tired d by their own exertions, were lulling d themselves to sleep-and the sea had e lost its angry look, heaving now as if e proud of its prowess, but unruffled by. r the white foam that had characterized its madness. Anxiously Hermione looked 3 forth for the vessel. Alas I no boat was a to be seen ; only a few spars told the sad i tale-corroborated by a pallid corpse, 7 that startled her as it washed ashore. f She was a brave girl, and the sufferings t of the brave are always intense. She 3 wrung her hands and wept. Her heart was sore touched, and this white corpse I had wakened in her thoughts of her 1 father. As the sun rose higher, she I fancied she saw a dark object, not unlike a human being, floating on a frail plank of the vessel. In an instant the daunt- less creature was in her trusty boat, and the quick strokes of her oars proved her earnestness as well as her skill. It was a beautiful sight to see this young being on her mission of charity; danger forgotten in the heroic desire of doing good; her long golden curls streaming in the wind ; her large bl/ack eyes lit up with a celestial fire, and her fair cheeks tinted with a roseate hue by the earnestness of her exertions. If a water-nymph, fresh from the palaces of the deep, and animated with a pure, Christian's soul, could have stood before some ancient master, brush in hand, the picture would not have flattered Her- mione at this moment. On she went. The water, rippling from the prow of her boat, made a melody that encour- aged her. Closer and closer, until the dark object assumes the form and fea- tures of a man, part of the body hidden in the water, his head and breast rest- ing, as if insensible, upon the frail tim- ber to which he clung. What is it that causes her to start, and blanches that sweet cheek I - A strange, sharp, hissing noise, and a huge fin moves behind her rapidly to- wards the shipwrecked man. A monster shark scenting his prey I - How she doubles her exertions I her little boat trembling at each stroke. The shark circles round as if uncer- tain; then delicate hands grasp the help- less man, and as the huge black fin, cut- ting the water, dashes down, fearfully near, the boat receives its burden. CHAPTER IV. THE servants had crowded the beach, and Mrs. de Linarez, with hair dishe- velled, stood like a picture of despair. Four trusty men were manning a strong yawl, as the little skiff with its precious freight struck the shore, and Hermione, faint from exertion and ex- citement, fell exhausted into the open arms of her beloved aunt. Then the sun shone out still brighter; the winds and waters seemed hushed, as if in reve- rence for the bravery of the girl. Into the house they carried the body, still insensible, but whose slow pulsation in- dicated that life was not extinct. Ser- vants hastened in every direction, some for medical assistance, whilst others, under the supervision of Cato, an old darky, who was supposed amongst the negroes to possess a remarkable healing power, rolled the body about the room, with as much delight as if it had been a barrel of whiskey. A gurgling sound, as the water left the lungs; then large doses of such good brandy, that, unless the man lad been dead for a month- there were strong chances for his resus- citation. Cato, tasting a few drops re. maining over, almost wished he had been partially drowned himself. Pre- sently the eyes unclosed, displaying orbs a little languid, but as black as Her- mione's, and as the cries of the darkies went up, rejoicing at this positive sign of vitality, a flush tinged his pale cheeks. The man seemed to be about thirty-five, I with curly black hair clustering around I a head set firmly upon shoulders so well j proportioned as to lose their muscular t appearance. From the texture of the shirt and pants, it was evident he was of the better rank, and the black beard r that shaded his face gave to him a look j of aristocracy unmistakable. He seemed, n too, accustomed to command; f6r, after d a few questions, asked in a manner so t indifferent that, had it not been for the % great danger which prostrated him, M would have been highly disagreeable, p he ordered Cato, who was still bobbing o around in close proximity to the brandy, n first, to give him a glass of it, and then, iE together with the gaping crowd, to clear the room. The stranger, after disbur- te dening himself of the wet clothes, and ei putting on others provided forthe occa. sion, without much ado threw himself on the bed, and was evidently, in a few !h, minutes, forgetful of all the dangers to ie- which he had been exposed. He had heard that a Miss Hermione had saved a him, and though he naturally entertained its a proper sense of gratitude for his fear. Id less benefactress, he fell asleep, pictur. x- ing her as a female "Titan," blessed on with iron nerve as well as muscle. He ie knew he must soon see, and offer her Is the thanks that were due, and yet, as e- she might be ugly, he argued sleep was to more profitable to his exhausted frame ll than gratitude. i- Ahl beautiful Hermione I had he r- seen thy face, how different might have e been his reasonings I S, Three hours' sleep, and he awoke a d changed man. The cheek, so pale be- e fore, was olive now, and the dark eye g had regained its brightness. He touched I, a bell; the servant brought back word a the ladies waited him; and as he walked 1, through the. large hall conducting to e the parlors, his eye was struck by the s evidences of taste exquisitely displayed i on every side, evidences of culture as - well as wealth, and by the time he reached - the rooms, our gentleman had lost much I of his haughty self-possession. For, say what we please, education and wealth s always create a certain respect, even - amongst its fortunate co-possessors-- 3and the maiden whom he had pictured as a giantess might prove a deity. Madame de Linarez met him with a gentle dignity; kind, and yet a little haughty, that certainly did her no in- jury in the esteem of her guest, who, by the way, was giving her a quiet but critical examination. In reply to his inquiries for Miss Her- mione, she stated that her niece had just awakened from a sleep, which she much needed, but would join thelm at dinner. As might have been expected, the conversation soon turned upon his wonderful escape; and our dear aunt, who never lost an opportunity of dis- playing, in bold colors, all the beauties of our heroine's character, made the really romantic story still more heroic in the recital. The stranger listened- with rapt at. tention, and a cold shudder ran quiv- ering through his frame, as she painted page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] the hungry shark, outstripped by the fleet boat, in the race of life or death. He felt a sickness he had not yet expe- rienced, and his face, buried in his hands, grew cold and pale. Just then dinner was announced, and giving his arm with a grace that bespoke the cavalier, he ushered madame through the open door into the well-lit room, where a table, covered with the daintiest luxuries, was spread in the most profuse magnificence. A light step was heard, and as the door again opened, Hermione, more beautiful if possible than ever, came into the room. Her golden curls were twined into a crown; a black silk dress, a little heavy, only added to her queen-like appearance, and one immense diamond held together the rich collar of costly lace that hid a throat so delicate and white that Aphrodite might have wept in envy. With a light blush that added new beauties to her face, she ex- tended Her hand to the stranger who, bowing his head in reverence, prMLed a kiss upon the white skin that covered the daintiest hand he had ever seen, The stranger was evidently a man of the world. 'His conversation sparkled with wit and satire, so new to Her- mione, that she listened with mute sur- prise and pleasure. He gave a descrip- tion so graphic of the shipwreck, that the cries of the helpless reached her ears. The horrible scenes. Men crazy with fear, or maddened by liquor-blas- pheming or praying; the .cries of weak women, some clinging to their children, and with an insanity caused by fear, plunging into the waves, only to be swallowed up.' Then, dwelling upon the horrors of such a death, and the delights of life, he turned to Hermione, and with a gen- tleness almost pathetic, thanked her for the life she had given him in such beau- tiful terms that her bright eyes filled with tears, and a feeling new and strange, stole over her. He forgot, though, to tell her he had supposed her a Titaness. "A strange fact, in some women," as Charles Reade, "the delightful," has said, " the moment they fancy themselves protectors, they soften towards the ob- ject of their bounty." So here was Hermione, the most haughty beauty in the country, lavishing smiles'on an entire stranger, half of which were enough to * have driven wild all the beaux of the neighborhood, whosighingly had danced attendance on this proud young queen. Good aunt, however, had not saved his life, and extending no protectorate. I claim over him, she made up in chil- l liness what Hermione expended in i warmth; but the stranger was so plea- , sant, his stories so varied and interest- t ing, and the dinner so excellent that 3 Madame de Linarez found herself offer- , ing the hospitality of her house for as , long a period as he chose to stay ; and , yet, she had not even inquired the name 3 of her guest. The next day, however, : Hermione informed her aunt that his ' name was Johnstone, and that he was a planter of Louisiana. r Each day brought Hermione in closer intimacy with the colonel, and having soon discovered her romantic disposi- tion, he recited to her tales of such interest that Hermione began to be un- happy unless she was always near him. You must remember she was an artless child, very Wihuch spoiled,and as she had saved Johnstone's life, I suppose she felt she had a perfect right to his com- pany. The feeling that sprang up be- tween them was certainly one of love; yet Hermione never blushed as the col- onel approached, or trembled when he spoke, nor manifested ,any of those thousand little signs that bespeak I' the maiden touched by Cupid's dart ;" and with the colonel, though he certainly was a gallant of the first water, there was a curious uneasiness in his affection for Hermione; and he would as soon have made love to his old housekeeper as whisper one word to this girl, so art- less and beautiful. Madame de Linarez had watched this growing intimacy with a secret dread; her affection for the child wasunbounded. She-was a link that brought her closer to the sweet-faced little Marie and the dear husband, both gone forever. She felt an unaccountable apprehension, amounting almost to aversion, towards Colonel Johnstone; for, instinctively, something taught her that Hermione's heart was passing from her to this man. True, the niece was aQ gentle and as attentive as of old, caressing the fond aunt with such winsome grace-but the quick, instinctive nature of woman had marked what to us would have been un. noticed, and her heart sickened within her. One evening, as they all sat under the shade of the orange-trees, watching the setting sun purpling the ocean with a Tyrian dye, reflected from the mass of clouds that, piled one upon the other, with the richest hues, looked like im- mense mountains painted, Hermione broke out into a wild chant-ringing along the seashore, startling the sea-gull with its rich melodiousness. A chant of her own improvising-telling the story of her father, as the poetry of her heart had made it. The colonel's face darkened; and then a smile of ineffable gladness came over it. "Child," he said, " for you are a child to me, did you never know your fa- ther?" Her aunt spoke up, dreading the very memory of this father. "Colonel, ten years ago, Hermione came to me hither--her mother dead- her father said to be a pirate. She is my all; no father's love could bless her i as I have done. Since then no traces i of her father. We believe him dead. l It is a subject on which we never speak." 1 "Excuse me, madame, for my rough 1 bluntness." f Hermione's head was leaning on her hand, and her dear eyes looked far out a on the ocean. , u "Miss Hermiorie's chant awakened v sad reminiscences to me. Pardon me, madame. May I tell .my story? Forty w vears ago--for I am much older than I ti look-I had a father, mother, brother, vi and a little sister who loved me well." There was a sadness in the colonel's w tone that awakened Hermione's interest. a "These things are so long past, and cc nmy life has been so fraught with danger- ar ous adventure that I cannot, though I have often tried, recall my father's name ba or home. All that I remember, and fai that so indistinctly as to seem a dream, fei is, that he was a man of influence. One thi evening my brother and myself-he was thi eight, and I was five-had wandered from our home down to the bank of a large cc] river. Two men accosted us, and in sid spite of our screams, carried us prison- sti ers to a black-looking vessel that lay ha all alone in the middle of the stream. me The next day, when we awoke, for we coi had wept ourselves to sleep, we found rer the blue waters of the sea dashing me bin around us on every side; and from the der hints and glances, felt we were with ing desperate men. We cruised about for ith many days; but as both my brother and of myself were sickened by the tossings of er, the boat, we rarely went on deck. I fancy m- we were kindly treated, for even the ne hardest-hearted sailors are always tender ng towards young children, and I can recall ull no injury then. One evening when the of wind was fresh we heard the mustering ry of the men on deck, and very soon the trt booming of the long old cannon, shaking the ship as if with ague, frightened my id brother and myself, who weepingly ne clung nearer to each other. Soon we heard the sharp noise of musketry. A Id heavy, heavy striking against some ob- i- ject; then clashing of swords, and g curses, drowned by shrieks, and pre- sently a noisy cry of victory. e "After awhile we saw strong men, - with faces blackened by powder, bear- s ing boxes and goods down into the cabin. r Soon we fancied a smell of fire, and I, s more bold than my brother, clambered up on high, and saw a merchant vessel "burning; whilst on our deck some help- i less men and women lay, paralyzed with fear. " Three days afterwards we came to t anchor, and soon the small boats landd j us on an island so beautiful that frlyBW Iwords would fail to picture it. "The waters on each side were not wider than a half a mile, and heavy timber all around, shut it off from view. "It was an inland island, and the only way of approach seemed to be through a canal, ducg by the pirates, and con. cealed from view by rushes made to grow around its mouth. " Here was the rendezvous of these bold bad men, and here lived their wives and families, cultivating, with the help of 'a few decrepit men, the 'generous soil, that yielded a superabundance of all that was needed. "The pirate chief had no children ex- cept one little girl, and as we were con- sidered his especial property, his wife, still a most beautiful woman, with light hair like Hermione's, and with a sweet motherly smile, soon made us feel more comfortable; and as the grief of child- ren is never lasting, we soon became the merriest of them all, and gradually en- page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] twined ourselves in the affections of the whole fraternity. "I will pass over many years spent in fishing and hunting, and in the out-door sports, that gave us an activity and strength which have stood me often since. I had got to love the life, for I was wild and reckless, and Mother Margue- rite was so kind and gentle. Even the pirate chief had lost much of his savage- ness; and though I still had a certain % awe of him, I grew familiar, taking such liberties as terrified my brother, who was sometimes sad, and did not love the life as I did. We heard once, many years afterwards, that a ransom had been offered for us, which would have en- richedthe pirate chief for life. He had refused it. Some said, because good Mother Marguerite had wept, and did not wish to part from us; and others, that he had a hatred for our father which money could not soften; besides, he said, we might some day beervice- able. So we lived on, leading a wild life, and I, at least, never repining. Once, when I was fifteen, I asked the chief to let me join an expedition then in con- templation. He could not well refuse, for I was called his child, and he had made his followers swear, in case any accident should befall limn, that when I grew to manhood I should be their chief. So out we went, much against the prayers of my brother, who stayed at home. "Soon we overtook a Spanish galleon, laden with gold and silver from the -mines in ico; and after a bloody andeprotracted fight, forced her to sur- render. How my heart beat with a wild enthusiasm as I stood on deck- danger forgotten in excitement, and en- vied the prowess of the chief, whose strong armn carried quick death in every stroke. I revelled in the blood, blind to the wicked impiousness of this illegal warfare. "Two days afterwards we came upon a yacht, whose crippled condition from a recent gale alone permitted us to over- take her, so sylph-like in her elegant pro- portions that our heals were fired with admiration ; and we prepared two boats, laden with necessary provisions, in which we cast adrift her crew. '"The owner wept as he saw us move off with her, though the captain had dropped him a bag of gold, which might well have consoled him for his loss. We soon rigged her up, and a more beautiful craft never danced upon the waters. "I easily prevailed upon the chief to give me command of her, and parting company, they going in search of a mer- chantman, I started with four men for our harbor. ' "We had not been gone over eight hours when a terrible blow from the northeast drove us out of our course, carrying away, in its fury, our mainsail, as well as the foremast.- A heavy- looking man-of-war cruised down on. us, and, to our horror, we recognized the owner of the yacht, with some members of his crew, as passengers aboard--pro- bably picked up a short time before. "It was not long and we were all in irons, making for the harbor of , and the evidence being positive against us as pirates, the chances were that, after a trial, which we felt would be a sham, we should all either be shot or hung. "I told my story to a hard-hearted old judge, on whom my youth had no effect; and, being a little high-tempered, re- sented what I thought an insult with an impertinence that caused me a severe whipping from the jailer, ordered by the judge. "That whipping raised the devil in my heart, and though I might, by kindness, have been won from my evil way of life, this punishment confirmed me as a pi- rate, and with a fearful oath I vowed, if spared the death that threatened me, to live and punish the affront. "Our trial had come on. "The sentence of death was passed, commuted, in my case, to ten years' im- prisonment, if I would betray the ren- dezvous of my associates; and as I re- fused with an indignity that maddened the authorities, we were all huddled back to prison. "Five days elapsed; on the next was to come our execution. "I stood that night looking out on the sea perhapstfor the last time, and in a dreamy revery, when suddenly a sharp blow on my face recalled me to my senses; and stooping down I picked up what had struck me, discovering a small stone wrapped with paper. In an in- stant we recognized the familiar writing of our chief cheering us with encourage- ment; and following the advice therein contained, a small line was soon lowered, and came up with the files and saws necessary for our escape. "With a hearty good-will we went to work, and silently cut away the iron bars that shut us out from liberty. So quietly and swiftly had we performed the work, that we were far on our home- ward journey before the escape was known. The chief, it appeared, had been frightened off by this very cruiser, and watching her with his powerful glass, had seen a yacht picked up. On his return home his suspicions for our safety were confirmed; and manning one of his fishing-smacks with a few- of his boldest men, he had dauntlessly pushed into the very lion's mouth in hopes of saving us. "A few ounces of gold well spent, had removed the argus-eyed vigilance of the guard, and we were again cutting th& water towards our inland island. "On our return, I was grieved and much surprised to hear that my brother i had gone off no one knew whither. Some supposed him dead, but many who s knew how distasteful had been his stay ( on the island, were convinced that he a had skilfullly managed his escape, and of I his own accord was absent. Thus my t last tie to the outer world was severed, t and soon I became initiated, by those t oaths so sacred to pirates, in all the se- crets of the craft. c "In a few years, by my skillis well as c reckless daring, I was made lieutenant, n and as the chief was growing tired of service, I soon commanded every expe- b dition. h " I had now grown to be a man ; des- le perate though not cruel; envied by some, feared by others, yet loved by many. h Isabella, the daughter of my chief, had m ripened under my eye into a woman sur- passingly beautiful. Tall and fearless, fr she was the admiration of the whole p( island, and many suitors had sighed in m vain for her sweet smiles. ac " She was nearly twenty, but so fresh- wl looking that she hardly appeared seven- hi. teen. In vain had she been urged to marry; she turned a deaf ear to all en. pa treaties, and as she was the spoiled of favorite of her fattier, was permitted to flo enjoy her own humors. ]n "Up to this time my heart had been so ,e- filled with love for adventure, that I had in failed to notice how her face would d, brighten at my return; and fancied the vs emotion shown whenever I addressed her, proceeded from maidenly fear. to 'Once, after a pretty desperate fight, rs I came back to the island with a shat- lo tered arm, and a hole in my side, bhat Id kept me for many months upon my e- back. Is "It was then,that it flashed through On my brain that Isabella might be mine- d and a new feeling, more powerful than s, ambition took possession of my breast. is I watchlA her every movement, and y was miserable unless her soft hand )f soothed my brow, and one day, fevered s and suffering, I spoke my love, and as d her cheek flushed up I knew her heart ,f was mine. "I wasn't very long then in recovering, 1 and in a short time, at a neighboring e port, we celebrated our nuptials. Oh 1 a how I loved this woman I my whole heart was given to her, and I was mis- I erable and uneasy unless she was near me. "We had been married fouryears, when , she blessed me with a child, a little rdaughter, with eyes as black,and hair as golden as Hermione's. Two years r before, I had quitted my life of sin- the chief had died; the band was scat- tered, and Marguerite lived with us on the islapd of Anguilla. "The immense fortune hoarded by the chief was mine, and all that charity could do to wipe out sin was done by me. "My wife's health was declining, and by advice of medical men, I visited with her the celebrated springs of Europe, leaving our infant with its grandmother. "Here Isabella's health improved, and her rich beauty became each day still more magnificent. o "Among our friends was a gentleman from Louisiana, so beautiful in person, polished in manners and accomplish- ments, that the women raved on his account; and yet so modest, that no whisper of scandal tainted the purity of his morals. "He soon became our intimate com- panion, teaching miy wife the beauties of poetry until her heart unfolded like a flower. page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] "No suspicions ever crossed my mind, and I was happy that shebshould find pleasure inlhis company. He had won my love by the chivalry I saw him once display, and being called suddenly from thence I left her in his charge. Three weeks afterwards I returned. My Isa- bella was gone, my friend was my dis- honorer. "I fell upon my knees and prayed (for I bad learned to pray) for strength to bear this blow. "I traced the fugitives, but all in vain. One year afterwards, a few lines written in an unknown hand announced her death. I "The scoundrel with all his soft hypo- crisy had won her heart with promises tof marriage. Poor girl I too late had she discovered that, for many years, he had been a married man. The blow -came on her suddenly, and like a crushed flower she pined away and died. Some- thing she said to him on her death-bed had sunken in his heart, for wlft-: met :him two years afterwards, brave as he was, lie trembled, and when we fought, he fired his pistol in the air. My bullet crashed through his breast; but he lived,.and as I could not publish my own dishonor, the quarrel ceased there, though my hatred lived until he died- not many years ago. I was a changed man-seeking everywhere to drown my sorrow, finding comfort in nothing. "My little girl became my horror, and one night she disappeared. "From that moment allof Marguerite's love turned to hater and nothing I would say could eradicate the idea from her mind that I had murdered the child as well as the mother; she threatened me with the punishment of the law, and had it not beetnfor the sacred oath, taken as well by the wives of pirates as them- selves, my career might have been I ended. 1 "I had heard many years before of my. X lost brother, as Pierre Perrier, living in the West Indies, growing both in wealth and position. To him had I written, and, with a nobleness of character that was all his own, he had come to me. I, knowing how reluctantly Marguerite would have parted with the child, stole her at night and gave her to Pierre to s cherish as his own. I soon sold out and i moved to Louisiana, Marguerite clinging I I, to me like a horrible nightmare. There d all my efforts at happiness were nipped n by her, she, holding the knowledge of e my evil life like the sword of Damocles n over my head, until, maddened-and my e love for my innocent child coming on me - with a giant's strength-I started in - search of her, "The shipwreck cast me with you. r "Look, madame, at this locket," and o he handed a gold case containing a face so like Hermione's when she first saw it, that Madame de Linarez sighed, re- n calling happy days gone by. "Isabella r was my daughter's name; but oh, madame, can you doubt that Hermione - and she are one?" s He ceased; the tears coursed down I his cheeks; Madame de Linarez her- e self was touched. Paul, her own Paul, r seemed smiling on the crushed and way- I ward brother. Hermione had -started - to her feet, when her aunt received the I locket, her black eyes beaming through t ker tears with a light as bright as the e sun shining on the rain-drops. Her , thick tresses had escaped their bindings ; and hung in glorious profusion around 3 her shoulders. Her bosom heaved like the swelling ocean, and the bright rays of the moon just-risen, fell on her face - so softly, shading the background with the shadow of the orange-trees. Johnstone had risen too, and stood with outstretched arms. His whole frame shook with emotion. With a wild cry of love and delight Hermione sprang into his arms, and the father, ad he kissed her brow, forgave the mother. Just over' their heads, high in the heavens, twinkled a little star. A drop of rain fell, as if from the star itself, down on his cheek. Oh I might not that bright light in heaven have been the watchful eye of the repentant mother, and the rain-drop a tear of holy love I CHAPTER V. IT did not require a great deal of per-: suasion on the part of Johnstone to induce. Madame de Linarez to leave her home for a few years' sojourn in Europe. She had grown very fond of the colonel, especially as he had cheerfully acquiesced to the name of Hermione, instead of Isa- bella, as a mark of respect to his de- ceased brother, who had himself chosen the name; moreover, the colonel, see- ing the apprehension of his sister-in-law, which she could not well conceal, had relieved her anxiety by promising that Hermione should always remain with her. The colonel wished Hermione to visit the scenes, the reading of which had so much gratified her; and as her beauty had roused in him all the latent pride of his nature, he desired that her accom- plishments should be perfected under the supervision of the justly celebrated mas- ters of Europe. It was a little painful to madame to 1 leave, and for the first time in her life, the scenes of her youth; endeared to i her, too, by the sacred ties of wedded and motherly love. Nothing but her ( unselfish devotion to Hermione could a have prevailed upon her to quit those e green mounds in which the bones of her i loved ones were at rest. a They first visited Italy; and here, on the sacred ground of antiquity, Her- z mione's heart budded. out with new joy. h For hours would they wander through e the ruins of the past, her ears greedily b drinking in the stories and legends of p the loquacious cicerone, who, being well h paid for his pains, gave, doubtless in L gratitude, many a "histoire" not found ih in our histories. She stood on the Tar- ol peian Rock, threw a stone in an open- se ing, near where Quintus Curtius is sup- ui posed to have been swallowed up. The at cicerone brought her small pieces of th bronzed-looking porcelain, which he re swore had been handed down from gene- al ration to generation, in his family, as wi parts of the service of Lucullus, and ro received, in return; gold enough to set ge up a crockery-shop on a modest footing. sei Other cicerones, stealing away from their mi parties, would offer her mementos of co holy saints for a small consideration; pa and once, an energetic priest had shown the her the veritable toe of St. Peter, which wh certainly had an odor of its own, if not we of sanctity, and which he guarantied was reg a sovereign specific against all disease the or disaster. He might have sold this we too (or toe), but here the colonel inter- los 2 el, fered, declaring St. Peter might'some ed night discover his loss, and perform sa- some feat in its recapture disagreeable le- to the lady purchaser. So the toe went en off-mortified. e- They visited Venice, and Hermione w, sang in the moonlights as they sat in Id their gondolas. Then way off into at Germany, and afterwards to Switzer- th land, where she bought a most excellent likeness of her hero, Charles the Twelfth. sit From thence to England, and she placed so a chaplet of flowers on the tomb of Coeur ty de Lion, and visited fair "Rosamond's" le bower. Being a little tired by this time a- of travel, they went to Paris, where Col. e Johnstone had purchased and furnished s- a house. Madame de Linarez had passed o through all the excitement, rather as a I, martyr. She could not go into ecstasies o with Hermione, for Cesar and Pompey, d Scavola, or even Rosamond and Coeur r de Lion were not as well known to her d as to her niece; and though a most e excellent Catholic, some of the relics r possessed a counterfeit snmell not very agreeable. As for the colonel, he imitated a most - zealous enthusiasm in all the romance of his daughter; but being a man of varied experience, I question whether he really believed all that Hermnionle saw and re- r peated, and was rather glad when she herself proposed Paris. As Madame de Linarez was still in the deepest mourn- ing, and dreaded the noise and bustle of so great a city, the colonel had cho- sen this sombre-looking mansion, in an unfrequented portion of the metropolis, and not having had full time to make the necessary out-door improvements, it remained as yet with its gloomy appear- ance. Within, however, it was fitted with the most exquisite elegance; the room and boudoir of Hermione was a gem, like some fairy's work. The servants had all been brought friom madame's estate, and as neither the colonel nor herself seemed just then particularly anxious for acquaintances, there were none, save a few " maestri, who ever entered the doors; even these were kept in profound ignorance withl regard both to the name and estate of their employers. Madame's reasons were very evident-the same dread of losing Hermione. What the colonel's page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] may have been we cannot safely tell, though the fact that he had heard of Verdinand's stay in Paris, and that he knew young Vincent's sworn hatred to him, may have induced him to desire that -the relationship between himself and Hermione should remain a secret; for something. instinctively told him danger was to be apprehended to her through this man. And might not the suspicion that he (Johnstone) was a murderer reach her ear? Everything that could make home pleasant was thrown around her. Books, the choicest flowers; horses, matchlessly beautiful; and servants obedient to her every wish. A close box at the opera, where she could admire the gorgeousness of Paris, without herself being observed, was pur- chased for the season; and here would Hermione sit, letting the music of her heart steal out, silently joining the rich harmony of the scene. The colonel rode with her often; for she was fond of horses, and hegallant bearing, on a steed so fiery as to excite attention, riveted the admiration of all beholders; and yet, no one had seen her face-for, by the request of her father, she wore always a thick veil, hiding the radiance of a countenance so beautiful, that all Paris would have gone wild at its sight. But Hermione's was a beauty that came out, in spite of all opposition -just as the sun struggles through the clouds--and her exquisitely propor- tioned form, showing with advantage ill the close-fitting, costly purple riding- habit, already began to draw the admi- ration of the gay young loungers- whilst her superb horsemanship made her the envy of the ladies. So, between her rides, her books, her aunt, and her father, Hermione was as happy as a bird. May her happiness always be as brightl CHAPTER VI. FERDINAND had gradually succumbed to the fascinations of the " beau monde." His introduction by the count and J;enri, who had repeated the story of his duel, nfade him the " lion" amongst the fair sex; and his elegance of manner, soft and graceful, contrasted so with the character he had won for daring, as to excite a curiosity to know him. f, Ferdinand was of that type of beauty f rarely seen: not more than five feet ten or e eleven, he looked much taller. His hand o and foot both so small, you wondered 3 how they could support the muscular ft development shown in the arm and leg. ; His hair, thick and black, was soft as i the young silk that tassels on the corn. r His eye was large and brown, with e one small speck in each; that sparkled i like a burning coal at times, at others r melted with the softness of a dove. S Since the death of his father, he had persisterntly dressed in the deepest black, ;fittlng with the nicest correctness his well-proportioned form; and as black ' gave a proper aristocratic coloring to his pale face, heightening the beauty of his appearance, there seemed no proba. bility of his discarding it. His voice was low, and sweetly modu- lated, and as he spoke several languages fluently, he had many opportunities of properly tuning it. I think, however, he preferred the French, as best suited to his voice; at least so said the young Duchess of Per- signac, the reigning belle of Paris, and certainly she ought to know; for Fer- dinand had recently whispered many soft compliments to her ear. The duchess was of that style of beauty the French adore: about the medium'height, with languishing blue eyes, fair skin, and the blackest hair imaginable. Full of'life and wit; shedding a joy- ousness around on every side; and her arms had been taken as models for the unfinished "Venus de Medici," of some celebrated sculptor. Her husband was old enough to be her father; another January and May; rather a dignified old gentleman, good natured, however, and adoring his wife. The fair duchess had a host of ad- mirers, all sighing like burning furnaces, and a duel had once been fought for a very small glove she had dropped by accident. The lady bore her triumphs modestly enough, and though she did not love her husband with the devotion that would savde a young and beautiful woman from temptation, at least, as yet, had seen no inducement for infidelity. The truth is, the lady was rather fas- tidious, and all the attacks hitherto made were conducted in the regular line of courtship, of which she had be- come a little ennuyee; so after a few bewitching glances from her eye, and a soft pressure of the hand, the lovers found her suddenly transformed into an icicle so cold that their sighs froze on their lips, and they wandered off in search of warmer beauties. Like every one else, she had heard of Ferdinand; and as Henri had been for a time one of her admirers, intimated to him that Ferdinand might worship at her shrine. Our hero laughed one of those singu- lar laughs of his, and had refused the proffered honor; which being repeated to the haughty beauty, piqued her vanity, as well as stimulated her curio. sity. She was determined to see this young savage, who dared to refuse her homage, and with a woman's wit forth- with set about maturing a plan. A few days after, riding in the "Bois de Bou- logne," she recognized at some distance Henri, and from the striking bearing of his companion, was satisfied that Ferdi. nand was with him. She struck her horse, and dashed ahead of the crowd of admirers that usually attended her, with the intention, doubtless, of riding down upon these two, and withering them with her beauty. I "Henri recognized her, and was about ( drawing on one side, to give her ample t room for passing, when suddenly her 1 horse, making a false step,.stumbled, and she must inevitably have fallen, pain- v fully, had not, Ferdinand, whose eagle ( eye divined the danger even before it 1 happened, thrown out his strong hand, and she, being so near him as the horse a fell heavily to the ground, found herself s dangling under Ferdinand's arm. The t position was rather laughable, and though n the danger had been imminent, she was not e so thankful as might have been expected. a Place a woman in a ridiculous position, fi and she loses all gratitude. a The duchess would have preferred a p broken limb to the smile that, in spite a of himself, played over Ferdinand's face, b as, dropping her safely to the ground tl (for he had held her longer than neces- es sity required), he dismounted and prof- 't fered his assistance. The duchess was ui mortified, and properly; for here was sn the man whom she had intended be- ey wildering with her charms, and punish- a; ar ing with her beauty, for refusing her his e- homage, quietly tucking her under his w arm (to save her neck, it is true), and a holding her in "chancery" as persist- rs ently as' Heenan held Tom Sayres. Ln Her anger broke out in tears, that rather in refreshed the beauty of the lady, just as n the dews give a brighter gloss to the 'y rose; but while she cried she peeped at ; him through her fingers, and satisfied )f herself that report had not overflattered it his appearance. He certainly was very l. handsome, and the momentary excite- i- ment madeb-im look especially well. e By the time the anxious old duke and d her retinue of danglers arrived, the lady r was sufficiently recovered to lean rather - heavily on the proffered arm of our hero, s and as the duke was very profuse in his r compliments of gratitude, the lady said - nothing, but gave him a look that made v the blood mantle his cheek; for Ferdi- -nand was young, with hot blood cours- eing through his veins. f To the compliments, Ferdinand, as - usual, replied with a smile, and after handing the duchess to her carriage, 1 which stood in waiting, with a stately ; bow, turned to mount his horse. Just , then, Hermione and Johnstone (who did not see him) galloped by, and the duchess, whose eye still rested on Fer- dinand, trembled, for that strange light, that struck terror into the stoutest heart, had flashed across his face. The next viorning, about eleven, the valet announced a messenger from the duke, attended by a groom, who was leading a high-strung horse. Ferdinand, whose passion for horses amounted almost to a mania, threw on a rich silk morning-gown, and went out to see the animal, not waiting for the' messenger, as etiquette required. 'His eye no sooner rested on him than he acknowledged he was superior to his favorite "Hecate" in point of beauty, and, from the powerful and symmetrical proportions of his limbs, equally as fleet and durable as "Sir Hupert." He was black, and groomed to such a nicety that he shone like a costly jet. At the end of his small and delicate ears were two white spots; the rest of his body uniformly black as the raven's wing. A small head, rather wide between the eyes, two big, bold orbs, nostrils re,d and large, deep chested, with a leg ta- page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] pering down to a foot, almost as deli- cate as the duchess's. Ferdinand was enchanted, and, glanc- ing over the note the messenger had handed him, hastened back to his room, to return a suitable acknowledgment for this magnificent gift. The duke had written the horse was of the English breed, the dam purchased some years before, with her young colt, in England, at'a fabulous price, on ac- count of her rare blood. The horse had never been ridden, but he felt this fact would only enhance his value to Ferdi- nand. That evening, as he rode him slowly around the fashionable promenade, he was overtaken by the duchess, who gave him a most winning smile of recogni- tion, to which he made a graceful obei- sance. "Le Diable," as the groom E christened him, had been behaving with e the gentleness of a lamb. Now, whether I the sight of admiring women or a de- sire to try his rider actuated hiktin his a riotous proceeding, you must judge, but e certainly he began a series of exercises a that, though they displayed to advan- h tage the beauties of his powerful form, p struck a terror to 'the hearts of all, and could not have been pleasant to the ir horseman, who, however, with a quiet d smile sat the personification of a cen- a taur. 0 The duchess had stopped her car- h riage, a little nervous, but anxious to sl see the contest between the wild and fiery animal and the fearless man. The tl passers-by had all passed off to one side, ei and were watching the struggle with a the interest of old Romans witnessing m the sports of the arena. Le Diable had bl reared, and, standing thus, pawed the ea air, sending out sharp neighs, like the ar sound of a trumpet. A cut of the whip ot on the ear brought him with a jerk to en the ground, from whence he bounded of like an arrow shot from some strong pu bow. A powerful pull on the reins from us the strong arm of Ferdinand checked wh him before he had reached a group, who co began to evince a fear for their own saf safety. He kicked and bit, and having the devil raised in him, took no notice of the the whip that fell, with no gentle hand, the upon his shoulders. So far, and Ferdi- wo nand, with his accustomed coolness, had ] made no extraordinary effort to conquer but eli- this obstinate creature, rather enjoying the excitement. But just now a little nc- girl started to run across the road, and had this devil's brute, with a fearful plunge, )m, launched out towards her. A cry of ent horror rose from the spectators; for it seemed no human hand could stop him vas ere he reached her. For the first time sed that wicked look passed over Ferdi- lit, nand's face, and stooping in his saddle ac- he caught the horse, now white with ad foam, and maddened to a frenzy, quick 'ct by the nostril, and by a twist that made di- Le Diable shriek with pain, threw him to the ground. ly This feat of strength, as well as horse- he manship, was seen by all, and loud ac- ve clamations rent the air in admiration. ni- Before the horse recovered, Ferdinand fi- was again on his back: he rose up m slowly, apparently stunned, and it was th evident to all his spirit was broken, and er Ferdinand the conqueror. e- The duchess received our friend with is a timidity that well became her. This it exhibition of strength and daring had es awakened a feeling new to her; and i- her eyes sank beneath his own, as he I, paid his compliments. d There was another who had gazed e in admiration on this fearless rider, t drinking in his manly beauty in large - and dangerous draughts. She had read of heroes ; pictured gallant deeds ; and - here, for the first time in her life, had o she witnessed a realization of her dreams. I Her face was covered with a veil, but e the heaving of her bosom marked her , emotion. She sat lost in'a revery, with ia strange, wild feeling at her heart, r making her faint, and then sending the Iblood rushing with a blush to her very ears. It was Hermione, with her aunt; and the face of the man, whom of all others her father prayed she might never encounter, had burnt itself into her heart of hearts. Thus sometimes Fate, for a purpose to us unknown, weaves round us meshes that would seem our ruin, and whilst we sigh and' murmur our unjust complaints, these very meshes prove our safety and our strength. Ferdinand parted with the duchess at the door of her splendid mansion, with the promise that during the evening he would drop in to her box at the opera. I can't say that he was yet in love, but, being young and full of life, he cer. tainly was pleased at having exhibited himself in so favorable an attitude be- fore her; and as the experience of Many teaches that the moment we are made pleased with ourselves, through the ac- cident of others, we harbor a grateful sense towards them, I have no doubt but he thought of the bright eyes of the beauty, as -he galloped back to his rooms, to change his dress for the even- ing. As for the duchess, she went pensively into her boudoir, and, throwing herself on one of the rich sofas, began to weep most copiously; why or wherefore she best knew; for certainly the gentleman had said very little, and that only of the commonest place, but in a soft and gen- tle voice. The duchess had been courted by all the " preux chevaliers" of Paris, laughing at their warmth, and turning their high-flown compliments into ridi- cule, with ineffable grace She had won for herself the title of the heartless queen, and here she was, sobbing like a school-girl-madly, crazily in love with a man whom she had justknown,and who i had failed even to pay her those ordi- nary compliments to which grace and ] beauty like hers were entitled. It was c a shame, and no doubt she cried in mor- tification at her own weak, womanly ( folly. , But he certainly was very handsome, and very strong (women all admire I strength in men), and then he was so t resolute and brave, conquering the fiery I spirit of the obstinate brute with as d much ease as she would manage Pom- s pon, the fat white poodle that looked at s her inquiringly. Then he had saved y her life (so she was pleased to think), n and though he had dangled her in the v air a little longer than either comfort 1 or necessity required, still, had it not re given her an opportunity of displaying, a] and to full advantage, the prettiest foot N and ankle in,Paris? So, certainly to a tl French woman, she had reasons suffi- hi cient for her passion, if there were any te needed. She felt, however, that Fer' w dinand was no ordinary man; his re- cl fusal to know her, his dignified reserve cr with the ladies of his acquaintance, all pi told her that he was not one of those al gay idlers whose honeyed tones sweet- pi ened the ear of every pretty woman. It saddened her to think her love had been ai ed given where it might never meet return; e- and, to tell the truth, she felt a pity for iy the good duke, her husband, who lav- le ished upon her the costhest gifts, and c- who worshipped her with a devotion al that gave a young life to his weak old )t frame. l ie But love, like death, is immutable in is its decrees, and the flame that burned in i- her heart was unquenchable. Her very doubts and misgivings only added new y fuel, and there was a zest about this If hidden love so pleasant that its danger p was forgotten. e When my lady, the duchess, had comrn n pleted her elegant toilet, it was time for e the opera, and if ever beauty was adorn- - ed by dress, hers certainly was, for the 1 rich black velvet, set off with a few rare , and costly family jewels, gave such a , coloring to her delicate charms that the heart of an anchorite might well have I been fired. She glanced around, as she 3 seated herself in her well-furnished box, in hopes of seeing Ferdinand, but as yet he had not appeared, and with listless- ness she gave a cold ear to the duke, who was pouring out compliments on her sparkling beauty. The opera was crowded, the music grand. Corneille's "Cid" had been put to the divine music of "Verdi," and hearts were thrilling under th6 warmth of genius. In a close box, near the stage, sat Hermione with Johnstone; she seemed to be paler than usual, and even the sal- lies of her father failed to drive away a dreamy languor that had taken posses- sion of her. The story of the "Cid," so full of interest, especially to the young and romantic, joined too with, music that might have gladdened hea- venly spheres, fell coldly on her ears. There was only one part of the whole representation that awoke her interest, and to this she listened with a beating heart and burning face. It was where the struggle between Chimtne's love for her father and her lover seemed to be tearing the heartstrings of the actress, who had thrown her whole soul into the character, and whose success was crowned with such tumultuous ap- plause, that the poor creature was un- able to suppress the tears of joyful pride that dimmed her eyes. The curtain fell, and Hermione looked around upon the house, crowded with page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] the beauty and fashion of Paris. Her eye rested on an open box, and in a mo- ment the blood had suffused her face with ,painful violence, then leaving her deadly pale, with a cold faintness, like the'ap- proach of death. Her father's watchful eye had perceived the change; follow- ing the direction of her look, it rested on Ferdinand, who was seated near the duchess, listening with a pleased air to the low whisperings of the lady, whose listlessness had mnelted away as the snows before the sun. Johnstone feared almost to question Hermione, and though he knew she could never have met his enemy-for her aunt was as lynx-eyed as himself- he shuddered, lest some mysterious in- fluence had brought this young girl, his idol, suddenly into spiritual contact with the man he dreaded. Hermione seemed to read his thoughts, as she turned to , him and complained of the heat and I lights which had increased her headache i and caused a faintness to steal ow her -she pressed her hand, that trembled ( a little, on his arm, and by her wish ( they quitted the box to return home. c Ferdinand only stayed a short time with F the duchess; for he was modest, in spite it of his reputation, and felt that, pleasant t as it was to him, it might not be agree- r able to her thus to monopolize the tc lady whose box was besieged by her si regular hosts of attendants. He failed si to see the look of disappointment that tl sWaded her face, or to catch the faint p sigh she could not suppress, as he left bc her. For, blind as he was to his own er merits, I question whether flesh or blood could well have refused these silent o0 evidences of her love. ' He believed, ar too, that the kindness in her manner po towards him was attributable to his ex- in ploit in her behalf; which, magnified in gu her eyes, rendered her, as she would in have it, his debtor; besides all this, he ev( knew her to be a flirt, for Henri had sel repeated her adventures-and though bet he was not in love, yet he felt the power cou of her beauty would gradually enchain ehf him, and that, like all others, he would 1 be laughed at for his pains. pin True, this might not have caused him bin any very extravagant grief; but Ferdi- sof nand was one of thosewho would have wat died sooner than bear the world's ridi- soo cule, even for a moment. So he gave him ler up his seat by her side, to a perfumed no- dandy who stood near, wistfully envying ith his position, and trying to bask under dly one of those smiles that sometimes rat ap- diated from her lips. The beau must ful have noticed her air of abstraction, as ,w- well as vexation, which she made no ;ed attempt to conceal; and the pretty ;he speeches prepared for her especial bene- to fit fell unnoticed upon her ear. Others )se came up to whisper their compliments he and adulation, but the fair face of the lady was. shrouded in a revery, and her on eyes wandered in search of the young he stranger who had so suddenly become or essential to her happiness. - Ferdinand was unaware, as we have n- said, of this deep affection, and having is become tired of the scene, and not much ;hl in the humor for idle dalliance, in spite :d of ttre smiles, and even becks from the ,o numerous beauties of his acquaintance, d had gone out-and was quietly journey- e ing towards his rooms. * * * * r The duke was the fortunate possessor d of a chateau near "Chantilly." A h chateau, rich in the romance of past !. days; for in it the Duke of Conde had h passed many of his happier hours, and e it was said that could the old walls, with t their ivy coverings, speak out, many sto- - ries, interesting as romantic, would be a told. The duke and duchess always r spent here some few months of the year; 1 surrounded by their numerous friends, they held forth a little court, that in point of talent, birth, position, and beauty, might well have excited the envy of " Versailles." The gayeties of Paris were well nigh over, and hither had repaired! the duke and duchess, after having obtained a positive promise from Ferdinand that, in a few days, he would be'come their guest. So here we find Ferdinand, who, in spite of the dictates of prudence and even honor, was wantonly thrusting him- self into such close proximity with this beautiful woman, that Providence alone could save him from the fate that threat- ehed. The duchess was the picture of hap- piness after his arrival-constantly with him, smiling so sweetly, speaking Bo softly and gently, and so incessantly watching him with looks of love, that it soon became apparent to others, if not to him, that she was either really in love, or else intended a most desperate flirta- tion. The old duke himself had noticed this change in his wife-but as French husbands are said to be proverbially good natured, and as he adored Aline to such a degree that her happiness was all he asked, he redoubled his atten- tions to our hero, and, if the thing were possible, rather opened his eyes to the condition of affairs. Ferdinand was at first a little shocked, as well as surprised; he would have left the chateau immediately, had not the duke urgently insisted that he should remain, and make one of the party for the boar-hunt, that came off in a day or two. Our hero reluctantly consented. He was high strung and honorable, and had enjoyed the duke's hospitality; but he was flesh and blood--yvoung and warm, and no Joseph-and though he had been as yet personally free from taint, he had become, I am sorry to say, a little imbued with the morals of Paris, which, though they may be pleasant, are not very good. He believed, too, the lady was trying her old game on an im- proved plan, and being a little nettled, and his self love a little piqued, he de- termined to teach her a lesson. Be this as it may, he stayed. For some reason, perhaps a generous opne, perhaps a desire to discover her real feelings, he treated her with a stu. died politeness, and as much as courtesy permitted held aloof, devoting himself, for the first time, to Mademoiselle de Charvet, a beautiful creature, with im- mense wealth. I don't see exactly the necessity, I must say, of Ferdinand's sudden devotion to this amiable young lady-whom he had known in Paris, and never visited, and to whom, for several days previous, at the chateau, he had hardly shown the ordinary attentions that politeness requires. Perhaps he wished to strengthen his resolves by an acquaintance with this fair creature; or perhaps-though I hope not-he wanted to see how the duchess would take it- and if this was his reason, curiosity was soon satisfied; for, being a spoiled pet of society, she took no pains to bide, her displeasure-manifesting it in the pret- tiest imaginable pouts. She tried every fascination to attract him, completely turning the heads of her older admirers - by her bewitcheries, but all in vain. i The obstinate Ferdinand was apparently I insensible, as well as invulnerable, to r her charms. If the duchess was in de- 2 spair, the lovers of Mademoiselle de 3 Charvet were in the same condition. For this infernal Ferdinand had a spell about him that the women could not resist-and mademoiselle had evidently struck her colors, and would surrender at discretion; many of them would have shown their displeasure more positively, but our hero had only a few days before Ievinced a skill in the use of the pistol equal to his known address with the sword; so the irritated lovers bore their disappointment with a philosophical meekness that was beautiful. One of the gentlemen from the inte- rior, who had only met Ferdinand a short time previous, was rather inclined to be obstinate in his retreat-'but the lady had given him so cold an ear, and Ferdinand, who could never brook op- position, had flashed out one of those peculiar looks, which, like the eye of "Vathek," carried terror in its glance- so the poor fellow fell back hastily, throwing out a few shots of indignation in a muttered tone. The chateau was alive at an early hour. The huntsmen were in high spirits, for the morning was beautiful, and every one predicted most excellent sport. The hounds were filling the air with their deep-mouthed joy; the whip- pers-in were, some coupling the dogs, others " tally-ho-ing," or winding their horns to bring together the stragglers; and the grooms were holding the high- spirited horses, that pawed the ground and chafed their bits as if anxious for the race. The duchess had mounted her deep bay filly, that arched her neck, proud of her burden. There were traces of tears on her face, and she seemed t listless, in spite of the excitement. The duke, on a sober old horse, sat near her, and half a dozen gentlemen had formed a circle around them, waiting for the start. Mademoiselle de Charvet came out leaning .on the arm of Ferdinand, followed at a respectful distance by her train. The duchess looked a little pained, and, not giving time for her guest to mount, administered a sharp cut to her mare; this being the signal, the whole party dashed off, following page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] the hounds, that had been sent on ahead. Ferdinand smiled at this unmistakable manifestation of vexation, and, with a gallant air, seated his fair companion in her saddle. Le Diable having been left Behind, a dapple gray, thoroughbred and fleet, stood ready for him. He vaulted into the saddle without the use of the stirrups, much to the surprise of this pampered favorite, and they cant tered slowly on, overtaking the party in the forest. The hounds had struck a trail, and in a few minutes were in full cry. Off galloped the huntsmen, with noisy ardor. The duchess seemed to have lost her listlessness, and was dash- i ing onward in the most fearless style. j Ferdinand, whose blood had been stirred i by the notes of the dogs, the hallooings c of the hunters, and the anxious fire of v his steed, regretted that mademoiselle s was so timid as to make it necessary for ty him to forego a pleasure which he had h longed. to enjoy, and for which he felt a p desire greater than he had experined h for many months. But here was his sc fair companion unable or unwilling to le to out of a certain pace, and though es there were two or three gentlemen st riding near them, his duty, lhe thought, d required him to remain at her side. di They had been running now about an sa hour. The boar, an immense fellow, th had twice been brought to bay, but had th beaten off the hounds with such ease tin that the huntsmen had failed to get near bel enough to use their spears. Several of hoi the party rere ignominiously flounder- leg ing" in .the cuts and ditches-the old see duke had fallen back early in the action; anc neither he nor his horse could long stand aw the gait they were going; the duchess was had become separated from her party, tusl but had fallen in with the hounds and for the whippers- in. Ferdinand, whose wai quick ear and 4vhose knowledge of chas- ster sene had divined the direction the boar that would take, had changed his course, and him, now stood in an opening of the forest, for waiting for the appearance of the boar, falle who was heading directly towards them. scen Out he came, foaming with rage, and his paini large, sharp tusks crunched against each less other, as if whetting for the fray. Per- with dinand's heart beat with a quick ex- struc citement. He hurled his short spear posin straight at the boar-it glanced from In-s his thick coat of hard skin, just as the death ihead. shot of a howitzer would be turned by ;kable the heavy armor of somle steel-clad moni- oith a tor, leaving a slight wound in the flesh, ion in that served only to madden still more n left the fur*ions animal. The blow checked Ibred the boar for a moment, and the hounds Hte were soon around him, baying loudly. e use His little e es looked like two coals of se of fire, and he seemed indeed a dangerous can. customner to handle. The' duchess had ty in just come uip flushed and excited; her ck a eye rested a moment on Herdinand, and full then, with an insanity that paralyzed the with boldest heart, she rode full upon the in- I to furinated animal that stood quietly vatch- ash- ing her approach, and with her light yle. javelin inflicted a sharp prick in his rred neck. Her horse sprang suddenly on ngs one side, as the boar rushed raging to- i of wards her, and, to the horror of all, the elle saddle-girth broke, and she fell heavily for to the ground. The boar had passed iad her, but turned in a moment as if ex- It a peeting a fresh assault. Ferdinand, who ed had watched the whole scene, occurring his so rapidly as to preclude interference, to let a cry of horror for the first time gh escape from his lips, and snatching a en spear held by one of the frightened atten- ht, dants, threw his horse by a sudden jerk directly on the boar, inflicting at the an same time a severe wound. The animal w, threw up his head, ripping the belly of ad the noble steed like a sharp knife, cut- se ting through a well-packed sack, and ar before Ferdinand could avoid it, the of horse had fallen with him, crippling his r- leg most painfillly. The duchess bad d seen him fall; she believed him dead, ; and with a wild cry of anguish fainted d away. Ferdinand, though badly hurt, s was still a foeman worthy of any boar's , tusks, and armed with a long knife-- 1 for his spear had been lost in the fall-- i waited thile coming attack from the mon- - ster, who, taking no notice of the dogs ' that occasionally snapped at and bit him, was preparing to punish our hero for his rash temerity. Ferdinand had fallen very near to the duchess, and the scene would have made an admirable painting. A beautiful woman, help- less on the ground-a huge boar, white with foam, threatening her with de. struction--and a maimed hero, inter- posing with a black look that heightened his noble bearing, between her and death. The boar rushed madly on Ferdinand, who, being crippled, fought under great disadvantage; but as he was wonderfully powerful, he made up in strength what he lacked in activity, and though the boar wounded him rather badly in the maimed leg, he re- turned the compliment with such inter- est, using the long sharp knife that went in and out like flashes of lightning, that the boar soon showed unmistakable signs of exhaustion. The dogs, too, were crowding him with renewed fero- city, and so, when he made his third rush towards Ferdinand, being weak ( from great loss of blood, the powerful i blow that struck him just under the left ( shoulder brought him to the ground I where, after a few vain attempts to rise, c he was dispatched by the huntsmen, now a boldly coming forward to the rescue. a Ferdinand had himself lost much blood, h and his leg gave him excruciating pai. h Excitement alone had kept him up, and ii now that this was passed, he fell back b senseless. So here was another tableau, a S[ al CHAPTER VII. sl WHEN Ferdinand awoke from his ne swoon, his head was certainly pillowed he in the lap of luxury; for the duchess of who had resuscitated a short time after fel our hero fainted had insisted on resting na his head in her lap, and bathing his cold co temples, so pale but beautiful, while awaiting medical assistance, and a litter a to convey him back to the chateau. Both ol soon arrived, and the doctor, after wash- ou ing the wounds with a lotion to destroy for the poison they dreaded might have been lik. conveyed from the tusks of the boar, wo pronounced him sufiiciently well to be of 1 carried on. The duchess insisted, after inh he was brought to the house, on placing foil him in her own costly room, to which a even the duke himself was not often kni, admitted. She declared he had twice like saved her life-the last time, I believe, thei there could be no doubt of--and she com was determined that no restraint should dine prevent her from nursing him with the wee care that his gallantry deserved. She nun said all this between bursts of tears, and hear as nobody had attempted to prevent less her-for the duke was meekly her slave youl Ight -I sup)ose she had not entirely reco- he vered firom tue exciting events of the up morning. ity, The doctor examined the leg, pro- him nouncing no bones broken, but a severe re- sprain and several contusions; he feli- ;er- citated Ferdinand upon his escape, con- ent gratulated him on having such attention hat as would be shown him by the duchess, ble and, with a wicked leer, the old fellow 30oo, took his departure. ro- Now came a period which, if unplea- ird sant, was certainly most highly inter- ak esting; the duchess was sensitively at- ful tentive--here was the man whom of all eft others she adored, bereft for the time of Id, his strength, and helplessly dependent se, on her. Oh I how she had longed for )w an opportunity like this-when, isolated le. and removed from anlly other influence, d, he would be with her alone. Here was n. her hero, who had twice perilled his life Id in her defence, sleeping srweetlS, soothed :k by her soft hand, that caressed his brow. The duchess was selfish in her love,and allowed no one to minister to his wants save herself, and very few to visit him; alleging that the doctor had most posi- tively commanded that all excitement should be avoided. You may rest as- sured that Mademoiselle de Charvet was s never admitted, although the lady of the d house had grown particularly affectionate ;, of her in her treatment. I suppose she r felt she could now be kind-as Ferdi- nand was most safely secured in her own 1 cosey room. , It is never pleasant to be sick, and to r a young and active man the sense of i confinement is most irksome; and yet our hero bore his sufferings with such fortitude that it looked almost as if he liked it. It is true, the most beautiful woman in Paris, abandoning the delights of the salon, and refusing to participate in' the many novel amusements that were following each other in quick succession -alleging her duty to this wounded knight-hovered around and about him, like a white-robed angel of love; and there is no doubt that beauty is a great comforter, but I question whether Fer- dinand would have remained for two weeks so quietly submissive, under the nursing of plain Dame Harriet, whose heart was as good, but whose face was less beautiful than that of Aline, the young Duchess of Peresignac. page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] Ferdinand's sufferings had long since passed away, and he had fallen into that delightful languor that so often accom- panies a convalescence. He would lie for hours, listening to the sweet voice of his charming nurse, as she repeated each day's events transpiring among her guests, or read for his amusement from Racine or Moliere. The room he occupied, too, only increased this lan- guor, for there was a dreamy light shed through windows of stained glass, and softened by the rich pink brocade cur- tains, lined with satin, that fell upon choice paintings by the best masters-- some rather bold in their voluptuous beauty for a lady's boudoir-but so rare and delicately colored that you must admire, even though you might condemn. The heavy sofas, corre- sponding with the chairs, covered with the softest green silk velvet; the costly statuettes, with one full statue of Venus just rising from the sea, heightened by the tint of the light into a rosea"hue, that, falling on her limbs so admirably executed, gave her the appearance of warm, blushing life; the many little gems and " virtus," scattered in profusion about this boudoir, whose high ceilings, white as Parian marble, were ornamented with the loves of the gods, portrayed with exquisite skill-all these, crowned by the beautiful woman, mistress of the whole, whose presence gave a fragrance to the room, was enough to have con- quered the senses of our hero, young, with the fire of southern -blood in his veins, and just weak enough from his wounds to be impressible and romantic. So, sometimes with his eyes half closed, he would fancy himself in Paradise, and the mistake was almost pardonable. He had grown so accustomed to having her near him that a feeling of uneasy restless- S ness would come over him if she remained 1 absent longer than usual, and as she was i obliged to pay some little attention to I her other guests, though unwillingly, v and at intervals, yet it served to throw this gentleman, who was fast getting r spoiled, into a gloomy humor not plea- e sant to behold, except to the duchess, f who, with a woman's quick penetration, ' had joyfully discovered she was fast be- f coming a necessity to him. There is \ nothing that develops our affections c like a sick bed; it is a hot-house to t tender plants, and if our ministering t angel happens to be young and pretty, - ten chances to one, we forget every a other duty in our devotion to her. Fer- dinand was no exception to the general I rule; he had watched her moving like a spirit near his bed, anticipating every ; want, and when the old servant, whom 3 I judge Dame Prudence had placed in the room, was snoring, would feel a soft hand touch his brow or cheek, sending a thrill through his whole frame. There is a strange magnetism in the hand, and hers had proclaimed her love, tapping on his heart as the lightnings *of heaven are conducted through the electric wire. It was no wonder, then, that Ferdinand had insensibly surren- dered to her charms and devotion. The best of men are human-and the stout- est heart could not have withstood the fascinations that, like a spider's web, had weaved themselves around our hero. Moralists may say it was wrong, and doubtless it was; but I question whether the most austere stoic would have acted better. . I blame the duke for being so weak and blind. Old age had brought experience, and certainly he should have known the danger of such company. However, he liked Ferdinand (French husbands are oddities, they say), and as the duchess treated him all the better for his blindness, I suppose he was con- tent. Besides, she was one of those winsome creatures that might have si- lenced old Cerberus with a few pats on the jaw. * * * * Ferdinand was almost well, and as his strength returned he determined to make an effort to shake off this passion, which he felt was unholy and unkind. He began to remember the duke's hos- pitality, which he had partially forgotten, and he knew it would be an ungenerous return to give way to a weakness for his wife, for he saw that Aline really loved him; there was no" flirting here: those unmistakable evidences had been- too often manifested to leave a doubt on his' mind. He felt sorry for this,yet a little elated that he had won, and with no ef- fort on his part, what so many had en. deavored, without success, to secure- for all men are vain, and a beautiful woman's love is always a trophy. He decided he would speak to her kindly of this unfortunate devotion, and then, with a noble self-sacrifice, quit the cha- teanu, and hereafter studiously avoid her. He was sitting on one of the luxu- rious sofas when she came in. The old servant, whose duties were over, had left some time before. A golden lamp shed a mellow appearance about the room, which made the beauty of -the lady more resplendent than he had ever seen it. She was dressed in pure white, her arms and neck a little bare. Ferdi- nand heaved a sigh as he thought of the sacrifice he was about to make. He re- ceived her with a kindness that partook almost of tenderness; and she, throw. ing two of the large cushions on the floor, had seated herself at his feet, one hand resting on his knee, with her face turned up lovingly towards him. Our hero was'fearless enough, but he trem- bled visibly, and his pulse beat faster as he commenced. How could he tell this beautiful crea- ture that he must leave her? He did it, however, and dwelt eloquently on the duties he owed the-good duke, and the ingratitude he had come so near display- ing. Aline listened attentively. A sob or two convulsed her frame, but instead of fainting, as he feared she might, she rose, and, throwing her two soft, white arms about his neck, pressed, before he could prevent it (though I do not think he tried), kisses so burning with love, that Ferdinand, carried away, forgot prudence and the duke-and when he woke from his delicious trance there was no necessity for going. CHAPTER VIII. HERMONE, with her father and aunt, ( had left Paris. There was a sedateness ( about her so foreign to her former cha- t racter, that the father, alarmed, began to t fear her health might be affected. He v had consulted one of the eminent physi- c cians, who advised the springs of Ems or i Vichy-and to Ems they had repaired. Ii Hermione was certainly much changed 1 -her joyousness, which had rendered t her the life of the whole house, was gone, n and in its stead a settled melancholy. u The devotion she entertained for her o fatherwas as great as ever, but she no a - longer evinced it in bursts of romantic I passion; and though her tenderness to- wards her auntwas the same, yet Her. - mione seemed to avoid her, shutting i herself up for hours in her own room, 1 where she would sit pensively, with her ) dark eyes staring into the night. Her i father, as well as her aunt, had perceived this change, and every experiment that r love could suggest, or money procure, , had been tried, in vain, to shake off the sadness that was gradually becoming so oppressive as to give the severest pain to her affectionate relations. What was the cause of her malady none could explain; and as she persisted always in declaring herself quite well, her melancholy was a mystery that puz- zled and distressed her friends. Hermione, as we have said, was strangely and unfortunately romantic- her ideas, ripened by intercourse with the works of fiction with which she had imbued herself, tinted her whole cha- racter, and in her earlier tdays had she dreamed for hours of imaginary heroes, painting them, in her rich. fancy, with such attributes of noble worth and great- ness that, insensibly, her heart had be- come wedded to an ideal. There are certain periods in the lives of all women when love becomes an ab- solute necessity. Not the love of friends or family, but that strange, unaccountable, warm, and sometimes painful feeling, that comes over us like a dream, and chains us with fetters that even a giant's strength would fail to loosen. It is born without labor, and often the very parentage unknown. It fattens and grows strong without the assistance of material reciprocation. It is a Bri- areus that, with its hundred arms, e-. compasses our very life, and strangles down all other sentiment. It is true that, unless the sunshine, of fond re- turn be shed upon it, its ripe richness will lose its bloom, and gradually the cold damps of unrequited love destroy it; but whilst it lives there is no power like unto it, and the very beats of our heart seem dependent on its will. Some- times, the being that has raised this mighty spell within her bosom is to her unknown-and yet the very vagueness of its origin renders the fascination still more complete-like some rude, unfin- page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] ished picture, heightened by its far-off beauty. Thus Hermion'e had felt the power, and had become indissolubly knit to the man whom she had seen but once, but whose face, lit with'a beauty never to be forgotten, had engraved itself in- delibly upon her heart. She was too proud and sensitive even to allow the existence of this love to be known to her most intimate friends; dwelling in ( secret with her )passion, until it had im- I pregnated Per whole life, filling her with 1 a sndness that, though it decreased not I the beauty of her face, cast a halo around ( her, softening and changing her very r existence. r lHer buoyancy had vanished. c Her quick vivaciousness, sometimes a too extreme for a young lady; her bold- ness, the fruit of innocence, and her pe- h culiar education; her love of romance and adventure, had disappeared-and a si dignified though gentle reserve marked c her beanhg. ".,. Ferdinand was to her the realization b of her dreams. He was her imaginary w knight, to whom her offerings of love ir had, so often before been given, and se whose brows she had crowned with n( wreaths of victory, gathered from the ol luxuriant garden of her young imagin- m ation; he was her girlish hero, resur- rected in life; strong in flesh and to beauty, and clothed with all those attri- g. butes that had warmed her heart as wi she sat in the little skiff breathing her ou music to the seas. he She was wedded to him in spirit, and an this sacred communion had awakened a Fr dignity, latent in her character; just as the maiden, full of girlish frivolity, su. arises after marriage into a dignified too and thoughtful woman. ha She cared not to know his name or the his parentage; she asked no love in to return; this very uncertainty rendered ou him more dear; and she feared that in dat knowing him she might rudely be it; awakened from her dream of bliss; mii something, too, whispered they must suf never meet. One of those unaccount- wis able presentiments, that come upon us as I with a positiveness of truth,.foretold a and danger, and Hermione had clad her fort spirit in the sombre garments of widow- and hood, mourning for the love dead to rem her. No wonder, therefore, the waters bet off failed in re-establishing her health. The famous baths of the Prince de Langrave er, might wash out physical affliction, but to the waters of Lethe alone could bring ce, the balm to a mind diseased; and Time, 'er the rude old comforter, was the only n- Esculapius that could "pluck from the oo heart the rooted sorrow." he Colonel Johnstone had soon surmised to that there was a secret at the bottom in of his daughter's sufferings; knowing n- her strange fancies and romantic whims, th he had consoled himself with the fond ot hope that it originated in some slight id disappointment, which, with another, ry might have passed unheeded, but ope- rating on a mind like hers, had pro- duced this gloom, which change of scene s and time would soon relieve. I- No suspicion of what really existed k- had ever crossed his mind. e How he would have trembled and a sickened, could he have seen the true d condition of her heart. The aunt's eye was more penetrative, a but as she was uncertain of the object, y which she felt had wakened a new life e in Hermione, she kept her own coun- i sel, determining patiently to watch each i new development, in hopes she might obtain a clue with which to unravel this mystery. The colonel had prevailed upon them [ to visit Baden-Baden, in hopes that the gayeties of this place, contrasting so with the quietness of Ems, might rouse our heroine 'from her lethargy. Here he had found many of his old acquaint- ances, persons whom he had known in France and the United States. He had given Madame de Linarez a succinct account of Ferdinand's hatred towards him, mentioning the oath he had taken to avoid him, and his dread, that should Ferdinand, whom he knew to be extremely fascinating and danger- ous, ever discover Hermione, and as his daughter, that mischief might come from it; for he feared, unjustly, that the child might be made, through Ferdinand, to suffer for the sins of the father. He wished that Hermione should be known as the daughter of Madame de Linarez, and he, simply as an intimate friend, forgetting that, as he was still handsome and young-looking, the world would remark upon the intimacy that existed between them. But who can censure him? Hermione was his idol, and the strong man became weak, When he thought of harm reaching her. Madame de Linarez, after much dis- cussion, had eventually been prevailed on toconsent that Colonel Johnstone should introduce his friends. The colonel was devoted to'his daughter,; but he be- gan to believe that she vyould be safer, and he happier, if, finding some one worthy of her love, she were married; and though he had prevailed on madame to allow these friends to visit Hermione, alleging her mind would be turned from its grievances, yet in reality he hoped she might meet with some one who would assist in hastening the plan he had devised. Hermione's beauty was such that it had already grown most celebrated; and many admirers thronged the parlors of 4 her aunt to offer her their graceful I homage. I Being young, she had gradually be- t come less sad, and in the excitements t that each day produced found solace for I her wounded spirits. And yet, in her own room, her black c eyes would suffuse with tears, as the n night gives the dews-and alone with r her love, she would commune for hours; li for these secret converses with her own t] heart had lost much of their bitterness, J and were a relief to her now, rather I than a pain. She had been told, both ai by her father ano aunt, that for some u time to come; she was to pass as the ui daughter of Madame de Linarez; and m Hermione, who had seen so little of the ra world, quickly imagined that the danger th her father said threatened him, in case cl( their relationship should be discovered, be grew out of the wild life he had led in ler his earlier days; and therefore she had co readily acquiesced, and, in the presence th, of others, treated him as if he were only ad a friend to whom she was much at- lo( tached. Amongst the many admirers mi that every evening paid their devoirs hir to this charming girl, was one of whom dis Colonel Johnstone seemed particularly hin fond, and his evident regard for the sto colonel had insensibly warmed the ha( generous nature of Hermione towards anC him; although it must be confessed his that Sydney Sterling was by no means ene such a man as would have excited-the Ste one admiration of a woman as romantic and ime fond of physical pulchritude as Her- ing mione; for Sterling was rather small and spare, with pale blue eyes set back dis- in his head, uninteresting, and sleepy- on looking; a very sharp nose, rather long, Iild with a wide mouth, that had it not been vas for the teeth, large and white, would be- have been the most disagreeable feature er, of his face. ne This Sterling was nearly thirty, and ,d; he looked indeed every day of it. me He was eminently practical and unro- ne, mantic, and had made an immense for- )m tune in Boston, of which he was a citi- ed zen, from a portable soup, composed ho of materials considered worthless, but he which, in his ingenuity, he had converted into gold. it He had proposed "to do" the conti- Id nent in three months, and as Baden was of extremely fashionable, he had come ul thither, so that his friends at home might be gratified with a full descrip- e- tion of its vices; Baden being with ts them a Sodom or Gomorrha, as gam- )r bling there was legalized. What had brought about this friendship k on the part of Johnstone, who had only e met him once or twice before, in Ame- h rica, I cannot pretend to explain. Ster- ; ling's regard for Johnstone, I think, was n the result of long cunning and duplicity. 3, Johnstone had introduced him as a fel- r low-countryman to Madame de Linarez, I and here he had seen Hermione, who, e upon this especial evening, was in an eunusual flow of joyous spirits. Her I merry laugh and uncommon beauty, 3 radiating like the beams of the sun, r that, after long confinement behind dark clouds, breaks out more glorious than before, had struck him almost speech- less with wonder, and his little heart, cold before to all other sensations save that of pecuniary profit, palpitated with admiration. He had noticed the fond look of love exchanged between Her- mione and Johnstone, and it had made him uncomfortable; he felt an immediate dislike to the colonel, but policy taught him instinctively that he must use John- stone for his own advancement. So he had fastened himself upon the colonel, and, being a shrewd fellow, soon probed his weak points, and was slowly but surely engrafting himself into his confidence. Sterling had soon made inquiries, to his page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] full Oftisfaction, in regard to the position and wealth of Madame de Linarez, and you may rest assured that the stories he heard rather exaggerated her opulence and birth. Though, as regards birth, our friend Sydney was not over particu- lar-his own grandfather having been an honest chandler-and he was too much of the noble American to weigh blood with gold. He heard that Hermione was her only daughter, and that Colonel Johnstone was a most intimate friend, exercising a great influence, as well with the mother as the daughter. Sterling fancied he had discovered a speculation more profit- able than his portable soup; for he had soon determined he would work his "darndest" to win the daughter, and, in securing her, would finger the untold wealth of Madame de Linarez. He had egotism enough not to fear the other numerous admirers, many of whom were certainly a thousand times more fascinat- ing than himself; but he thoughbnd with truth, that such dandies would not prove acceptable to the mother, and the daughter was too much devoted to her to marry against her wishes. The only one of whom he apprehended any serious rivalry was Johnstqne, and the intimacy and evident fondness that existed between- hHp and Hermione were well calculated to excite his full anxiety; but he would work on Johnstone, and if he found it was nothing more than a platonic affection, enlist the colonel's sympathies in his behalf. Johnstone was naturally gratified by the admiration so evidently manifested by all towards his daughter; with the pride of a father he felt her triumphs were his own; and the " open sesame" to his heart was to be found in atten- tions and compliments to Hermione. He had watched the devotion on the part of Sterling towards her with a peculiar interest; he saw in it a fortu- nate and speedy termination of his own c anxiety, and believing, as he did, that c as yet Hermione's heart was untouched i and free, he fancied there would be no 1 serious difficulty in procuring her con- . sent to a match which in all respects he I deemed most eligible; for Johnstone, a himself a man, of varied experience, in- . formation, and research, had soon con- J eluded that with the exuberance of ro. I i mance and sensitive poetic fervor found I in Hermione's character, a match made by her, based only upon her ignorant and girlish idea of romance or love, would, in a few short years, when she awoke from her dream, and realized that the man she had married was not the one she had painted, produce an unhap. piness that might breed despair; and the past, with all its sickening horrors, crowded fresh upon him, warning him to exert his influence and authority to save her from the danger that he con- templated with such nervous dread. He believed that Sterling was a prac- tical and sensible man, with no wild chimerical schemes, and domestic in his habits; his family now occupied a re- spectable social position, and he was well calculated to restrain any romance on the part of his wife that might en- gender ideas dangerous to her happi- ness. Besides, he was an American; for which country Johnstone had a foolish idolatry; though, at that time, America was a great nation, and there were no military districts to destroy the proud glory of being a citizen of the United States. Then he was from Bos- ton, and the colonel was satisfied that Ferdinand, who hated the ' Yankees,"7 as he called them, would never visit Boston; at least, unless compelled, and that therefore Hermione would escape his fascinations, 'which he persisted in believing must prove irresistible should she ever encounter hiln. Sweet, tender little bird, charmed to its own destruc. tion by the basilisk gaze of this beauti- ful serpent I I think it well that Ferdi- nand was ignorant of all' this alarm, or his vanity would have increased most hugely. So the colonel was rather satisfied when Sterling, in trying to ferret out, as he thought, in a most dexterous manner, the secret of. John- stone's intimacy, exposed to the colo- nel's quick eye his own uneasiness. The colonel soon allayed his fears. He was old enough, he said, to be Hermione's father, and that he loved her as he would his own child. Their friendship was explained by his being a relation of Madame de Linarez through marriage, and having known intimately both of Hermione's parents, as well as the young lady when she was a mere infant. All this, believe me, Sydney drank in with an avidity that seemed ravenous, and smacked his lips complacently when the draught was ended. Naturally, the colonel snust be his confidant; so be un- bosomed himself, repeating what John- stone already knew, viz., his love for Hermione; and as the colonel had long since determined to befriend him, easily procured his promise of assistance. Sterling was certainly a happy man after this interview; he at once wrote home announcing that for reasons of im- portance his return would be postponed indefinitely. This gave rise to much speculation in his family, some declaring he had invented a wonderful machine, others that he had discovered a material cheaper and better for his soups; no one ever "guessed" he was in search of a wife, and she a charming lady. And now began a series of artifices towards poor Hermione, that innocent and ten- der as she was must conquer her. John- stone grew gloomy, and a constant sad- ness, seen and noticed instantaneously by his daughter, alarmed her. He was more tender if possible than ever, watch- ing her with a look so full of love and sorrow, followed by sighs that seemed to tear his heart, that Hermione felt some trouble had come upon him, and stealing to him when no others were near would nestle close to him to pro- tect him with her love; she feared to question him, and yet she longed to share his sorrow. One evening, giving way to her impulses, she threw herself into his arms, and plead with earnest- ness that she might share his grief. The father's heart almost failed him. This creature, so beautiful and fond- what, if in his anxiety for her happiness he' should err; could he ever forgive himself? ] And yet this dread of danger urged him on-this foolish dread, that had become a monomania. "Hermione, my child, you are dearer to me now than ever; your beauty has r awakened a pride in my heart, and your love has brought back to me that hap. I piriess for which I pined so many bitter I years in vain. And yet, darling,'when i I look upon you I grow sad. A terri. v ble danger hangs over me; you know 1 my earlier life, how checkered and how a wild. I am getting old; should aught a occur to me, whq will protect and cher- ( ish you? Your aunt, with all her love, t is helplessly dependent now on you; on you, my darling, so young, so weak, so beautiful. Ah, Hermione, 'tis this that makes me sad." "Father,' dearest father, no danger can harm you; for each night I pray most fervently, and God, I feel, will grant my prayers-and' as for me, dis- miss all care. Young as I am, still I am strong and fearless." But after this the colonel grew more moody,/and at length, one night, cau- tiously but firmly, broke to Hermione the story of Sterling's love, and his own desire that she would become his wife. Hermione sat like a statue; her hands and feet grew cold as ice, while her heart surged the blood into, her face. She had never once looked on Sterling as a lover, but being her father's friend, she bad warmed towards him ; for John- stone had few friends, and none to whom he seemed so attached as to this man. Hermione's lbve for her father amounted almost to an idolatry; for him no sacrifice would have been too great. She knew his reticence and re- membered the danger to which he had alluded-perhaps this marriage could save him. But then, the face of Ferdi- nand came out of her innermost heart, pale, with those large, brown eyes star- ing so reproachfully at her. Poor girl I what could she do but weep? Her fa- ther spoke of Sydney as a man worthy of any woman's love-industrious, re- spectable, energetic, and intelligent; but while he spoke, Hermione had gone back to the Bois de Boulogne, where the wild horse was being conquered by the fearless rider. * That night was a wretched one to her; sleep gave her no relief, for Ferdi- nand hovered around her, and once, the duchess came between them and dragged him from her, which woke her with a cry. However, the next morning she rose determined. Her love was buried. Duty had dug the grave-her father had closed the coffin. She would live for her father-had he not already suf- fered too much? And this noble girl would have, torn her heart out by the roots and smiled while she endured the agony. The struggle had been a severe one; but then, you see, Ferdinand was only an imaginary lover, and, therefore, the victory had been won. If he had 4 page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] known and loved her, perhaps, matters might have assumed a different shape; I fancy that a lover in substance would be more difficult to forget; especially if he had an opportunity of whispering objections to papa's arrangement; for young ladies are sometimes curious, and believe what young men say, in prefer- ence to the sage advice and sober coun- sels of their paternal Nestors. CHAPTER IX. SOME one has said, "The plainest man that convinces a woman that he is really in love with her, has done more to make her in love with him than the handsomest man, if he can produce no such conviction. For the love of wo- i man is a shoot, not a seed-and flourishes most vigorously, only when i ingrafted on that love which is rooted a in the breast of another." a I do not now pretend to indorse the a sentiment above, although it must be a confessed women generally are most b generous creatures, and a knowledge M that they are loved certainly softens g them towards the object who adores. M Now, as for Hermione, the instant Ster- tr ling was presented to her in the charac- h ter of a lover, she began to notice those w thousand little evidences that proclaim al the existence of the tiny god, even in hE the heart of a savage, and as she had tl resolved to obey the wishes of her fa- th ther in all respects and with no murmur, in it did, there is no doubt, rather please ni her to see the admiration she had ex- m cited in Sterling's breast, for by this wl time he had become really infatuated sh with the girl herself, and moved about un a mere automaton of her will. is The truth is, your romantic girls don't lai seem to me to suffer like those phlegma- wi tic ones who only occasionally have a un sentiment. And then, Hermione had fro not really known what love was, though wh I was in hopes, when Ferdinand's face cei came out upon her, her heart would str have opened to its teachings, and Ster- for ling would have been dismissed in spite of of all her father's efforts to the contrary. twi However, I must tell the story, aaif her some are disappointed in my Herm', bitt all I can urge in extenuation is that she sow ters was very young, very much devoted to pe; her father, and that this was the first uld offer she had received since she became illy old enough to appreciate. ing So now, when Sterling courted her, for which was not long after a conversation mnd in which the colonel had declared his er- relationship, much to the surprise of In- Sydney, Hermione, in the most matter of fact manner, without a blush, or the slightest evidence of emotion, told him frankly she could not say she loved him, but that she would marry him, as her father wished it, and would make him a dutiful wife, obedient and true. ,st Hermione believed she was making is an heroic sacrifice to duty, and was in re the humor to be proud of it; she hardly he knew how serious is this sacred vow of no marriage; when severing one's self from o- father, mother, and all those ties of id youth, you become a part of a new ex- !n istence, with new sympatl ies, new views d and friends; swearing to honor, love, and obey, and to cling in all hours of ie adversity, danger and sorrow, to the )e man whom you have made your hus- st band. No matter what may befall him, e what dangers encompass, what dis- s grace may threaten, or sorrow sadden, s. whether he is loved now, or hated, the - true wife, mindful, as she should be, of - her sacred obligation, " for better or for e worse," clings to him despite all trouble, a and when the grim messenger relieves i her, closes his eyes in the last " sleep 1 that knows .no waking." How terrible, - then, must be the tie that links together , in this sacred unison, spirits unconge- nial, and oh, what bitter tears in secret * must be shed, by the miserable woman who knows too late her fatal error. If she possesses the true spirit of religion, under its purifying influences her heart is healed; and with meek humility she lays her grievances at the feet of Him who has so consolingly said, "Come unto me, ye that are heavily laden ;"' and from Him whose love is unbounded, whose tenderness is ever active, re- ceives that talisman which gives her strength to bear her woes, and fits her for the better land. But oh, if this dove of peace has not brought to her the twig of religious hope, how desolate is her being; what anguish, made more bitter by a distrust in God; what sor- sow and misery, that catching the quick eye of Satan, prompt him to urge tempt. ations, that, alas I seem to the unwary so full of comfort, that the poor soul knows not her own undoing, until the "green lizzard" of worldly pleasures be- gins to sicken, and she discovers, but too late, that the "wages of sin is death," and that sin 'brings its own punishment. How many women, beau- tiful, intelligent, and chaste, educated by religious parents, proud of the world's esteem, born to adorn society, and with their presence gladden all hearts that know them, are brought to misery and disgrace-their beauty their curse, and all through marriages so ill assorted, that, certainly, they were never made in heaven. Rochester has said, most truly, "Those who force their daughters into interested marriages, are worse than the Ammo- nites, that sacrificed their children to Moloch ; the latter undergoing a speedy death, the former suffering years of tor- ture, but too frequently leading to the same result." No-had Hermione reflected-devot- edly as she loved her father, she could never have consented to give her hand, unless her heart freely accompanied it. Marriage, with her, was an abstract idea-a duty she owed, and as, giving away to the romance of her nature, she fancied she could never love-Ferdinand being dead to her-she was prepared to accept Sterling, who would make her as good a husband as any one else that she knew of. So Sterling'was the acknowledged ]over; and constant contact with Her- mione had certainly improved hinrvastly. Madame de Linarez was first very much grieved, but being told she should always live with them, grew consoled, and in- dulged in secret speculations as to what could have given to Hermione the gloom and sadness that alarmed them so at Ems. She was not fully satisfied, and although Sterling was particularly at- tentive to all of her wants, the old lady was not convinced that Hermiongs marriage would prove a fortunate one. Johnstone had grown so cheerful, so full of life and gayety-all traces of anx- iety had passed-that Hermieoe could not repent a step that had ,:vidently brought such pleasure to her father. However, she was a queenly mistress, 3 and Sterling did not always bask in the sunshine of her smiles. She allowed him certain hours in which to visit her; but there were no familiarities, no caressing; for Sterling was a little afraid of her regal bearing; and she seemed by no means desirous of descending from her exalted dignity. The whole town might have witnessed the love-making, and been none the, wiser. Sterling, however, was thoroughly content, and wrote long letters home- describing his lady-love, her beauty, talent, and wealth--that set the hearts of his friends in a pit-a-pat of excite- ment and joy, only relieved by confiden- tial unbosomings to their intimate ac- quaintances. So time passed by. Hermione digni- fied, stately, yet cheerful enough, and more affectionate than ever to her father; whilst Sterling was happy and proud, with, I am sorry to say, a good many consequential airs, recently adopted, and attributable, no doubt, to the victory he had gained. They were to return to Paris, and in a short time (just long enough to com- plete the elegant trousseau) were to be married; then, after a visit to Madame de Linarez's home, which she would dispose of, would all go'to Boston, and there take up their residence. So, away to Paris, where mantua-makers, shoe. malkers, etc., were soon made busy in preparing the necessary articles to beau- tify our heroine. Sterling and the colonel had taken up their residence near the mansion of Madame de Linarez, and Hermione. thought they saw enough of each other. The colonel had purchased the hand- somest span of horses then in Paris- iron-grays of the Abyssinian breed--a little wild--but being an expert whip, easily managed by himself-and Her- mione, with Sterling, joined him in his evening drives. Ferdinand had returned, with the duke and duchess, to Paris, entirely restored in health, handsomer, and more sought after-but his intimacy with the duchess still continued-although, to do him justice, he had made frequent attempts. to break it off-as yet, with no success. He had grown tired of her, for love page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] without respect is short lived; and even her beauty had cloyed him; but she seemed still so devoted, that, being a good-natured fellow, he passively wore her chains. He had renewed his inquiries for Johnstone, and learned he had just returned to Paris, accompanying this widow lady aqd her niece. As long as Ferdinand had been at Chantilly his hatred to Johnstone lay dormant--but now it awoke with new fury, and assisted materially in hastening the death of his love for the charming duchess. His passion for her had caused his hatred to lie torpid, and, like a huge constrictor wakening from its torpor, it began to strangle the very passion that had wounded it. So he set to work again, with great earnestness, to discover John- I stone's associates, and to fasten some crime upon him that might lead to the detection of the murderer. a One evening Ferdinand was riding T with the duchess in the "Champs Ely- i sdes," and in no pleasant mood; bkrace c was as black as night, and nothing the 1 "duchess could say or do served to dispel n his gloom. So she quietly relapsed into h a silence as deep as his own, and left him to his gloomy reveries. She knew d him now, and feared almost as much as C; loved him-and she saw in his eye that ta his heart was full of wicked bitterness. fc That morning, lounging near one of ih the club-rooms with Henri and some hi other friends, Johnstone had ridden by, his face beaming with happiness, for he al had just ]eft Hermione, examining her gi wedding dress. Ferdinand had been in as a bad humor all the morning, and the so smile on his enemy's iface almost drove of him mad. Some one in the party who th /knew Johnstone, spoke of him as a most fortunate fellow, and on the point of th marrying the beautiful girl whose s(- ire journ in Paris had been so profoundly ru; mysterious. ho This was enough to add fuel to the Th flame. set The idea that, in spite of all his efforts, abl Johnstone was about crowning his hap- eni piness by marrilvre with a being whose . beauty, exaggerated by the mystery that age hitherto had concealed it, was said to be ere marvellous, maddened Ferdinand beyond ribl control, and he had turned off with a woE muttered curse, leaving the group per- maE - plexed by the singularity of his conduct. the Ten He had brooded over it all day, and, like she some poisonous food, it had eventually a envenomed every sentiment; and his ore face th's evening reflected the thoughts ies that had tortured him throughout the ust day. his ' The duchess had been joined by some as friends, and was carrying on a light lis conversation, although her eye still wan- ut dered furtively to Ferdinand, who sat ed gloomy and taciturn. lis Suddenly a carriage drove rapidly by, [is drawn by a span of fiery iron-grays, who to chafed and snorted as if anxious for a or trial of their speed. Ferdinand, whose to eye was ever watchful, despite his seem- id ing indifference, saw that Johnstone, n, with two ladies and a gentleman, whose n- faces he had' barely seen, composed the le party. le Twice to-day had he crossed his path, and the same smile was seething Ferdi- g nand's brain in madness; he brought r- his whip so heavily upon the shoulders e of "Le Diable," that the poor brute e lashed out in pain, And, had Ferdinand !I not quickly recalled himself, would soon o have overtaken the open .carriage. t He drew up, however, waiting the v duchess; but his eye rested upon the s carriage as itgrew smaller in the dis- t tance. He was tempted to return home; for he knew they must repass lhim, and, f in his present state of mind, he feared 3 hinmseli: The duchess and party had stopped, and the adieus of the evening were being given. Ferdinand had raised his hat as a parting salutation,.when a shriek so shrill and fearful, followed by a cry of horror, petrified them, as it reached their ears. Off in the distance, coming towards them with most fearful speed, were these iron-grays; people were shrieking and rushing from the road in fright; for the horses seemed- blind with excitement. The driver had been thrown from his seat, and the horses, like an ungovern- able tempest, were sweeping on, threat- ening a terrible destruction. Just then the light carriage struck against one of the barricades recently erected, and as a wheel crashed in, a ter- rible cry of anguish was heard, and a woman was hurled to the ground. A man from the carriage had clambered to the driver's seat, but the reins were gone; with a fearlessness that excited the admiration of Ferdinand, who bad instinctively recognized him, Johnstone had let himself down on the pole, hoping to clutch the reins; but alas, by a sudden jerk he had been thrown for- ward between the horses; he was cling- ing helplessly to them, whilst, frightened and irritated, they were occasionally launching but their hind legs with such fearful violence that it seemed a Provi- dence alone that saved him from imme- diate death. Sterling had lost all self-possession, and was clinging to Hermione, suppli- cating her protection; whilst she, brave girl, with a look almost of ineffable scorn at the pusillanimity of the man from- whom she should have sought as- sistance, had fallen upon her knees from the violence of the recent concussion, and with one hand thrown through the window of the carriage, prevented her- self from falling. The duchess had turned quickly to Ferdinand. "Save them," she cried. He was her hero-no danger too great for him-and success must crown his efforts. But his eye was lit with a fire of joyful malignity, so horrible that his face wore the features of a devil. "Save them," he said, as if speaking to himself; "save him I No, were I blessed with tenfold strength, he should; die; and die the death of a dog. Aye, and to sweeten my revenge, let the agoniz- ing cries of his mistress pierce his ears, powerless to save her." As he spoke, his voice trembled with a passion she had never heard; but then he turned pale as death, and his lips twitched nervously, for just as the horses had almost reached him, Hermione looked up, and her eyes flashed out a strange brightness as they met his. What was it? Who can tell, save Him who gives the immortal spark? She had been ghastly pale; but now a flush suffused her cheek; and he was pale and trembling-for in an instant, as if to prove the littleness of human will, a power stronger, ten thousand times, than any he had ever known, pro- claimed its sovereignty, and the red current of his blood, like a torrent sweeping down itsd am, rushed wildly through him. There was something that spoke in I her eye that bound him to her as her i slave. Revenge was forgotten. Hatred e had passed away. She was no longer , the favored mistress of his enemy, but y his own queen, his goddess, and all this - change had come as the twinkling of the - eye. I The very bitterness of. his expression r a moment before pierced his heart like I a jagged dagger, lacerating with a fear- ful pain. Hebt'ust save her, and never had he doubted his own prowess until this mo- , ment. His face had lost its black look now, but wore a look of anguish so deep that the countenance grew hag- ] gard, as from a long spell .of obstinate i sickness. The horses, in the mean- while, were nearly abreast of him--one i moment of indecision, and all was lost, for they had swerved in their course and ! were rushing frantically towards the river, near the "Pont Neuf." Ferdinand was as active as the light, and now that his whole soul was in arms, more fearless than a lion. "Le ; Diable" had thrown his ears forward, and with expanded nostrils appeared touched with a portion of his master's spirit; quick as a flash of lightning he had responded to the whip, and was now running side by side with the rear horse, who, lashed in his struggles by a trace that had become undone, was fast expending his strength in continual kicks, fortunately decreasing his own fearful speed, and checking somewhat that of his mate. Ferdinand threw out his strong arm, and seized the bridle close to the bit, but bending over, he could use but one hand, for with the other he found some difficulty in man- aging "Le Diable ;" so he was expending his strength to no purpose. Besides, the wheels had come so dangerously near his own horse that he felt at any moment "Le Diable" might be thrown to the ground, bearing him with him- and then all hope was gone. He hardly knew how to act, and the river smiled like a happy ogre, only a hundred yards ahead. He feared that should a check be made too suddenly, the carriage, whirl- ing with a terrible rapidity, might be overturned, and he shuddered as he looked for an instant towards the brave girl, whose eyes now rested upon him, page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] beaming with security. Never before had Ferdinand trembled with fear. When the foaming boar rushed upon him, he had met him with a resolute smile, and no tremor crossed his frame but now, when he needed all his strength and coolness, the glance at this fair be- ing had weakened him, and he felt help- less as a child. He grit his teeth, and bent his head with a sob; he clutched nervously his heavy loaded, headed whip. The weight of the whip gave him an idea, simple enough, but which before had escaped him. He balanced the whip firmly by the middle, and taking-a good grasp on "Le Diable," rode so close to the rear horse that by rising in his stirrups le might easily reach the other. He raised himself well in the saddle, and with an aim as true as David's, the leaden-headed whip fell between the delicate ears of the fiery i steed. The rouind pebble thrown against 1 the forehead of Goliath checked not his I progress more suddenly or sure han i the blow from the powerful hand of I Ferdinand. The horse fell, as if punc- tured in the very centre of the heart, c and was dragged on by his frightened n mate. s The danger was now over-for the v other horse relaxed his speed, under the h dead weight of his companion and the s steady pull from Ferdinand, and in a h few minutes was easily stopped. h Hermione, who had sustained her self- r possession throughout, sprang from the h carriage, and with aw look of such sweet fi gratitude that Ferdinand lived for days h upon the recollection of it, thanked him p for her life. I m Sterling crept out, looking as meek m as an escaped convict. Ferdinand had not noticed him-his whole attention si was riveted on Hermione, and a sharp w pang went through him as, with a cry se of anguish'that nothing save the in- th tensest love could cause, she rushed ta towards the body of Johnstone, who, mi insensible, and covered with blood, was bu being borne by four men to the far side da of the road. Johnstone had fallen as the horses fir closed their struggles, and an ugly gash bri had been made in his forehead. of Hermione believed him dead, and the th( strain her nerves had undergone served jus only to increase her hysterical condition. sto ore She threw herself ulon the body, moan- ing most piteously. Ferdinand stood )on with his head uncovered as if lost in a ute dream, his enemy apparently dead, and e; the woman, who by a single glance had :th awakened a new life in him, binding him be- with a strength that he dare not resist, lp- weeping and mourning. Ind His feelings were indescribable--at ed one time, had he the power, Johnstone ip. should have stood strong again in life, an so that the sorrow might be lifted from re this creature whose mysterious influence he had cast its spell around him. ,a And then, his bitterness came back so afresh, and he almost cursed Hermione in for the love she showed the wounded le man; for Johnstone had opened his ie eyes, and, with a smile of recognition, as had drawn Hermione closer to him. II Ferdinand felt he had saved his ene- ry my's life, and that the only woman he st had ever seen, whose love he craved, was is by his own act to be taken from him, to n gladden the heart of the man whom he Af hated. Better she should have died, than lived t, only to mock his hopes, and cast a dark- d ness forever over his life. Hermione, seeing that her father, though badly e wounded, was by no means as seriously e hurt as her fears anticipated, felt an in- e stinctive desire to draw nearer to her a hero, and again to thank him, not for her life only, but for her father's. She * rose to follow the promptings of her e heart, when Johnstone, who, for the t first time, recognized Ferdinand, drew s her down again towards him, and whis- ipered, in a voice low but full of hidden meaning, "For God's sake, let not that man know Iam your father." The words fell upon her heart like snow on a tender flower, chthing her with apprehension, and causing a re- serve in her manner towards Ferdinand that looked, to the by-standers, out of taste in one who, a moment before, must have been launched into eternity but for his strong arm and fearless daring. But Ferdinand's glance flashed out a fire that warmed. her own, and in that bright light of each other's eyes a link of love was hammered out that bound them forever together. The look lasted just for a moment, but each had read a story unknown to others, and both felt that, come what might, their hearts had grown so dearly close that no human hand could part them. CHAPTER X. MADAME DE LINAREZ had been thrown violently from the carriage, and one of her arms was broken, but no other seri- ous injury inflicted. Johnstone, though badly bruised, was not dangerously wounded. Hermione was kept closely confined, nursing her aunt, who could not bear her out of her sight for a mo- ment. She had pondered secretly over the meaning of her father's words. Could it be possible that Ferdinand, whose face reflected the high nobility of his character, was an enemy to her father? The thought sickened her, and she re- called the night at the opera, when Cor- neille's "Cid" had roused her interest. Might she not be instrumental, if such was the case, in healing the wounds, and cementing a friendship, between two be- ings-both to her so dear? And the sweet girl smiled triumphantly, for she had read her power in Ferdinand's eye. and she knew her father's devotion. As for Sterling, she had almost ignored his existence; two or three of his billets lay unanswered, and I believe,unread, upon her little table. I must say, too, that I fear Johnstone, being himself a brave man, had rather changed his opinion of his future son-in-law, since he had discovered the weak point in his nature, and had not treated him with his usual warmth. Suffering from his wound, he had full time to ruminate over the singular fortune that had brought Hermione in contact with Fer- dinand. He felt indebted to him for the life of his daughter, as well as for his own pre- servation; yet, something told him that it was an unfortunate rencounter, and he feared the exhibition of Ferdinand's bravery to the romantic temperament of Hermione must produce an evil influ- ence. He remembered he had cautioned her against disclosing their relationship, and he was perplexed how to explain his motives without revealing to Hermione what he dreaded to repeat. He knew her so well, that he trembled to retail the suspicion he felt Ferdinand had at- tached to his name. He was determined, as soon as his health permitted, to see her married, and at once to return to the United States. In the meanwhile, our hero had under- gone a change so complete, that his most intimate friends were surprised. He bad lost his joyousness, and yet the sternness of his disposition had vanished with it; he had grown melancholy and dreamy, avoiding his former companions, and forsaking- the duchess so entirely that the poor woman was in the deepest despair. He prowled around the som- bre-looking house in hopes of catching an occasional glimpse of Hermione, and being sometimes blessed by the faint outlines of her form or face, as she glided through the rooms, went off hap- py for the night. One evening Sterling saw him stand- ing in thdinclosure, gazing so earnestly towards the house, that, not recognizing him, he fancied him a robber, and in a tone so peremptory that Ferdinand found it difficult to control himself, or- dered him away. Ferdinand bad moved off a short distance, but he had not seen his queen, and the power drew him back to his old stand under the shadow of the wall. Sterling met Hermione for the first time since the accident, and gossiped his story of the robber. The blush came to her face, for her heart instinctively whispered who was the marauder-and it sent a thrill of delight through every nerve to hear this silent evidence of his devotion; she treated Sterling rather kindlier than he had expected, but soon made some excellent excuse to leave him, and the enamored swain went back to his lodgings, pleased to find that his lady-love was softening. She stole to her own room, that opened out upon the garden, and there, sure enough, under the shadow of the wall, stood a figure that seemed of stone-so silent and immovable. How ungene- rous, she thought, in her never to have seen him since his fearless exploit-ne- ver to have written one word-and he, despite of all indifference, had sought her out. Then she remembered a white rose. she had longed for that morning, and which grew almost under the shadow of page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] the wall. She must have that rose to cheer her aunt, so down stairs she went, out into the garden, and as she stooped to pluck the flower, the face of Ferdi- nand looked into her own. ',The beautiful Hermione was some- what of a hypocrite, for she gave a frightened start, and then, as if recog- nizing him all at once, with the sweetest grace expressed her great surprise on seeing him in her garden, and that too at this hour of the night. She was glad, however, that fortune had brought them again together, for she felt her ex- pressions of thankfulness had not been quite enough, and then she thanked him over and over again, in the sweetest way, for all he had ever done. Poor Ferdinand was beside himself- and he, the most elegant chevalier in 'Paris, was as mute as a statue, not knowing what to say. She begged him to enter the house, but a frown came over his face, and he refused. "i' "Lady," he said, " for as yet r know not your maiden name-for three nights have I stood beneath the shadow of this wall, watching for one glimpse of your fair face. To-night I have been more g than blessed-excuse the bluntness of my speech, but I feel I am no longer I master of myself. "The first glance oflyour eye, pene- trating my whole soul, inflamed my being with a warmth unknown to me. I am your slave, bound by chains I could not, would not break. I ask no love-how can I? Perhaps that soft fair hand, that shames the rose e of all its whiteness, is now another's. t All I would ask, is pardon, for a a frenzy has made me speak, when c reason tells me I should have silent p been." . t Hermione's head bent over the rose, n and her pulse beat quickly. There was n a music in Ferdinand's voice that soothed p and charmed her. ii The old love which she had felt, when fi she first saw him from the carriage, with N all its racy, rich romance, had come back I a thousand fold 'increased; and now h that his own lips confessed his worship, u in words that burned into her very blood, li She felt no shame in abandoning herself o to the delirious enjoyment of her un- h bounded love. ci o "Sir," she replied-and her voice ;, trembled ever so sweetly, like the rich- d est notes of the nightingale-"how can I answer you? I am a young girl; my name is Hermione-untutored in the - world's deceit. I have known you longer a than you wot of, and the same black - horse you rode the other day I saw you t conquer many months ago. You say I yQu love me, and I would indeed believe ) it so, although as yet I hardly know 3 your name. Would it be maidenly in t me, though Juliet sets me the example, - to confess my love? And yet I cannot, i will not say that your words have passed i unheeded, for indeed a new life has I opened to me, and I feel a sentiment for you so strange and new, I dare not give it name." Ferdinand had clasped her in his arms; her heart beat against his own, sending forth, in their quick pulsations, a music filled with love. Their lips met, in one long, burning kiss, but pure as an angel's breath, and when they parted Hermione went trembling back to her own room with joy, while Ferdinand was happier far than Jove himself- drunk with the fiagrant nectar of the gods. They had no thought of the morrow. Everything was forgotten in the bliss of knowing that each the other loved. CHAPTER XI. FERDINAND was at the summit of earthly happiness; for if there is, on this mundane sphere, one sentiment above all others that brings rest and comfort to the weary pilgrim, it is the pure and holy one of love returned by the object of our adoration. He had never known what love was; his fond- ness for the duchess was a transient passion; but this feeling that had sprung into life Trom the eyes of Hermione was full-grown, armed, and strong, like Minerya, fresh from the brain of Jupiter. It had taken complete possession of him, and he, so wayward, strange, and ungovernable, had surrendered his whole life and being to this idol. He had no other thought save of her. He saw her eyes in everything, and her voice came to his ears on the wings of every breeze. He was intoxicated with his happiness, fid, like a drunken man, his mind seemed dormant to all other senses save this feeling of love. He had never thought of Johnstone; all recollection of his revenge had passed away, and Hermione, in his mind, stood out alone, isolated from every other connection. Evening after evening had he seen her in the garden, and both forgetful of all else save the happiness of meeting, had sat on a rustic bench under a tall old elm, drinking in the honey of each other's words. Something had whispered to Her- mione that ,these meetings were clandes- tine, but then she was so fresh and pure, that no idea of guilt could cross her mind; and oh I these meetings were so full of happiness and joy to her. Then those words of her father rang in her ears, and she trembled as she thought that should he know of this inter- course, something might make it cease forever, for as yet Johnstone had not left his bed. The warm flush that man- tled the cheek of Hermione, the joyous- ness of her whole disposition, had rather surprised Madame de Linarez, who had seen her in the quiet condition of in- difference for so long a time, that she could not now understand this sudden change. The young girl went through the house like a bright ray of sunlight, singing and happy, and it was only when her aunt spoke of her coming marriage, that her face grew sad; this knight of her romance, with one touch of his spear, had thrown the practical Sterling into the dust, and the clouds had enveloped him; but when her aunt drew him out, Hermione trembled, for she knew that she must pain her father, and perhaps distress her aunt; but now her heart had unclosed to the full power of love, and no duty, op influence could ever force her hand from him whose warm lips still perfumed it with devo- tion. Sterling was looking forth anx- iously to a termination of his suspense, for Hermione now never saw him, and rarely condescended to notice the favors he was constantly sending her. He saw Johnstone every day, and the colonel had encouraged him in the belief that in a few more days he should be mar- ried. The alteration in his daughter had been perceived, too, by Johnstone, and he hardly knew how to account for it satisfactorily, though he was much pleased to see it, for it added to her health as well as grace. "My daughter," he said, one morn- ing, " how happy your face now makes me; all traces of sorrow are gone, and you are the light-hearted Hermione that gladdened me when I first saw you after the terrible shipwreck. How happy must Sterling be, to know that all this beauty, all this grace, are soon to be his. I hope, darling, that in a few days both your aunt and I will be well enough, and then the marriage will take place." Hermione grew cold and pale. This was the first time since his return to her that a single wish of his had not met from her a cheerful acquiescence. But now there was a potentate mightier than he, and the sceptre of his strength had passed into the hands of another. "Father, dear father, I love you so dearly and am so happy with you, I cannot bear to think of marriage; why 'not let me remain as I am, always with you and near you? why force me into giving power to any one except your- self?" The colonel looked surprised, and yet a little pleased. "Hermione, your word. and mine have been given to Sterling; the ar- rangements have all been made for the nuptials; you must, marry him, my daughter!" "O11h, father, I do not love him; I thought once that I might tutor my heart, but now it is impossible. Why, father, his cheek blanched, his limbs trembled, and he clang to me for safety, the day we were so gallantly rescued by that young and fearless stranger; w-ould you link me to a coward? He Could not make me happy. I must respect the man I marry, and to esteem him, he must be brave, father, brave as yourself. Remember, I am your child, and your fearless blood courses through my veins. Dear father, you would not give me to a coward?" The beauty plead so sweetly, that the cloud passed for a moment from his brow, but soon returned, hlaving gath- ered darkness on its voyage. "Hermione, your language surprises and pains me. I have wished for this marriage not only as a surety to my page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] happiness, but to your own. It is true that Sterling is not all I would desire for a daughter such as you, but then, WHO is worthy of you, my child? This Sterling possesses many qualities that must insure your happiness. He may not be brave, in your full sense of the word, for men are differently constitu- ted one from the other, and-some possess a moral courage superior far to physical bravery. This, I. think, belongs to Sterling's character. He is practical, energetic, and honest; he loves you de- "votedly, and such a man would check and control the exuberance of your ro- mance, which, too freely indulged in, must bring to you sorrows and troubles." "Father, I cannot marry him; dearly as I love you, my father-anxious as I am to gratify your every wish, my judg- ment and my heart teach me this mar- riage must be fraught with misery, and X in my unhappiness your own must fol- low. I "I cannot understand' this st4en, change, my daughter; up to the very day of that unfortunate accident, you t were willing, if not cheerful, for the I marriage; what has produced this al- teration? for some other power has E usurped your breast." t Whilst he spoke a shadow of sadness a mingled with the cloud upon his face. S " Has another come between you and a my wishes? Tell me, daughter, for my s heart is sick with apprehension." Hermione's whole face, her neck and so arms grew red, but her voice was hushed, a and no answer came from her lips. The 1( words of her father, earnestly beseeching a that their relationship might be con- w tealed from Ferdinand, vibrated again tl like a death-knell in her ears. Should g she confess the truth, what guarantee in had she that misfortune might not fol- cl low the avowal? Her father evidently no knew Ferdinand, and his manner, as he spoke these words, proved to' her that " he dreaded, perhaps feared him. Might nc not this acknowledgment destroy, and wi forever, her hopes of bringing them to- gether in amity? for she knew her fa- ne ther's quick and passionate disposition, sh and her heart had told her that Ferdi- str nand was fiery as the sun at midday. H She could make no explanations to a her lover without her father's consent, bo for she had bound herself by an oath hid rue never to reveal their neartsconnection ire without his full permission, and Her- en, mione's catholic education had made her his almost superstitious as to the solemnity iat and sanctity of her oath. ay Besides, might not this same feeling he entertained by Johnstone, be by Ferdi- ;u- nand reciprocated? and could he, would sss he, love her with all the passionate de- al votion he now evinced, should he know to her parentage? I, The idea of losing Ferdinand's love, e- or even a small portion of it, brought a Ak weight upon the fountains of her heart o- that caused the tears to flow impet'u- n, ously from her large black eyes. How much better it might. have been, ly if, throwing herself into the arms of her I loving father, she had unbosomed her ,- confidence to him, relating all that had r- ever passed between herself and lover, d and trusted to the love of her father for' I- advice and strength ; what misery might have thus been averted I n, Indeed, " honesty is the best policy" y always, and no matter how sacred and u tender the secrets of a child's heart, a e parent's love should ever share them. - Johnstone's hand rested upon the s head of his daughter, and the long tresses of her hair fell from his fingers, 3 as he caressed them like showers of gold. Some minutes elapsed before he spoke I again, and then in a voice tremulous and r sad said :- " Weep not, my child; your tears ' un- I seal the fruitful river of my eye.' I , ask no confidences ; trouble yourself no 3 longer about Sterling. I shall see him, * and though I know the disappointment will be bitter and severe, will tell him the engagement is at an end. I can give him no explanation, for I, too, am in the dark. Perhaps in time you may change again, and he will yet be fortu- nate." Hermione smiled out of her tears: "Give him no hopes, father, for under no circumstances could I ever be his wife. " "I have sometimes thought," the colo- nel said, "that we have not sufficiently shown our gratitude to the young stranger who so gallantly saved us." He was watching Hermione now with a hungry eye, but her head was still bowed upon his knees and her face was hid from him. "And yet, ungratefull as it may seem, I would not have you know that man for all this world contains. Fate, for some purpose, has made him our bene- factor. But, daughter, avoid him, and at all times; I know him well; how or when is not of much importance. He is handsome, fearless, and brave, but dangerous and bad; and all Paris now rings with the story of his love for the woman you saw him with that evening." A pain ran through Hermione's heart, as if a sharp-pointed ICICLE had been driven into her quivering flesh. The colonel felt the shudder, and his lips grew compressed and rigid. It would have been well for him had he stopped there; for with all her love to Ferdinand, she was proud as Juno, and the thought that he had dared to love another would have done more in sever- ing her- from him forever, than all else her father might ever say ; and though it would have broken her heart into a thousand pieces, and each alive with agony and pain, she was so proud and strange, with such a confidence in all that Ferdinand had said, and with a love so all absorbing, that could her eyes be unclosed to treachery in him- with the impulse of her nature I question whether Ferdinand would have seen her again; for she was credulous, and would have believed every word of her father's as the gospel truth, and believing, would have asked from Ferdinand no ex'plana- tion, though her misery would have gnawed the vitals of her life, like the fox and the Spaitan boy. But the colonel had felt this shudder, and her story was almost revealed to him. He knew her romance. She had witnessed the exploit of Ferdinand, so fearless and gallant, glorious in his manly beauty; she had seen his soft elegance, contrasting so with his hardy daring; had heard his voice, so gentle and full of music; and the colonel felt that if' a reality could be found for the ideal hero of Hermione's fancy, he was here, breathing in life, and with the face and form of Ferdinand Vincent. It was this that had dismissed Sterling; he saw it now. The danger he had sought to save her from encompassed her with its dark shadow. Little did he dream of all that' had taken place. I "Ay daughter, if you have ever loved a me, listen well to what I say: This stranger, this Ferdinand, for such is his ' name, has come like a dark shadow be- tween you and those who love you; without knowing him (for he has never called, and you have been so closely confined that you' could not have'seen him since the accident), you have in your romantic folly given him your heart, until now fresh and untouched. It is for this that Sterling has been dis- missed, and this has broken off the mar- riage upon which my heart was set. Daughter, I conjre you by the recol- lection of your most unfortunate mother, tear his image from your heart; avoid him as you would a dangerous disease. As yet you are free from his influence; come not under it; for its effect will be as fatal to your' happiness as the shadow of the Upas tree upon some young and tender flower, should he ever know you are my daughter; for that man, young as he is, handsome, and chivalrous, is my bit- terest enemy, and has sworn my death." Hermione's face flushed up; her fa- ther's words had warmed her, and she felt the love Johnstone had spoken of, as existing between the duclWss and Ferdinand, grew from his enmity to Ferdinand. This bitter enmity between her father and her lover caused her less pain than the thought that Ferdinand was untrue. So her rich heart went out again, freighted with all its confi- dences, to her lover. CHAPTER XII. STERLING was considerably vexed, as well as distressed, when the colonel broke the news of his dismissal; he was mortified beyond expression, and made no attempt to hide his bad humor. The colonel had, for reasons of his own, con- cealed his suspicions relative to Ferdi- nand, and had simply said that Her. mione was wayward and fantastic, and being from her earliest infancy accus- tomed to unrestrained liberty of opinion, nothing he could urge would change her inflexible determination. He was sorry for Sterling, but there was no recourse. Now this gentleman was just as shrewd as Yankees usually are, and in a very short time he had arrived at the couclu- page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] sion that our heroine's affections had been given to some one else; for though she had never manifested any remark- able tenderness, still she had ever borne herself towards him as his affianced bride, and had appeared perfectly will- ing, until within a short time since, to be- come his wife. He had no idea of thus abandoning the pursuit; the prize was a great one, for her beauty andswealth were incalculable; so he determined to find out who was his successful rival, hoping after the discovery to hatch a plan for hisdefeat. He never thought of Ferdinand, whom he had met once since the accident at the American minister's; but rather suspected one of the idle dandies who had danced attend- ance on Hermione at Baden-Baden. The duchess was as miserable as a woman can be. Ferdinand had forsaken her entirely, and her notes, full of ten- I der reproaches, remained unanswered. 1 And though she had once gone so far i as to ring at his own rooms for W*,- the i valet brought her word that his master was absent, and it was impossible to say when he might return. Now the duch- I ess, as Ihave said, was a spoiled beauty. t It is true she had really loved Ferdi- . nand; but his studied indifference for i some months past, together with this y most sudden and unexplained abandon- fi ment, raised her ire, and love was fast a giving way to hate. She hated herself a for having permitted this weakness, and a hated Ferdinand all the more for having inspired it. A French woman's anger st is not a pleasant thing; for, breathing et the atmosphere of Catherine de Medicis, ( they have inhaled many of her horrible th notions of revenge; and the face of the tc duchess, as she drove from his door, ye looked like Diane de Poiters, when, by I, the machinations of the queen, she was at banished the court-not pleasant or nc smiling, believe me. She was deter- br mined to ferret out the mystery of Fer- br dinand's conduct; perhaps she might da upbraid him; certainly, if some other su power had enchained him, she would wf devise a mode to gratify her spleen. lin Hermione and Ferdinand were hap- I pily ignorant of the danger that threat- be enedo and, all unconscious, gave them- life selves up to the spell that had mesme- m. rized them into oblivion of all else save each other. They had met now, con- lip ad stantly, for two whole weeks--a short gh time-but an age in the history of love. 'k- They believed they knew each other as ne intimately as though from their earliest ed childhood they had been inseparable. "- The book of their hearts, they thought, e- was fully opened to each other, and all us the hidden secrets known. Yet Her- as mione had never spoken of her interview th with Johnstone, and our hero, so con- to fident of her whole love, had never d1, mentioned his name; an unaccountable a aversion, however, kept him from enter- it ing the portals of the house; and their :e interviews, with no other witnesses but n the moon, or twinkling stars, were in )f the open air, under the gaunt old elm 1- which stood on the far side of the garden. a One evening, not long after Johnstone n informed her that he had dismissed - Sterling, she was sitting on the old bench, her little hand clasped lovingly r in Ferdinand's, whilst his other toyed e with her curls, damp from the evening r dews. F Hdr face looked up so lovingly, that - his own shone out with a new light of tenderness, not often seen in him, that - beautified his countenance. They were, r indeed, a picture pleasant to behold; so young, so fresh, so full'of love and con- fidence, that the old elm seemed touched, and waved its knotty limbs, like giant's arms, gently over their fair young heads, as if invoking for them a blessing. "Hermione, my angel,' Ferdinand said, in a voice so low that her eager ears alone caught the music of its tones, "I could dream away my life, here, in thy sweet presence. It seems so strange to me, darling, that under the magic of your eye I lose all sense except of you- I, with my wild erratic disposition, kneel at thy feet, a helpless captive-tasting no happiness, but in the perfume of thy breath-feeling no sunshine, save in the bright fire that warms thine eyes-no darkness, but when we part; for then sun, moon, and stars are clouded warmth, light, and life grvm dead, and, like the fabled mausoleum of Memnon, I am inanimate and marble--until thy beauty, falling like the gentle rays of the life-giving sun, wakes my soul into a melody of love." Hermione's arm enfolded him; her lips--ripe as a mellow peach-were placed so close to his, half opened, that each word he uttered touched themn,and hastened into the holiest temple of her heart, there to be embalmed with the incense of her own sweet love. "Ah, Ferdinand, how sweetly fall your words upon my ear, refreshing my heart as the dews of heaven the parched earth. Dearly as you love me, yours is in its infancy when compared with mine. For, do you know, Ferdinand, my own, that one evening-the evening that you sub- dued that fiery brute-I saw you, saw you for the first time, so beautiful and fearless-and my heart went out to you, like a tired bird to its mate. I saw you, too, once afterwards, and oh I my heart felt a strange pain; for you had bent your ear to a woman, young and beauti- ful-whose eyes and smiles proclaimed to me that you were dear to her. Oh! Ferdinand, tell me, ,have you ever loved before?" "Never, my own sweet angel, never; my heart was cold and dead to every tender sentiment, until your eyes kindled a flame, that, burning now, can never die." He had evidently forgotten the duchess and his sickness--such things will some. times happen-and, in truth, he had not ,.loved until Hermione taught him the mysterious secret. f Hermione was satisfied; how blind is love, and how confiding 1 She would have believed the earnest voice of Ferdinand, even if her own bright eyes had seen matter for accusation. "Ferdinand," she said, " my love for you is greater than my whole being; for you I could make all and every sacrifice ; tell me, could you for me relinquish every other feeling, bury all other pas- sions, and show an unselfishness in your love equal to my own?" Oh I how her young heart trembled, for the test was coming. Now was the hour, when, trusting in her strength, she would conquer the hatred she felt he harbored towards her father-and then she would wash away her father's ire by her tears-and the brightness of her future happiness, as she pictured it; daz- zled and blinded her. Ohl dreams of hopeful, youthful hearts, how bountiful ye are I Ye soften the asperities of life, and cast a rosy color on the rude realities, like rough t scenes made beautiful through a "Claude i Lorraine." r Ferdinand was silent, and then draw- e ing her still closer, whispered: "My love is all unselfish, for YOU are my only r love; YOU have given me new thoughts, t new sentiments-pure and holy as your- self. Oh I Hermione, who can ever s judge' how earnestly, how devotedly my , whole life would be given for your hap- t piness-and I tremble when I remember - how near I came to losing you; for, r Hermione, do you know that I had ut- I tered a bitter vow to extend no help, as , those maddened steeds rushed by; but , to let you die, my darling, die-you, who tare now my life I for, Hermione, there t was a man with you, he who clambered upon the seat vainly endeavoring to I check their furious speed, whom I hated Iand still hate with the same earnest l passion that marks my love for you. I wished him dead; all my efforts to trace out his villany had proved unsuccessful. In vain had I sought to meet him, in order that I might fasten upon him a quarrel, through which either lie or I must fall." Poor Hermione's heart sank within her; for there was a bitterness in the tone of Ferdinand, who, as he spoke, lashed himself into a wild, ungovernable passion that told too plainly that even her influence must fail in subduing the demon that triumphed in his heart. ("I saw him then upon the very thres- hold of a horrid death, made the more terrible because you, whom I had learned would soon become his wife, must die, too, under his very eyes, and he unable to avert the fate. Thus would my re- venge be sweeter, but, at this moment, those bright eyes of thine, my Hermione, had forged a chain that bound me, as I am, a captive at thy feet. The strong mysterious power of love had suddenly overpowered me, and to save you, Her- mione, I spared HS life." He looked down at her; her face had fallen on her knees, and her frame shook with emotion. "Speak to me, darling,;" and as she lifted her face, he was alarmed at its haggardness. "Oh," she cried passionately, and yet in a tone so full of sorrow, "Ferdinand, my Ferdinand, why will you cherish this hatred? For my sake, let it die, and bury it forever." page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] "Bury my hatred! You know not what you ask." His voice grated on her ear. "Ferdinand, this man whom you hate is my warmest, dearest friend; he has known me asa child, he loved my mother, and has been to me a father; will you not, darling, for your own Hermione's sake, turn aside from him your wrath? Oh I Ferdinand, my darling, answer / me." She plead so earnestly, and nestled to him with such fond confidence, that he hesitated ere he replied. "Oh, darling," she said, heeding his hesitancy, "I feel to him almost as dearly as to yourself." Unfortunate words; misunderstood. Ferdinand's love for Hermione might have conquered his hatred; but these words recalled, with a painful vividness, the rumors he had heard; he would not doubt her truth to him, and yet he could not brook a rival in his love. She must love him, and him only; there ftlst be no affection, however small, for any other. He was not doubting, if you will; but human, and with strong pas- sions. So these words, spoken so in- nocently and so confidently (for if she loved, Ferdinand would love him too), roused the " green-eyed monster," who proved a strong ally to the demon of revenge. "Hermione, you ask what I cannot grant. You must not love this man--you are mine, mine only, Her- mione, in the eyes of God." His voice was sterner than she had ever heard it. "Listen to me. I said my love was unselfish. I thought it so; but now I feel my error-for I could not bear you to know one single sentiment, except for me; I would have you love what I love, hate what I hate; I would make you my heart-and yet would wish to con- trol its every pulsation. I know this is selfish-I feel it is wrong; but oh I dar- i ling, could you see what a mad, strange, ungovernable, wild feeling mine is for 1 you, then you might comprehend my ( passion now. Do you know, ardently : as I love you, and God only knows that you are the 'fountain' from whence all ] my life is drawn, I could myself stop y and chill the current of your blood in death-though my own heart would cease its beatings too-ere I could see you give one thought, one sigh, for any t other being on earth except myself. Ohl Hermione, you know not how I worship you ; your love, like the veins that carry e food to my heart, gives me life. Should 3 I lose one small portion thereof, the cir- , culation becomes impeded, the heart i diseased, and I must die. Oh I Her- s mione, let me live in the full enjoyment ? - of all thy love." His words sent a strange thrill through her; for her heart whispered, such too I was her own strong love. t "This man-this Johnstone-must not come between us. I hate him, 3and no time can -ever soften the bitter- ness of my feeling. My hate is founded on no idle pique, or childish fancy. But you are my own love; now hear my story; I have breathed it to no other being." She listened ever so attentively; her face grew pale as he spoke of the mur- der of his father; she flushed up, then grew pale and faint, as the strong sus- picions were repeated, criminating John- stone. His long stay in Paris, his evident desire to avoid Ferdinand, began to create a painful feeling in the breast of Hermione. And when Ferdinand spoke of his father as so noble, so chivalrous, so loved by him-his friend, his coun- sellor, his intimate companion-for Vincent the elder had treated Ferdinand always as a friend, and had so won his entire confidence, that there was no se' cret the son ever concealed from the father; when he spoke of his mother, paralyzed, a helpless invalid, bowed down with a sorrow that seemed each year rpther to grow than to 'decrease, and all this misery the work of John- stone, she sobbed aloud, and as she had moved somewhat from him, when he first began to speak, now drew closer and threw her arms once more around him, as if to soothe the pain she saw depicted in his face. Alas I Hermione; three months, be- fore, your father was the idol, and to- day a sentiment of aversion is rising in your bosom towards him .. Love, love, how wonderful are your powers I What magician can equal your inimitable exploits I CHAPTER XIII. THE duchess was seated in her snug little boudoir, in &i most piquant desha- bille; her long hair, hiding the white- ness of her well-rounded shoulders, and her tiny feet, resting upon an embroi- dered ottoman, were encased in the sweetest of slippers. She had one of Froissart's works in her hand, but she seemed rather more occupied with her thoughts than with the book. Amanda, her favorite maid, had just entered the room, was preparing to comb the luxuriant hair of madame for the bal masque, to which she had con- sented to accompany monsieur, her good husband. The duke was in raptures at this con- descension; for my lady had been rather ill-humored the last three weeks or more. Amanda, as usual, was full of gossip. What a miraculous faculty do barbers and hairdressers possess, in acquiring all the "petit scandale" of the neigh- borhood ; retailing it with such pleasant comments as to render it irresistibly acceptable. This demoiselle was a su- perior proficient in the art, and, without being a Paul Pry, was thoroughly versed in everything occurring-at least in the circle of the duchess. She seemed inflated this evening with some bit of news more important than ordinary, and gave her mistress' hair a significant tug, as much as to say, Why don't you ques- tion me? The duchess evidently understood this mode of expression; for she raised her eyes for a moment from her book and said, "Eh, bien, what new scandal have we now?"Amanda, although imnpa- tient to disclose her secret, affected a coyness that must make it more import- ant with her lady, who, sure enough, finding her maid unusually secretive, began to evince some interest in what she would say. "Well, Amanda, I am impatient to hear what you possess, and as my time is limited in which to com- plete my toilet, be pleased to speak at once." "Madame," she said, "has not seen monsieur Ferdinand for several weeks 1" At the mention of Ferdinand's name, the duchess pricked up her ears; so, the story concerned him.' "No, I have not seen him or heard from him, as you well know. He has left Paris, I believe; and may be in the ' wilds of America." - "No, ma chere madame, he is in Paris; well, and they say happier than ever; for he is soon to marry the beau- tiful stranger, of whom all Paris is in raptures." "What, Mademoiselle de Linarezl the girl he saved!" the duchess cries. "Bahl you talk nonsense; she is to be the wife of Col. Johnstone, the wealthy American whom the duke brought to my box last night." But the words almost choked her; she remembered Ferdinand's sudden change of resolve in checking the horses, despite his terrible vow of vengeance; his dreamy indifference as they rode home that evening, his unaccountable abandonment and constant absence, and something told her there was truth in what she heard. Amanda- was one of those Abigails who dislike being questioned as to the accuracy of her information; she said, therefore, in rather a pert manner :- "Since madame does not believe the story, I will cease." But madame was' not half satisfied, and so a little soothing soon unloosed the ready tongue of our maid, and the whole story was told. Jean, it appears, a faithful admirer of Miss Amanda's, and very much in her confidence, had been employed by Madame de Linarez to as- sist in clearing and cleaning up the yard and garden. ife had been detained later than usual as they were finishing the job, and had been easily prevailed upon by some of his co-laborers to join them in a bottle of wine at one of 'the little groceries in the neighborhood. Here he had whiled away some two or three hours in boisterous merriment, and on his return towards his home, he had to pass the garden that surrounded Madame de Linarez's house. Just before he reached the gate, he saw a man go in, and his curiosity being somewhat excited, he followed him cau- tiously, thinking probably he might be a trespasser, or even worse, and certain that any service he might render would be most amply rewarded Miy his gene- rous employer. The man stopped under the old elm page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] tree, and as the moon had just emerged from a cloud, Jean was excessively sur- prised in recognizing Mr. Ferdinand, whom he knew quite well, and of whom there had recently been so many specu- lations. He determined to watch, and secreted himself in an old hedge not far from the tree; very soon he heard a voice so soft and sweet, that Jean was charmed, and lifting his head saw a lady, young and evidently handsome, in ear- nest conversation with Mr. Ferdinand, He soon saw they were lovers, and he rightly guessed that this was not the first tryst-meeting under the tree. Mr. Ferdinand's devotioq, he said, was most absorbing, changing his whole bearing, voice and expression, whilst the young lady seemed equally as affectionate. He could hear distinctly everything that transpired, and he heard her swear to be his wife that day two months ; he says she hesitated somewhat, but Mr. Fer- dinand was so eloquent and passionate that her scruples vanishe'd, ai. they sealed the compact with a kiss. He heard Mr. Ferdinand call her Hermione, and le knew then it was Mademoiselle de Linarez; they parted soon afterwards, and Jean, creeping out of his hiding-place, picked up Xonsieur Ferdinand's handkerchief that had fal- I len, upon which were his initials in large E embroidered letters. The next day, in ( the strictest confidence, he had disclosed his secret to Miss Amanda, who vowed i with thy sign of the cross that she would 1 be as silent as the grave; and imme-. diately after poor Jean, who really N liked Ferdinand, had gone, broke the i whole story to her mistress. E The duchess recognized the handker- y chief as one she had embroidered ; and there was a wicked smile around her t lips that marred her beauty wofully. b Now for her revenge; she had no pity d fot Hermione; she would immolate her o too, so Ferdinand might suffer. She sat for a long time with her face in her b hands, thinking, and the old duke had f sent twice to inform her he waited, before she roused herself and completed her s] magnificent toilet. The ball was at the American minis- a ter's, and she had a faint hope Ferdinand e might attend; she would upbraid him i there and unclose her knowledge; but o Ferdinand was absent, though the room was crowded with the elite of Paris. d Conspicuous amongst the guests was - Col. Johnstone, closely followed by our I, friend Sterling, who seemed lostamongst n so many magnates. - owever, his Yankee impudence stood d him most valuably, and he stared with r as much nonchalance as if really at ease a with himself. The colonel had noticed the entrance , of madame the duchess, and- as he had - formed her acquaintance at the opera, , moved over to pay his devoirs, in hopes, e too, that something relative to Ferdi- t nand might be discovered, for the colo- nel had heard of the intimacy between L the two. "How charming you are looking, madame; the flashes of your bright eyes dim the splendor of your diamonds." "Your compliments are pleasant, colonel, if not strictly true; may not my looks be enhanced by the pleasure of your company?" "Ah, madame," said the colonel with a sigh, "would I could think so; but, alas, I have no egotism; and then, re- port tells a tale so different." She blushed at this reference to Fer- dinand. "Reports, colonel, are not always true, or else we must soon see you the fortunate possessor of the beautiful stranger whom all declare so rich and dazzling." The colonel smiled pleasantly at the idea, and was proud of the compliment bestowed-ori Hermione's beauty. "By the by, madame," he said, " you were present the evening of the accident in the Champs Elys6es. I have lost sight of my gallant benefactor. Can you tell me where he can be found?" There was a little irony in his tone that did not please the lady. Could it be possible he had heard of Ferdinand's desertion, and was galling her for his own amusement? "Monsieur Vincent, sir, is in Paris, but where, you must ask some lady more fortunate than myself." She said this lightly, but her eyes, in spite of herself, looked serious. "What I does he no longer worship at your shrine, and have your bright eyes lost their charms? Impossible, madame, or else youth is more treacher- ous than old age." The duchess winced. She did not ex- actly understand the way in which the colonel delivered himself, and was al- most tempted to tell him what she knew from pique; but just then Sterling came up, and by permission was presented to the lady. The colonel bowed his adieux, and Sterling, for the first time in his life, and much to his gratification, found himself escorting a genuine, live, and beautiful duchess into the refreshment room. My 1 what an astounding piece of news for the old " folks at home." Wouldn't. Mrs. Sterling and the Misses Sterling, sisters, rear their heads defiantly, snubbing Mrs. Smith and Brown-their sons had never walked with a duchess I and this was an event as rare as the bloom of the century plant. Sterling put his right foot forward, and ' made himself amusing for a while, and the duchess, who enjoyed oddities, felt refreshed with this novel specimen of humanity. The Americans whom she c had hitherto known, were generally of i southern extraction, the difference in c their manner anld bearing not as striking I to her as this simon-pure model of a Yankee notions. How did he like v Paris? Well, not a "darned" bit-- money "skedadled" here, and "va- f moosed" too rapidly for him. Not that s he cared for money specially ; he had a gold mine in Boston; not a real gold s mine where the ore was found in its pris- c tine state, but an invention in the way of soups that brought him dollars all n stamped and dated. fC He wanted to dazzle the duchess with tl a full idea of his wealth.' She seemed in interested enough, but I question su whether Jupiter himself could have de- X ceivet her in a shower of gold. al How long would he remain in Paris? te Well, that depended-yes, Col. John- w stone was a very intimate friend. Had sl he ever met the lady that Johnstone was, be said to be engaged to? Who? Miss th Hermione de Linarez? Certainlv-she was the most beautiful, sweetand charm- .y ing woman he had ever seen. (I don't th think the duchess liked all these comrn li pliments.) Sterling's tongue once se loosed on the subject of Hermione, rat- Jo tled off with the speed of "Dexter"- mu there was no stopping him, and. as the* rei tongue is a most dangerous member, he br4 not only told the whole story of his mis- Bu ie fortunes, concealing, however, his iden- I- tity, and leading the duchess to believe w it was Johnstone of whom be spoke e but said a great many little things that o stung the lady's vanity like so many flea bites-for no lady, however angelic, d can sit patiently and hear the virtues and d beauties of her rival extolled with the If same complacency as if the panegyrics 1 were excited by her own bewitcheries. I And so, Miss Hermione, with some r whims excepted, was a most perfect paragon. e This was too much for my lady. s Female nature is not adamantine, and i the constant hammering of Hermione's I virtues upon the nerves of the duchess shad broken her discretion. "' Monsieur Sterling," she said, with l'a most bewitching smile, "speaks like I a lover himself, and love is always blind. ; This mademoiselle, whose charms and fvirtues you extol so highly, is, perhaps, a weak woman like us all; she has her likes and -dislikes, her fancies and her conceits; but, possibly, is smarter than most of us, and hides what we cannot always well- conceal. Pour moi, I would not hesitate to bet that this 'Diane,' so cold and cruel to your friend, has some favored one upon whom she sheds the fuill warmth of her love." The duchess spoke with an air of significance, and Sterling's own suspi- cions were confirmed. However, he smothered any look that might betray hs anxiety to know all, for he had an inexplicable feeling that the duchess spoke "ex-cathedra;" and in the most indifferent tone he could as- sume, urged that this was impossible, as Miss Hermione rarely left the house, and then always with her aunt, or at- tended by some servant, and that there were few who visited them, and these she rarely saw, for the young lady had become a recluse, and seldom graced the parlor with her beauty. "Perhaps she is romantic, and hating your pent-up rooms, receives her lover in theopen air I Believe me, Monsieur Ster- ling, she is not unlike the others of her sex. But here comes the duke, with Col. Johnstone; it is growing late, and we must be returning. I havespoken to you, remember, in great confidence. Do not breathe what I have said, at least as yet. But should your curiosity be roused, page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] visit me to-morrow--you may learn more." "' Thank you, colonel; my shawl ;" and with an " au revoir," she passed out through the throng, leaving Sterling completely mystified and puzzled. CHAPTER XIV. TIERE is an old story told of Adme- tus's cattle, how, once stolen, they were traced up by the peculiar hoof-prints left on the ground. The same system of detection was being used on our hero, and the marks he had left would soon prove his ruin. Sterling had kept his own counsel, and was particularly taciturn on his re- turn home. Johnstone had inquired whether the duchess spoke of Ferdi- nand? No, she had not and she cer- tainly was a most charming VoIan; he wondered if all duchesses were as fasci- nating, and dukes as old as the couple he had just left. He had gone to bed very soon after his return. His dreams were filled with Hermione and the duchess; sometimes Hermione would be in the grasp of some hideous giant who was hastening off with her, when f the duchess came to her rescue, and at c other times he himself was engaged in i single combat with a fiery monster, who i enveloped him in clouds of poisonous ] smoke, and Hermione was standing near with a wreath of laurel to crown the 1 victor. How he fought and struggled, v but the fiery brute was too much for a him, and he woke just as Hermione had r crowned the beast, and, mounted on his i back, was winging it through the air. He looked out of sorts the next morn- ing, but brightened up as the hour ap- t proached to visit the duchess. X He found her expecting him, and she s looked so fresh and beautiful that he i envied Ferdinand's good luck. What i a fortunate fellow, he thought, to be t idolized by a woman so charming, and h she a real duchess. He wondered where ] Ferdinand was, and cautiously pro- v pounded the question. 9 "Here is his handkerchief," she said; . "'you can easily recognize the initials. t I have not seen him for weeks-our t friendship no longer continues-and yet the mouchoir was dropped by him only ' two nights ago." "Your friendship no longer con. tinuesl Why, what has become of him? Pardon me, madame, but report declares him your most ardent admirer." "He is no longer either my friend or admirer. It is for this that I have con- fided in you. I hate him, and you must help my revenge." "Command me, most charming duchess." The lady, thus encouraged, told the story as derived from Jean, exaggerat- ing some minor particulars, especially as she saw the intense surprise and ha- trod depicted on Sterling's countenance. "Ah, ha I then; this is Miss Hermi- one's whim ; hence her aversion to mar- riage. I see it all, and trust me, ma- dame, you can be no more anxious to avenge your wrongs than I to frustrate this most damned villain." Sterling evinced an excitement new to his character. His was one of those dispositions that cherished hate with a stronger feeling than love. He saw himself duped and laughed at by Hermione, who, no doubt, had con- fided everything to her lover, and who, with herself, enjoyed him as a fit subject for their ridicule. "Wouldn't he get even with them? Oh, no--not if he knew himself;" and the little fellow paced up and down the room like an infuriated poodle dog. The lady was delighted with the spirit he discovered. It must be admitted she was a little surprised to see with what ardor he entered into all her plans for revenge, but then, Johnstone was his intimate, and his ideas of friendship were exalted. I believe, had the duchess known the truth, it would have taken away some- what the poignancy of her own displea- sure; first, because misery likes com- pany; and secondly, for the reason that it would have been so gloriously funny to have confided all this to the lover himself; it would have made her laugh. French women adore a denouement; and when a woman laughs her vexation be- gins to ooze out. So they hit upon a plan, which was this: they were, that evening, together to repair to the garden, and keeping themselves well concealed, were to wit- ness with their own eyes what really transpired, for though both believed Jean's story most implicitly, they knew that with others hearsay evidence might not be conclusive. Sterling loitered the day away as pa- tiently as possible, but time hung most oppressively upon him. He saw Ferdi- nand twice during the morning, and our hero, who was not only indifferent but haughtily aristocratic in his manner, had nodded at him so superciliously, that if there was anything wanting to increase his anxiety for revenge, it had, by the nod, been most fully and surely sup- plied. Hle felt almost tempted to divulge the whole affait to Johnstone, but he feared the colonel's anger in case he should be mistaken, for Johnstone was scrupu- lously exact in his regard for Hermione, and made all others so; besides, Ster- ling felt a pride in thus ferreting out the whole conspiracy, with no other as- sistance than that of the duchess; and he knew that Johnstone, in the event that this matter-was revealed to'him, after there, was no doubt, would award all the praise to the indefatigable en- ergy and cuteness of himself, fostered by the undying interest he sustained for Hermione: this would enhance him in the colonel's eyes; so he preserved the secret inviolate. A half a dozen "I whiskey straights" enlivened his monotony, and just a short time after twilight he joined the duchess, f who, thickly veiled, was impatiently i awaiting his coming. I This was a singular sight-two per- I sons, as antagonistic as education and birth could render them, united in the a most intimate connection by a desire of v revenge. It is strange how our evil o passions master our prejudices--and b here was this beautiful duchess, walking n alone at night with a man whose edu- cation and birth rendered it almost im- possible for them to enjoy a single sen- st timent in common, unless we except the y one that now linked them together. t( There was not much conversation; oi both seemed too intent upon their own m meditations to think much of each other, S and as they drew near to the garden, ol Sydney began to experience a sensation that might have easily been translated w 4 it- into fear. This Ferdinand was a devil ly of a fellow, he had heard, and his ex- ed ploits, which as a matter of course were ,w familiar to every young man in Paris, ht predicted, beyond all question, rather rough usage to Sterling, should he un- a- fortunately be discovered as one of the st movers in this plot. He was almost li- sorry now that he had ventured upon ir this expedition of discovery, and se- it cretly anathematized the duchess for id harnessing him into these ugly traces. if However, there was no way of escape, ;e unless by a confession of abjeet fear, ie which he could not-make; so with J- trembling steps he ushered her into the garden. e The night was overcast with clouds, d so the darkness favored them; and Ster- d ling, who' knew the grounds most per- - fectly, found no difficulty in reaching i, the hedge. Here they took up their positions, t waiting, like master huntsmen, to en- - tangle the poor birds in their net. I The contrast between the two was t striking-the lady was cool and col- , lected, only her quick breathing marked Iher excitement, whilst the gentleman was nervous and fidgety, starting at the I rustling of the bushes like a frightened fawn. They had been here about a half an hour, and the dew began to chill their ire into a much more controllable con. dition, for I really declare they were preparing to postpone the denouement, and quietly return towards home, when they heard voices, smothered and whis- pering, in the distance, gradually ap- proaching the grim old elm. Both their hearts beat a little faster, and they peered with all their might way into the darkness. They could only discern, however, two dark objects, but the voices were distinct and recog- nizable. Hermione first broke the silence. "My own love," she said, "you seem sad to-night; confide your troubles to your Hermione. Is it not my pleasure to soothe your griefs? Are you not my own? and will you selfishy conceal from me what by all the laws of love is mine? Say, Ferdinand, my own love, what care oppresses you to-night?" Sterling started; here was the lady whom he had known for months, and page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] who during the whole term of his engagement and devotion had never / uttered one word of tenderness, or de- monstrated for him one soft emotion, ,breathing such sweet whisperings of love that -her voice sounded like the inspirations of an .Xolian harp. "By George," this was astounding, terrible, and vexatious, and he almost stumbled over his companion in his ex- citement, who stood silently, anxiously awaiting the response of Ferdinand. "Hermione, my own sweet Hermione, my heart, my angel, and my queen l Your presence takes from me the gloom that sometimes steals upon me. Your smiles drive away all care, as the bright sun dissipates the noxious atmospheres. But, darling, a strange feeling of dread has crept upon me to-night-strong- unaccountable. *Sometimes a mysterious whisper tells me that danger threatens out love. What is it, darling? Can you tell? Is it real, or only the idle fancies of my brain, madeNainful through the all-absorbing love I bear for you?" It was the duchess who trembled now. In all her intercourse with Ferdinand, no burst of love like this had ever cheered her heart. His voice, so rich with manly melody, so soft, in holy, sacred devotion, sent a thrill into her very soul; she knew now his love was gone from her forever; she felt indeed that he had never loved her, and a bitterness took possession of her, checking for a while the very pulsations of her heavy heart. "Hermione, breathe to me again your love. I could sit at your feet, darling, for hours, gazing in rapture on the beauties of your face, with no other light to unveil them save the brilliant effulgence of your eyes. Oh I darling, should cruel fate ever separate us, I must die, for without your love what am I?" "Ferdinand, talk not of separation; I you are my heart. Can life exist, and i the heart not there? No, darling, I j am yours-yours forever; no power can t ever rend us apart. Trouble there may 3 be, and danger too-for when did ever X true love smoothly run? Yet, Ferdinand, i together we will face it, together over- 1 come it; and after the storms have I passed, the sky will be the brighter from a our trials, love." . Just then a heavy roll of thunder, a vivid flash of lightning, and the two spectators beheld them, folded in each other's arms. The duchess had been perfectly quiet until this moment, but now she started as if towards them. Sterling grasped her arm, and whis- pered, "What would you do?" "Murder them," she hissed; " drive this dagger into his most treacherous heart, and then die myself;" and as she spoke she tightened her little hand over the golden hilt of a dagger that glim. mered for a moment before his fright- ened eyes. My gracious, here was a terrible predicament for him. Mad as he was, he still had sense enough to see the great peril he must incur should this infuriated Medea carry our her threat; for, weak woman that she was, how easily could the strong hand of Ferdinand disarm her, and what terrible vengeance would he visit on his head; for he had heard, and believed it too, that Ferdinand was worse in his anger than the "Nemean lion," and he had no idea of rousing him; besides, sup- pose fortune favored her attempt, he would not wish to see Hermione harmed, although certainly she had done nothing to merit his esteem; but still Johnstone was her father, and he liked Johnstone, and, to tell the truth, Sterling was a tolerably good-hearted fellow; and then, should she succeed even upon Ferdinand, would he- not be an accomplice, amen- able to the law, and, if found guilty, hung? The idea of dangling on the gallows, with a multitude of people gazing at his "jumping jack" contortions, sickened Sterling, and he pulled her back with more violence than politeness. "My God, my dear duchess," he said, '"think what you do; would you sully one of the brightest names in France, by an attempt that would be criminal were it not supremely ridiculous? Do you think it possible, for one moment, that a lady, delicate and nurtured like yourself, could hope to succeed against a man whose strength and cool courage is the theme of admiration with all who know him? You, yourself, have wit- nessed many of his deeds of prowess, and can you blindly attempt an act in which you must surely fail, and make yourself ridiculous, not only in his eyes, but be the laughing-stock of all Paris? My gracious, madame" (for Sterling was rattling it off with the most won- derful fluency, conveying, too, some most excellent and practical advice), "would you let him triumph again- and that too under the very eyes of his lady-love? For what, to a romantic girl, would increase his value more than that the most beautiful woman in Paris, the Duchess de Persignac, should, with her own fair hand, inflict a wound upon the gay Lothario, to prove to the world how much she loved him; would you risk your neck to establish your devo- tion for a man who cares nothing for you? No, leave them to me. I have a surer, a safer and a bitterer revenge in store. They shall live, but their life shall be an agony; for they shall be separated. Believe me, madame, my hate is as strong and fully grown as yours, and I have the power to make them miserable." The lady seemed first stupefied, and then, as the words of Sterling, so full of truth and sound sense, brought convic- tion, she gradually relaxed her hold upon the dagger, and suffered him to remove it from her hand. When he spoke of the ridicule that would be cast upon her, and Ferdinand's triumph before his lady-love, she buried her face in her hands, and, with a powerful exertion, C stifled a moan that must have pro- s claimed their presence; but she insisted i on leaving the garden at once, even though at the peril of detection, for her nerves were unstrung, and the sight she had witnessed was driving her mad. So Sterling pioneered the way, and the night being advantageously dark, s the route familiar to him, succeeded in ] reaching the gate without new adven- a tures. She could hardly stand when she s came out on the street, and from the p gas-light of the lamps Sterling looked p into a face so changed that he hardly M recognized it. "What passion," he b thought, 1" that woman must possess 1" tl Poor Aline, her heart was tortured; this lesson had been a terrible one, but h it softened and beautified her after m life. he How inscrutable are the mysteries b of Providence I Out of sin, virtue and V s, her twin-sister religion are sometimes ? born. g Ferdinand and Hermione sat together i- late that night; every confidence of their e loving hearts was unbosomed. Hermi- ), one had consented to hasten her mar- - riage, and that day one week would see is them man and wife. She had deter- "mined on this step, for, after her mar- n riage, all must be explained, and the 3, colonel would learn to love Ferdinand h for her sake, and Ferdinand, as her hus- n band, would cease his hatred to her fa- d ther. - u Oh, how heavenly was the intercourse - of these sweet lovers I What bright vi- r sions of future happiness did the magi- e cian love call up with his mysterious I wand. The darkness of the night was e illumined with the thousand bright a lights of joyous happiness that from r their flaming hearts danced out merrily. s The winds were singing sweet marriage s symphonies. The trees rustled and waved in one grand accord. Ohl, l0how l this scene dwelt in after days within their hearts, bringing back such tender reminiscences that their eyes would fill with tears. But away in a gloomy looking room sat two men in earnest conversation, and the younger was repeating what he had seen that evening. The dark-looking man who nervously clutches the back of his chair is John- stone, the younger, Sterling-his revenge is coming. CHAPTER XV. WHEN Johnstone had heard the full story, he staggered like a drunken man. His strength seemed to vanish entirely, and Sydney, who was unaccustomed to such exhibitions of powerful emotion, pitied him and almost regretted the pain he had inflicted. He uttered no word of complaint or anger, but his knit brows and compressed lips proved that the iron had entered his soul. After Sterling had quitted the room, he threw himself upon a settee, and lay motionless for many hours, as if the hand of death was on him. But his brain was actively, painfully alive. What bitter thoughts crowded fast upon page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] him I What phantoms, grim and sinis- ter, clad in garments of woe, perhaps dis- honor, danced grinningly around him I He felt almost as if his heart would break, or as if his reason would depart and leave him now, of all other times, helplessly incapable of acting. Just now, too, when he needed all his strength, for prompt action alone he knew could avert a continuance of this misfortune. Johnstone's dread of Ferdinand had poisoned his mind, and made him sensi- tively suspicious. He saw-in Ferdinand the bold, intre- pid avenger of his murdered father's blood. He believed him actuated with one single, all-absorbing feeling, that of hate towards him, and the knowledge he had derived since his returin to Paris of the inquiries set on foot and so eagerly prosecuted by Ferdinand, were certainly sufficient to confirm him in this belief. He fancied, and he trembled at the idea, that Ferdinand would hesitate at no crime, however black, that mig' carry torture to Johnstone's heart, and he was assured, for his fears swept away all other considerations, that by the inge- nuity and skill of the police of Paris, whom he knew to be in the employ of his dreaded enemy, the relationship be- tween himself and Hermione had been discovered, and that this seeming love was but a link in the chain that was to fetter him down with grief. The sweet, pure, innocent child, his own idolized Hermione, was to suffer for the sins of the father, and through her misery his own heart was to bleed afresh. But then, the bitterest of all other thoughts, the anguishing one, that wrung out big drops of sweat over his whole face, as when one undergoes some hard, fatiguing labor, was, that Hermione, his daughter, whom he trusted as the very Oexponent of youthful innocence and; purity, with no guilt, no deceit, "but open as the day," had deceived him, had thrown aside his counsels, rejected his I earnest and positive advice, and clan- 1 destinely met the man of whom he had i 'so warmly warned her, and had given I him her love. I Oh I what black grief was his; not one single ray of hope to steal in con- . solingly. His whole life passed in quick i review before him; the scenes of his c - wild and lawless career came crowding - on him; he had been a bold, bad man, I but not a cruel one, and the life he had I recently led had so softened his heart, that he could look back and tremble in horror at the panorama of his ealier wickedness. 'The fair face of the lost Isabella came out from the gloom,pale, but with a saintly beauty. Oh I was his child to fall, like as her mother, and was this cursed Vincent, of all others, to work this woe?"No, by all the Gods in heaven, no." He rose quickly, and moved to his escritoire, unlocking it; he drew out a box of elegant workmanship, which, opening by a spring, displayed a pair of exquisitely-moulded duelling pistols. The click, of the hammer brought a smile to his lips; with these would he end his troubles. Ferdinand would fight-that he well knew-and when had his favorite pistols ever failed him? He placed the weapon back into its snug little box with a sensation of relief; but just as he raised the cover of one of the compartments, an old letter, soiled and worn, touched his hands. He re- cognized it at a glance--the mother ap- pealing for her son.. He crushed it in his trembling hands. Had he not a daughter, and was she not as dear to him as this son to the widowed mother? But the words of the letter rang into his ears. His sick-bed was before him ; his fear of God's anger; the paralytic mother; and his own solemn oath; there it was, in feeble chirography, on the back of the letter. Could he, who had so long faithfully adhered to his holy obligation, break it now? And then, -Hermione, his own darling-for the danger that threatened made her nearer and dearer-would he jeopardize her fair name? give rumor, with her thousand tongues, such splendid food for speculation? No. o But then, he must save and protect her. This love of hers would prove her ruin; she must away, where Ferdi- nand would never seek her; they must go at once, not an hour to, be lost; all must be done secretly and with dispatch. The colonel roused himself when ar- rived at this conclusion, and was once more .full of energy, determination, and quick thought. The morning was coming in faint streaks, and the colonel wondered how time had passed so quickly. It is a false idea to think that all grief lengthens time. A trivial sorrow may surround us like a thin cloud, leaving us partially cognizant of the brightness that is in the outer world-then we count the hours as they pass,.and think it an eter- nity, because the sun's rays fall not upon us, although we see them dancing so joyously near; but when a' dense, heavy affliction envelops us, it becomes a night of woe, and we fall asleep with our sorrow, "taking no note of time." When Sterling awoke, he was aston- ished to find Johnstone so cool and self- possessed; the struggles of last night were hardly traceable,' though his hand felt a little feverish. The colonel soon developed his plan of action to Sterling, and they repaired together in search of a suitable broker, to whom they would intrust the sale of the house and effects. That morning, at an early hour, Madame de Linarez was surprised to learn that Colonel Johnstone wished to see her immediately t on important and particular ousiness. I What could it mean? The good lady f was puzzled beyond expression-some- v thing mysterious, she was sure, and im- a portant too; for never before had she 1 been awakened at so earlyan hour by n the colonel. p She soon completed her dress, and b hastened to her brother-in-law, who o paced the dining-room impatiently. The good old lady's eyes opened as the story n was disclosed; the meeting under the elm p tree rather warmed her heart; it recalled g the days when she was young, and Paul was passionate. Here was the solution h to her of all the mystery. This was the s3 lover who had thrown around fair Her- ki mione the shadow of his power, long, li ago, when the waters of Ems had failed m to restore her bloom. She compassion- e: ated poor Hermione. ui She could understand the misery in sl store for her, for woman alone can ap- re preciate the strength of woman's love. ox But then there was no doubt this affec- tion was most dangerous; its results sa perhaps most horrible, and she readily di acquiesced with the colonel that their in only safety was in flight. Everything ha must be secret from Hermione, for they nt both dreaded her romantic disposition, w and trembled as they thought of the strong love she had given this man. ef Dear, beautiful Hermione,' would your ty voice have been as sweet, your face as is joyous that long, long day, had you it known what plots were hatched against e your happiness? She saw little that r- day of either her aunt or father, but as ,t she loved to be all alone with her g thoughts, their absence excited no sur. i, prise. How she hailed with delight the s coming shadows of the evening. The h darkness brought her light, for soon she would be with Ferdinand-dear, dear - Ferdinand, who was dreaming of her. However, the young lady was doomed t to a bitter disappointment, for very soon 1 after the lights were brought in, colonel Johnstone sent to her room, asking if i she would join him in the parlor. Down I she came, happy as she was beautiful; , she must caress her father, strengthen F her influence, for soon she would test, to the fullest extent, his love. No one - was there but the colonel and madame, Iboth of whom received her most affec- tionately, and yet Miss Hermione ex. perienced an unaccountable uneasiness; for when the colonel kissed her, a drop, very much like a tear, fell on her face, and then there was a tenderness towards her, not restrained if you will, but un- natural, that created an instinctive ap- prehension. However, the colonel asked her to sing, and the rich melody of her own voice soothed her uneasiness. He was evidently in the mood for music that night, and kept her at the piano until the white and delicate fingers grew tired from constant exercise. She sang all of his, madame's, and her own favorite songs, and then every symphony or melody she had ever known, but to no purpose; the colonel, like a musical Oliver Twist, wanted more, and so the young lady, who was exceedingly good-natured, and a little under cow that evening (for something she did not understand was transpiring), repeated what she had already gone over. Just at this time, the devil, who is said to move out at night, tempted Fer- dinand, who had been impatiently wait- ing his lady-love, to draw nearer to the house. The voice of Hermione grated upon page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] his ears; could it be possible that she, whose every idea should be his, was en- tertaining others whilst he, like "'Pyra- mus, waited his Thisbe?" He was rather quick-tempered anyhow, and her singing irritated him greatly. He was too impetuous to reflect, and she had never before been detained; there could be no excuse for her; she was enjoying herself, indifferent to his comfort and forgetful of his happiness. By this time he had approached very close to the large old-fashioned window that opened out on the garden. The parlor was most brilliantly illu- minated, contrasting so with the dark- ness in which he stood, that he felt all the more vexed with Hermlone. Madame de Linarez had fallen asleep on a sofa and was consequently hid from view, as Ferdinand, moved by an un- governable curiosity, cautiously peered into the room. Hermione. had ceased singing, but was still seated at the piano, radianhFwith beauty tnade the more glorious by smiles of tenderness and love which she be. stowed upon a gentleman whose face was hidden from his view. Ferdinand's eyes closed as if to shut out the sight; his hand sought his forehead to realize whether he waked or dreamed, and then, suddenly, as if struck by lightning, his limbs failed him and he fell senseless to the ground. The fresh winds and the dews that were falling soon restored him, and he sat up like a sick man just wakened. He tore open the collar of his shirt; the veins in his neck were swollen like j whip-cords; he chafed his hands to- t gether, and gradually he felt his strength 1 returning. He raised himself with great circum- 1 spection; he was a changed man, now. His first impulse was to have dashed 1 through the open window, hurled the 1 man to the floor and brained him, and 8 then with his own hands strangled Her- ( mione-for his passions were Herculean, ( unchecked in early life until they had s grown to be a curse. t But now, a complete metamorphose E had taken place; he was as quiet as a s timid child; there was no feeling in t him. He was like one of those princes f of whom we read in the "Arabian li Nights," changed into marble by the , magic of some sorceress. A knife of -steel, heated pure white, might have -been passed around each nerve and 3 through every bone, and there would rhave been no quiver. He looked in again, calmly enough I this time; she still sat there, but her ;head was now resting on the man's t shoulder, and his arm encircled her ta- 3pering waist. He saw the man turn, and the face of Johnstone was revealed rto him ; the face that he had so bitterly rhated and cursed. He saw their lips meet in a kiss of love, and then, gather- ing the folds of his cloak around him, he moved off into the darkness, and Iwandered he knew not whither. Several hours afterwards, he was found by the night watch shivering and cold, with an idiotic stare that spoke the bewilderment of his mind. He could give no answers, and they carried him to the nearest station-house, where, fortunately, one of the. officers recog- nized him, and a carriage being pro- cured, he was immediately driven to his rooms., The valet started at the ghastliness of his ook, and the old count and Henri were soon sent for. When they arrived he was senseless again, and the physi- cian shook his head soberly as he felt the wavering pulse. The patient was dangerously ill, with all the symptoms of brain fever. Poor Hermione had made every ef- fort to steal from the room even for one moment. Could she see Ferdinand just long enough to soothe the impa- tience she felt he must experience, and to promise that her detention should be explained in time. Oh, had she known that his eyes were on her; that, misun- derstood by him, his heart pronounced her faithless I But the colonel watched her with the eye of a lynx, and gave no sign of going. She could find no ex- cuse, and once when she ran to her room on the plea of procuring a piece of mu- sic he loved, she found him standing at the foot of the steps, waiting her return. So the hours rolled by and the clock struck one. She went. to her room then, but she heard the footsteps of her father still pacing the marble portico like a faithful sentinel. There was something terrible, she was sure, in all this. Could he suspect her love? No I because he had hitherto been so frank and confiding that he surely would have spoken of it that eve- ning. What was it? Was he in trou- ble? Yes, that must be it; and his cares had made him come to her for comfort. But, poor, dear, impatient Ferdinand, how angry you must have been all alone under that gaunt old elm. You are mad enough, I know, to-night, my darling, for it is the first time Her- mione has ever failed to keep her tryst. But you will be pleased to-morrow, won't you, love, when I tell you all about it, and, trusting to your love, let out the secret I have kept so well? I must tell it. My father confessor ab- solves me, for he sees that all trouble will thlls end. How she rattled off her sweet inno- cencies, smiling at the thought of her lover's anger, and her power to soothe and comfort. If he loved her, and oh, she knew he must, he would pardon her father for her own sweet sake; and she fell asleep murmuring his name in the softest tones of tenderness. 4 God bless thee, Hermione I A dark sorrow comes down upon thee like a storm : may the strong arm that is ever stretched in love to those who seek his aid, bear thee up until the sunlight comes once more 1 CHAPTER XVI. I HERMONE was waked the next morn- v ing by the unusual stir in the house. o The servants were running hither and I thither busily engaged in packing. j What did this mean? She rang for her maid, who informed her that it was a reported in the servant's hall that the h family would leave for some place un- . known to her that very day. Could it c be possible? Was she to be torn from c Ferdinand? No I she was his own e wife in the eyes of God, and no power s could separate them. The colonel just then sent word to her that he wished y her in the library. n Now came the hour of her struggle, 1 she felt it, and gathered strength by a I t short prayer to the blessed Virgin. Her father looked grim and sad when she en- tered. He was alone. Madame had* just quitted him and kiss{d Hermione at the door. This girl, young, delicate, and beauti- ful, was brave as a lioness, and she had nerved herself for the encounter, for she felt that this was to be a battle in which victory would give her love and constant happiness, whilst defeat would entail sorrow and misery for life. Her black eyes were steady and reso- lute; her fair cheek a little flushed; but no other evidence of nervousness could the most careful observer have discov- ered. The colonel could not but feel proud of her, so beautiful and firm, for he read her soul in her eye. He rose from his chair to greet her, and led her towards the table, on which was lying a small bundle of papers, "Hermione," he said, in a cool bat determined voice, "you may be surprised to learn that to-day at twelve we start to America; our passage is engaged, the carriages in waiting, and in an hour's time we go to the road." She shrank back at these words, in spite of her courage, but her face was as yet immovable. "This sudden resolve has been occa- sioned by a terrible danger that hangs, not only over me, but you, your aunt, and all who love you. Our only safety lies in immediate flight." He looked up at her. She was very pale, but calm and si- lent. "Sterling," he continued, "has kindly volunteered to remain here and arrange our affairs--especially since he fears his presence might prove disagreeable to you." He finished speaking, and nervously awaited her response. He knew that her heart was overflowing, and the flood- gates must soon open. But a silence of many minutes elapsed before a word came from her lips. At length, with effort that was painful even to John- stone, she said:- "Father, I have striven hard to win your love. In all things I have been most obedient, ls became a daughter. Your wishes have been mine, until now. But, father, I cannot, will not go ; and page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] if you love me, father, give up this voyage, at least for some few days to come." She said this cabnly enough, no tre. mor in her voice, and her clear eyes met his fearlessly. "Hermione"--his tone was sterner than before--"I read your motives; your secret has been all disclosed to me; for this reason, and this alone, I say we must leave, and leave at once." "You know my secret, father; you know that my whole heart and soul belong to Ferdinand, and yet you ask me to go--to leave him whom I love better a thousand times than my own life I Oh, father! since you know my secret, bless us with your approbation ; take him to your heart, forget the past, and live a new life, in the happiness of your daughter." "Hermione, look at me; see what one night of sorrow has done." /Ie threw open the window as he spoke, and she remarked; for thell1rst time, his haggard look; and the hair so black\ but a few days before was sprin- kled over now with gray. "It is a great sorrow, daughter, that ( can bring a change like this. Your I happiness is all I live for now. Believe I me when I say that I have pondered 1 well and long over every hope that your t fond heart might suggest. It is for your t happiness that I have formed this sud- I den resolution. Look at these letters. This one is from your mother-read it i well. How filled with love and purity, X for when she wrote it, Hermione, she r was as pure and spotless as you, my c child. I will not now upbraid you for s your deceit; it was unkind and cruel, n but youth is wayward, and I know you h are stainless even yet, my daughter. r You have read the letter? Now, read o this. Mark the beauty of the language, s the lofty, noble sentiments, so high- h toned and so chivalrous, worthy of the tl noble Bayard, the chevalier 'sans peur v et sans reproche.' Now, look at this it likeness; is she not as beautiful and w fair as your own sweet self? That is a the face of your mother. Look, now, m at this. Why do you start, my daugh- w ter? Is not that brow as lofty, those m eyes as bright, that mouth as noble as the features of your own loved Ferdi- st nand? Examine it well; read the name. hi is What is it? Ferdinand Vincent-yes, to Ferdinand Vincent, the father of your lover, and your own mother's foul se- e. ducer and cruel murderer." it Her head fell upon the table, the shock had stunned her. There was a !r long, dreary pause, broken by her sobs, ; and then the colonel spoke kgain, but o in a voice hoarse with emotion. I "O O, Hermione, my child, have I not reason to dread this man? The face of u your poor mother came to me again last i1 night; so full of sorrow, appealing for k you, my daughter. Those papers, stained e with my tears, have been hid for years. n I open my wounds afresh; my heart is y lacerated again as of old-to save you, ; my child. Oh I fly from this man ;.call , back your heart; the man whose father f poisoned my life, disgraced and blasted the fair fame of your own mother, cannot t be a fit mate for you, my daughter. His voice is honeyed like his father's, 3 but a venomous snake lurks beneath those lips. His beauty, his bravery, his ' talents are but fatal baits that lure you to your ruin. "He believes me to be the murderer of his father. God knows how innocent I am. He has followed me, watched me, placed the police and hired spies upon my track, and sworn, with a bit- terness you could not realize, to fasten this crime upon me, and, if failing, to have my blood in personal combat. "He would hesitate at no means to inflict a wound on me. His intimacy with the police has revealed to him the relationship between us; and you, my own sweet Hermione, are to be the in- strument with which he hopes to rack my heart. You, darling, ensnared by his nefarious charms, unto your very ruin, and I to suffer, through the misery of my daughter. All this I might end speedily, for brav% as ite is I do not fear him-but here is a letter from his mo- ther. Listen to her sweet, saintly de- votion to this son. Picture her desola- lation, and see here the oath, made whilst I tossed upon a bed of pain, to avoid this man at all times, and by every means. Can I meet him? And yet, if we stay I must, and either his blood or mine will be shed." She looked up. What had this poor, stricken father suffered I How often had his pride rebelled! But there must be no blood shed. O, Ferdinand I cruel, cruel Ferdinand I She rose like a poor invalid. She, who was so strong in her own conceit a moment ago, was helpless now. "Oh, father, dear father, pardon me I Take me again to your heart; I am so weak, so weak, and my heart is bleed- ing. Oh, Father in heaven, give me strength to bear this blow I Ferdinand I cruel Ferdinand I my heart is break- ing!" She lay in her father's arms like a sweet flower, crushed; not a word was spoken, yet their hearts communed. After a while she raised herself:- "Come, father," she said, " let us go, go anywhere, anywhere-this place sti- fles me; I will die here; let us go." He carried her to her room, where she lay, listless, watching the maid who, with her aunt, was filling her trunks. She asked to be alone for a while; and as the door closed, she bent her knees, again praying for strength. She drew her little writing-desk near her, and wrote a long letter, filled with the holiest, purest love, and not one word of reproach, to Ferdinand: poor Fer- dinand, who lay on his bed of sickness, with the quiet nurse and anxious doctor watching his heavy breathing, and trem- bling lest the angel of death that hov- ered near would fix his cold signet on the fevered brow; Ferdinand, brought to death's door-and all through love for her. Oh I Providence, what strange freaks you sometimes play with poor, weak, human nature. The carriage rolled to the door; she came down those steps she had ascended. so often with joyousness, leaning heavily upon the arm of her father. All was in readiness. But she could not go yet. "One moment, father-and I must go alone." She tottered until she reached the shadow of the grim old elm, that looked down sorrowfully upon her. She kissed the bench where they had met and loved so dearly, and her fair arms embraced the rough trunk of the dear old tree. "Good-bye, old friends, good-bye. My dream of love was short. Whisper to him my misery, old tree, and tell, dear bench, how ardently I love him. , God bless you,Ferdinand, though my r heart is broken." r When she iame back to the carriage s they hardly knew her; all of life, youth, even beauty, seemed gone. She was I like an old woman bowed and bent with sorrow. I Toss in your bed of sickness, 01 Ferdinand. Rave on of infidelity, for your waking will bring no joy-and the light of your eyes is gone. A cold sorrow, like the gloom of the grave, has I fastened its damp mould upon you. The blue waves of the ocean bear your Her- mione away. CHAPTER XVIL. FERDINAND'S youth and powerful con- stitution, together with the most careful nursing that such friends as the count and Henri would bestow upon a man whom they loved as a near relation, brought him through ; but as the fever had assumed a typhoid character, it was many months before he was sufficiently re-established to undergo the slightest excitement or fatigue. What a wretched appearance he presented; his soft hair had been mercilessly shorn, and the strong sinewy arm was shrivelled, now, and weak as a sick girl's. He had lost all animation, and would dreamily sit for hours wrapt in an impenetrable apathy. Nothing amused or interested him. The story that Henri repeated of the Duchess de Persignac, which had excited such universal talk in the fash- ionable world, viz., that she had en- tirely withdrawn from society, and was ,now in a convent, preparing to assume the veil-and to devote the rest of her life to the discharge of religious duties, waked no surprise. He passed his hand over his face, and said, in a soft tone, full of sadness- "God have mercy on you, poor Aline!" and relapsed again into silence. He, had improved, to a certain point, and there he remained-not getting worse, but obstinately refusing to grow better. Had the letter of Hermione been received, with what rapidity would his strength have returned I Blt Ster- ling had gotten hold of it, and it was suppressed. page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] The physicians all urged a change; and his afflicted mother, who had been notified of his illness, had written, pray- ing, in her own sweet way, that he would return at once to her. He needed a mother's comforting help, indeed, poor fellow I After all, is there any love like the unselfish devotion of a mother? When others fall off, when the golden apples of hope crumble and decay, when friends desert, when prosperity has lost its warmth, and the coldness of the world begins to chill the frame, then we turn to the mother, ever gentle, ever true, and nestle under the affection of her heart, like a little bird warming under the down of the mother's wing. Ferdinand felt this now, and so Fran- i O6is, his valet, made all the preparations c for their departure. The day before he s left for the first time he drove out, and \ alone; no one knew where--but on his t return, his eyes looked as if they had i been wet with tears, and he appwied better in all respects. Perhaps the I bench and the old treehad whispered the 1; words of the broken-hearted Hermione. n So, farewell to Paris, its gayeties and I charms. Good-bye to the host of warm a friends that crowd around him; his face o is turned towards home, where the n widowed mother is watching for his p coming. iU * * * * * * tl The sea is a great health-restorer. p No cordial half so good. The whistling g of the winds through the ropes and rig- ging-the splash of the waves-the al thousand miles of blue water, and yet ti no monotony. All drive off care with p. its concomitants, sickness, and unhappi- ness-and man feels grander, nobler, and cl better. The vessel sailed direct for New w Orleans. The weather was most fair t] and favorable, and as the spire of the o0 old cathedral came in sight Ferdinand st felt a thrill of serene joy, in anticipation ca of his mother's blessing. His face had EH recovered much of its former animation; and his limbs, although still weak, bore Jo him with something of his old pride. mi With what joy did she press him to isl her grateful heart. he !"Back, again, my son, by the mercy fro of God, and never to leave me," she said. ex "But oh I how pale and wan, my boy I wl Could not the cruel fever spare those be e;. locks I loved so well? A mother's love on and care must strengthen you again." Y- The servants crowded in to see him. ie He was a pet amongst them all. His sister, "Beauty," and his pointer, g "Dash," fat and sleek, whined about him, and licked his hands. Everything ie and everybody was rejoiced at his return, n and this universal spirit of love mani- 's tested for him soothed and consoled Is him. Is t Home, sweet home"--your tender d influences were softening his sorrows n and calming the misery that had heaved , his soul. r He sat up late that evening, and his r whole heart, with all its trials and griefs, was unveiled to the sympathetic mother, - who caressed arid pitied him, but who s attempted no immediate consolation, for e she instinctively knew that his wound I was too fresh and deep-seated; and sthere was a sad comfort to him in nurs- Iing his sorrow. For the first time in many years he bent his knee with her, and his proud lips uttered an humble prayer. That night he slept peacefully; his dreams Iwere pleasant, and his breathing quiet and undisturbed, like the respiration of a pure and innocent infant. This man, so strong, so fierce in his angry passions, had become again, under the influence of the pure and gentle mother, the little curly-headed boy that had prayed at her knee in those happy years gone forever: His friends soon heard of his arrival, and hastened to offer their congratula- tions. He welcomed them kindly, but persistently refused all invitations. Every one who saw him felt he was changed, and in a short time he- moved with his mother to his plantation, some twenty miles above the city. Here his out-door way of rife brought- back his strength, and with it,vunfortunately, came again in all its power his love for Hermione and his thirst for revenge. He had a new motive now for hating Johnstone; that fatal mystery that Her- mione had permitted, through the fool- ish reverence with which she regarded her promise to her father, prevented him from knowing the near relationship that existed between her and Johnstone; and when, through the open window, he had beheld those evidences of mutual love, he naturally at once opined that Her- mione was false to him, and her affec- tion, seemingly so unbounded, was as- sumed, better to protect Johnstone- whom he believed to be her favored lover-froft the danger she knew his hatred so constantly threatened. He had been duped by this beautiful "Delilah;" but his strength was grow- ing with his hair, and woe to them should his fury overtake them. "Better a mill-stone were fastened round their necks." He despised her for her falsity, and yet her sweet face would come upon him, so beautiful in its seeming purity, that he loved her madly, wildly, even now. How their last interview knelled in his ears I and even then, as her fair arms enfolded him, and her warm lips murmured such sweet vows of love, her heart was rotten with treachery, and her plots were ripening for his misery. For Johnstone, no idea of his hate could be expressed; it had become a part of him; he revelled in it; was drunk with it; fed upon it. He had emissaries everywhere to find him, and when his whereabouts was discovered, no power should prevent a hostile meet- ing. Johnstone was not only now the murderer of his father, but his own most bitter enemy. He had stolen from him the immortal spark that had warmed his life into- a new existence, and he would bind him, Prometheus-like, upon the immovable rock of his hatred; and let revenge, like a vulture, gnaw forever at his vitals. His plantation joined the magnificent estate of Colonel Johnstone, and one evening a faithful boy brought him word the colonel was at home. All through that dark and rainy night Ferdinand watched that house, with a murderous devil in his heart, and the gray morning found him still sheltered beneath a wide- spreading oak; but no glimpse of his enemy, who had come and gone, no one knew whither. His mother anxiously watched this growing nervousness in her son ; she saw his restlessness, and dreaded it, for she felt he would soon leave her again to fol- low, like a blood-hound, the trail of the man whom he hated. Every art that her mother's heart could suggest was essayed, but in vain; he was blind in his anger, which rolled on, like a dark river, deep, and noiselessly. At length the hour came, the spell was upon him, and he left her weeping at his going. He went first to New Orleans, and silently but diligently searched every nook, visited every " hell," but no trace could he find. He took a boat, and stopped at every large city on his way to' the north, but the same hopeless failure attended his inquiries. One month in New York, and he prosecuted his researches with energy, but no news. Where could he be? had he returned to Europe? and the thought flashed through his mind that possibly upon the estate of Madame de Linarez some traces might be discovered. He was slowly walking towards his hotel when he came full on Sterling, who grew extremely pale at the suddenness of the rencounter. Ferdinand remem- bered him in a moment. This was the man who was the constant companion of Johnstone; from hinthe would learn what he had sought for in vain. Sterling trembled just a little when Ferdinand insisted upon his returning with him to the hotel; lie urged a great many excuses, but Ferdinand was posi- tive, although polite. He had not seen him since their "pleasant acquaintance in Paris," he said. He had many things of interest of which to speak, and as his face was the only familiar one he had seen since his arrival in New York he could take no excuse; but linking his arm through poor frightened Sterling's, moved on towards the hotel. A bottle of Burgundy, in Ferdinand's private parlor, restored Sterling's equi- librium and sharpened his wits for the conversation he knew Ferdinand would commence. Ferdinand was no match for this shrewd Yankee; he was too im- patient and hot-blooded, and his very efforts to appear unconcerned brought out plainly the mental excitement he was undergoing. Sterling saw this, and grew stronger. "Had he remained in Paris long after the departure of his friend, Col. John- stone?" "No, not long; the colonel had gone off most suddenly and mysteriously, and as he himself had but few acquaintances in Paris he had returned home." Sydney had gathered enough from Johnstone to make him well aware of page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] FPrdinand's hate, and from the duchess he had learned that Johnstodb was the reputed lover of Hermione; he felt, therefore, that Ferdinand's suspicions would naturally rest on the colonel, and he took such measures as would more surely confirm them. "He had heard nothing of either Johnstone or the ladies; they must have gone together, for the house and effects in Paris had been sold, and they had disappeared about the same time as the Colonel. " "You know, Mr. Vincent," said Ster- ling, with a look from the corner of his eye, "Johnstone was called Miss Her- midne's lover." Ferdinand winced to hear her name coupled with that man's, and by others, but he knew the report was true, alas, to his sorrow. He asked Sterling if he knew Ma- dame de Linarez. "Yes, well. She. was very rich, and owned a large plantation in the West Indies. It was very probable they had gone there, as Miss Hermione was fond of the old home." Sydney had read Ferdinand's suspi- cions, and profited by them. 1 1 He kniew well that Johnstone, with I Hermione and her aunt, was in Ame- I rica, for he had parted with the colonel v only two days before at his quiet little residence near the suburbs' of Boston. He declared so positively that if John- stone' were in America, he, Sydney, would most surely know it, that Vin- cent's original belief was strengthened, and he determined to go at once to the s island of Jamaica. p He left the next day, Sterling seeing n him safe on board of. ship, and, after a a boisterous, dangerous, and tedious ii voyage, arrived at his destination, only f( to discover that the plantation of ma- o dame had been sold many months be- n fore, and all traces of the family had C disappeared, no one knew whither. ca He sat down on the beach where the ca golden-haired Hermione had -so often ca carolled in the sunlight, and cursed st Fate, with a bitterness that was almost c blasphemous. Was his enemy never to sc be found? and was this weight of misery th ever, like the little old man of the sea, sr to weigh him down? ai He sailed once more for Europe; a w Is hurried trip0over the continent, and yet e no marks. Disheartened and disgusted, t, he voyaged home. A whole year had s been spent in this search, and he had d gained nothing, save his old looks of e health and manly beauty. Sterling had naturally reported the r whole story to AJhnstone; but not a e word had ever been breathed to Hermi- s one, who believed Ferdinand still in i Paris, happy amidst its many gayeties, e and'with no thought of her. IIow she had yearned for an answer - to her letter in which she had said that s they sailed for America; one little word - of comfort to soothe her sorrow. His silence confirmed what her father had i said. She strove hard to root out the , memory of his face, so beautiful, with all its treachery, but each lineament was printed indelibly upon her heart and brain, and her efforts to forget brought him only the oftener and nearer to her. Had you known, sweet Hermione, that your letter, so pure and holy, had never reached your Ferdinand, how much mi- sery would have been uplifted from your heart I But suffering like yours, Hermione, purifies and ennobles, and your sweet prayers for strength apd comfort must be heard by Him "who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb." CHAPTER XVIII. HERMONE Was imbued with a strong sentiment of religion. Educated by a pious aunt, and in a Catholic commu- nity, the seeds of the church's power and infallible strength had grown so into her nature, that it produced a com- forting assurance to her in her moments of dejection. No matter what faults may be ascribed to the doctrines of Catholicism, there is no church that ac- cords to its disciples the same soothing consolation; to those who believe in its cardinal dogmas, it is a source of con- stant and everlasting comfort. The confessional (to which Protestants are so adverse) is the fountainhead of all their happiness. It is the "diamond spring" in the desert of their existence, and cheers the weary pilgrim on his weary way. She had confessed her sins, poor girl, if sins they were, and partly told her story. The good old priest had breathed words of holy comfort, and given her his solemn benediction, and her heart was more at ease; the turbulence of her misery was quieted, and in its stead came a gentle resignation, so heavenly, that she seemed almost an angel fresh from her home above. Had she known the horrible story of her mother's sorrows sooner, and all attributable to Ferdinand's father, she could never have given her heart, and so completely, to the man whose dark eyes and handsome face proclaimed him the living image and the son of one who had worked so great an injury to the weak mother, and such irreparable misery to her father, for there would have been a horror, a sacrilege to the memory of her mother, that no power could have overcome. There would have arisen a feeling of such intense aversion, so frowning and forbidding, that love, with its tender smiles and timid bashfulness, would have shrunk back, appalled and frightened. But the story had been told after, long after, the delicious poison had en- tered her blood; its-influences coursed through every blue vein that beautified her soft, white skin; its power compassed and controlled her heart, whose each pulsation beat out some kind and sweet excuse for Ferdinand. Must the sins of the father be visited on the child? No I not, at least, with her let the dead bury the dead. Let the past with all its bitter woe, its dark and painful histories, be hid forever, and let new hopes, new passions, spring from the buried ashes. Oh I if Ferdinand had been true I their love, and the happiness her whole life would have known, might have wiped out, forever, any 'dark stain of the days gone by. But he whom she loved with all the purity and strength of her strong, ro- mantic nature, her hero, her royal knight, her almost God, had trifled with the warmth of her young heart, and had thrust her into a misery that knew no ending. She could pardon all if Ferdinand would love her, for without his love what to her was life? So her heart clung to his image in spite 'of 'll reason, and her face grew each day more wan and delicate. There were no passionate bursts, such as might have been expected from one so ardent and romantic, but her quiet melancholy told the tale in more speak- ing terms, and the father trembled when he looked on the face so sad, for he feared she might be untimely snatched away. They never spoke of what had occur- red; there was a certain sacredness attached to the confidences, and both dreaded the subject. Johnstone had writhed under the affliction that Her- mione so nobly suffered, with almost the same anguish as herself. He was sur- prised and proud of her noble fortitude, performing all her duties with an exact- ness and regularity to her unknown be- /fore, whilst her poor heart was ebbing out its life-blood through the ghastly wound he-had helped to inflict. To save her he was often tempted to seek out Ferdinand; make any sacrifice; and if this Vincent's heart was not of stone, it must soften at the recital of her devoted love. v But then, he feared the meeting; for Sterling had warned him that Ferdinand suspected he was Hermione's lover, and knowing his ungovernable passions and quick temper, what mischief might arise before an explanation could be made,? And then, did he love her? He knew now that he was mistaken in supposing Ferdinand had discovered the relation- ship existing between our heroine and himself; and he felt that, perhaps, her beauty and her worth had won his love; but would he treasure it when the story was told? or would he not, in the fiery heat of maddened hate, throw it aside with scorn, and refuse to mate with the daughter of the man he deemed his father's murderer? How could he tell him the history of his wife's dishonor, and his father's guilt? Would he be- lieve it? or hurl back the story as a foul blotch on his father's fame? and with insults that Johnstone felt he was too weak, too human, meekly to bear. Hoe saw danger and grief on every side, and, strong man as he was, wept bitter tears. Johnstone, with all the disadvantages of an improper education, and the wicked life of his earlier years, had become in page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] many respects a Christian, though as yet he was no open follower -of God's. But trouble, which too frequently hard. ens had softened his heart; and, imper- ceptibly to himself, he had acquired a lore for and confidence in Providence that cheered and comforted him, and strengthened the purposes he had formed. He felt God would be merci- ful, and to Him was intrusted the solu- tion of these difficulties. Sterling visited the house as usual, and now saw Hermione quite often, who made no effort to avoid him; in fact, she seemed to have forgotten that he had ever had a claim upon her, and there was a look about her now that forbade all attempts at gallantry. He had proposed once to introduce his mother and sisters, all of whom were most anxious to see the lady whose beauty had so overpowered the practical heart of their brother; but Miss Her- I mione had quietly declined the proffered i honor. She was in no humor for ak- I ing acquaintances, and thQ ladies, mor- tified at her refusal, were inclined to '1 abuse her, though they must needs: admit the likeness (which Sterling had i purloined and exhibited) represented a i face more beautiful than any they had I ever seen. f So time wore on, with no material change; the summer, with its genial days, departed, and the autumn winds heralded the near approach of dismal winter. The physicians who attended Hermione (for, yielding to the anxiety of her aunt and father, she permitted ( these medical visitors) advised the ti colonel frankly that in the present deli. c cate condition of his daughter it would I be most imprudent to remain in that e trying northern latitude. He first n thought of Italy; but she shook her a head and objected; and, as Ferdinand s was in Europe, the colonel did not press n the proposition. After some hesitancy, ai he determined on New Orleans. He w knew how soft and beneficial were the ol winters in that city to all invalids, and ai he hoped that amongst so many people lil who constantly visited this gay metro- t. polls his advent there with his daughter re would excite no attention. Besides, like in the Irishman, he began to think that of the best way to avoid danger was to to meet it full in the face. or as Hermione's heart throbbed with joy 's. when her father made known his deter. d- mination; she would be brought near r- to Ferdinand; would breathe the same a atmosphere; and might not some kind ce spirit guide him to her side? She im- Id proved wonderfully in the next week, td and the doctors took great credit to i- themselves for the change that was so l- evident. Johnstone's agent was telegraphed, 1, and a spacious house, comfortable and o elegant, with a magnificent flower-gar- t, den, containing the choicest of shrub- e beries, was purchased in the French d part of the city, on the boulevard Es- ot planade. e It required a short time to complete s the arrangements; but it seemed an age e to her, so anxious was she to fly towards e her lover; and it was one of the hap- l1 piest moments of her life when her - father announced that all was complete, d and that in a few days they would start for their new home in the south. So now as Hermione, more joyous D than for many months, journeys towards 3 New Orleans, Ferdinand, miserable and I worn, disheartened and sad, with the X implacable demon of revenge rioting in I his bosom, is tossed on the 'sea, bound for the same harbor. CHAPTER XIX. THOSE who have never visited New Orleans cannot imagine the varied beau- ties of this "crescent city," nor appre- ciate the quaint appearance it presents. Perhaps there is no other city like it, either on this or the European conti- nent, differing not only in its appear- -ance, but in the composition of its society; for there is an admixture of nationalities, yet separated individually, amongst its population, to be found no. where else. Its antique and cumbersome old struetures, remnants of the French and'Spanish style of architecture; the little one-story dwelling-houses, with their,low eaves and quaintly covered roofs, contrast so with the elegant build- ings to be found in. the upper portions of the corporation, that it is not difficult to imagine two distinct cities exist in one. The lower portion is inhabited almost entirely by the creoles of the city, and the French and Spanish population; whilst above Canal Street, the dividing line, or, as it is sometimes called, the neutral ground, the Americans, English, and Germans are to be found. The same distinction is observable in the manners and customs; for in one por- tion all is noise and bustle, indicative of the American go-a-headativeness, whilst in the other everything is quiet and in- dolent, evidence of the "fa-niente" of its denizens. Hermione was comfortably settled in her new home, way down on Esplanade Street, one of the most beautiful of bou- levards, with large thees shading it most refreshingly. She had improved rapidly within the last few weeks, and took great pleasure in her morning walks. The French market, with its thousand oddi- ties, was a source of perpetual amuse- ment to her. Here were the old fisher- women, hale, hardy, and red as the "snappers" they sold, with their sharp wit, a little coarse, but original. The long-nosed, itinerant peddler, with the dark complexion and Hebrew cast of countenance; the Sicilian fruiterers, who continually cried, "Oranges I oranges 1" the Indians, with their beads, their moc- 'casins, and herbs; the old creole ne- groes, with their broad straw hats, and red bandanna head-handkerchiefs; and the sharp, cute-eyed vendor of patent medicines, whose nasal twang and sanctimonious air proclaimed beyond dispute his birthplace, haranguing a gaping crowd upon the wonderful cures i effected by the use of his medicines, sure ( panaceas in all diseases-were something h so new and strange to Hermione that, 1 morning after morning, in the company 1 of her father and aunt, would she visit e the market, and amongst its many hu- t man curiosities her grief and melancholy r would, for a time, be lost. She found m great pleasure, too, in her visits to the t beautiful cathedral, whose solemn music X was as perfect, if not as grand, as the t boasted choirs of St. Paul and St. Pe- i ter; and, like a good Catholic, she had 8 soon selected her father-confessor, and b was especially punctual in all her reli- . gious duties. As for the colonel, at first he went t out very rarely, except in company with h his daughter; but having lived in the I city or near it for many years, he neces- sarily possessed friends, whose polite- , ness he could not well refuse: amongst them, too, were some bigh-livers, fond of wine, and the other little enjoyments that the strait-laced morality of so- ciety would forbid; and the colonel, who though at heart was really a good man, was nevertheless frequently tempted to participate in the frolics which, if not entirely innocent, at least banished for a time the remembrance of his trials and vexations. I am sorry to say he was rather fond of play; and as Bob R-. was a whole-souled, clever, and polished gentleman, in spite of the profession he had adopted, and as his house was the most gorgeously furnished and his wines the most recherclhe in New Orleans (and, by the by, the knowing ones of New Orleans are most excellent judges in wines), the colonel contracted the habit of dropping in very often and whiling away a few hours of the evening in the enjoyment of these different luxuries. Now Ferdinand had arrived in New Orleans at very nearly the same time as Hernione and Johnstone; but as neither of them had begun then to go about, and as no one knew of Johnstone's ar- rival, he had gone off to his plantation, where, much to his surprise, he found that Johnstone's housekeeper and his mother had become quite intimate. The housekeeper, it appears, had been dangerously ill, and with no nurses but the negro women, who were both ignorant and unsympathetic. Mrs. in- cent, hearing of her illness, with that kindness instinctive to some women, had ordered herself to be carried to the housekeeper's room, where she remain- ed, a most faithful friend, supervising the nursing, and rendering most mate- rial assistance to the careful physician whom she had employed. The result was that, when Marguerite recovered, she was more than grateful to her benefac- tress, and the acquaintance thus formed had soon matured into a warm friend- ship and even intimacy. Mrs. Vincent had spoken of her son, but his secret had never been betrayed, though she mentioned the suspicions he harbored towards Johnstone as the murderer of his father. page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] Ferdinand, when he first met this housekeeper, was drawn towards her by some mysterious influence, and in an incredibly short period seemed to have completely won her heart. She was almost as fond of him as his own mother, and spent most of her time with them. As might be expected, he gradually made her his confidant, for there was a look of sympathy about her that soon won his trust. When he came to his story of his love for Hermione, her faithlessness and disappearance, and Johnstone's complicity, the old lady turned as pale as a ghost, and then broke out into a frenzy he could not well comprehend. She questioned him particularly in regard to Hermione, her looks, her manners, and her age, and then suddenly determined to go home, though it had grown quite late and the night was dark, and in opposition to the most urgent entreaties of both Fer- dinand and his mother. Some chord had been touched in the old lady'Aeart, that was evident, and her remark to Ferdinand that he must call early the next morning, as she wished his coun- sel on a matter of importance, left him in an excited state of curiosity. What did she mean? Might she not disclose some facts relative to Johnstone that 1 would assist him in the revenge he sought? I When Marguerite heard the story of t Johrlstone's love and probable marriage, she determined at once upon a suitable Y revenge; for the only condition that n had kept her silent these many years was that the colonel, who was extremely A fond of society, should, as a kind of v penance, and as a tribute of respect to the wife (whom she accused him of mur- a dering), remain unmarried; and now that he had broken his vows to her, she c felt no compunction in gratifying her anger to its fullest extent. Johnstone g had concealed the finding of Hermione g from her, bedause he himself now hated g her, and desired that no connection p should ever arise between his daughter b and herself. tl Ferdinand was punctual to the minute, pi and Marguerite told the whole story of Johnstone's life; the result of which th was that Ferdinand, overjoyed in know- of ing he bad now a sure revenge, for F is Johnstone he knew to be a proud man, r who would prefer a hundred deaths to n the punishment of the law, which would e first mortify and then destroy, insisted Ls that she should go with him at once to r, New Orleans, and make the proper affi- i. davits; for he had determined to degrade y him in the eyes of 'all, but especially in a the opinion of Hermione. n That evening they were in New Or- s leans; the next morning the proper r papers would be made, and the warrant ] for Johnstone's arrest wherever found, y be issued. For the first time in many i days that night Ferdinand almost ap- t proached happiness; and, meeting with i a few of his former boon-companions, r readily acquiesced in a "spree," that, I about eleveu o'clock at night, brought , them to the magnificent house of our ! friend, Bob R--. The house was crowded; the great four-mile race would be run the next day, and the "sports" from the whole country had flocked into the city and were spending the evening with Bob, ready and willing to do full justice to both his supper and his wines. Ferdinand was standing near the " rou- lette table," around which were a number of small betters. He rarely played; but when he did, there was a dash about it that made it dangerous. "A hundred dollars on nineteen black," he said, laying a bank-bill on the figure. The ball rolled around with a sharp whir, and when it stopped rested on nineteen black I "Twenty-seven hundred dollars, you win," said the gambler, in a distressed voice. "Well, since fortune favors me, let it all go on the red." The ball whirls again, and the red color is victorious. The spectators in the meanwhile bad gathered about in great numbers; this game was certainly exciting, and the gambler trembled a little as Ferdinand placed the whole amount down on the black; he was almost tempted to refuse the bet; but he was greedy to win back what had been lost, and the eye of the proprietor encouraged him to take it. Again the ball runs rapidly around in this wheel of fortune, and, just as some of the excited spectators cry out black, Ferdinand's eye restson Johnstone, who, attracted by the crowd, had pushed up to the table. Johnstone drew back, as he marked the wicked flash from our hero's eye-but too late. The money was left on the table; for Ferdinand had immediately risen from his seat, and was approaching John- stone, who, dreading the conversation he felt would follow, had moved off from the crowd. All, idea of revenge through the law had vanished at the sight of his enemy. Here was his father's murderer; Hermione's lover; perhaps her husband, before him, in health and strength. It was a consummation he had devoutly wished, and he himself would revenge his own injuries. "Colonel Johnstone," he said, in tones so low that the words were unheeded by those who stood near, "forgets roe; I am Ferdinand Vincent; yes, Ferdinand Vincent, the son of the man you murdered I My language grates upon your ear; this pleases me; for I am told that you are brave, and can, therefore, easily interpret my meaning. I loved a woman once. You need not flinch; it is the same old story; I was credulous, and she was false. You came E between us, and robbed'me of her love. E My whole life, through you, has been darkened. You owe me reparation. I 1 know the story of your early life, and at ( one time might have used it to your injury; now I scorn an advantage such { as this would give; but you must fight." a The colonel waited for a moment be- h fore he spoke. A powerful struggle t was enacting in his breast, but he mas- c tered it. Ferdinand had loved her, then; there was now no doubt, and her life- t might have been cloudless, but for his " own too anxious doubts. "Mr. Vincent," he said, in a voice a that trembled with excitement, "your rn words are harsh, and cruelly unjust. I h am no murderer-true I hated your b father, and we fought once; but, so tU help me God, I am stainless of his X blood. As for sweet Hermione, she is aq indeed most dear to me, yet I am neither in her lover nor her husband. Soon all ai may be explained, but I cannot, will not gi fight you." m It was then that Ferdinand, worked or into a frenzy by the marner in which ro Johnstone spoke of Hermione, hissed th out, so that the whole room might hear mw 5 ip --"You are a liar as well, then, as a as coward." ur - or t Iml CHAPTER XX. n- n A DEATH-LIKE stillness fell upon the in room. The words had been distinctly rh heard, and the known courage of John- is stone rendered it positive to the minds r; of all that a terrible encounter must en- d, sue. The colonel became deadly pale, [t and large drops 'of perspiration stood y out on his forehead like crystallized ,e beads. There was a terrible conflict between his pride, his worldly passions, n and his better nature. Ferdinand's re- e fusal to expose the wicked career of his r, early life encouraged him in believing, ; that when all was known, his high sense e of chivalry would prompt a suitable and s satisfactory apology; then, the thought I of his own loved Hermione weighing , upon him, together with the solemn oath he had registered, checked him as t he instinctively raised his hand to reply s to the insult fastened on him, and lie e shrunk back from the gaze of his adver- sary, fearing his bitter passions might obtain the mastery, and all that, he [hoped to accomplish would thus be destroyed. The spectators were astonished, and perhaps somewhat disappointed-men are brutal in their love of combats, and here had been an opportunity between two gladiators, whose strength and courage were rarely equalled. Johnstone bent over for an instant towards his adversary, and whispered- "You shall hear from me," and then with a heavy tread, as if tottering under a mental weight, turned and quitted the room. Ferdinand was delighted, for his scheme of revenge had at length been successful; he hastened back to the hotel, and, late as it was, roused Marguerite. Hehad determined, that as now he should soon meet*Johnstone in deadly combat, it would be cowardly and disgraceful if he permitted Mar- guerite to continue the steps taken that morning. He had insulted the colonel openly and grossly, and his own chival- rous nature taught him instinctively that, having made him his equal, no matter what might be' the result of the page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] contemplated duel, the law must in no case be invoked, for he had taken this step, and he could not, without dishonor to himself,appeal to the law to punish an adversary whom he had so bitterly insulted. He found Marguerite, however, very obstinate; her blood was aroused, and it was no easy matter to prevail on her to forego the punishment she so ar- dently wished inflicted on her former son in-law. But Ferdinand was so positive and resolute, and then he took such high and chivalrous grounds, that at length she consented, and bound her- self by a solemn promise, that even should Ferdinand fall, she would prose- cute her revenge no further, at least through the agency of the law. Our hero went off satisfied, and spent several hours in writing two letters, one to his mother, the other to Hermione, both of which would be given to Marguerite in the morning. The colonel, in the meanwtht, was meeting with new adventures. He had left the house in a state of mind pitiable to behold. He was a brave, proud man, and that night an insult had been publicly fastened upon him which as yet remained unresented. Un- less he fought Ferdinand, his reputation was ruined forever; and yet how could he fight him, when his own conscience whispered that his adversary was labor- ing under a delusion which, if explained, might change the whole aspect of affairs. But how could he make these revela- tions? and would Ferdinand credit them? He walked on, miserable in his doubts, and uncertain what course to pursue. His walk had brought him opposite the old cathedral, and the solemn stroke of the clock announced the hour of two. He stopped .a moment, irresolute whether to go immediately home or to cross over to the market and drink a cup of coffee. He had not noticed that four men, rough-looking fellows, had been dog- ging his steps, and being feverish from excitement, he moved on towards the market to refresh himself with a cup of hot, creole coffee. The colonel was particularly fond of dress, and wore conspicuously two very costly diamonds, whose glittering under the gas-light had caught the notice of these men. The streets had grown very dark, and the square through which the colonel was walking was as,quiet as the grave. He had got near the gate opening towards the river, when he fancied he heard the stealthy movement of feet be- hind him; he turned, and the dim lamp, burning just above the gate, disclosed to his view two men cautiously ap- proaching. The colonel felt the lone- liness of his position; he was still a hundred yards from the market, in which only a few people were drowsily sitting about, and the street seemed deserted. The watchmen, as usual, were'either around some fire, or asleep under the cover of a friendly door-step. He could not call for help, for as yet no demonstration had been made that would warrant him in summoning the police; and yet he dreaded to turn his face from the men, for their counte- nances were so dark and sinister, that his suspicions had been keenly aroused. The colonel carried generally a pair of heavily mounted "Derringers," one of which he had quietly cocked, and was retreating towards the gate, with face turned full upon the two men, who had stopped, and were in whispered conversation; but just then, from be- hind a shrub which he had not seen, sprang out two other men, and before he could raise his pistol, a heavy blow from a slung-shot brought him to the ground. The men rushed up to spoil their prey; off went his beautiful diamonds, out came his heavy watch and chain, and the pocket-book, well filled. His face was upturned -towards the lamp, and as they were about finishing their rascally work, his eyes unclosed just as one of the ruffians was bending over him. .The colonel's features lit up in an instant, and with a movement of surprise he exclaimed, "What I can this be Pedro Nicoly who treats me thus?" The man sprang back, frightened and astonished. "My God, it is the captain; our brave and fearless captain!"For, sure enough, in the countenance of the robber Johnstone had recognized one 9f his old pirate comrades, and one, too, to whom he had formerly been es- pecially attached. The otherlmen were surprised and dissatisfied, and from their animated gesticulation it was apparent that they were discussing some plan, to which Pedro seemed particularly ad- verse. At length, however, Pedro's eloquence appeared to carry its weight, for they all assented, and he leaned over the colonel, who lay helpless still on the ground, for the whole scene had been enacted in an incredibly short space of time, and said, in Spanish: "Captain, pardon me, and do not fear. Your life is safe, but since you have recognized me, my comrades insist that you must go with us, or else"-he hesi- tated for a moment-" they are bloody men, and I cannot control them." The colonel had apprehended as much from their manner, and as he was entirely helpless; his arms having been taken from him, he had no alternative but to submit. He felt, too, that Pedro was sincerely his friend, and that in his word he could place implicit reliance; for he was evidently of some consequence with these men. He therefore made no resistance as they bandaged his mouth, to prevent any cry for help, and allowed himself passively to be conducted to the river, where they soon :obtained an oyster boat, in which they all embarked, placing him comfortably in the stern of ( the boat, and proceeded with dispatch 1 down the river. It was broad day when i they turned into a little bayou that, i coursing through one of the marshes near the mouth of the Mississippi, con- t nects it with the gulf, and after about ' an hour's hard pulling-for the wind i had died off-they came upon a black- E looking vessel, whose whole appearance t was mysterious and repulsive. The r men on deck greeted the crew of the t little boat with many questions, all of i which were answered cheerily. Pedro n had gone aboard, and in a few minutes a returned with the captain, whom John- I stone immediately recognized as his c former mate. The captain seemed espe- c cially glad to see his old commander, n and all apprehensions for his personal " safety vanished at once from Johnstone's 1 mind. His bandage had been removed o some time before, and a great many ' questions had already been propounded h and answered; for when Johnstone trod a the deck of the fleet-looking craft he n was welcomed as an honored guest; not a] r watched as a prisoner. Emanuel, the t captain, had a long story to tell. , The life that they led was a wild one. - They were not pirates exactly, for the s commerce was now too well guarded; , but they smuggled a good deal, and I sometimes made a trip to Africa and i back. He had just made a successful 1 voyage, and would be off again in a few t days. Pedro had been into the city to receive the proceeds of their last cargo; he had been disappointed, but had left a a man who would return to-morrow or tthe next day. His crew consisted of - about twenty men, fearless and hardy, but very difficult to manage. Pedro was the only one of the old band who I was with him, and the only one in whom 3 he reposed any confidence. He endea- vored to prevail on Johnstone to join them, offering him full command of the vessel; but the colonel told a part of his story, and was positive in his refusal. When the colonel began to talk of his release Emanuel grew gloomy and wor- ried; everything, he said, depended upbon the temper of the men, and unfortu- nately an idea had sprung up amongst them that this trip would be attended with disastrous results. He would see the men, and use all his influence in se. curing the colonel's release; and if he failed, the only hardships that Johnstone would suffer would be in making a voy- age with them. The men were all soon called on deck; the captain and Pedro addressed them, and at some length. They recited the intimacy that had ex- isted between themselves and the pri- soner, the oaths which he had taken, and their conviction that he would not only remain silent in regard to what had transpired, but would willingly pay a handsome ransom for his release. The men at first appeared willing enough to accept these terms; but, just then, "Old Father Thomas," as he was familiarly called, a hard-featured, gray-haired, and crazy-looking sailor, rose, and in a man- ner so solemn that it awed his listeners, "urged them to hesitate ere they re- leased a man, who, forgetful of the oaths he had taken, had abandoned the 'craft.' What security had they that he would not betray them? He was an old friend of the captain's and the mate's; but he was no friend to them; and had not it been prophesied to him page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] in a dream that this trip would be un- fortunate? No, let him accompany them, and in time he might be left at some port from whence he could trace his steps back to his home." The men, who were easily swayed, and over whom this old sailor exercised a wonderful influence, dispersed in groups, and after a lengthy discussion determined that "Old Thomas" was right, and nothing that either Emanuel, Pedro or Johnstone could urge would induce them to alter their determination. So, then, there was no help for him, and though it was a most bitter pang to be thus rudely torn from the daughter he idolized, and just, too, when by an ex- planation all his troubles might cease; still, his was not the disposition to murmur at fate, and he was too proud to let these miserable curs witness the agony he suffered. Besides, he had an abiding faith in Providence. His trials and troubles had turned his thoughts towards God, and although he iw by no means a professed Christian, yet the confidence he entertained in the mercy and love of God consoled and strength- ened him, and when the man *ho was left in She city returned, and the anchor was weighed, and the vessel, bending under the canvas, dashed the waters on every side, no one could have read in Colonel Johnstone's face the mental agony and torture he was then under- going. The day after the insult had been f given Ferdinand waited impatiently for I the challenge he fully expected ; but no I message 'was received, and late that eve- v ning, to his inquiries whether Colonel t Johnstone had been seen that day, "No" was invariably returned. He became restless and uneasy; his a manner was noticed by many, and com- s ments were also made upon the silence c of Col. Johnstone, who was known to i be both brave and proud. % As for Hermione, she was extremely v anxious. This was the first time that c her father had ever left her without h full intimation of what he intended to I do, and when he might be expected. A r nervous dread took possession of her, ii for she feared something terrible had d happened, and why, she could not tell, w but Ferdinand seemed connected with it. M - She went to her father-confessor, who r advised her at once to inquire at the t office of the chief of police, and accom- e panied her thither. The different stations were tele- , graphed, but no news of him could be I obtained. The chief promised to have B a most thorough search instituted, and to send her any news he might receive. iSick at heart, nervous, and with a strange sense of loneliness, the poor girl re- turned to her home. Days passed, and still no news. The whole country was telegraphed, and trusty officers dispatched in every direc- tion, but no traces could be discovered of the colonel, and the only thing found was a letter from one of his agents to him, and this so saturated with blood that' the address was hardly discernible. That something terrible had happened there could be no doubt. The papers were filled with accounts of this myste- rious disappearance, and Ferdinand was shocked when lhe learned it was gene- rally credited that Johnstone had been murdered, and his body probably thrown into the river. He had thirsted for Johnstone's blood, but his revenge was dead now, and he experienced a senti- ment of sorrow that at' first surprised him. Large rewards were offered every- where for any news relative to the colonel, but as nothing was heard, and as months had passed since his disap- pearance, people soon found other food for conversational speculations, and poor Johnstone was forgotten, except by perhaps a few, but amongst them was one who mourned him with a grief that was always fresh. Ferdinand had gone to his plantation and returned to the city several times since the- mysterious occurrence; and one evening, by the merest chance, he was walking alone on Esplanade Street, when his ear was suddenly filled with a voice so soft and sad, so like the voice of the woman he had worshipped, that he stopped, and trembled with emotion. In front of him was a large house, sur- rounded by a magnificent garden, and in .,that garden, on an iron bench, dressed in the deepest mourning, was a woman whose melodious tones were wakening recollections fraught with pain to him.; He bent forward, peering earnestly towards her, and as she turned her head, the beautiful face of Hermione, more lovely than he had ever beheld it, met his gaze. Her eye rested on him for a moment, and with a cry of joy she ran towards him, exclaiming, "Ferdi- nand, my own loved Ferdinand. It is your Hermione that calls." The gate was opened in an instant. All remembrance of what had passed was forgotten in the bliss of meeting, and the lovers, folded in each other's arms, shed tears of joy in common. CHAPTER XXI. THRE rapture of their meeting banished all other thoughts. Oh, the joy that their young hearts knew in being again united, after the bitterness of separa- tion, and a separation, too, which car- ried with it no consolation, no hope. To Hermione, the reunion brought de- light unutterable, for her heart had come back, like the little dove, bringing the twig of hope and comfort. She had no sting of conscience to impair this happiness, for had she not always been true and devoted to Ferdinand, her own i lover, who now clasped her in his arms? To him, though the feeling was one of I intense pleasure, yet there mingled with I it an apprehension from the mystery v attending her intimacy with Johnstone 1 and the suddenness of her departure, \ that brought its pains; and even whilst r he held her, so close to his heart that p their pulsations seemed as one, and whispered warm words of eternal love, I he felt doubts creep over him that un- I nerved him. For, oh, she was so dear r to him that he dreaded an explanation 1 which might lose her forever. But I dearly as he loved her, his pride was a n giant, and unless the mystery of her n course was fully unfolded, they must part, and forever. if "O1 Hermione, sweet, beautiful Hermione, how my heart has bled from ft the cruelty of your treatment. What s8 had I ever done to deserve this misery? I who worshipped you, and you only, w with all the mad idolatry of a heathen. w Could you not have dealt more gently? w Would nothing do but that my heart w g must break to satisfy your cruelty? d Oh, fair enchantress, the spell of your , beauty has been my curse, and all the , joys and hopes of life fled frightened i at your falsity." e "Ferdinand, what mean you? My falsity; I who had poured out the whole s treasures of my heart for you; I who loved you better than I did myself, bet- ter even than I did my God, I false and I treacherous I O 1 Ferdinand, examine , your own heart and tremble. What 3prompted your seeming love for me? Hate for another! You would have destroyed my happiness forever to have worked an injury to him, and I, who loved and idolized you with a strength that was not human. My letter, too, filled with love, disclosing everything, giving our destination in America, re- mains as yet unanswered. Had you loved me, would a whole year have passed before you found me? O 1 Ferdi- nand, not I, but you, I fear, are false." "Your letter? No letter did I ever receive. I false-listen, Hermione, to my sufferings.' And Ferdinand related all that had passed--the scene he had witnessed in the parlor, the caresses she had bestowed on Johnstone, his own rage and jealousy turned suddenly into a madness that came upon him with such force as to hurl him to the groqnd, his sickness, his near approach to death, his long convalescence, his suspicions and doubts that settled into a misery, his fruitless search-all were told, and with such earnestness that poor Her- mione sobbed aloud as she pictured the grief and sorrow Ferdinand had known. "O Ferdinand, my own and precious Ferdinand, what misery might have been avoided but for my superstitious reverence for a promise I had made. The man you saw that night, on whom I lavished my caresses, was, next to you, most dear to me. That man, now dead, murdered, perhaps, was my own father." Ferdinand started, and staggered as if a powerful blow had been dealt him. "Your father," he gasped, " your father," and sank back upon the bench speechless with astonishment. Could it be possible that the man whom he had hated and hunted, him on whom he had fastened a galling insult, was the father, the loved father, of the woman for whom he would have sacri- I page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] ficed every drop of blood in his veins; perilled his life unhesitatingly and cheer- fully to have won one sweet smile from those lips he loved so dearly? "Yes," she said, and her tears flowed faster, " he was my father, and as dear to me as he whom you have mourned so constantly could be to you. The story is a long one--had you received my letter all would have been explained, but now lend me your attention whilst I tell it." Then, hushed and overcome, Ferdi- nand listened to her sweet voice, dis. closing the history of her father's suffer- ings. She spoke of his early life, his love and marriage; gently she revealed to Ferdinand the treachery of his father, and, bowing her head, sobbed out her mother's shame; she pictured Johnstone, the proud man, weighed down by this sorrow; his noble forbearance, his solemn vow, responsive to the widowed mother's appeal, to avoid Ferdinand at altmes and in every way; his dread, his tears, that had become a monomania, lest Fer- dinand, to gratify his hatred, unjustly conceived,' believing him the murderer of his father, would injure her to torture him; the discovery of their love, her firmness and refusal to leave Paris until the poor father, miserable and frighten- ed by the danger he apprehended must overtake her, disclosed the name of her mother's seducer; and, carried away in his anxiety for her safety, declared that Ferdinand was actuated by no love, but having discovered their relationship, would make her miserable, thus hoping to reach and rack his heart. Her own misery and grief, exaggerated by his silence, thedreary months dragged along hopelessly, bringing no relief, her feeble health increasing her misery ; and then, worse than all else, her father's sudden and most mysterious disappear- ance. "Ah I Ferdinand, your coming is the first ray of light that has gladdened my i gloom for many weary days," she said. I "If you have suffered, have I not had, ( too, my trials? And yet I would not 1 doubt your love; something whispered to me,' He will come again, and, like i the bright sun, dispel the darkness.' ( You love me still, my Ferdinand?" I His voice was choked ; but his strong t arms pressed her again to his heart, and % the warm tears that fell upon her cheek answered more convincingly than the ltenderest words of love. "Ferdinand," she continued, in a voice whose solemnity was almost stern, "my father was no murderer. He hated the man who had wronged both him and me, and whose fatal wiles lhad blasted the happiness of another. They fought, and though your father was badly wounded, he lived, and for many years. But the crime of his murder was not my father's; his long stay in Paris, and reluctance to meet you, are explained by his noble determination faithfully to keep the oath he had registered on the receipt of your mother's letter. Ferdinand was crushed by his own reflections; Johnstone appeared to him now in a light so new, so noble, heroic, chivalrous, and Christian, that he felt his own littleness, and shuddered at the recollection of what had passed. This was the man whom he had hated with such blind intensity; the noble, generous, suffering man whom he had insulted with such fiendish gratification. How contemptible he looked in his own eyes; he thirsting for revenge, and Johnstone, the martyr, the injured one, to whom revenge would have been le- gitimate, was each day bitterly swallow- ing his pride and suffering uncomplain. ingly. He would have given his right -hand to have recalled the harsh words he had uttered. He appreciated now the colo- nel's forbearance, the struggle he must have undergone, and the-glorious vic- tory he had gained. His words, "that all might be ex- plained," were now understood, and could he stand once more before his former enemy, there was no humility he would not suffer to wipe out the wrong he had inflicted. He turned to Hermione, who still wept. Thank heaven, he thought, she does not know all that has taken place; bitterly as I hated him, she is yet un- conscious that we have ever met, and that a foul insult was thrust upon him. "Oh, Hermione I my wounded Her- mione, how can I, dare I, ask your par- don? My wicked, morbid hatred, fired by that spirit of ungovernable passion that has cursed me from my youth, has wronged most grievously your father, whom now I honor and respect as much as formerly I hated. ,God grant, my darling, that he may be in life and health, and that yet my humblest apolo- gies may soften the sorrows I and mine have caused. But to you, my angel, I feel how unworthy and miserable I am. Oh, darling I pardon me, and be my wife, my loved $nd honored wife. Make me forever happy, and let me enjoy the sweet consolation of knowing that in our love and by our marriage I have wiped out the stain upon your trusting mother's memory. Oh, Hermione I speak to me; turn not your head away; let not the sins of my father be visited on my head, but bless me, darling, with your hand." Hermione's heart was too full, but her soft eyes looked so tenderly in his, as she nestled on his breast, that he knew his prayer had been answered favorably. CHAPTER XXII. THE next day when Ferdinand called he was-introduced to Madamne de Li- narez, who, like Hermione, was habited in the deepest mourning. She had grown to love the colonel, and grieved over his loss with almost the same bitter- ness as her niece. The good lady had heard the whole story from Hermione; how Ferdinand had nobly admitted his wrong, and en- treated forgiveness; and it only wanted his handsome face, lit up with happi- ness, and his voice, so soft and winning, to complete her conquest in his favor; and then she was fully prepared to love one whom Hermione so devotedly idolized. Ferdinand was delighted with the dignity yet gentleness of madame's bear- ing; whilst she was as much captivated by his elegance and manly grace. He spoke of his devoted love for her niece, touched upon the blind insanity that had hitherto controlled his movements, and, with a graceful tribute to the for- bearance and chivalry of Johnstone, asked that he might be honored with the hand of Hermione. There was an indescribable charm about Ferdinand that rendered him irre- sistible. His was one of those fascinating na- tures that, born in a cat or a snake, would have made him most dangerous' to the little birds, whom he would have enchanted to their: own destruction. Bilt in a high-toned, chivalrous, and sen- sitive man, became one of the most beautiful attributes in his character. Its influence was soon experienced by Madame de Linarez, and it no longer surprised her that a maiden, young, beautiful, ardent, and romantic as fair !Hermione, should besocompletely under its spell. She c(eased to wonder at Hermione's indifference to Sterling- her sorrow and misery in separating from a lover like this; for she felt that his beauty and boldness, his knightly grace, and elegant accomplishments, might well have fired the heart of a ves- tal virgin with a flame as pure, bright, and undying as the sacked blaze it was her duty to feed and guard. She believed, too, that, were the poor colonel alive, he would most readily ac- cord his approbation, now, that all mis- understandings were explained, and Fer- dinand most anxious to do reverence to the memory of the injured mother, by making the daughter his loved and hon- ored wife. Therefore, she freely gave her consent, and permitted Ferdinand, in the rapture of the moment, to salute her hand. Dear Hermione came in, blushingly, when called-and in the joy that. reigned supreme, the colonel, poor fellow, was partially forgotten. How short is remembrance I How like fleeting clouds come and pass our sorrows! And the friend we mourn to- day is forgotten to-morrow in the new ties, new sympathies, that crowd upon US. So day after day passed, and Hermi- one, with her Ferdinand, were insepa- rable. There were few who knew Her- mione's relationship to Johnstone, and all recollection of Ferdinawld's quarrel with the colonel had almost vanished from the minds of those who witnessed it. No conjectures therefore were ever made, and all " went merry as a mar- riage bell." Ferdinand had written a long and in- teresting account to his mother, sup- pressing, however, everything relative to his father, for he would not for worlds wound the delicate sensibility of his page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] fragile mother by a recital of her hus- band's infidelity, and, to say the least, ungenerous conduct. But Ihis love for his father's memory had undergone no change; he was as dearly attached to it as ever; yet this stain on the escutcheon he hd so proudly believed untarnished mortified and saddened him, and did much in humbling the loftiness of his pride, which too frequently {lad proved an enemy to his good. A letter soon came to Her- mione (inclosed in one to him) filled with the purest womanly love. She thanked God for the great mercy he had extended to her in saving her son from harm, and in thus unclosing his eyes; she blessed Hermione for the love she had bestowed upon her Ferdinand, whom she insisted was worthy, even of such love as hers. She delicately re- ferred to the colonel, as one whose mem-' ory she must alwavs revere and love for the noble generosity that had character- ized him, and begged Hermione,iqWshe was too weak to undertake a journey to New Orleans, to visit her in company with her aunt. She added, too, that poor Marguerite, E her own grandmother, had died only a I few days previous, and as the whole h story had been told her whilst she lay t on her bed of sickness, had blessed v her grandchild, and prayed that Her- mione would soon lay some memento on a her grave. I Hermione shed tears when she thought n of this poor grandmother, who all alone, v dreary and desolate, for many weary, ri weary years, had ever retained the re- I collection of her granddaughter fresh ti and green in her heart. ye They determined that they would ac- m cept the invitation-but there was busi- ness that demanded her presence for m awhile in the city, and a letter was sent, th modest and daughter-like, announcing efi that as soon as the business was ad- be justed she would repair to Mrs. Vin- to cent's plantation. sh There was not much difficulty in re. mi gard to her affairs, for the colonel being a most prudent man, and perhaps nn- pe certain at what moment he might be tie taken from her, had left his papers in coi such perfect order that the old lawyer, bei a friend of her father's, placed her in a stii very short period in full possession of ; the immense estate. us- So,' after a number of solemn masses st, had been chanted for her father, and she had received the blessings of her good )ry confessor-who, by the way, had made as Perdinand's acquaintance, and spoke his most highly of him-she and her aunt, so accompanied by their constant attend- ed ant, Ferdinand, reached the plantation, in where Mrs. Vincent received her with ch such affectionate and motherly cordiality to that Hermione, who had been a little ,r- nervous, was soon made most perfectly ed at ease. ie , Here the happiest days of her life id were spent; for she and Ferdinand were m inseparable, and everything conspired ; to make hier forget the sorrows she had ie known. i, Madame de Linarez and Mrs. Vin- )f cent soon became the best of friends, I- and in the joys of their children grew i- young again. r The physician who had so faithfully - attended Mrs. Vincent in her trials, e watched the change in her health with o sincere satisfaction, for his skill de- y tected that in the buoyancy of her spirits the paralysis from which she had , so long been a sufferer, appeared gradu- i ally to become more manageable, and D one day he announced that, for thie first r time since her illness, he felt there was I astrong hope of her entire recovery. This news gladdened the hearts of all, and increased the mutual joy of Hermione and Ferdinand, who were now surely as content and happy as de- voted love could make them. They rode, fished, walked, and read together. The recollection of the colonel some- times saddened them, but they were young, and full of life and love, so his memory did not trouble them often. It had been determined that the marriage should take place as soon as the necessary arrangements could be effected; and as Madame de Linarez began to feel the necessity of a protec- tor, as well for herself, as for Hermione, she was using all efforts to expedite matters. But it seemed an age to the young people, who were growing more impa- tient and avaricious of one another's company, and every day developed nfew beauties and virtues that rendered them still dearer to each other. Madame de Linarez was desirous that Hermione should return to the city; for though the wedding would be strictly private, still the trousseau MUST be most handsome and expensive, and she was anxious to superintend it herself. Mrs. Vincent had grown to loving Hermione so devotedly, that it cost a severe pang to part from her, even for a few weeks; but as the motive for the departure looked reasonable, and even important to Ferdinand, she did not urge them to stay,'but promised that, as soon as possible, she would join them in the city. When they arrived in New Orleans, there were a thousand little things to be done, in which the lovers needed each other's advice; so, as a matter of course, they were necessarily always together. The mantuamakers were visited, and Hermione insisted that her lover should see all the beautiful little mysteries which were being so elegantly prepared. Then the shoemaker must receive fresh orders, not to make the tiny "bottes" (that looked like some fairy's property) too large, as Ferdinand was fastidious in his love for beautiful feet, and Hermione's were so exquisite, that nothing could compare with them, unless, perhaps, her hand. All this was certainly important, and occupied a good many hours of each -day; and, when evening came, they found such pleasure in being allne, and had so many conf- i dences to exchange, that the time passed rapidly enough, and their marriage-day was fast approaching. Once Ferdinand i mentioned carelessly he had met Sterling by accident that morning, and lie wore I a look so sinister, that had it not been r the commiseration he felt for a fellow t who had loved, and been unfortunate, he would have tweaked his nose. But as Sterling was not an interesting sub- ject, he was soon dismissed. Every- thing was finally prepared for their nuptials. The priest had been seen, the invita- tions issued to a few chosen friends, and a Hermione, blushing into a new beauty, V that sent a thrill through Ferdinand, c had bade him good night so sweetly- - and the next morning at ten they would a be made man and wife. t Man and wife I How strangely it s sounded to their ears, and yet what ii holy sentiments it engendered. r Man and wife-each other's forever; r beyond the possibility or power of any t human being to separate them. 5 How they longed for the hour, and dreaded the moments that parted them. Ferdinand went towards his own home i with a step as elastic as firm. His r heart was at ease-his dreams would 3soon be realized, and the golden-haired iHermione, with the flashing black eyes, tso queenly, yet so gentle and tender, was to bless his whole life by becoming khis wife. Oh I heavenly Father, bless and pro- tect her this night. Just then, three men approached him rapidly, in one of whom lie recognized Sterling, the other two were officers of the police. He heard Sterling say, "That is the man," and the next mo- ment the officers laid their hands on him saying, "You are our prisoner." Ferdinand's first impulse was to re- lease himself, and, being a man of Her- culean strength, he might easily have effected his purpose; but the sudden- ness and unaccountability of his arrest paralyzed him for a moment, and then, being a law-abiding citizen, he imme- diately recognized how improper any resistance to the officers, who only did their duty, would be. He submitted, therefore, without a struggle; demand- ing, however, by what authority and upon what charge he was thus arrested. "By the authority of this warrant," said the officers; "and charged with the murder of Colonel Johnstone," croaked out Sterling. Ferdinand sprang back, horror-stricken; but seeing his move- ment was misinterpreted, remained mo- tionless. That night he slept in jail. CHAPTER XXIII. STERLING had been in New Orleans about two weeks. The newspapers, giving an account of the mysterious disappearance of Colonel Johnstone, had been seen by him, and as soon as his affairs could be arranged he had started to New Orleans, with the intention of silently but thoroughly prosecuting his investigations. He was convinced that Johnstone's page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] disappearance was in some way con- nected with Ferdinand. He recalled the strong, impetuous, and ungovernable passions of our hero, his evident -hatred for Johnstone, made the more intense by his passionate love for Hermione, his persistent and unre- laxed search, and it satisfied him that, if a murder had been committed, Fer- dinand was surely instrumental in it. He had no particular affection for our hero, for to him were attributable all of his own misfortunes;' the loss of Her- mione, whom he still loved with all the warmth possible, from one whose dis- position was so phlegmatic, and the loss of the immense fortune, which perhaps he regretted with more genuine feeling than he did his beaftiful "Dulcinea." He had long secretly entertained a desire for revenge, but Ferdinand was so bold and haughty, that he had in- spired him with an insurmountable dread; and all idea of retaliation had subsided until the account of the-Wio- nel's death had pointed out to him a sure and safe way to execute his purpose and gratify his spleen. When he arrived in New Orleans, he had at once proceeded to the colonel's agent, and after a few common-place remarks relative to the i colonel's disappearance, made inquiries 1 in regard to Hermione. To his surprise he learned that she was at Ferdinand's ( plantation with her aunt; that he had t courted her and been accepted, and with I the full approbation of the aunt the I marriage would soon take place. This p rather staggered our friend Sterling, h who saw immediately that all must have I been explained, and that it was impos- s sible Hermione would consent to a t union with a man who had so bitterly t hated her father, unless everything had li been so satisfactorily understood, that o no suspicions could possibly rest on w Ferdinand. However, he was recupe- . rative in his hopes, and as he owed Mr. m Ferdinand a grudge for intermeddling d with his nuptials, he determined to make w every effort to repay him with interest, w and in the same coin. His next step A was to call upon the chief of police- s- and having many letters of affectionate ar esteem from the colonel, convinced him, te without much difficulty, that he was an br intimate friend of the deceased, and en- fo titled to all the particulars the chief hi n- might possess -relative to the disap- pearance. s, The chief gave him the scanty in- o, formation he had acquired after all his ie researches, and told him that the colonel 7e had spent the evening at the house of e- Bob R--, where a difficulty between t, the colonel and Ferdinand Vincent had r- taken place. Sydney pricked his ears at this; they r had met, then, and a difficulty ensued; )f there was no doubt now in his mind, '- for he could not understand that a man e like Ferdinand, noble, chivalrous, and - generous, would have died a thousand s deaths ere his hand should have been s polluted by so foul a deed. Hie recog- nized him only as the unrelenting, bitter enemy of Johnstone, who had hunted a him persistently, thirsting for revenge; s and who at length, finding the oppor- - tunity, had satisfied his hatred by this nmurder. There are some persons who 1 insist upon seeing only the dqark spots, - and close their eyes to all that is vir- tuous or good in the character of others. This was the weakness of onr prac- tical Sterling, who horrified the chief lof police by disclosing his suspicions. "This is impossible," said the chief, after lending a most attentive ear- "impossible. Are you aware, sir, that Mr. Vincent belongs to one of the most distinguished and wealthy families in the State, and is himself the very ex- ponent of all that is noble and brave? Why, sir, sluch an assertion as yours, publicly made, would peril your life, for he is idolized by his host of friends. Besides, this quarrel that you lay such stress upon amounts to nothing more than what will sometimes happen id the'se houses. Had Colonel Johnstone lived, being himself a brave man, and one who had fought before, Ferdinand would doubtless have been challenged. No, sir, if Colonel Johnstone has been murdered, as I fear-there are many desperate cut-throats in New Orleans, who, tempted by his appearance of wealth, would have performed the deed. As to Ferdinand Vincent, sir, I would suspect myself as soon as him. You are mistaken, sir, mistaken-and unin. tentionally, I am sure, do a high-toned, brave, and elegant gentleman a most foul injustice." The chief had worked himself up-for he, like all others who knew Ferdinand, appreciated and loved his many noble:qualities; but he was a conscientious and faithful officer, with the spirit of "Junius Brutus," and he felt his duty required him to listen pa- tiently to the whole story of Ferdinand's hatred for Johnstone. Hie became grad- ually much interested; there was some- thing strange in this obstinate and un- conquerable thirst for revenge. Could it be possible that Ferdinand, maddened beyond control, had committed this deed, and, to hide his guilt and dishonor, had thrown the body itto the river? He was forced, against his will, to admit that there were strong suspicions against him, and readily consented to unite with Sterling in ferreting out, if possible, the affair. Sydney had visited the house of Bob R----, and easily placed himself on a friendly footing with the attaches. By skilful questioning, he had learned not only the nature of the insult, but a fact of great importance, viz., that a short time after Jolinstone had left the house, Ferdinand, refusing the proffered com- pany of his friends, had gone out alone. The chief had discovered, too, some in- formation, such as that Ferdinand was seen late that night, apparently much excited, and walking hurriedly. They continued their researches,sand just on the evening of the day before that on which our hero would be married, the chief, who had hitherto refused to sanc- tion his arrest, consented that an affi- davit should be made, the warrant is- sued, and Ferdinand arrested. So it was, that as he returned from the dear presence of his mistress, filled with happiness and hope, the stern officers of justice broke in upon his pleasant meditations, making him a prisoner; charged, too, with the foul murder of the father of the woman whom, on the next day, he had hoped to make his wife; and as he, by the fatal beauty of his presence, had robbed Sterling of Hermione; so Sterling, with a fiendish expression of satisfaction, now repaid him with interest, and in his own coin. The chief of police was most kind in his attentions, and Ferdinand despatched him for one of his friends,who was to break the sad news to his mother, and through her to Hermione. Everything that could be done to render him comfortable was immediately ordered, and upon his pa- role that he would attempt no escape, he was given the freedom of the jailer's room and antechamber. The next morning the whole city was astir with excitement. Such a thing as the arrest of one so distinguished and esteemed as Ferdinand, charged with a crime so foul and cowardly, was enough to have shocked the whole community. No one who knew him could believe in his guilt, yet the hatred he had ever evinced for Johnstone forced some to allow that suspicions were strong against him. His poor mother fainted when the news was told her; should evil or harm come to her son, it would kill her; the thought of it almost drove her mad. Hermione heard it just as her wed- ding-dress, her wreath and bridal-veil were brought into her. The blood left her cheeks suddenly, but no other outward emotion was visi- ble. He still lived, was in health, and loved her. This she knew, and no mat- ter what trials might be in store for her she was strong to meet them; for HS love, of which she was assured beyond all doubt, infused a spirit that made her brave--and she whom they had come to console was the strongest of them all. "Mother," she said, throwing her arms around Mrs. Vincent, "he had hoped to come to me to-day. I was to have been his wife. Trouble has over- taken him. My place is at his side. We must go to him. He must know, and from my own lips, that I repel the charge with as much scorn and indigna- tion as he himself could do. I will pro- claim to the world that I, the loving daughter of the murdered man, am the devoted and affianced wife of him whom they dare accuse." Her courage inspired all with confi- dence, and poor Mrs. Vincent, broken and helpless in spirit, felt an entire de- pendence on this beautiful and heroic girl. The carriage was ordered, and at al- most the hour appointed for their nup- tials, Hermione, with his mother, de- scended before the sombre-looking jail. The interview was a sad one, but Hermione's unflinching devotion cheered and encouraged him. His difficulty with her father dis- tressed, but raised no doubts in her page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] mind as to the entire and untarnished innocence of Ferdinand. "My own darling,"she said, " must drive away all fears, for his Hermione knows his innocence and loves him now in his distress more ardently than ever." She asked for the jailer as she left, and commended Ferdinand in such sweet terms to his kindness, telling him who she was, that his heart, crusted by contact with the ugliest features of the world, softened and grew for a moment young again. She drove at once to her own law- yer's, a friend of her father's, and soon, you may be certain, interested him in Ferdinand's behalf. He was to see a Mr. S-- , the distinguished counsel- I lor, who, the instant he learned of our h hero's misfortune, had at once offered his ( assistance; and together, she hoped, g some plan would be devised that might I at once release her lover. From thence f to her father confessor, whose consola- t tions and prayers she sorely nedlNL. a That evening, the gloom of Ferdinand's a room was again dispelled by her pre- sence, and her aunt and she remained w cheering and consoling him until the h coming shadows of the night warned in them to go. fa Our hero's sadness was particularly * oppressive; not that the slightest ap- prehension for his safety and most hon- th orable acquittal ever crossed his mind, lir for conscious of his own innocence, he th was satisfied that all must satisfactorily w be explained, but being as sensitive as da the aspen-plant in regard to his reputa- th tion and stainless honor, he experienced ha a morbid dread that the calumniating bis tongues of others would assail it; and then, too, the bitter disappointment he an had suffered; for how could he, accused of this crime, consent that Hermione, lin brave girl that she was, and who wished the marriage ceremony performed in ser jail, should make this sacrifice? eel "No, darling-dearest Hermione," wa he answered, "' my name must be untar- hi. nished, my honor unsullied, ere one so priceless as you should mate with me." for She was too maidenly to insist, and bre appreciated the high honor of Ferdi- dis nand that prompted him to suffer a dis- get appointment her own heart taught her ave was most bitter. pic He could understand now the injus- hea led tice of his own suspicions towards the colonel ; how uncertain are appearances, ist and how wrong to have guarded with ne such miserly dev6tion a hatred founded )w only on conjectures. He felt that all of his troubles, the ft, waste of valuable time, the misery he Ah had suffered in his separation from Her- m mione, and now this bitterest of all )y other disappointments was traceable, ie directly, to his blind and ungovernable at passions, and he fancied he saw the hand of a kind Providence manifested v- in this great trial to*teach him a lesson 1, for his good. n He had plenty of time for reflection, -e and he dissected his heart most tho- I- roughly. He found many noble and r high traits, but more or less soiled by s contact with inordinate pride, vain 1, glory, and a stiff-necked confidence in t himself and his opinions, and with the e firmness that characterizes heroes he de- - termined to eradicate these loathsome weeds and to accomplish the greatest of s all victories, the conquest of himself. He felt this was no easy task, but he I was resolute, and his first step was to w humble himself to God. Perllhaps this l imprisonment may be to him the most fortunate of accidents. Hermione was much surprised when the servant announced that a Mr. Ster- ling desired to see her. It was to her the very height of impudence. The man who had accused her lover of murder daring to visit her. She met him, though, in the parlor, but with a haughtiness so cold, that he regretted his impudence. t"He had come," he said, " to offer an explanation." "Explanations from you, Mr. Ster- ling, are superfluous and unnecessary." "Miss Hermione, I feel I do not de- serve your anger. I believed Mr. Vin- cent to be your father's murderer; he was my friend; I wished to avenge him. " "Sir, I repeat there is no necessity for explanations; you must not dare to breathe Mr, Vincent's name to me with disrespect. As to my father, you for- get he had a daughter who would have avenged his death had your foul sus- picions been true, even though her own heart broke in the attempt." Hermione's manner as well at her language galled him. 1"Mademoiselle;' he said, with an af- fectation of coolness that he by no means possessed, " in the. danger to her lover forgets the duty due her father. As I am blinded by no love for your Ferdi- nand, I at least shall perform my faith- ful office to your father's memory. Per- haps you may remember that once I had the honor to claim your hand as mine. Ferdinand Vincent, who now lies in jail, came between us. Iam con- stituted to forgive an injurynd to love the man who robbed me of a priceless treasure, and whose haughty supercili- ousness has been a constant insult tome." He laughed a wicked laugh that cur- dled her blood, and finished by saying, -"Perhaps it would have been better to have remained true to me than' to have linked your happiness with the murderer of your father 1" Then all the strength and courage of her bold nature flashed out, illuminating her countenance as the lightning reveals the anger of the swelling waves, and she turned upon him a look so full of scorn, so scorching with burning indig- nation, that he trembled. 'Mr. Sterling," she said, in a tone whose sarcasm excoriated him, "has learned his manners from some preceptor more suited to his taste than Chester- field. How noble and bold to insult a helpless girl, for well you know that every word you breathe is an insult to my feelings. How brave, to malign an adversary, who, through your foul machinations, now lies in jail, and from whose bright eye you would flee as the owl does the light of day. You dare to talk of love ; dare to associate your mis- erable self with him who is a prince, hoping thus to honor yourself I Mis- erable, abject, cowardly creature, I despise and understand you I This pattern of nobleness and chivalry you. f would murder to wreak the spleen a and hatred most worthy of one as base 1 as you. Begone I and hever dara again pollute me by your presence." 1 Her voice, her gesticulation, her bearing, were worthy of "Ristori," as V she utters the expressive "Vamos," in "Marie Stuart"-and without a word, f cowed, but with a devil in his heart, I Sterling quitted the room. CHAPTER XXIV. THE lawyers had examined the case most carefully. . There was a great deal of circumstantial evidence, some of it very strong, but certainly nothing suf- ficient as yet to create any uneasiness. A few days before Ferdinand's arrest, he had crossed the river on some busi- ness, and, being in a great hurry to re- turn home, had not noticed that one of the pistols placed on his person in the morning, with the intention of having them cleaned and loaded, was missing. He had thought nothing more of it, but it was destined to work him' great in- jury, forha few days after his arrest was generally known, a boy about fourteen years of age found a pistol bearing the initials of Ferdinand sunk in the mud of the river-bank, and directly in front of the square where the letter, all covered with blood, had been picked up. He had carried it at once to the office of the chief of police, whose mind, for the first time, was crossed by a suspicion un- favorable to Ferdinand. Before Ster- ling received this information, the chief had seen Ferdinand's lawyers, and they were obliged to acknowledge that this was an ugly feature of the case, and in the hands of a district-attorney as skil- ful and energetic as the one with whom they would contend, assisted, too, by the shrewd sagacity and legal acumen of the attorney-general, great harm might re- sult from it. Ferdinand had easily accounted for the pistol, but he read in their faces that though they were satisfied, it would require other proof to substantiate his assertion to the satisfaction of a jury. The death of Marguerite, too, was of se- rious consequence to him ; for by her he might easily have proved an alibi; whereas, the employes of the hotel were all either asleep, or so near it, that no remembrance of his return could by them be established. He saw, now, how weak was all human foresight, and how, some- times, circumstances conspire to con- demn the most innocent as well as the guilty. He began to feel some apprehension, for he knew that the evidence against him, even though circumstantial, \vas most positive, and he felt he was pow- page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] erless to disprove the accusation. But his strength grew greater as the danger seemed more imminent, and his cheer- fulness before Hermione, who visited him every day, buoyed her drooping spirits. The examination had taken place; the committing magistrate had refused bail, and Ferdinand was again in prison waiting anxiously for the return of the grand jury. No one can imagine how anxiously a prisoner waits the return of this august body. Next to "waiting for the verdict," it is most trying to the nerves; but Ferdinand had schooled himself for the worst, and his friends were astonished at his coolness. The jailer was kinder than ever after the indictment, and his friends were un- relaxing in their attention to his wants. Time, however, dragged on slowly. He was young and energetic, full of life, and accustomed to constant exer- cise, and the dull monotony of prison life began to tell most plainly,. his health; yet he never complained, and it was only when Sterling's name was mentioned that his eyes flashed out that strange, wild fire that characterized the passion of former days. He had not, as yet, entirely conquered himself-and Hermione had repeated her interview with Sydney. "t The law's delays" are proverbial, and there was no exception in this case ; but at length the day arrived for the trial. I Hermione had been with him late the N night before. Her aunt informed him 1 that Mrs. Vincent was too ill to accom- 1 pany them, but had sent her tenderest t love. t Hermione and he spent hours in the r sweetest and saddest converse, forgetful E of the presence of good Madame de Li- narez, whose eyes were dim by the tears r that constantly filled them. c He'had entreated Hermione not to p be present at the trial; he feared her d distress would unnerve him, and she had r promised to obey his wishes. When the jailer came to announce jI thehour had arrived for the closing of o the prison, he found them on their knees, o Ferdinand repeating after Hermione a prayer so pure and simple, that the si rough, but kind-hearted jailer accorded a them a few more minutes, despite his je positive rules. But at length the bitter, al it moment came, and the sad parting was r gone through. Oh, what misery to her, '- poor girl, for the next morning every- d thing would be decided-and her doubts g and hopes oppressed her. Ferdinand rested more peacefully ; than he had done for several nights be- d fore; the prayed of Hermione soothed n him, and he fell asleep with a smile, e thinking of her. v Early the next morning his friends f were with him to accompany him to court. 5 The room was jammed with eager e spectators-some brought there by the I interest they felt in Ferdinand, and s others by that love for the horrible so often seen in large cities. There was a r profound silence as he entered, and then -a murmur went up from the crowd, for he looked so young, so noble and hand- some. f There was a stately- dignity in his manner exciting the admiration of all; nothing defiant or abject, but noble, aristocratic and brave, and every heart warmed with sympathy towards him. Just behind him came the prosecutor, Sterling, with a countenance expressive of satisfaction that he could not well conceal, and yet nervous and trembling, for he dreaded the eye of Ferdinand, prisoner though he was. The contrast was most striking between these two; one, the man who was to be tried for his life, was cool, dignified, and handsome, holding his head up proudly and boldly, with a look of manly honesty beaming from his eyes; whilst the other, the prosecutor, was nervous and awkward, trying to hide himself from the gaze of the crowd, and with a look of cowardly malignity that only added to the repul- siveness of his appearance. The case was called, the indictment read, and to theusual question, "Guilty or not guilty," the sonorous voice of the prisoner, without a tremor, was heard distinctly through the entire court- room, "Not guilty, so help me God." Then came the impanelling of the jury, the most critical period, perhaps, of the whole trial, and one too frequently overlooked, even by skilful practitioners. Every face was scanned, each expres- sion of countenance noted by the able attorneys who defended him; some re- jected, others refused for cause, and after a good deal of time had been con- sumed, a jury was finally selected, sworn in and seated, and the trial commenced. Ferdinand had refused positively to allow Hermione to be summoned; her evidence could not be of such material benefit as would warrant him in making not only her, but himself, suffer the tor- ture that an examination before that miscellaneous crowd must produce ; the fact that she did not believe him guilty of her father's murder, and that they were engaged, was a presumption of his in- nocence that might most easily be de- stroyed. The district-attorney read the indict- ment and enlarged upon the heinous- ness of the crime. "There was no offence known to the law that so deservedly metthe just indig- nation of the whole civilized world as this; and no matter what might be the birth, or what the condition of the offender, a jury of conscientiouginen could not hesi- tate in the performance of their duty. Indeed, if the malefactor was one whom birth, education, and position had fa- vored, it was all the more imperative that the crime, if proven, should be visit- ed with the severest punishment of the law: to strike terror into the hearts of other wicked doers, to excite a sense of security amongst the good, and to vin- dicate the majesty and impartial justice of the law. This was a peculiar case, and one that had excited the attention of the whole community. A gentleman of-wealth, education, and distinguished birth, whose name hitherto had been the theme of admiration and respect, whose bravery and chivalry had elicited the applause of all who knew him, stood to- day before the bar of justice to answer to the charge of murder: of a murder so foul and cowardly that the stoutest heart is appalled at the monstrosity of the crime; and stood there, too, with the circumstantial proof so strong against him, that in spite of his hitherto unsullied reputation, unfortunately there couldexist no doubt as to his culpability. It was with feelings of the most painful regret that he recognized the strength of the case for the state. Would to God, gentlemen, there were some flaw,.some missing link in this chain of evidence; but, unfortunately for the prisoner, it is solid and unbroken, and God alone can save him." District-attorneys usually have the most velvety way of approaching the juries, and half the time one might ima- gine the poor prisoner was their dearest friend, and nothing but the stern inflex- ible sense of duty that always inspires them, could induce a prosecution. However, in this instance, the prose- cuting attorney felt every word that he uttered, and his remarks were evidently carrying some weight. "Gentlemen of the jury," he con- tinued, "I shall do nothing, but what my duty requires, and God knows I shrink from the task. I shall show to you that on that fatal night the de- ceased was in full health and spirits; that the accused met and most grossly insulted him; and that the deceased submitted to the indignity with a meek- ness that astonished all beholders. I shall prove to you, further, that a short time after the deceased had quitted the house the accused left it, and alone, refusing the proffered company of the friends who had gone there with him, and that he was seen hurrying down the street in an excited and singular manner. I shall show you the hatred that had animated the bosom of the prisoner; his persistent hunt after the deceased, following him even as far as the island of Jamaica, and then, last, but most important of all, you shall behold the pistol with which the bloody deed was done." He paused and resumed his seat; the audience was so wrapped in attention that the falling of a pin might easily have been distinguished. "Call Bob R ---," and Mr. R., being sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, took his seat on the witness stand. "He stated that Colonel Johnstone had been in the habit of frequently spend- ing a portion of theeveningat his house ; that on the night of , Mr. Vin- cent, in company with several friends, had called in, much to his surprise--for Vincent rarely if ever visited himn. He had noticed, too, that he seemed'some- what excited, but very gentlemanly and polite. A short time afterwards Col. Johnstone had entered the room, and the instant Mr. Vincent saw him, there was an expression crossed his face that made his own heart tremble-it was a page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] look so black, so full of hatred. Mr. Vincent had almost immediately ap- proached Col. Johnstone, who seemed desirous of avoiding him, and after a short conversation, too low to be audi- ble to himself, had used the words dis- tinctly heard by the whole room, and applied to Johnstone, ' You are a liar as well, then, as a coward.' The colonel seemed to hesitate as to what course he should pursue; but after replying, ' You shall hear from me,' left the room. Mr. Vincent remained only a few minutes longer, and then quitted the house rather hurriedly, refusing the company of his friends. That was the last time he had ever seen Col. Johnstone." The cross-examination was exceed- ingly brief; every word that the wit- ness had spoken was true, and they could elicit nothing that would benefit their case. Several others present on'the same occasion were called, and their testimony corroborated R---'s in al- most every particular. as*. "Call Sydney Sterling," and the gentleman made bhs appearance with a smirk and an air of importance; but catching the eye of Ferdinand fastened on him with stern contempt, trembled visibly, and manifested a nervousness that did not increase his popularity. Mr. Sterling's evidence related en. tirely to the hatred that had existed on I the part of Ferdinand towards John- stone. He had known Vincent in Paris. He was intimate with Colonel John- t stone, and possessed his full confidence. ^ Johnstone always'dreaded Ferdinand. a Here the counsel for the defence inter- a fered and sternly required Sterling to t confine himself to what he knew, and of his own knowledge; but the injury had c been done; the jury had heard the re- h mark, and Sterling was satisfied. He c related what had transpired in Paris, a and poor Ferdinand bit his lip until the blood came out, as the story of his meet- o ings with sweet Hermione, and her de- v parture was repeated. Here was the jt infamous spy who had watched his fhove- s ments, and whose venomous tongue was now working his injury; how his hands b itched to punish him as he deserved. w This testimony was objected to at first, t( but then permitted, as it went to prove o the motive of his hatred. Sterling dwelt fi upon the suspicions that Ferdinand had r. entertained of Johnstone as his success- I- ful rival; his visit to New York; the d conversation at the hotel. where Ferdi- a nand had unguardedly let fall expres- i- sions of bitter hatred; his sailing for ;- Jamaica, with the avowed intention of d overtaking Johnstone, whom he believed r to be there; and distorted the most in- !1 nocent expressions so as to injure the e cause of our hero as much as possible. i He was a bad and dangerous witness against them, for his cunning taught him s to suspect all the traps that might be e laid, and whenever he found an oppor- r tunity would throw out suddenly, and : with an air of simplicity, some remark most damning to the interest of Ferdi- tnand. The senior counsel, after some consultation, approached him most cau- I tiously : this Sterling was like a " hedge- hog," and they felt it was dangerous to "pick him up ;" they might smart from his stings; yet tlfhe counsel determined to handle him, and with " hair-gloves," as the expression is. "Mr. Sterling," he said, in a tone whose gentleness was in direct conflict with his feelings, "seems to evince a most anxious interest in this matter. Are there no other, motives than those of friendship for the deceased that in- duce this prosecution?" "No other; I believe him murdered by Vincent, and I wish to see the mur- derer punished." He saw here one of those opportuni- ties, hd availed himself of it; but he met with a stinging rejoinder from the coun- sel, who, irritated at,this contemptible and petty meanness, nevertheless re- tained his coolness as he said, "You speak of Mr. Vincent as a mur- derer. This is not fair until the jury have decided, or else it would be just to call you a coward ere a trial has been made. " Sterling blushed. He felt the truth of the argument and the innuendo con- veyed, and he saw from the looks of the jury that he had somewhat injured him- self. "You say, sir, you are actuated only by this noble spirit of friendship, that so well becomes you. Very good; but tell us, sir, did you never offer the honor of your hand to the daughter of your friend, and did she not refuse it'?" This stung Sterling to the quick, and as the district-attorney interfered, to un- derstand the drift of the question, he had full time to prepare his answer. The judge having ruled it was legiti- mate-for it would prove the animus of the prosecutor, and might go to the jury as an argument against his credibility- Sterling was forced to acknowledge that at one time he had been engaged to her; that Ferdinand had come in between them, and here, the skilful lawyer dragged out from him, unwillingly, the story of our hero's gallantry in sav- ing the lives of all by the stopping of the frenzied horses. This had a decided effect upon the jury, and there was a murmur of admiration from the whole audience which the sheriff would not check, for he felt its justness, and Ster- ling's efforts to make Hermione appear as a heartless coquette were unheeded by all except Ferdinand, whose eye shot out a fire that would have blinded the vile traducer had he seen it. The law- yer saw the advantage he had gained, c and was careful how he jeopardized it. X His questions were all to the point, and 1 so categorical and comprehensive, that Sterling suffered a sort of judicial net- I tle-rash. He knew all the weak points X in the character of the witness and v probed them to the quick, and with 1 such masterly power that, though the victim writhed under the torture, he ( found it impossible to escape. He forced him to recite his contemptible es- I pionage in the garden, and showed how s dastardly it was in him not to have cor- 1 rected Ferdinand's suspicions relative i to Johnstone. Finally, he made him admit the last interview with Hermione, c and when Sydney left the box there was v an universal feeling of contempt and I aversion for him shown in every face. t Even the officers of the state were dis. r gusted; but then they had a solemn p duty to perform. e The effect of this cross-examination upon the jury had been most beneficial t] to Ferdinand's interests; but, alas, there were other proofs that were calculated d to do away with the good that had been sj produced. th The chief of police was examined, and ra the letter all covered with blood, that re looked black as the crime itself, was ci offered in evidence. The letter was " read. h) 6 It was from Johnstone's agent in d Paris, whose signature was recognized and sworn to by a merchant of the city i- present for that purpose. ,f Amongst other things, he spoke of y Ferdinand as having recently arrived - there from Jamaica, and still prosecuting t inquiries for Johnstone; this corrobo- ; rated Sterling's testimony, and the blood a on the letter sent a shudder to the heart r of every one. It seemed as if the blood , of the murdered man asked for redress. The boy who had found the pistol was f then called. He testified that a few days I after the news of Vincent's arrest, he i was on the wharf opposite the square, 3 and had gone under it for some pur- pose, when his attention was attracted to a pistol that lay partially hidden in ' the mud; he picked it up, and after Icleaning it, saw initials on the handle, ; and at once carried it to the chief of police. The pistol being shown him was re- cognized as the same he had picked up, and the initials were (F. V.) (New Or- leans). A friend of the accused was placed on the stand, and, with a heart full of sad- ness, was obliged to declare that the weapon was one he had seen often in the possession of Ferdinand. Here the evidence for the state was closed and a short recess taken. The attorneys for the defence could not conceal their anxiety; there were some ugly features in the case, and the letter, with the pistol, had damaged their interests most fatally. Then they had no proof to offer ex- cept as to character, and they knew this would be of little avail. The death of Marguerite, they feared, might prove the condemnation of Ferdinand. He recognized his danger, but he was too proud and brave to allow the slightest emotion to be seen. He consoled his friends and nerved them by his own display of strength. Several good-hearted spectators had drawn near to him and offered their sympathies, and one poor Irishman, with the nobleness that characterizes their race, had proposed a rescue-this being refused, but with a manner kind and gra- cious, he insisted that, after the trial, "he would bate the darty vagabond who had forsworn his honor's life." page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] When the court reopened, there was a nervous apprehension read in every face, and the feeling grew stronger as the jurfilor counsel informed the judge Athat this was one of those peculiar cases in which the defendant had no testimony to offer. He would have continued, but the court interrupted him, and the dis- trict-attorney commenced his argument. All he had said before was repeated ; her dwelt upon the-evidence, which he felt was conclusive, and the inability of the prisoner to account either for the pistol being in the neighborhood where the murder was supposed to have been committed, or to prove his whereabouts after he had quitted the house of R--. He explained the different branches of evidence, and how, sometimes, circum- stantial evidence became so strong that there could be no doubt as to its truth, and traced out each link in the chain of proof that bound the prisoner. He thought it was unnecessary to occupy 4 the time or attention of the jyryy-, his honor, the Edge, would give them the E law, and on the statement of facts as nar- 1 rated by the different witnesses, there 1 was but one verdict that could be ren- dered, and no matter how painful it i might be both to them and to him, yet, I in the faithful discharge of their oaths, t they must find the prisoner guilty I I When Mr. O---, the leading coun- r sel for the defence, arose, even his great- v est admirers knew that, with all his elo- I quence and legal acumen, he could ac- t complish nothing against the obstinate t facts that were carrying such conviction c to the minds if not to the hearts of the a jury. He felt the awkward position he v occupied, and it was some minutes be- a fore he could shake off the nervousness h that to his surprise had crept upon him. r "Gentlemen," he said, and the tears v stood in his eyes, " when I tell you that tl in all my varied experience of profes- n sional life, this is the saddest case I have known, you will believe me. Here is a - young man,. descended from one of the n proudest and most honorable families in it the State, blessed with a beauty of per- ii son and nobleness of mind rarely equal- tl led, and whose chivalry and high-toned d generosity have-warmed the hearts of his a many friends, arraigned to-day before w this august bar charged with a crime of o0 which he is as innocent and free as either w Ls you or 1, and' yet, such are the circum- y stances that have conspired against him s that he can offer no testimony to rebut e these foul insinuations; but from the s evidence adduced against him, he hopes y to show how impossible it is that he t should have committed this deed. "His honor must tell you how danger- ous at all times is circumstantial evi- ; dence; he will refer you to numerous 3 cases familiar to us both, where the f greatest injustice, and even murder un- e der judicial protection has beencom- 3 mitted through its agency; and he will icaution you to reflect well and ponder i wisely, before you condemn to degrada- tion and death, one whose whole life, f made up of generous and high-toned actions, gives the lie direct to these foul and dangerous suspicions." His courage had returned ; his action was grand; and his deep voice rang through the room with a melody all its own. I "You must remember how this pro- secution has been instituted, and who is the prosecutor; and you will not forget that the crushed and beautiful girl, daughter of the man supposed to be murdered, is the affianced bride of the prisoner; and on .the. very day when this most cruel arrest was effected, he had hoped to crown his happiness by makingr her his wife. The tender de- votion she had displayed during his im- prisonment, cheering by her affection the gloom'of his solitary confinement; the misery and anguish she suffers now on his account alone, is evidence beyond all doubt, even did I not echo her own words, that SHE believes him innocent and guiltless; and, gentlemen, with all her love, she has that spirit which cha- racterized the Spartan mothers, and would have handed him to justice even though her own heart broke, were she not satisfied of liis entire innocence. "Is it not strange that the daughter -who, from the testimony of this most noble Sterling, we find was devotion itself towards her father-should be will- ing to mate with the prisoner, and that this most honorable friend, actuated he declares by no other spirit than that of avenging the death of his friend, but whom, upon a closer view, we find ven- omed and poisoned by a deadly hate, which, in his cowardly malice, he could not all conceal, should set on foot this investigation to gratify his spleen?" Mr. S-- warmed with his subject, and painted Sterling pretty much as Dante might have pictured the devil. His sarcasms and invectives were most powerful, and he held Sterling up to the ridicule and just contempt of all hon- est men. He showed how ungrateful in him to have forgotten that the prisoner had once saved his life. How contempt- iDle he made him as he stood hid behind the hedge listening to the love of Her. mione and Ferdinand; criminal, too, in not dispelling the suspicions which he himself had assisted in engendering; and cowardly, beyond expression, in his last interview with Hermione. When he ceased his analysis of this delectable gentleman, I question whether Sterling was-at all prepossessing. He argued most ably and fully on the fact that the body had not been found; the "corpus delicti" was not proven; and that the jury could not be satisfied a murder had beell committed; and here he referred to a great many notes on authorities, all going to show that if a doubt was cre- ated in the minds of the jury, its bene- fit must be given to the prisoner.- He admitted the hatred that Ferdi- nand had entertained for Johnstone, but it was in fair fight he had wished to meet him; for what man, contemplating a cold and deliberate murder, would awaken his adversary's suspicions by language such as that used by the accused? Then he spoke particularly of the fact that Ferdinand had saved Johnstone's life in checking the horses ; did this be- i speak that malignity which should al- i ways accompany a murderer? He related Ferdinand's version of the 1 pistol ; he knew this was not evidence, i but in a case like this, where, by a com- ] bination -of unfortunate circumstances, i all testimony for the defence was lost, he ] was warranted in making a statement to i the jury that might go for what it was i worth; and acting upon this, he spoke t of the untimely death of Marguerite, so ( unfortunate to the interest of the ac- cused; for her testimony could easily c have explained the excited and hurried i manner of Ferdinand and his where- t abouts after he had quitted the house of h R----. He closed, with a most beau- F tiful and powerful appeal to their sym- o s pathies, and sat down, satisfied he bad made as able and eloquent an argument :, as possible under the circumstances. s Ferdinand thatnked him for his effort, 1. and the junior counsel himself, a most ;t skilful advocate, seeing the happy effect o of the speech on the minds of the jury, - thought it prudent not to disturb it by i any further remarks. r The attorney-general closed for the - state in one of his most elaborate efforts. I Theeloquence of Mr. S-- had aroused * him, and he was powerful in reply. He answered more especially that portion of the argument in regard to the ; "corpus delicti," and held, that though 3it was the general rule that the crime must be proven to have occurred, yet there were many instances where such * proof would be impossible; and if a strict adherence should be required to technicalities, the progress of justice would be retarded and many cold- blooded and outrageous crimes would go unpunished. In a case like the present one, where the body could not be found, and where even if it had been discovered, the lapse of time would render it unrecognizable, it was necessary to weigh all the circum- stances connected with and attending the mysterious disappearance. What could have induced the colonel to have left his comfortable home and devoted daughter, and that, too, with- out the slightest intimation? Could a man, in the full enjoyment of all physi- cal and intellectual strength only a few short hours before, have committed sui- eide and left no evidences of his in- sanity? How could the letter, covered with blood, addressed, too, to the deceased, and warning him of the continued and persevering inquiries of his enemy, be accounted for; and how was it that the pistol, unloaded and stamped with the initials of the prisoner, should be found in such close proximity to the spot where the deed was thought to have been done? Could it be possible that fate had so conspired against the accused; or was it not rather, taken in connection with the hatred, the insult, the excited and hurried manner of the prisoner, most positive and incontrovertible evidence of his guilt? page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] The prosecution had at least built up so strong a case that the " onus pro- bandi" was with the prisoner, and he could not invoke the maxim that the benefit of a doubt must be given him un- til he had explained away the presump- tions which seemed now most over- whelming. This, the facttof his introducing no testimony, proved conclusively he could not do. He pitied, most certainly, the unfor- tunate position of the prisoner, and hoped sincerely it would prove a salu- tary lesson to others, to guard against those fatal passions which too often lead to ruin and most certain misery; and closed with a most handsome eulogy on the character and position of Colonel Johnstone. The judge looked for a moment at the prisoner, who still bore his trials with the fortitude of an ancient hero, cleared his throat of all emotion, and prQceeded to give his charge to the jury, wS, with anxious look, pondered well over every word he uttered. Just then a sudden commotion was visible in the crowd, which swayed to and fro, creating a noise that almost drowned the words of his honor, and as the sheriff with his deputies was on the point of crying order, a lady, leaning on the arm of a handsome man, whose sun-browned cheeks bespoke exposure, pushed through the crowd until she reached the judge's bench; and the gentleman, catching the eye of the astonished judge, turned full upon the excited audience and said in a voice that rang out above the din, "I am Colonel Johnstone!" A shout of joy, loud and continued, greeted this announcement, and the judge and the sheriff forgot for a moment the dignaty of the court. Ferdinand had risen, breathless with astonishment and joy. "Thank God," he said, "you live; for it enables me, here, openly, and most humbly, to apologize for language that was unjust and ungenerous." The colonel held out his hand, and there, in the court-room, in the presence of all, was cemented a friendship that was to endure forever. The judge at once discharged the pri- soner, and adjourned the court. Friends crowded around, and congratulations were offered on every side. It was, indeed, a most fortunate ter- mination of all gloom and doubts. Fer- dinand left the court room amid the joyful acclamations of the multitude, and drove immediately to his mother's, after promising to spend the evening with Hermione -and her father, when the most fortunate return of Johnstone would be explained. The delight of Mrs. Vincent on her son's release can be imagined ; she was comforted beyond expression when he told her that his imprisonment had turned his heart towards God, and to- gether they offered a fervent prayer for the great blessing with which the Father of all love had visited them. CHAPTER XXV. THE lights from the magnificent chan- deliers threw out a soft brightness upon a happy group seated that evening in the comfortable parlor of the colonel's spacious house. Mrs. Vincent had accompanied her son, for she could not bear just yet a separation even of a few hours; and had met the colonel with an affection to which he had fully responded. She appreciated his noble forbearance and sympathized with him in the suffer- ings he had undergone, and he had long entertained a sincere love and respect for the woman who had borne her af- flictions with such gentle meekness, and whose pure piety, breathed in the letter she had written, had been instru- mentalin softeningand purifying his own heart. His long conversation with both Hermione and Madame de Linarez, to- gether with the information his forced voyage had given him, rendered it an easy matter to forgive Ferdinand, more especially, too, as he had been struck by the nobleness of his character evinced so prominently in the public apology he had offered; for Ferdinand had ex- pressed thanks at Johnstone's return, not because his own life had been thus saved, but as an opportunity to wipe out a wrong unjustly inflicted. And then the mutual devotion of the lovers was so beautiful, that the colonel felt more than satisfied to have Ferdi- nand as his son-in-law. He recognized the many worthy traits, the fearlessness, chivalry aWd integrity, that marked our hero, and he was willing that the past should forever be obliterated; feeling, too, that the marriage of Hermione with Ferdinand was the proper offering of re- spect to the memory-of his misguided wife. So, with no cloud now to over- shadow the glory of their happiness, they sat, hand in hand, listening atten- tively to the story the colonel was repeat- ing. "After I left the house," he said, "I was in a terrible condition of mind, and wandered on without knowing well whither I went, for you, Ferdinand, brave and honorable yourself, can easily understand what suffering your language must have occasioned me. "But, my boy, I do not blame you, blinded as you were by misapprehen- sions; and then your apology is as no- ble as yourself; only let it be a lesson to you never to place too implicit a con- fidence in mere appearances. "I had not noticed that four rough- looking men were following my steps, and it was only after I got into the square that the noise of their feet awakened my attention; I saw two of them distinctly, and my suspicions being fully aroused by the singularity of their manner, I had drawn one of my pistols, preparatory to my defence, if necessary, and, with my face turned towards them, was slowly retreating towards the gate. At that moment two others sprang from behind ashrub, and before I could either protect myself or cry for assistance, a blow from a heavy weapon, possibly a slung-shot, felled me, ard as the miscre- ants robbed me, the letter must have fallen from my pocket into the blood oozing out from the wound on my head. "The shaking these fellows gave me in turning me from one side to the other the better to rifle my person, restored my consciousness, and, as I looked up, I discovered in one of them the familiar face of an old comrade. "My surprise was so great that Icould not suppress an exclamation of recogni- tion, which it appears was most unfor- tunate, for the men, seeing I had recog- nized one of their number, were fully determined to murder me, and it was only by the most powerful appeals, and- by a threat that he would protect me, that they agreed to the compromise pro - posed by Pedro, my former comrade. "Being gagged, I was silently car- ried to the riverside, placed in an oyster- boat, and the next morning early landed on their schooner. "To my great delight, I found the captain was my former mate, and I knew then that my life at least was safe. "To be brief, he consented to my re- lease; but the men were superstitious, and much under the influence of a crazy old sailor called "Father Thomas," and as he had dreamed that the voyage just completed would be disastrous, they coln- ceived that my release might hasten the fulfilment of his drealm, therefore, they opposed it, and as the captain was with- out sufficient authority to enforce his commands, there was no other course but to submit. "As it proved, nothing could have been more fortunate, and it taught me how inscrutable, yet merciful, were all the ways of Providence. "As a matter of course, my .know- ledge, acquired in my earlier days, was of great service to me, and very soon I found my word carried a certain weight, and that a respect was always shown me even amongst the most wicked of that 'hardened set. I took advantage of this, and improved every opportunity to in- culcate principles of good amongst them, for my own experience told me- tliat ,many men, hardened and sinful, might be saved if an effort were made in their behalf, and I believed God would assist me in my good work. "One day I learned they were bound for the coast of Africa, to bring back a cargo of negroes. "I determined then to use my influ- ence to prevent this. We had been out now nearly a month, and I had attached myself particularly to old Thomas; his manner, his wild look, and crazy mutter- ings made him even more dreaded than loved, and it was a rare thing for these ignorant and superstitious men to dis- turb his solitary meditations. My op- portunities were therefore great to study his character, and I discovered that the men began to entertain a certain awe for one who had gradually gained an influ- ence over old Thomas-for such was in- page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] deed. the case; and the old man would follow me about the ship deck like a faithful spaniel,. "He was a queer old genius, with a wild habit of clutching his breast occa- sionally as if in pain. i"No one knew where he had come from, but he had been with them now nearly five years. "The mental sufferings that the old fellow underwent had excited my keen. est sympathy, and from hints, unguard- edly dropped, I was satisfied that his life had been even more than ordinarily wicked. I would spend hours with him, and, much to my surprise, on one occa- sion he brought out an old and badly- torn Bible, which he earnestly besought me to read; this I did every day, ex- plaining, as well as I could, the com- forting assurances therein contained; and once, when he appeared carried away by excitement, and suffering the most terrible agony of mind I had ever witnessed; so horrible that he teekedI like one laboring in a,fit, he broke out 1 into a confession to me, clutching his t breast as was his habit. "He spoke of many deeds of wicked- t ness, but more especially of one murder, e the recollection of which had a stronger effect than all others. He opened his c breast, and to my surprise, I saw at- t tached to a slender steel chain the ring M with the black diamond formerly worn k by your father. I knew itat once; and h it was with the greatest difficulty I could G restrain my emotion sufficiently to hear f( his story, how he had murdered in Paris w a man whom he had seen with a large amount of money, and from whose finger In he had taken this ring. He had been w afraid to barter it, as from its singular ca appearance and value, he dreaded lest es it might lead to his detection, so he us carried it around his neck, until it had ve worn a place into his flesh, and as time fo passed on, a misery and fear had come lo upon him, and this ring, which he in guarded with the utmost secrecy, be- ini came his torture; yet some mysterious power so controlled him that he dare we not cast it away. I prevailed on him, finally, to let me keep it, and you may br believe I was more anxious then than da ever to return; for now I could dis- abuse your mind of all the suspicions an( you had cherished, and the beautiful cie Aid face of my Hermione beamed out on me a in joy. "Old Thomas promised to use his in- i a fluence in carrying out my wishes, but la- everything must have failed, had not the remembrance of our inland island flashed ne across my mind. I recollected there )w was a large amount of money buried in a particular part of the island which I Id had never touched, and I promised the n- men that, upon certain conditions, the d- treasure should be divided amongst is them, the principal stipulation being ly they should disband and quit their pre- n, sent wicked life. a- "This being agreed to, and the most y- solemn oaths having been taken for the It fulfilment of the promise, we 'about a- ship,' and headed for the island. - "Some difficulty occurred in finding ; the opening that led into the waters d around the island, but we were soon e moored in front of my former home. r "Everything looked so natural, that d I forgot for a time how many years had t passed since I had seen its varied beau- s ties. "The next day we set to work, and the treasure was soon exhumed and , equally divided. "Amongst other curious things dis- icovered, I found a small iron safe con- taining many papers, and one of which was the reward offered by my father. I knew now who I was, and my whole heart was filled with thankfulness to God. We'started almost immediately for the island of Cuba, where the crew would be disbanded. "But storms and obstinate winds de- layed us, and on the very evening when we hove in sight of land a fearful hurri- cane, so wild and fierce that the stout- est heart quailed with fear, came upon us, and with such fury that the little vessel became unmanageable, and foundered on a hidden reef. All were lost save Thomas and myself, who, cling- ing to a spar, were picked up by a coast- ing schooner. "Fortunately the ring and papers were saved. "The exposure I had undergone brought on a fever, and I lay for many days at the door of death. "But God was again most mercifill, and soon my strength returned suffi- ciently to enable me to voyage home. "When I arrived, I hastened here; my darling Hermione was in the deepest misery and despair; the story of your love for her, your approaching marriage, your arrest, charged with my murder, was repeated, and together we hastened to the court, where, thank heaven, I ar- rived in time to save you from the dis. honor of conviction. Old Thomas died in Havana, but here is the ring, together with his dying declaration, legally and properly attested." The colonel stopped for a moment as he handed the black diamond, glimmer- ing in the light, and the declaration to Ferdinand, who trembled with emotion, and then drawing from his pocket the written reward offered for himself and brother, said to the group which had drawn closer around him, "I am no longer Col. Johnstone, but Charles M----, the youngest son of the father whose signature here attests it." As he said this a cry of joy burst from the lips of Mrs. Vincent, for she recog- nized in him the brother whom she had I mourned as dead these many years. The meeting between the brother and sister must be imagined, but a happier family could not be found that night in the whole city of New Orleans. Five years have passed since the events last recorded. Ferdinand is rising rapidly in distinction as a good and useful member of society. No man of his age occupies so high a place as he, in the esteem and confi- dence of his fellow citizens. Hermione is as fresh and gentle as ever; her many beauties, both of mind and person, are seen to greater effect, as, surrounded by her three lovely children, she performs all the duties of a wife and mother. Johnstone, Madame de Linarez, and Mrs. Vincent are more than happy in their children's children, and the devo- tion of Ferdinand and Herinione for: each other has known no change. Little Hermione, with her large black eyes and golden curls, is the dar- ling of her father and fond grandpapa, whilst Ferdinand, the eldest child, with his brown flashing eyes and luxuriant dark hair, is the idolized pet of Mrs. Vincent and our own sweet Hermione.
