Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page. It is also available as plain text as well as XML.

~?- ^ 7 ~ ^ pr-ietor j ^,n |nfrtptni>tnt ^lilg ^iaspptr^ Jar % |prontoli<m of % political, Social, ^grfmltoal aitb Comiiterdal Interests af ijjt jgimtjf. |terms?$3.00 A year, tv advance. VOL- 18* YORKYILLE, S. C., TmFBSDAY, JAJSTJAEY 18, 1873. J^Q. 3." |U Original frixe $ftofg. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. THE OAKHURST ROMANCE. BY MRS. HENRY DEAS. CHAPTER IV. We must now return to the young travelers, whom we left resting in their grand father's parlor. Iu a few minutes' time the old gentleman returned, and ringing the bell, desired that tea might be brought in. Ethel felt al . . IUU3L LOO WCiirj tU Cat, uui? but nagiuuv wuw and snowy biscuits tempted her appetite, and she felt refreshed and better after partaking of them. Minnie proved, as she declared herself to be, very hungry, and joined her grandfather with vivacity indisposing of the chicken and other substantials which "Aunt Phyllis," the venerable cook, had prepared in the most appetizing style. "Now, children," said Mr. Conway, when the meal was over, "I want you both to come with me into the study, for a little while be> fore you retire; I have a friend in thereto whom I would like to introduce you, as he is nearly as much apart of the establishment as myself." "He must be a very old gentleman," whispered Minnie to her sister, as they followed their grandfather across the entry, "if he can't come to be introduced to us." Mr. Conway pushed open the study do<>r, and invited them to enter. A shaded lamp was on the table, and on a lounge before the fireplace, where some logs were burning with a spirit that would have been very cheering on a November evening, sat or rather reclined a small misshapen figure, of whom they could not at first decide whether he were boy or man. He made a slight movement, as if to rise, at their approach, but Mr. Conway checked him with an imperative "Sit still, Arly, they don't expect it," and then drawing the two girls forward, continued, "These are my grand daughters, of whom I spoke to you. Miss Ethel Frazer?Miss Minnie Raymond ; my young friend, Mr. Arlington Eversham." A slight pale hand, as small as a girl's, was extended to each of them in turn, and a singularly low, sweet voice said, "I am niost happy to welcome you to the Grange. You forgive that liberty, don't you, Godfather?" he added, turning to the host; "you know I never can divest myself of the impression that I am at home here." "Well, and are you not ?" was Mr. Conway's rejoinder. "Sit down, girls, unless you find the fire too warm." "I am afraid the fire is a nuisance," said young Eversham, "but I am so unfortunately chilly-blooded that I believe I would nearly freeze without it. Open the door a little more, if you please, Godfather." The sisters sat down, and Ethel presently became conscious of a pair of deep, searching eyes, looking her almost through and through. As she raised her own, involuntarily, to meet them, she was struck by their peculiar and wonderful beauty. They were gray, shaded by the longest and blackest lashes she had ever seen; but the chief charm lay in the expression?at once keen and thoughtful, yet wistful and innocent as a little child's. The rest of the face was plain, the features being irregular, the mouth, especially, being unsymmetrically large; yet his smile was bright and pleasant, and disclosed beautifully white and even teeth. One of his lower limbs was quite shrunken and useless, and was supported in an iron frame; his shoulders were too broad for his height, which was scarcely greater than that of a boy of twelve; and his whole appearance denoted great infirmity, though his countenance, except from its pallor, did not indicate ill-health. A pair of crutches, handsomely mounted in silver, leaued agaiust the sofa within reach of his hand. "Well, Arlv, and how have you been getting on since I left ?" inquired Mr. Conway. "Oh! pretty well, thank you sir. Everything is as quiet as usual at home, only old Oscar has been a trifle cross." "What was the matter ?" "He took it very hard, sir, that Brooke didn't come to keep me company during your absence. He could not understand the impossibility of the arrangement." "Have you heard recently from Brooke ?" "Two days ago. He was on his way to the o?: ? tugs. "Indeed! he is coming home, then." "Yes, with the Ransoraes, I suppose." "I am surprised that he didn't come here first." "It would have taken him entirely out of the way, you see, sir; and I suppose he was anxious to join Clare." "He hasn't been anxious to join her all along,has he?" "I don't know," said Arly with an amused look. "Their ideas of enjoymeut were different, that was all." "Humph! I suppose so." "You are too hard on Clare, Godfather." "I! what have I said ?" asked Mr. Conway. "Nothing just now; but there was a world of meaning in your face." Arly's fine eyes twinkled as he spoke, and Ethel could not understand her grandfather's look of annoyance. "One comfort is, I shan't have you making a fool of yourself," he said presently. "Not much fear of that, sir," said Arly good-humoredly. "You may look forward with safety to having me on your hands for an indefinite time." "So much the better, boy; yon show your J> sense. "Perhaps my wisdom is the result of necessity," said Arly, with a smile that was half-sad this time. Mr. Conway's only rejoinder was an impatient poke at the fire, and when Arly spoke next it was to ask Ethel some question ahout their journey. Before very long Mr. Conway proposed they should adjourn, saying ^ that they needed rest after the jolting of the cars; aud bidding the young invalid goodnight?again with a kindly pressure to each from that soft, girlish hand?they left the study, and were ushered to their chamber, a large comfortable apartment on the second floor. "Oh! Ethel, what a queer little creature," was Minnie's exclamation when they were alone. I wonder if he lives here ?" "I don't think he is queer, Minnie; he is very pleasant and intelligent." "Queer-looking, I menu. I don't want I jhim to be in the house, do you ?" I < "Why not?" m & "Oh 1 because I wouldn't like to have him i ~ before me all the time. It makes one feel | badly to look at such unfortunates. Do tell me, don't I look horridly ugly and used up to night ?" "You look a little tired; I would advise , you to go to bed as quickly as you can." i "Well, I will; that bed looks delightfully i inviting;" and Minnie, comfortably nestling; | in the luxurious pillows, was soon fast asleep, : while Ethel, her brain busy with thoughts of : the past, more leisurely followed her example. The events of the past few days had followed ! each other in such quick succession, that she ; still felt confused and unable to comprehend : flip rpalit.v of her situation. She could scarcely convince herself that it was scarcely more 11 than a week since Minnie and herself had been quietly living with their mother at the cot- 1 tage, without a thought of immediate change, i and now that dear mother was no more, the I cottage shut up and left far behind, and they i | among strangers, on the eve of a new and un- i J tried life. | One comfort was, her grandfather seemed i j very kind. Since the day they had first met, ! he had never alluded to her mother's history; ] | but he appeared resolved now to atone for the < past by showing her children all the affection ' and consideration in his power. The next morning Minnie's curiosity in re- 1 spect to Arly was gratified. Her grandfather ! informed her that he was the son of a very i dear friend, who had died when he was quite ] i ? liff.lt Snv. His brother Brooke and himself i owned two fine country places, and a great i deal of other property; they were, in fact, very i wealthy, but having no near relations they ] led a lonely life at home, which, to one afflicted i as the younger was, was especially trying, i and so they spent a great part of their time 1 at the Grange, coming and going just as they felt inclined. Oaklands, where they chiefly 1 resided, or which, rather, was their headquar- ] ters, was but five miles off, and Arly went { backward and forward in a little pony-chaise, i in which he frequently went out,- under the J care of a servant. The two boys, Mr. Conway 1 said, had always been just like his own sons, i and he was much attached to them both. I "Some day I shall have to take you both < over to Oaklands, Minnie, and let you take i a look at the house and grounds. They are s worth looking at, I assure you. There's as i fine a collection of paintings in the gallery t * *+ T,J _ xl there as any m tne ?taie. it, b a pity tuey are t kept so shut up. There used to be enough ] gay company there, when poor Eversham and his wife were alive." j "Has Mrs. Eversham been dead long ?" t asked Minnie. - f "Yes, she died first, when Arly was a baby. A pleasant, pretty woman she was, but scarce- i ly domestic enough to suit her husband, who i was fond of quiet Why, she made him carry her to Europe when their eldest child, Brooke, was but a few months old; she did t it on the plea of her health being delicate, but i it was more for pleasure's sake than anything else. She left the child with his foster-moth- e erj a country-woman, who lived Borne miles 1 from here, and whip still lives there, I believe. ( However, it was no loss to him, for he was a r puny, sickly little thing, when they left, and 1 grew to be a strong, rosy child." t "Does he look anything like his brother, f now ?" I "Like poor Arly ? Oh! no; he is tall and t robust?a strong, splendid fellow. I never 1 saw such devotion as there is between them; it is perfectly beautiful. Brooke is so gentle ] and protecting, and Arly so dependent on ( him, and so full of admiration of everything he says and does. The worst of it is, Brooke i is engaged to be married, to an idle, frivolous, i fashionable girl, who will never make him happy." e And then Minnie, who felt all the interest t * ' " 1 - * ? - ? A- l? n/1 A in sucn matters pertaining to uci oca., maun j minute inquiries relative to the affair, and re- i j ceived as satisfactory replies as it was in Mr. 1 I Conway's power to give, he having seen < ; Brooke's fiancee but once, though that once 1 J had been unfortunately sufficient to prejudice ] j him very strongly against her. j | "And will they live at Oaklands, when \ 1 they are married, grandpapa ?" j "I suppose so, more's the pity. Well,Arly ] can always stay here, that's one comfort; it i isn't likely he'll ever marry, but if he should, 1 he can live at Rowley Park. That's a fine old ? place, too." 1 "Gracious, grandpapa, he'll never marry." "I can tell you, the woman who'd get him i would be a lucky one," said her grandfather, a little sharply, "but I hope he'll have sense . enough to steer clear of such folly, for a long < time to come, at any rate." And Minnie was silent, for she had sufficient discretion to per- i ceive that the old gentleman would not brook 1 1 any disparaging remarks on his favorite. I Arlington Evcrsham was, in truth, no com- j j raon nature. The affliction he had endured j | from his early childhood seemed to have de- i ! veloped all that was pure and good and gentle 1 j in it, instead of making him morose and un- * ! happy, as such afflictions often do. Accus- | ' tomed to intervals of the severest pain, he had 1 j learned to bear them with the most exemplaj ry patience, and it was seldom, even when ] j suffering most, that a word of complaint es- ] j caped his lips; while his hours of compara- i ! tive ease seemed all the brighter and happier i ; by contrast, and his gaiety and lighthearted- j j ness at such times, would infect all around ; him. Deprived of the pleasures in which i other boys indulged, he devoted himself all i the more ardently to those within his reach; i i of drawing and painting he was especially i fond, and possessing naturally great artistic i j talent, the results he achieved in this line, i I even when quite a child, were really surpris! ing. His brother had contrived an easel for him, at which he could paint in an easy pos- i ! ture, and without fatigue; and some of the i finest pictures at Oaklands had been done by 1i ; his hand, at various periods of his boyhood ! and early manhood?for in spite of the exceed- i j ing youthfulness of his appearance, he was I ! now twenty-two years of age. From the se- ! i elusion in which his life had been passed, he J 'had retained much of the simplicity ofii thought and feeling which is seldom found ;1 ! except in early years; though his mind was '' | well stored with useful learning, culled from J < i books of the best ancient and modern authors, j J Of music, too, he was very fond, and though | < his sensitiveness in regard to his appearance i had prevented his learning any instrument, he i i had a sweet voice, and sang ballads with taste and feeling} when he could get any one to acI company him on the piano or guitar. 1 He was showing some of his drawings one j day, to Ethel, and she, after expressing her i ! admiration of them, said she wished very ! < ' much she could learn to draw. "Do you really want to learn ?" he asked "Why not let me give you lessons ?" "You? I never thought of that; it wouh give you so much trouble." "None in the world ; it would be a pleasan occupation for me, and I should be delighte< to be of any use to you. Have you ever tried ?' "Yes, often, and I think I have some tun for it, but I have never had time or opportu nity really to improve myself." "Will you bring some paper and pencil here, and let me see you try now ? You wil find everything in that table drawer; I keej materials always on hand." Ethel brought the requisite articles, and h< sketched off a little figure for her to copy. "One must make a small beginning, yoi know," he said smiling, "ana you win nn< that very easy." "It is very easy to you," said Ethel; "I an afraid I shall never be able to work as rapidb as that." "Don't try to work rapidly at first; taki as long about it as you like." Ethel sat down, and with a good deal o pains taking contrived to make a pretty fai; copy, and Arly declared himself quite satisfiec with the beginning. "There is no fear of your not succeeding,' he said. "You will do exceedingly well." So it was arranged that he should give hei regular lessons in the study ; and these lessom became a source of much pleasure and inter 38t to her. They diverted her mind from th< melancholy thoughts with which it was fre juently occupied, and served to employ i large portion of her time, for when she waj aot actually receiving instruction, she worke( it her new art a good deal by herself, so tha her progress soon became rapid. As for Arly, there was no doubt that th< lessons gave pleasure to him. To his lonelj life, the companionship of a gentle and refinec ;irl like Ethel was a great boon ; and she hac from the commencement of their acquaintance felt a sincere interest in him, and treated hin svith pecular consideration and delicacy, al .vays bearing in mind his affliction, yet having ;he tact carefully to avoid anything tha jould make him suppose she was thinking o t His one weakness consisted in an exces live dislike to being pitied, and though he die lot at all mind alluding to his misfortune, he ilways did so with an air of carelessness anc ndifference that was far from betraying hov eeenly he really felt it. "You know I am so different from othei jeople," he said one day, when alluding tc he sedentary manner in which he spent the greater portion of his time. "I think you are different in a good raanj vays," Ethel answered quietly, without look ng up from her work. "In what, for instance?" "In your patience, and unselfishness, anc houghtfulness for others ; and in your uni rersal cheerfulness." "My dear Miss Fraser, life is too short tc ipend in complaints," he answered gaily," anc [ hold it to be our duty not only to cultivate ;heerfulness in ourselves, but to promote it ai nuch as we can in others. Besides, every one las their own peculiar pleasures, as well ac heir own trials; and I think the one side 'airly counterbalances the other. Some peo )le call this a sad world, but for my part 1 ,hink there is a great deal that is pleasant anc ovely in it." "I envy you your way of thinking," saic Ethel a little sadly. "I have not seen raucl )f its brightness hitherto." "Wait, and hope; your share of the bright less hasn't come to you yet, but it is there lever fear." "But I have known some people, Mr. Ever iham, whose whole "lives were a burden ti hem." "Then it was their own fault," said Arlj esolutely. "They made their troubles heaviei )y not bearing them in the right spirit ] lon't care how great a person's trouble raaj >e, if they only try to take it cheerfully anc patiently, it will come easier to them after ? ittle while, and they will see that it is meant 'or some good." "That is what mamma used to say, saic Ethel, and the tears filled her eyes as she re nembered how unfailing her mother's patienc< lad bean, and how sweet and sunny a tempei he had displayed through all the trials of he; ife. "But I am not good enough to feel thai vay." "I have found it an excellent plan," saic A.rly, "to go over frequently in my mind a lis )f all the comforts and blessings I have You have no idea how encouraging it is ; i' makes the cares seem so much lighter by con trast." Ethel could not help marveliug at the rar< sweetness of disposition which made him fee and speak as he did. But it was more thai that; he was by nature cheerful, it was true but it was the cultivation of a true and earn jst faith that had so perfected all Christiai graces in him, and made him what he was The more Ethel saw of him, the more shi liked and admired him, and gradually hii happy way of looking at things influence! her, and induced her to make greater effort than she had hitherto done, to look at her owr sorrow in a right spirit, and not make it toe great a burden to herself and others. September came, and one day, near tin middle of the month, Arly announced tha he had received a letter from his brother, ant that the latter was coming home. "I am glad to hear it, I am sure," said Mr Conway. "I think he has been away lorq enough. What day will he be here ?" "To-morrow or next day, I think, sir." The next day Ethel had forgotten al about the expected arrival, and was engage! as usual with herdrawiug, in the study, whei the door quietly opened, and in walked Brhoke with Pedro, as usual, by his side. The recog ition was mutual, and a slight color tinge! her lace, while over his flashed a iook 01 ae lighted surprise. . "So we are acquaintances after all!" he sai< as he shook hands, on Arly's introduction "I never could be sure, from Arly's letters whether it was really you who had come heri or not." Ethel felt a little surprised, not being awari of all the enquiries Brooke had made abou her before leaving Summerfield. However she could not be displeased at his evident sat isfaction, and if he had been betrayed int< too sudden and uncalled for a display of it a the first moment, his manner to her afterwardi was all that was decorously proper and re 3erved. He stole many a glance at her, how ever, unseen by her, as she sat a litfle apart when the family circle was assembled and tin I. conversation had turned on general topics ; not unseen by Arly, who found himself, before 1 the evening was over, watching his brother with a very acute and speculative eye. It t was a somewhat curious fact that in the whole 1 course of conversation that evening, Miss '* Ransome's name was not once mentioned. 1 The brothers seemed very happy in their re union; Mr. Conway had not spoken in exaggerated terms when describing their affections s for each other. Arly's merry boyish laugh 1 rang out with unusual frequency, and so rap3 idly did the hours pass that every one was sur prised when the old hall clock rang out 3 eleven. Brooke sprang up, declaring that he had no 1 idea it was so late. 1 "Why, boy, you are not going home tonight?" exclaimed Mr. Conway. 1 "I must, sir; I left all ray things over there, j and I have something to attend to very early in the morning, which makes it necessary for 3 me to go." "I'll have you woke as early as you like." f "Thank you, si^| I must go now, but I r promise to let you see just as much of me as 1 you can possibly desire. I will be over tomorrow, after breakfast." ' He made his adieur, bending over Arly and kissing him on the brow as if he had been a r girl, and then went to look after his horse, 3 which he had ordered to be kept saddled. - Presently they heard him carolling a lively 3 air as he cantered toward the gate, and Arly - glanced toward Ethel with a smile. "'tr ?- l-a ? * "iou rememoer wimi we were anjiu^ uuo 3 day about cheerfulness?" he asked. "As long 1 as I have him with me, I don't think any very t dark clouds could come about me. He is my sunshine." 3 "You have your sunshine within you, my 7 boy," said Mr. Conway, laying his hand on 1 Arly's shoulder, with an affectionate glance. 1 They dispersed for the night, Ethel to listen 3 until she fell asleep to Minnie's praise of i Brooke, whom she declared to be the hand somest man she had ever seen, and the most J charming. Perhaps it was owing to this cirt cumstance that his image so persistently baunf ted Ethel's dreams that she woke in the raorn' ing feeling almust as if she had done Brooke's 1 absent fiancee some wrong. 3 Brooke was as good as his word, and came I over frequently to the Grange; but he did not 7 stay there, as he said his presence was necessary at Oaklanks, after being away so long, r and Arly also went home to stay, leaving ) quite a blank in the little circle. The draw3 ing lessons went on as usual, he coming over nearly every day in his pony carriage, and r often remaining to dinner, so it was in the evenings, more than at any other time, that they missed him. "When is your brother, to be married?" 1 Minnie asked him one day. "I don't know; no definite time has been fixed, but I fancy it will be some time during ) the coming winter. There was some talk of I the wedding being this fall, but Brooke tells 3 me it was only a suggestion. I believe hows ever that Mr. Ransome thinks of going to Eu3 rope in the spring, so I think it very likely it J may take place before then."3 "I should think you would be in no hurry for it," said Minnie. [ "I? Oh! I am reconciled to it. Of course I I can't expect to have Brooke quite as much with me as hitherto, but we will be a good I deal together, and even when we are not in i the same house we will be very near." "Do you like Miss Ransome ?" "I scarcely know her. She came to Oak, lands once with a large party of her friends and relations, on Brooke's invitation, soon af ter they were engaged, and I thought her very pretty, but she did not have a great deal to do with mo." ' "Grandpapa doesn't seem to fancy the match f much." L "Oh! well, he knows as little about the r young lady as I do," said Arly, who was not 1 inclined to discuss the subject with Minnie, i and soon managed to turn it off. t [ . CHAPTER V. 4 Christmas was approaching. The season ' wa8, of course, to be very quietly kept at the , Grange. There were to be some merry-makings at the neighboring plantations, to all of which Ethel and Minnie were invited, but their mother's recent death put aside all I thought of partaking in anything like festivity. r Brooke went to Richmond to spend a week at the Ransomes. He found Clare out of * spirits, and looking a little paler than usual. "What is the matter?" he asked her when they were alone. "You have lost all your vis vacity." | . "Nothing is the matter; only I hate all this j fuss that is going to be made. I can't see why Christmas should be celebrated in balls and ' dinners." "I thought you were particularly fond of amusement." I "I don't know; sometimes I am, but some^ j times it becomes tiresome. If you lmd invi- j j I ted us all to Oaklands, now, and let us have { a quiet time in the country, I should have j ^ liked it better." j "The idea never occurred to me; I don't think you would have enjoyed it there, howev3 er. You know I have no one to do the honors ! t creditably." j "I am sure you did the honors very credi. ? 1 - 1^ ?I T J.I T3..4 | taojy yonrseu, wneu x who uieru uciujo. jjul j I dare say if I were there I should be no bety J ter. I have come to the conclusion that life ' J under most circumstances is a wearisome j thing." 1 j "Clare, what troubles you ?" Brooke asked, 1 gently taking her hand, i "Nothing in particular, that I know of." , "Have I offended you ?" "You? Oh! no." 1 "Then, what is it? I shall feel badly, too, j . if you don't tell me." To his surprise, she turned away her head j 1 and burst into tears. With real concern, he 1 . again sought to discover the cause of her erao- J , tion ; but she did not tell him. The truth 1 2 was, she scarcely knew herself; but a vague j depression had settled upon herheart, tunning a. all things distasteful to her. She was ashamed t now of her weakness, and, after one or two , | efforts, she succeeded in checking her tears, -j and said with a smile, 3: "Please excuse me for being so unentertaint ing; I know how men hate the sight of a wo- i b I man's tears, especially when they are as un-1 i-; called for as mine." "I was only afraid I might unintentionally j ;, have caused them," Brooke replied, gravely. I e "Certainly not. I have had a troublesome I ; headache to-day, and I suppose it has made j me nervous." She exerted herself to appear cheerful duj ring the remainder of the evening, and so I successfully that Brooke supposed that her j trouble, whatever it was, had vanished. ? -J Ka ar\rr\Ck | mere appeareu, nuwcvci, tu ut ou.uu wmj straint in the family circle; Mrs. Ransorae ! was unusually dignified in her manner, espej cially to her daughter, and Brooke finally arrived at the conclusion that some domestic ! fracas had occurred, which had put everybody ! out of spirits. "I'm glad Clare's got over, at any rate," he i thought. "Very unpleasant, though, to have I such things happen ; I am half sorry I come j to-day, instead of waiting a day or two ; longer." I The next morning the clouds seemed to j have dispersed, and everything* went on | smoothlv. Mrs. Ransome was very gracious j to Brooke at breakfast, and Clare laughed I and chatted with vivacity. They drove oat 1 in the afternoon, and went in the evening to the opera, and afte "T1 to a party, from which they did not return until two o'clock, i The next day was Christmas eve, and the children had a Tree, and a dance after supper, j when some older guests came in, and egg-nogg j and cake were distributed, then came Christ| mas day, and the family went decorously to i church, and Brooke caught himself in the middle of the service, wondering whether Ethel were at church at Oakhuret at that moment. Afterward a family party assembled at dinuer, which was prolonged to an uncon! scionable length, in consequence of the number of courses Mrs. Ransome thought it necessary to have in honor of the occasion. They were all sitting around the fire, after dusk had set in, when there was a ring at the bell, and a servant brought a card in to Clare. As she took it, her face flushed crimson, and she hesitated a moment before asking if any one was waiting. "Yes, ma'am, the gentleman is outside.""Papa, a friend of mine?a gentleman whom I met lastsummer, has called,"she said turning to her father, while Brooke watched her curiously. "Shall we ask him in ?" "Certainly. I am surprised at the question," said Mr. Ransome. "Show him in, directly, Cato. Who is he, my dear?" In answer, she handed him the card she ; had just received ; and the next moment Paul Owen was ushered in. | "Happy to meet you, sir," said Mr. Ransome coming forward. "Take a seat near the fire, pray. Excuse me?allow me to introj""* "" ? nrtTT /latlrvtl+ar frrarA mv UUUC UJJ YT IXC UIJ uuuguwvi v??mww | ?j friend, or rather our friend Mr. Eversham? Mr. Owen." "I have had the pleasure, I think, of meeting Mr. Owen before, said Brooke extending his hand, which the other shook, and then drew a chair near Clare, who had not spoken a word of greeting, only mutely giving him her trembling hand. She began to talk now, however, in a rapid, nervous kind of way at first, but gradually regaining her composure, while Brooke, still watching her, sat at some distance off and carried on a desultory conversation with her sister Grace. Paul talked fluently and well on various subjects, addressing himself sometimes particularly to Clare, but oftener in a general way to the circle, and so won Mr. Ransome's liking that when he rose to take leave, his host warmly pressed him to spend the remainder of the evening. Paul hesitated a moment, and glanced at Clare; but she said not a word. "I fear I must go," he said in answer to Mr. Ransome's solicitations, "as I have a partial engagement to meet a friend at the hotel; but I shall do myself the pleasure of calling again, if you will allow me, before leaving the city." "When do you go, sir?" asked his host. "On the twenty-ninth?I promised to be back at New Year's." "Can't you come round on Thursday evening? We expect some friends then, and will be very happy to have you join us," said Mr. Ransorae. "I shall be very happy to do so," said Paul. "Have you an engagement for to-morrow?" he added turning to Clare. "I am engaged for the evening; not otherwise." she remied. "Will you allow rae to call for you in the afternoon to drive ?" "Better not," a warning voice seemed to whisper, but she thought to herself, "it will seem so odd if I refuse." "I will go with pleasure," she answered recklessly. "At four o'clock?will that suit you ?" "Perfectly." With a general "good evening," Paul withdrew. When the family circle had retired, Brooke detained Clare a moment in the hall. "Suppose I tell you that I don't wish you to drive to-morrow ?" he asked, half-playfully. "I can't suppose why you should not wish it," she rejoined. "Suppose people should make remarks, knowing that I am here, on your driving with a stranger ?" "Absurd! where is the harm ? you are not in earnest, Brooke." "Clare, will you truthfully answer rae one question ?" "Let me hear it, please." "Do you really love me?" "What has come over you to-night?" she rejoined half laughing. "You are not wont to be so sentimental." "Never mind that; answer," "I thought it was a thing of course," said Clare a little impatiently. "Why should I be engaged to yru, otherwise? You hurt my hand, Brooke ; the diamond cuts it so." "I beg your pardon," said Brooke, letting go her hand. "Good-night, Clare; I won't detain vou anv longer." And he watched her a little sadly as she went up-stairs. "I don't believe she does care for me much," he said to himself, slowly ascending to his own quarters. ''I wonder what sort of life we will have together. I hate indifference?I would almost rather downright dislike. And an indifferent wife would be?well, very unpleasant, to say the least. I almost wish?" But he checked himself in the wish, whatever it might be, feeling it unwise, perhaps, to pursue his reflections farther. As for indifference, his own conscience was not quite easy on that score. Clare attired herself most becomingly ?he next day, and was ready at the appointed hour, at which Mr. Owen punctually made his appearance. He handed her into the stylish little phieton, which was well provided with furs and robes, for it was unusually cold; touched the spirited horses with his whip, and off they dashed at a rapid pace. Clare was in the gayest spirits. She had made up her mind to enjoy this ride thoroughly, cost what it might; and she talked and laughed with more vivacity than she had displayed for months, while the exhilarating motion brought a brilliant color to her cheeks, * - f 1_1 _ a. _ 1 ana a joyous sparaie iu nor eyes. . Paul talked a good deal, too, at first, but gradually he became silent. When they were fairly out of the city, he checked his horses and allowed them to walk leisurely fora little while. "I have so much ,to say to you, and my time is so short!" he exclaimed. "You don't seem inclined to improve the opportunity you have," she answered, laughing. "You have scarcely spoken a word Tor , the last five minutes.". "It is because I don't know where to begin. I However, I will commence with a piece of' i news. Do you know, great good fortune ba i befallen me lately ?" "Indeed! I am sincerely glad to hear it; "I have grown rich ; an uncle of mine ha left me all his property, greatly to my aston ishment, as I scarcely knew him. What i still better, I have published a book of poems and it has been well received, so that I actu ally have some hope of winning fame afte I all!" "Oh! I am so glad; but I have not seen i 1 > >. x v j yet; wny naven i you seui mo a wpj ? | "I have brought you one, which is the sam thing; I will send it to you^ this evening j But, oh! Clare?pardon me, Miss Ransomej can't you guess why this good fortune ha ! made me so happy ?" "No," she answered, with a fluttering heart "that is, I mean I don't know of any specia reason; of course, it is natural you should b rejoiced at it" "It is because it gives me confidence to hop for what I dared not aspire to before?you love. Oh! Clare, can you not give it to me ? But Clare sank back, pale as death, am could frame no reply. Paul bent an eager, questioning look oi her face. "Clare, answer me!" he cried. "Have been too presumptuous?have I been mistake] in my hope? You roust have seen that loved you." In faltering tones she managed to utter, "I thought you knew of my engagement.1 "Your engagement?" "Yes. I thought everybody knew abou it." "Not to Mr. Eversham ?" "Yes. I have been engaged two years,1 said Clare, clasping his hands tightly togeth er, and looking straight forward as she spoke '"It is quite an old affair, you see," she added trying to force a laugh. "Sometimes I al most forget about it" "I heard the report" said Paul," and al terwards heard it positively contradicted, thought, perhaps, it had been so and was brc | ken off*. And so all my dream of happiness i at an end 1" There are some situations in which, no mat ter how deep one's feeling may be, it is neces sary to preserve an outward composure fo appearance' sake. Thik was'the case now People were passing them on the road, in car riages and on horseback, and Clare smiled an< bowed to an acquaintance, while her hear lay torn and bleeding, and she felt as if i cloud so black had overshadowed her that th sun could never shine for her again. It wa bitter to learn what love-was, when it was to< late to taste its sweetness. ? . But was it too late ? why could she not tel Brooke at once and plainly that she did no care for him enough to marry him; that thei engagement was all a mistake ? After all the whole thing had been her parents' doing and not hers. Why should her life be sacn Bed to conventionality, when her happines depended upon her throwing off its trammels As for Brooke, she knew well enough tha his heart would not be broken by snch an ai rangement But then that same conventionality, which a that moment she so despised, was not a thin/ to be slighted, as she well knew. ' What wouh people bay if her engagement was broken off above all what would her mother say; he mother, who had so schemed and planned b bring it about, whose heart was so set upoi the match ; who had already commenced ,b arrange the bridal trousseau, and decide upoi the quantity of laceof which her flounces wer to be made. Clare was a little afraid of he mother; Mrs. Bansome had always made i such a point to rule her family, her husbani included, with a positive hand, that it was sel dom any of them thought of disputing her will '.'Mamma never would give her consent,' .t ii ?Jii.i j i. 8tie IDOUgtu, ana mat aeemeu w aetue n uiuii effectually than any thing else. So she leanet back, feeling very miserable, and Paul drovi gloomily on, scarcely sayiirg a word for th< rest of the way. At last, when they wen nearly at home, he said, "I had so looked forward to the day whei I might dare to tell you of my hopes! Whet I found myself a comparatively rich man, nr first thought was, 'Now I can ask Clare i Bbare this with me.' For no matter how 3 loved you, I could never have asked you it share my poverty and toil1; you were not fitte< for such a life. . But now you have blown mj bright dream to the winds. Fool that I was I made so sure of its fulfillment!" "You must be happy in some other way,' said Clare faintly. '' "It is easy for you to talk of happiness. ] shall never find it again; but I thank you h the wish, all the same. I suppose in time J shall learn to be reconciled to my disappoint ment." "How little he knows, when he talks of mi being happy," thought Clare, bitterly; and ? wild impulse seized her to confess to him hov miserable she was, how she yearned for thi right to return his love. But no^she must le j him cherish his delusion ; it would be uselea ! and unwomanly to undeceive him. Thej j reached her father's door, and he handed he; out of the phaeton, saying, "You must make my excuses to your fathe; to-morrow evening-1 shall hot be in Rich mond." : . . ; : ; ^ r ,-iii I "You are going away to-morrow, then ?" "To-night. The chief object of my visi here was to see you^ and it would be wors< than useless now for me to prolong my stay Good-bye, hnd God bless you?you have mj fervent prayers for .your lii$-Jong happiness.' He said it bravely, but his voice grew busb toward the close. Clare dared not trust her self to reply. It seemed to her when thi clasp of his hand relaxed as if all hope wen slipping away forever from her grasp, anc naught but dull blank memory remained. She went up to her room, and locking hei door, threw herself upon the bed in a parox ysra of wild, regretful tears. "Oh! my heart, my heart," she cried "Are you to be forever trampled on ant crushed; are your cravings never to be satis fied ?" There was a. knock at the door, and hei mother's voice asked admittance. Clare has tily arose, and glanced at herself in the glass the traces of her emotion were too evident t( be concealed, and as she opened the door hei mother exclaimed, "Why, Clare, what on earth is the matter ?' "Nothing, mamma; don't question me now ! please," said poor Clare with a trembling lip "But I must auestion you, child. Wha; can have occurred during your drive to giv< cause for such violent agitation ? for I pre surae it has some cause." ! And then Clare suddenly resolved to throv : herself on her mother's mercy and tell her all I *v.n T am tfaavT TiA??tT m!oni?okln ' Vil i UJaUiULIO, A OLU TWJi TCIJ autwjLMisai?) j she said, and casting herself down again sh< I yielded to a fresh burst of tears. , ! "Miserable! You, of all people, Clare, tx | talk about being miserable, i never heard o: | such a thing," said Mrs. Ranaome, in an ag ; grieved tone. "I have noticed your moodi I neas and depression of late, and I must say J I can see no cause for it, whatever. A girl wit! such brilliant prospects as yours to talk o: being miserable! It is absurd. I am aston ished at you.s' "Oh ! mamma, it is my prospects, as you l call them, that make me miserable. Mamms I cannot marry him?marry Brooke, I mean.' "Clare Ransome, are you in!your righl senses ?" cried the indignant mother. "No! | marry Brooke Evereham? Whom will you marry then, pray?" , ' "No one ; at least I don't ever expect tc marry, now. Only don't make me peijure s myself by marrying a man I don't love." "And pray, since when have you made the " wonderful discovery that you don't love your s affianced husband ? i- "Oh! mamma, you know perfectly how it s is; I like him and esteem him, and think him i, very good and worthy, and all that; and I i- think he deserves a wife who can give him r her whole heart, which I can't And I don't believe he really cares much for me, either; t in fact I am sure he doesn't" "Well, upon my word!" ejaculated Mrs. e Ransome. "Clare," she continued, after a moment's pause, "there is something in the - background of all this. I insist on Knowing s what it is." Clare turned alternately crimson and pale, ; and remained silent. ,1 "I insist upon knowing," her mother repeat " "TJawfa trnn and "Rrfiokft had a auarrel?" "No?oh! no." e "Has he said or done anything to make r you suppose that he is indifferent to you ?" " "Mamma, his whole conduct shows it He i does not act like a lover. And look how seldom he comes to see me; and last summer a did he not go off traveling by himself, instead of joining us?" I "Well, and what of that? And by the a way, was it not last summer you met this I very Mr. Owen?" "Yes," said Clare, crimsoning again. "And I noticed vou when he came last " night?and?oh ! Clare, I am ashamed of you! I see it all!" said Mrs. Ransome, in an t excited tone. "Is it possible that you can have had the weakness to encourage the attentions of a person you scarcely knew?and " you an engaged woman ? It was improper; 1? it was dishonorable." >, "Mamma, I have done nothing improper i, or dishonorable," said Clare, trying to speak [. calmly. "Mr. Owen did not know that I was engaged, and I did not know at that time p. that he liked me except as a friend ; and we I were a good deal together; and that was all." i- "And he has had the audacity now to ads dress you, I suppose." "Mamma, he had the right to do it," said Clare, firmly. He is a gentleman, as perfect ^ a gentleman as I.have ever met. It was not r audacity in him. How can you speak so ?" r. "Then he has really done it, and you??" "I refused him. Could I do otherwise? 3 A m T not. hound?fettered bv mv promises to t another?" a "You told him you were engaged ?" e "Yes." 8 "And did not tell him, I hope, that?" r) "Mamma," interrupted Clare, iodigpaotly, "I told him nothing that could wrong Brooke; 1 do not be afraid. I did not betray my mist ery and weakness; he thinks I am very hapr py, I have no doubt" [, "Then it is atl right," said Mrs. Ransome in a relieved tone. "I did not mean to speak i- harshly to you, ray dear; of course, you s could not prevent his admiring you; though ? if I had been with you, I would have kept t you out of his way. But it all comes of let>. ting you go with your uncle's family last summer; I wanted your father to go, and he t wouldn't. But it is all over now, that is one ? comfort; and I suppose you won't see him 3 any more." j "Oh, mamma, you talk so cruelly!" said 'x poor Clare. "Is there no hope for me ? Am 5 I really doomed?" 3 ' "Doomed! Really, you do use the most P high-flown expressions! Bemember, Clare, n theatricals are not adapted to every-day life," e said her mother, coldly.* "I do not underr stand this sudden freak of yours; it is most I unaccountable." j "It is no freak; it is a deep-rooted, settled . conviction," said Clare. L "That is all nonsense; there is no possible > cause why you should not love Brooke Everse ham." j "Mamma, can we force our affections," g asked her daughter sadly. e "Daughters now-a-days;" continued her a parent, ignoring the question, "have got into an independent way of thinking, and of asa serting their opinions, which does not tally 3 with my ideas of filial respect and obedlbnce. y Hitherto you have actea in a dntiftil man3 ner, so that I am the more astonished at this [ change.'* 3 "I am not undutiftil; I don't see how my j being unhappy can make me undutiful. And j if I am unhappy, I can't help it; it is no fault of mine." "Yes, it is; you encourage yourself in all > sorts of foolish, romantic ideas, such as I really thought you had too much sense to en[ tertain. ,1 advise you to get them out of your head as quickly as possible; they can ' * t 1TT1 1J [ ao you no gooa. w ny, most girus wuuiu give anything in the world they possess to stand iD your place." . ; "J am sure they would be quite welcome to." j *Quite welcome to! I must say, Clare, , you are the most hard-headed, ungrateful B girl?to speak in that way, after all the aflect tion and kindness that have been lavished on 9 you since you were a baby!" Hera Mrs. j Kanspme applied her handkerchief to her r eyes. "But this is the common lot of parents; I presume mine is not a singular case." r "You are very hard on me, mamma; how . have'I proved myself ungrateful for your kindness and affection ?" "By the way you are acting now; trampt ling upon my tenderest feelings, and disapj pointing my dearest hopes!" ' Her mother delivered this well-rounded j phrase with a tragical air, her warning to ' Clare against private theatricals to the conj trary notwithstanding. "I am sure I don't want to do either, mam3 ma; but it seems to me as if mine were the 3 feelings and hopes to be trampled on and disJ appointed," Clara could not forbear saying. "Of course, I am not to be considered, at . all. My wishes are of no consequence, what. ever." A silence ensued. Clare had dried her tears, and sat gazing out of the window in a [ hopeless sort of way. She knew very well what, the end of the interview would be. "Well," Mrs. Ransome said; rising at length, r "what am I to think, Clare? Are you going . to encourage this lolly, or am I to hope that ; a little reflection will restore your wonted ) good sense, and your consideration for ray r feelings?^ She-put her hand on her daughter's shoul' der as she spoke. f "Mamma," said Clare, slowly, "if you are . really so bent upon this marriage as you say, I and if your feelings are so deeply involved in 3 the matter, I suppose there is nothing for me to da but to go on as I Have been doing hitherto. But if all ends in misery?" j "I knew you would come to that decision, my dear," said Mrs. Ransome, interpreting > her, and lightly kissing her on the brow, i you are nervous and overstrung to-day; you will feel quite well again when the excitement j wears off. Don't think any more on this worp rying subject; remember, you are going to . the Harvey's to-night, and yon must not go . with flushed cheeks and heavy eyes. And [ above all things, don't let Brooke have a sus; picion of what has been talked of between p us; I love hiin as my own son, dear fellow, . and, would not have his feelings hurt for the world !'* . ; . \ >.*: i And with this parting injunction, Mrs. t> i _i.i* c a i nausome swept witn mucu uigmty uu? ui mo ' room. . t; A scornful smile came upon Glare's fece. t "Adieu, sentimeDt and softness, forever P i she exclaimed; Oh! God of Mammon, with what a ruthless hand are thy victims brought > to the sacrifice I'1! [to be continued next week.]