Evening Star Newspaper, February 8, 1890, Page 10

THE EVENING STAR: WASHINGTON. D.C., SATURDAY FEBRUARY 8, 1890-TWELVE PAGES. Written for Tar Evexrxe Stan. WHOSE WAS THE HAND? BY MISS BRADDON. Aathor of “Lady Audley's Secret.” “Like and Unlike,” “Ishmael,” “The Day Will Come,” &c. (ALL RIGHTS RESERVED —— CHAPTER IX. DAISY'S DIARY IN MILAN. UCERNE was very gray and dim when we bade it good-by yesterday morning, the last day of Novem- t; but when we had climbed Rearer the snow peaks the sun shone out over the beautifal white world above us and the | dark lake below, and the rest of the journey to | the month of the great tunnel was like a! Journey in fairyland. What could be more ex- | quisite than to go winding upward and upward iato the great heart of the mountain. and to look down on village roofs and winding stream- Jeteand bridges and rocky gorges and vine- yards and gardens and church towers, ever iron road that was | taking us toward the skies. I feltso sdérry | when that part of our journey was over, and though I longed to find out what Italy was like I felt very sad as I sat at the snug round table in the little station, the last Swiss station. and sipped a farewell cup of coffee with mother and Uncle Ambrose. It was a disappointment after leaving sun- shine and blue skies above the Swiss snow peaks to find Italy gray and rainy, witht just that incessant drizzling rain which one has known from one’s childhood as the mark of a hopeless wet day, and which has been po- litely called a Scotch mist. Of all the things I had thought to meet with in Italy a Scotch mist was the last; but there it was and nothing would have reconciled me to the grayness and the rain except the red cotton umbrelias, which were delightful and which made me feel I was in Its Next to the red umbrella, a3 an Italian insti- tution, came the berceau, the verdant colon- nade made by vines trained over cane or wire, leafy arcades, which I saw in every garden and in front of the humifest houses—sometimes on the tops of houses, sometimes forming a loggia on the first floor. The vine leaves were turn- ing yellow and red with the touch of autumn, but they were still verdant enough for beauty. The bell tower in every village church was another sign that we were in Italy, and then by | ! i i and by we came upon the great dark blue lake | lying in the bosom of gray mist-twreathed hills, and mother and I agreed that but for the bell towers, the berceaux and the red umbrellas of | the peasantry we might have fancied we were in Trossachs, And so, as Mr. Pe says, to Milan, where | we steamed into t metrapolitan-looking | terminus, where Cyril stood waiting for us on the plattorm in the glare of the electric light. He had grown tired of the north and had written to his father to propose joining us on our jonrney to Venice, and with this intention he had made his way down to Milan, amusing himself here and there as he came, exploring odd nooks and out-of-the-way spot». He was looking in high health and very happy, I thought, as he stood smiling at us in the electric hight. “Well. wee modest flower,” he said, address- ing me in his usnal grand manner, after he had aken hands with mother and Uncle Ambrose, Yelcome to the ancient kingdom ot Lom- bardy. I wonder if youare as enraptured with Italy as you were before your foot had ever touched ‘the sol. I'm afraid upon such an evening as tus you'll tind Milan uncommonly like Glasgow.” He took us toa fine roomy landau which he had engaged fer us, and we left the man and the maids to look after the luggage and drove | eff to the Hotel de ia Ville. ina narrowish, busy-looking street that might have been Fleet | Street or the Strand, for anything distinctive | that I could in it under that gi Mosphere. Yes. there was one superiority over | Fleet street in spite of the rain and the mud | and that was the electric light, which filled all the city of Milan with itsclear silvery radiance, 60 that the night wis like unto the day, The head waiter at the hotel told us that there had been three weeks’ rain. and I found fterward that this fertile plain of Lombard which I am told is ver ely in spring, ow. its chief beauty to the damp aud cloudy winter climate. At any rate Tam in Italy, and the very idea is full of delight. I kept telling myself yester- day evening this was Ital: cheat my into brief forgetfulness of the dreadful story on which my mind had been fixed ever since that nigh Lucerne. It was to be only brief forgetfulness, for Thad re- solved to confide all my troubles to Cyril, to whom I couid talk freely. Ob, what a painful effort it had cost me to | keep my feelings hidden from the dear mother | with whom til now I had shared every thought and every fancy. In spite of my endeavor to seem happy and untroubled she diseovercd that there was something wrong. and I had to tend that young ladylike ailment, neuralgia, a which Tam thankful to say I have never suffered. 1 was conscience stricken at the thought of my own falsehood when 1 saw the dear mother’s anxi. She almost insisted | pon calling in a doctor, so I had to reassure © by a prompt recove I told her the pain was quite gone, but th: a depressing effect upon my spirits. ‘This ac- | counted tor my talking very little instead of talking almost incessantly, and this accounted | for my sitting in my corner of the carriage, | thinking. thinking, thinking, all through that Joug railroad journey. I have always liked Cyril, but I never felt so | glad to see him as I felt last night at Milan. I wanted so much to talk to a man who knew the World, and a man to whom I could express my- self freely, without any fear of inilicting an un- premeditated won: s Phad done in the case | ef Uncle Ambrose So after dinner I asked Cyril if he wou’ i take me for a walk and show me the outside of the cathedral, to which re- quest he assented very good naturedly, oniy | bargaining for a cigarette in the hall before we started. We dined i sitting room on t! first floor, and we ail went down into the looking vestibule after dinner and took our | coffee at a little table in a corner where we could look on at the people coming in and going out Was mother happier than 1? Had she for: ttem the dead: “Those were two questions | which I could not refrain from asking mysel as I sat by her side last evening, our first even ing in Italy. She looked so young and so beautiful last night, in her calm, re attitude, as she sat slowiy tanning he: idly watching the shifting groups in the spacious vestibule. Her rich brown brocade own, with its sable collar aud bordering, made er look like un old picture. ‘The aristocratic | looking hea?. with its crown of dark aubnra hair, rose out of the deep soft tur like a lily out of a elnster of leaves. Her hazel eves seemed to have sunlight in their clear dark- ness. She looked utterly calm and nappy; and assurediy if a husbund’s devoticn could make a wife happy her happiness was well founded. | Buch gentle deference, such chivalrous affec- tion, must be very rare in the history of men | aud women, if 1 may judge by the stories of | domestic misery that I have heard, and by the | Manners and customs of the couples I have known, | ‘There is the dear old Vicar, for instance, a | delightful being for ali the world outside his Vicarage, but a pestilence to his wife. There is Dr. ‘Tysoe, always grumbling about his dinner and wanting to have the cook discharged in- stantly if a joint is not correctly cooked. Then there is Dr. ‘Talbot. a man in whom society delights, but who is always irritable or out Of spirits at home; whose entrance into the drawing room casts 'a clond over his family and seems palpably to chill the atmosphere. No, in my brief experience I never saw the perfect and ideal hushand whom we occasion ally meet in a novel till I saw my mother's husband, Unele Ambrose. He is not a bit like ochester, though he has Rochester's comman intellect. He ia more like a spiritualized John Halifax, and I who have known him al! my life know that his sweet snd placid temper is no honeymoon garb to be put of by and by. J who have known him all | i, few mafried j | archangels, pi | likely to sueceed hereafter. | sharpest brains in London were engaged in | he climate had rather | & | ground. like a r: ‘ feelings. | | harrow streets of tall stone houses, | sculptured doorway | of Milan as long as [I live wi | books about the City of the Doges to read at liking him. He is always gay and bright, al- thongh he affects to have ment every pleasure. He is the most inquisitive person I — met hipaa oe wanting to know every- ing about ever: iy Hie ie generaily considered good looking. Indeed some a insist upon calling him handsome. He has gray eyes in which the light sparkles and dances when he is amused at anything. He has curly brown hair, hair which curls obstinately however closely it is cropped, Very pretty bair, hair that offers a suggestion of the poetical temperament which Cyril certainly does not realize. He has a sharp, inquisitive nose. He calis mine “‘tip- tilted.” and I am sure his has the same upward inclination, but itis avery nice nose all the same and it bas no affinity to the snub or the ug. He is tall and slim with moderately Presa shoulders ana quick, active movements, d he always dresses well. I believe he con- ers himeelf an authority upon dress and he is certainly very severe upon other peoplp. I took his arm and we went out into the driz- zling rain. There were a great many shops open, late as it was, and they looked lovely, but my mind was too full of serious things for me to be easily distracted. “Take me first to look at the cathedral,” I said, ‘and then take me into some solitary place where we can talk quietly.” “Gracious, madam, what an alarming re- quest,” he cried. “I think we had better get the sacristan and his keys, and go down into the erypt where Sir Charles Borromeo lies in his silver shrine. I cannot conceive any other place solemn enough to match the solemnity of our tone.”” “Don't laugh at me, Cyril, I am very, very serious.” He looked down at me with a startle inquisitive air. “What is it, Daisy,” he said very sharply, almost angrily, “a love-affair?” “No, no, no, There is nothing further from my thoughts tonight than love.” “Tam giad to hear it. When a young lady is an heiress, and something of a fenther head into the bargain. one is easily alarmed.” “You have noright to call me a feather head, when your father, one of the cleverest men in Europe, bas educated me,” I said indignantly. “My dearest child, book learning is not wis- dom,” he answered, ‘anda grain of worldly kuowledge is sometimes more useful than a pound ot book knowledge. I know that you are far in advance of the average girl im your ac- quaintance with European literature. I know that you have read more than some college dons and that you are an excellent linqnist. and altogether deepiy, darkly, beautifully blue. But all the same you have not learned the al- habet of the world in which you live. All that ind of knowledge has yet to come.” “It isa hateful kind of knowledge,” I said ly child, you can’t get on without it.” he answered, with his superior air, We were in the great open place in front of the cathedral by this time and I stood breath- less with wonder looking up at that mntchless building. Ihave been told since that the ex- terior, which looked so lovely in the bright white hght, against a back ground of dull gray, is overrich in decoration, that those innumer- able statavs of saints and martyrs, angels and jests and prophets are a waste of power, but to my uneducated eye there was nota touch of the chisel that seemed super- fluows; notanicheor pinnacle that did not seem a necessary part of the vast scheme of splendor. I told Cyril what I thought, as we walked slowly up and down surveying the mighty basilica from diiferent points of view; and then we crossed the square, and he took me through the loity bright-looking arcade. and then into a quieter part of the city, beyond the reat opera house and Leonardo’s statue. | dere the houses were large and palatial, and there were no more shops and very few people walking about. confidence of yours, .” he said kindly, “I want you to tell me alltyou know and all you think about my father’s murder,” I said. “What, they have told you, then?” “Nobody hus told me. “I overheard two men pay about my mother and her first hus- band.” “And their talk revealed the secret that ha been kept from you so carefully. Hard line: “Tam glad know. It was’ hateful to be kept in the dark—loving my father as I did.” “Degr child, what good can it do you to know? “Only this good—that I can look forward to the day when his murderer will be discovered and punished.” ‘I'm afraid that day will never come, Daisy, A pursuit that failed seven years ago is not Your mother of- fered a thousand pounds reward for the con- viction of the murderer and some of the the attempt to find him. They failed’ igno- miniously: and I take it there is only one chance of his being brought to book.” “And that is——" His being arrested for some new crime. The coo: deliberation with which the deed was done—the quiet way in which the man got off and disposed of his plunder—argues the professional murderer. Me may commit more | murders in the course of his professional areer and sooner or later his work may be | clumsily done, or his Iuck may change—and | P then, perhaps, when the rope is round his neek, he may countess himself the murderer of your father.” was a more agreeable person than her father. Iwonder, by the way, what kind of father 8I had. Judging byold Capulet. Bra- bantio, and one or two other jens, I should conclude that the wool stapler, glover or butcher of Stratford-on-Avon was not the most induigent or amiable of nts. The Shake- a= ean idea of pate government is not juring. . We have been nearly two months in Venice, and have seen the city under many and widely different aspects. We have had days and weeks of almost summer brightness, we have had intervals of wind and rain and wintry gloom. We have visited every nook and cor- nerof the < have seen every picture and every shrine, have read and re-read, and in some instances understood. our Ruskin. We have explored the neighboring islands, we have dawdied away sunny days on the Lido; we know the Armenian convent by heart, and Cyril has reproached me with having estab- lished what my calls a system of flirtage with the dearest old monk in the world. How full this region is of the memories of Byron, and how prodigious an influence a poet can exercise over the minds of men when he has been lying half s centary in his grave. We think and talk of Byron at every turn. In the Doge's palace, on the Bridge of Sighs, on the Lido, where he used to take his morning ride; on the staircase where Marino Fatiero’s noble head rolled down the blood-stained marble to testify for all time to the ingratitude of nation: in the convent where he spent such happy, in- nocent hours learning pes ane ny Cm e—everywhere one finds the es of his Laem po the shadows which his genius clothed with beanty Mother is growing tired of Venice—no, that is impossible. Nobody could ever weary of a place go full of loveliness—a place whose every phase is poetry incarnate in marble, She is not tired, but she begins to weary for home—the | familiar house and garden she loves so weil, where every room and every pathway and flower bed are interwoven with the history of her happy married life—the days before calam- ity came upon us, 1 think I can understand her feelings almost as well as if we were in- deed what we have sometimes been taken to be —I think I can read my mother’s heart as well as if she were my sister. I believe she is happy with Uncle Ambrose; I belic\e that his society is as delightful to her asitistome; that his chivalrous devotion gratifies her. as it would any woman upon earth; I believe that she is grateful to him and fond of him. and thatshe has never repented and is never likely to repent her second mar- riage. But, all the same, dol know that her heart goes back to the old love. i found her a few days ago sitting with my father’s photo- graph on the table before her. She was sitting looking at it with clasped hands and tears streaming down her cheeks, She was so ab- sorbed in sad thoughts that she did not hear me enter the room or leave it. She was talking of River Lawn in the even- ing. and I fancied that her mind had been dwelling on the old happy days, and that even in the midst of this beautiful city she felt sad and lonely. She has seemed all at once to grow languid and hstless, and to feel no more inter- est in scenes and buildings whose interest seems inexhaustible tome. I only hope she is not jll. I have questioned her, but she assures me there is nothing tho matter. She never was in better heaith, but she is haunted by visions of the old home where so much of her life has been spent, “I dreamt of your father's grave last night. Daisy.” she said; “I dream of it so often, so often! I could not tell her that I too had had my dreams, not of the grave, but of my father himeelf—horrible dreams sometimes, filled with vague shapes and unknown faces, { had seen my father struggling with his murderer. I had seen the cruel blow struck, but I had never been able to remember the murderer's face when I awoke, though it seemed sometimes in my dream to be a face well known to me. * Ican see that Uncle Ambrose is perplexed and uneasy about my mother, and he too seems to have become indifferent to Titian and Paul Veronese. This being s0,I am thrown upon Cyril for society in my rambles and explorations, and he and I go roaming about these delicious waters in our gondola—our own gondola, built on par- pose for us, and to be sent to England after our return, How surprised Beatrice Reardon and all the rest of them will be to see us in this mysterious-looking boat with its swan-like | prow and black curtains—a boat which seems to have been designed only for mystery and romance. My good old Berkshire nurse and maid, Martha Broomfield, goes everywhere with me. asa kind of duenna, and exists in a perpetual state of wonder. I doubt if she is altogether awakened to the loveliness of Ver :and in- deed she told me the other day that she could not think much of a city which bad not one ood street in it, Malan, she admitted. was a ine town, bu® Verona she considered ‘a hole,” and she considers Venice decidedly in- ferior to Henley. “I like the Kialto bridge, Miss Daisy,” she said, “because there's a bit of life there, with the shops and the people, aud I like the shops | in St. Mark's square, though I should like them better if the shop keepers didn’t stand at their doors and tout for customers, which is an annoyance when one wants to look at thirgs in eace and hasn't no thought of buying any- thing. But even that isn’t up to the Paller- royal in Paris,” «Tell me ali you know abi the crinfe,” iy dearest child, I know very little,” he | ago I was at Winchester. a | careless young scoundrel, thinking more of | cricket and foot bali, and of my chances of a | scholarship. than of my friends; although § | think you must know that I loved your mother | and your father next in this world to my own father, and the dear old grandad in Radnor- shire. Seven veers ago my father was a poor aan, and Iwas ever so much more ambitious, and ever £0 much more willing to work, than I | ve ever been since he came into his fortune, i'm afraid I was a selfish young beggur in those | days, but I felt the shock ot your father’s death very deeply. in spite of my’ egotism. I was mentally stunned by the biow when I took up a London paper and sawgghat my father’s friend ad been murdered. aff thought of the desola- tion in that happy home, the misery of that once happy wile. River Lawn was my ideal | home, Duisy. I had never been able to pic- | ture to myself a fairer domestic life than that of your father and other, with my sweet brown-eyed Daisy flitting about in the fore- of sunshine incarnate. If vou lad changed into anything it would have been inte a sun Fr 1 felt the full force of the catastrophe, Daisy, and I devoured the accoant | of the inquest, but the details have grown dim in my memory. I only know that your father was lured into a shabby lodging, upon some shal- low pretence, and there murdered and robbed | of neuriy four thousand pounds.” | And then he argued with me as my step- father had argued. He tried to make me think that the history of my father's death was a his- tory which I ought to forget. He used almost the same word# that Uncle Ambrose had used that night at Lucerne when my heart was burst- ng with grief and indignation. Nothing that ner could say had any power to alter my out the man—and | Cyril and I walked for along time in those with great , and here and there the ‘den seen dimiy through a hall never think of the city ithout thinking of | or without recalling | glimpse of a Fauled arch. Ta my father’s ghastly death, the dreary sense of helpiewsness that came upon me last night as I walked by Cyril's side and — his sophistical arguments in favor of ob- ivion, ‘Tomorrow we go to Verona—city of many memories—and after a day or two devoted to medieval architecture we go on to Venice, the dream city. Unele Ambrose has géven me half a dozen my leisure. and he is always ready with his own storehouse of information, which seems to me to hold more than all the books that were ever Written, He hasa memory equal to Lord Ma- caulay’s, I verily believe. CHAPTER X. DAISY'S DIARY IN VENICE. Charles Dickens’ unfailing artistic instinct was never truer thau whenhe described this city asa dream, It is « dream—a dream in mar- ble and precious stones and gold—a dream lying on the bosom of the blue, bright sea—a dream | of shadowy streets, where every glimpse of | garden seen above a decaying wall which once my life know that he is the most delightful companion, the most unselfish and sympathetic friend—a man always abreast with every intei- Jectual movement of the age, @ man rich in re. sources, well as in dry ‘There never was ason less like his father He is as much unlike him in tem- is in person. Uncle Ambrose is all action. He is like my F q yi : : 5 E nEtt in HE | thoug! it wiil be seen, therefore, that, Broomfield’s | tastes are entirely modern,’ Poor soul, she is so patient and xo good tempered in going about with me to churches and odd out-of-the-way corners that havn't the faintest interest for her. books or our Ruskin, peering into every detail, Cyril is capital, He bas au ardent love of art, | and, indeed, he scems to like everything that 1 like. We have long confidential talks about our- selves and other people, about the past and the future—how strange that one so rarely the present—as we sit in our gondola, iazily gliding over the sunlit water, scarcely cou- scious of the movement of the boat. Some- times we talk French, sometimes Italian, in which I am anxious to attain facility. It is on thing to be able to read Dante, I fiad, and a other thing to express one’s own thoughts easi The language we talk makes very httle ¢ to Broomfield. who sits poring over her Tviegraph, or knitting one of those ever- lasting woolen comforters* which she provides for her numerous nephews and nieces. Cyril and { are 18 much by ourselves as if Broomfield Were one of those sculptured seraphim which the Israelites used to represent the deity they worehiped. Cyril's Oxford days are over. He has taken his degree, and has I believe done very well- he has not swept the board, he tells me, like Mr. Gladstone or Mr, Goldwin Smith, us he intended to do when he was at Winchester, And now he has to think of what he shall do with hus life, “I think I shall go to the Bar,” he said, “‘be- cause rman ought to have a_ profession of some kind, and I rather like the idea of the Bar—followed in due course by the Bench. ‘And the Bar has advantages for a man who does not want to be a slave in the golden years of youth. The Bar 1s a profession in which a man can take it easy.” Lam afraid Cyril" has a slight inchnation to idleness—or ruther, perhaps. that he has a dis- taste for any systematic and monotonous work. He is far too active and energetic to waste his days in laziness, but he likes to occupy himseif according to the caprice of the hour; and then no doubt he is influenced by the knowledgs that his father is a rich man and he an oniy child. We were talking the other day about Uncle difference to wealth, which would have been such a delightful surprise to most men in his position. “found out a most extraordinary fact con- nected with my fether’s inheritance,” said Cyril, “a that is really abnormal, An American 1 met at Oxford got into conversation with me about my connection with America, through my father's kinsman. He told me that old Mat- thew Arden of Chieago died early in April, ‘72, simple and obvious character my father must have pxssed into possession of it within a month or twoafter his death. Now, I dis- tinctly remember that the first I heard of tne change in our circumstances was on All Saints’ day, when I went home from Winchester for twenty-four hours’ holiday. My father told me then that a great uncle, with whom he had kept up an occasional cor- re: dence, had lataly died in America, an old lor and aman of considerable wealth, accumulated in trade, and that he had ap- pointed my father residuary legatee, I was a great deal more excited by the change from poverty to wealth than he was. I never saw a man so unmoved by the idea of large means or 80 indifferent to the things that mouey can buy, and that indifference has never beew I We stayed for a week at Damieli’s ail now we are in an apartment of our own, on the first floor of a palace Desde: ¥ which is next door but one to mona’s house—the house i Has of his wealth and his money fo hear of a honse in enor #q' er it other day, and which is be- ‘ing renovated in the ae style we are all tk noase ato 1d_be rathér nice,” I bs \ouse ral pepcitiae dan Tele Ai brose does not mean take us mucel from “Yes. Idon’t want to forget my » I think to try and forget the loss of one we is only a selfish at he stands smiling blandiy at the pietares and | statues while Cyril and I are deep in our gnid: | y talks of | ave in their houses to | Ambrose’s fortune and his almost eccentric in- | act which reveals an indifference | and that as his property was all of a most | occasional departures from the Adamesque character, notabty in the hall and staircase and the room on the if flight. These were to be Moorish, with a good deal of lattice work screen and Oriental drapery. I heard my mother dis- | cussing the coloring and arrangement with Uncle Ambrose, and I was often called into coun- cil; but I was just now too compietely ateeped in the loveliness of Venice to take a a7, warm in- terest in any Londoa house. What I sighed for was one of those fifteenth century palaces which I saw given over to business purposes, manufactories for carved furniture or Venetian glass, store houses, show rooms, workshops— palaces in which painters like Titian had lived and worked, palaces where the walls still showed the armorial bearings of historic fam- ilies, Oh, to think that the roof which had ee a Doge should ever be vulgarized by trade. Oyril laughs at my horror of trade and re- minds meé that Venice, in the days of her great- est splendor, was a city of traders and that now she is dependent on reviving commerce for her resurrection from poverty and decay. Yesterday Cyril and Ihad a grand excursion all to ourselves, or with only my duenna Broomfield to make a third; good old Broom- field, who always looks the other way when wo are talking confidentially. I dare say she won- ders what we can find to talk about—first in one language and then in another. Cyril's Italian is of the poorest quality, by the way, and very limited in quantity, but he preten that he likes to hear me talk and he pretends to understand me. Our chief confidences, how- ever, are in French, a language in which he is quite at home. Indeed, here it is I who am at tault, for to tease me he often persists in talk- ing Parisian, which is quite a different tongne tothe French in which Racine and Boileau wrote, We started early, ona morning that was more like June than February. We had our own gondola, and our two men. looking deliciously picturesque in their black livery and yellow silk scarfs. They are both dear creatures and have become a part of our family. Paolo is a bachelor, and he is to accompany the gon- dola to Lamford, and live and die in our ser- vice; but Giovanni has a wife and two babies, s0 we do not import him. It will be an ago- nizing moment when I have to bid him good- by. lsave my dessert every night after dinner and give it to him next morning for his bam- bini, and his face becomes one broad grin of | delight when I hand him my little offering. One could not venture upon euch childishness with a Thames waterman, whose only idea of kindness from his superiors begins and ends with beer, We had a most delightful picnic basket, enough for the whole party, and we were to go to Torcello, and to be free till sunset. Oh, how like a fairy tale it was to go gliding over that biue lagoon, passiag Murano and its chim- | neys, aud Burano and its lace factory, and gliding on and on by willow-shaded banks till we came to all that is left of the mother city of Venice. We landed in a narrow creek; among sedges | and alders, and long rank grass, andi could have almost thonght I was in a backwater at home; but within a few paces of our landing pee etood the octagonal church of Santa | ‘osea and the museum which calls itself a Municipal Palace, and just behind them the Cathedral, very plain of aspect outside, but grand and beautiful within, After very conscientious visitation of the two churches and a rather superficial exami- nation of the marble relies in the museum, we went in quest of a pictureaque spot for our pic- | nic; and having found a bower of alders on the | edge of the meadows, where the cattle were | feeding quietly in the sweet flowery grass, on | ground that was once the city of Torcello, we | launched, as it were, tete-a-tete with the Adriatic, for in front of us we could see nothing but the bright blue waters and the painted sails of some fishing boats all aglow with crimson, and | purple, and orange in the noonday hight.’ We | lingered long over the delicious meal, in sir that was far more exhilarating than the cham- | pagne which Cyril persuaded me to taste, and which he himself drank with much gusto, I told him that I thought it a horrid thing to see a young man drinking champagne and pre- tending to be asevere judge of the particular vintage, I considered such a taste odiously suggestive of some over-fed alderman feasting in the city. “You will be taking turtle next.” I said. “Why, you silly puss, we often have turtle at our lunches in Tom Quod,” said he. ‘Do you Suppose we wait for gray hairs and red noses before we learn to appreciate the good things of this life? An undergrad is as good a judge of turtle and champagno as any alderman who ever passed threngh a long apprenticeship of | bowled beef and beer to the luxuries of Mansion We sent Broomfield off to find our gondoliers, while we two wandered along the edge of that verdant island, with our feet almost in the sea, Now we have lost sight of the charches we might almost fancy ourselves on a desert island,” said I. “Lonly wish the fancy were true,” said he. “I should revel in a spell of summer idleness on a desert island, it we ouly had enough to eat.” “That last condition takes the poetry out of the whole thing,” answered I. “Oh, but you would not have us starving, until we began to look at each other aud won- der which bit was the nicest.” r the least nasty. No, that idea is too aw- it is one of the dreadful mysteries of hu- man baseness that we can never understand till we are brought face to face with death, Oh, it is 80 dreadful to think that the m blind clinging to life can change men into wild beasts And yet the thing happens. You have tied me with horror by the imere sug- gestion.” “Daisy, you have too vivid an imagination. You look ut me as if you saw the potentiality of cannibalism depicted in my countenance. You and I wiil visit no island more savage than Prospero’s, and there it seems there was ways enough to eat.” “Prospero was an enchante! “And Miranda was an enchantress—for Ferd- inand, at®exst. Over him she flung earth's most potent spell, Will you Le my Miranda, y?” aisy? We were standing on that quiet shore, the waves coming curling. azure aud emerald and} silvery bright, up to our very fect. We were | as much alone as Ferdinand and Miranda ean | ever. have been on their enchanted isie, and— | he had the supreme impertinence to put his arm around my waist, I believe that kind of thing has happened to | Beatrice Reardon almost as often as the tooth- ; ache; and my cousin Vlora has told me that it | is sometimes doue at dances, in a conservatory | where there are pals and tree fepns, aft supper; but sucha thing had never’ occurred | to me, and it took reath away, “Be my Miran. sy." he went on in such ‘a charming voice that I forgot to be anzry with him, or at any rate forgot to express my indignation. ‘Let me be your Ferdinand, and | all the world will be my enchanted island. It is the fairy who makes the spell.” “i don't quite follow your meaning,” 1 said, stupefied at his audacity, “Oh, Daisy, what a horrid thing to say,” he exclaimed, evidently hurt, ‘1 thought you were romantic and full of poetry. 2nd you answer me as if you were made of woo: He took aw: is arm irom my waist. I believe if he lind left it there any longer he would have pinched me savagely. His whole countenance changed, “Lcan’t quite understand you, Cyril,” I said very meckty, “I thought you and i were to be brother and sister,” “You know you thought nothing of the kind, | Miss; you refused to accept my father as a father, or to call him by that name. Yon told me very distinctly on his wedding day that I was not to have the privileges of a brother, and I replied that I faa no desire to stand upon that footing. And now that the happicst months of my lite have been spent with you, now that Lam over head and ears in love, you retend not to understand. you make believe to | stupid and apathetic. It is very crnel—more ernel than words can say—if you have been fooling me all this time.” I don’t know exac:ly what I said after this, I think I must have apologized for my stupidity, for he certainly forgave me, and put his arm round my waist again and kissed me. not in the Loisterous sort of way that he kissed me in the carriage after mother's wedding, but gently, and eved timidly, so that I could not find it in my heart to be angry. “Are these my Miranda's lips?” he asked, and I think I said that it might be so if he pleased; and then we went slowly, slowly, slowly back to the creek wiiere wo had left the gondola; and I betieve we were engaged, Broomfield looked bed usin a most extraordi- nary way When we took our seats o; ite her, as if she Ly and guessed what had. "happened, which was hardly possible. Our dear good men eaten an enormous luncheon, and they sang their delightful songs all the way buck to Venice. ‘The sun soon began to steep everything in gold—islands, water. distant mountains and the wonderful city teward which we were going, and the painted sails of the fishing boats, ai clouds floating in the azuresky—nzure that into \—gold that changed to crimson, #8 the bell tower of Bt. George the Fose out of the level tide, and the gleam like a | E lam thi wits oft So we sat isa | ple. | isnot enough, not nearly enough; nothing 1s | the Queen” from “Robin Adair.” | quate," end , down the canal, the most solemn tie this earth knows, Her seriousness made me very serious and almost —— me. “Tam pleased that should be engaged even ear! than I was, Daisy, ," she said, ‘and that you shouldnot be hardened and by the experience of the world, where girls learn to be selfish and vain and self-secking. I am | rsonat that you should be engaged to your lover, in the very freshness and dawn of our life. It is too early to think about marry- ine just yet awhile; but a vear or two hence—' , not for ever so many ."" I cried, in mpting her. “Pray don't talk about got- ting rid of me. I want to stay with you, mot ‘. You are all in alltome, You are not tired of me, ad Aa = ! No, my darling. It will be a sad day for me when my bright bird leaves the home nest; but I married very young. Daisy, and my wedded life was all gladness, An en- gagement should not iast too long, even when the lovers are as young as you and Cyril. Two years will be quite long enough. In two years you will be nearly twenty.” “That sounds dreadfully ancient,” said I; for indeed it seems that one has done with youth when one is out of one’s teens. Mother gave me her small pearl necklace on my thir- teenth birthday, and I was so prond of myseif, and thought myself quite a personage becanse I was in my teens; and now here she was talk- ing cooly about my soon being twenty and old enough to be turned out of doors, “Two years will be no time,” I told her. “I would rather be engaged for ten, so that I may stay at River Lawn with you.” “Who know,” dearest, if you need ever leave River Lawn,” she answered sweetly. “I have always thought the French much wiser than us in their domestic arrangements, because they are not afraid to kcep their children under the family roof when tiey are married, and thus the bond of parentage grows stronger instead of weaker, and the little children ot the third generation grow up at the feet of the old peo- I have heard Englishmen say that this plan can never succeed with us, and if so, one cannot help thinking there must be some want of affection in the English heart. Now, in your case, Daisy, there 1s every reason that your married life should be spent in your mother’s home since youare to marry my step- on.” ‘Dear, dearest mother,” I exclaimed, giving her a hug which would have done credit to # young she bear, “how sweet and how wise you are. I am very gladI accepted Cyril, [see now that he is just the very best husband I could have chosen.” “My darling, how lightly you mother, almost reproachfully. “Your step- father and I are naturally pleased that you and Cyril should have chosen each other, but that talk,” said enough unless you love him truly and devotedly, with your whole heart and mind, as I loved your father.” “I suppose I like him as well asI could like anybody,” I answered, rather frightened at her grave looks and earnest words, “Liking is not enough.” “Well. perhaps [love him, I know I have been very happy with him ever since we came here—so happy as to forget every idea of sor- row or trouble in the world,” I said, checking : Tum myself confusedly; for the thing that I had | ate forgotten more than I ever thought I could for- front ot the Tres get was the dark gtory of my father's death. | DAY UF Ir tol “I have been quite abandoned to happiness, but I don't know how much Venice may have | had to do with that, and whether I shall care j quite as much for Cyril when we get back to | Lamtord.” “My love, be serious,” urged mother, looking | dreadtuily grave. “Seriously, then, I believe I love him as weil as I shall ever love anybody.” “Daisy, you talk like a coquette and not like | an earnest woman,” ‘Dearest, don’t be shocked with me. It all seemed like a dream or a fairy tale today when Cyril and I stood on the beach in the sunshine, with the waves making music at our feet. If you had heard how lightly he asked me to be his wife—indeed, he never once mentioned the beltset would not wonder that Lam inclined to speak halt in jest about this solemn business, Let us take the situation lightly, mother, and / if after.a year or two we should happen to grow tired of each other why we can apologize and drop back into the position of brother and sister.” “No, Daisy, that will not do. There must be no engagement, there must be no semblance of | > a bond between yon uniess you and he are both | [) AKUSLEE'S SALE OF VAi UABL etl AT THE CORNER PROF sure of your hearts. No hay burlas con el amor. Good night, dear, Pray to God for guidance, Remember marriage means for- ever, As a bond oras a stigma it marks a woman's life to the end.” <| felt miserable after she had left me, but I did what she told me to do. I knelt down and prayed to be guided and led in the right way— jed to choose the fate that should be best for my own happiness and for my mother's, The thought that I need never leave home if Cyril | were my husband made him seem to me quite the most perfect husband that I could have. z the same Tee bok “ounty No, G7 tobe 75, Searcely had I risen from my knees than I | “fists geaier Onestiind cash, teltace ma one cand heard the distant dip of oars and the music of | two seats fer whicn the notes of the purchases mie a guitar anda couple of mandolins accompa- nying the song Cyril and L are so fond of. ‘The ete ty came nearer, slowly and softly growing out of the still night; the melodious plish-plash of the oars, the silvery tinkling of the mando- lins, the deeper tones of the guitar anda fine baritone voice which { fancied I knew. “Will they pass; will they stay?” I asked my- self, throwing open my window and hiding my- self behind the heavy velvet curtain, where 1 could see withont fear of being seen. The moon was near the full, and all the palaces upon the opposite bank were bathed in silvery light, and along the broad open canal a gondola came gliding onward, lit with colored janterns, like fireflies, which danced and trem- bled in the soft breeze. It came nearer and | nearer, till it stopped under my window, and | then the mandolins and guitar played a? | familiar , and the voice I knew very | well began Schubert's “Gute Nacht.” He—it was uurse—sang the serenade | beautifully. Music is one of H | talents, inherited from his mother; for 1 doubt | if Uncle Ambrose could distinguish “God Save ser, Adeposit of Go00 required at time of sale. He sang that lovely melody to perfection, or —_ epone. - A ee led rkerns w be | itseemed perfection, on the moonlit canal, | {o)xveil tue property at te tisk ond eer nen ener ee | with those fantastic Chinese lanterns trembling | suiting purchaser ‘altec ve dass" pubic m in the soft sweet wind. I feel assured that it uch resai¢, a sole newspaper published in Washiug- Was on just such a nightas this that Desde- | {0h DC ¥ BROS. Auctioneers, | moua eloped with her Moor. When he had sung the last notes and the | WWAL1!88. mandolins had tinkled into silence, he stood | POSITY LDING. looking up at my window us if he were waiting | 2S, Betws, for some token of approval. ! What Desdemona would have done under the same circumstances floated upon me in an in- | AUCTION SALES. UTURE DAYS. Fi W227 B. WILLIAMS & CO,, Auctioneers JAPANESE SCREENS, PORTIERES, EMBROIDER- | “i9sks Ciehans. Go Sale to take place at our sales room, corner 10th and Pennsylvania avenue northwest, on THUKSDAY, O'CLOCK AM. resuming at THREE O'CLOCK P.M, apd continuing daily at same hours until entire stock is Ladies are respectfully and especially Chairs provided for their comfort and the sales room FE well heated. Terms Cash. WALTER B, WILLIAMS & CO., _f4-5t Auctioneers, WEEKS & CO., Auctioncers, UISIRES OVE, ‘Opposite City Post Office, MEN’S' AND BOYS’ NEW AND SFECOND-HAND CLOTHING OF ALL k DRAWERS, OVERCOATS, COLLARS AND CUFFS, BOOTS AND SHOES, WOMEN’S AND LONG AND SHURT COATS AND OTHER WRAPS, | LARGE QUANTITY OF BLANKETS, SPREADS | #8 AND OTHER GOODS. SALE POSITIVE. IMPORTANT ATTRACTIVE SALE OF ORIENTAL ART, Consisting of IES, JAPANESE RUGS, UMBRELLA STANDS, LANTERNS, JAPANESE PORCELAINS, IN- pen CLUDING SATSUMA, KAGA, TOKIO, IMAN: D AN ENDLESS VARIETY OF JAPANESE ART OBJECTS, BRONZES, SILK PANELS, BAMBOO WINDOW CURTAINS, BRACKETS, CABINETS, CLOISONNE PLACQUES, CURIOS, &. THE COLLECTION 18 LARGE AND SELECTED WITH MUCH CARE AND SHOULD COMMAND THE ATTENTION OF BUYERS. NOW ON EXHIB BRUARY SIXTH, at ELE TION. 1 sposed of. invited. CLOTHING, &o. AT AUCTION. BALANCE OF STOCK OF A DEALER AT AUCTION, WITHIN OUR SALES ROOMS, MONDAY, FEBRUARY TENTH, AT TEN O'CLOCK. D! S, SHIRTS AND MISSES' | Watten ‘SB. WILLIAMS & OO, Auctioneers. TWO-STORY TRI v At t rict of Commubia,to wit Dered tw saidsquare; the: USTEES' SALE OF A DWELLING HOUSE, BEI STREET SOUTHWr w nder and by virtue 0: Ss July recorded 1: te < A Part im Square numbered with suid 418) feet, theace due east ninety sun fad aquare ink per (13) and show Ei yen wave rate of 81x 6) per cent per au on tion, r 5 sell at cost and fron TON, Under aud by virtue of a deed of trust dated Dece ber of the laud records of the Listrict of be given, With interest payable semi-annually, at the Re HOLTZMAN, Keal Estate . ° 1 0: at HALP-PAs f FOUL 0 of the premises, part of dle cn the premise: On MONDA’ PAST £0UR the un a nd forty-one (41) of ‘Burleiih,” formerly called th eighteen (1s) feet; thee xe Liber No. 1135, ‘ual use of t ‘erms: One. 8, 10F whik en with i ‘crest payable we risk of detuuitar m day of xule, aiter 8" D.C CH XTH AND V Situ BURLEITH, ADDILION TO UN, DC 1888, diy recorded in liber rate of six percent per auuum un he property, sold or all casii, at pu $50 will be required on ucee nveyancing and wording x ‘Tne Trustee reserves the ricut to re risk of defaulting pure complied with in ten days from day serif the 410 AN ALL » AND & ut MONDAY AF Pa hotes ty Hear x! semi-annually, an ‘sold, JOCK PM. remises lot marked 1 Ww 10, deed 1000 et, land records of said District, tozeth iN SH weed of trust Liber I the Distrct of Co- hel ‘oraciual u hi mu 00) fe est iy on bird (45) cash: balance in one and two the notes of the purchaser m1 um the property sold, or all cas! A deposit ot $100 sate un be required om accept- ance of bid. Al} conveyancing amt recordituye at pur e ‘The trustees reserve the right to re- « pa UN NORTH WEST rl i pad, t t Broker, Oth and FINEST BUILDING LOT ON CONNECTICUT AVF: NUE BELWELN ON STREET AND AHODE ND AVENUE, FRONTIN : OU. Auctioneers Meteai; i, ‘ing 15 fect iront by ¥1 feet “350 down when pr from 4: stant, Ierept to the mantelpiece and chose a | 30am pare ‘ lily from the vase of flowers, and, stil hidden | dvep, Wt a by the curtain, flung it out of the window. iu “aah 850 He caught the lower cleverly, and then, after | Sink 2 Ay getter pod a pause, the oars dipped and the mandolins began to play the serenade from “Don Pas- the gondola moved slowly, slowly e singing as it went. I wonder if the other inhabitants of Venico considered him a nuisance. There wasa man atthe table @hote at Danieli’s who called Venice ‘‘a smelly place”—that was ail he had to say about the most enchanting city in the world, Such aman as that would be sure to object to a serenade, Cyril and I were solemly engaged this morn- ing. We were plighted and pledged to each other for life, and when we marry we are to have our own suite of rooms in’ Grosvenor square, the whole of the third floor, which is to be decorated and furnished according to my taste. This means that Cyril and I are to choose everything; for. of course, I should not be such a selfish wretch as to choose without deferring to him, At River Lawn we are to have the east wing, and mother will build more rooms if ever we fancy we waut them. And the gondola is to be ours, the gondola in which Cyril sang last eteel as if th dola personal eel as 1e jondol were & Det friend. . (To be continue.) purchaser, G2) feet two and one-bal east one hnudred and five (04s) inches Two-story per toa the trwt rd the trustees reserve aud cost of the defaulting varchae CAMPBI THOMAS DOWLING, Conveyancing, ae. WALTEK B. Hi. passed “iy eN. Ferry of the yn HH, 1st describe wit se counting ing for t ‘of Diurtecu-a: tes ms nit b) fe be requ ha . Tat ne (168 t ‘ut purchase! JeraMs & the Supreme Court of is ce UG-a-halt street west 50) feet and five orth.and running eet tea # to the piace of bewinning, improved by & Frame Store and Dwelling. staliments iu Six months, with interest at six (8) h, at the option of the purchaser. ured at time cr sule, it to resell at th or. ata pont nine- Linser if the ferns of sule are not complied with m ten days previous advertise- Incnt of such resale iu some Rewspaper published Washington City, Ser BUpLON. "ARY TENTH, ili sell, im front urch of the Cove F deed Of trast all cash, at option of pur- Lor Fr aplainaut 9 deferidants, we Will sell at weiuises, on FRIDAY, 0, AT THI & OCLOCE estate, being part of AiG) In square two hundred. aud the plan of the city of said part of sa: north thirteen Ag) inches, and tence BRICK 20 NINTH duied’ at an- folio tot mum undred end hundredths ninety G0) port of said prditig’ to a others. in IMPROVED 1K AWest, IN WASHING- | | secu on Psts.n.w. but upon, FRONTING M AND N at HALF- in frout of 2's Tecorded, 3 14 und the use No. lot at uid one-buif ve isk AMT, i = ELL CARKINGTON,) T¥ustecs. Auctioneer, jalt-dte VE SALE 18 POSTPONED UNTIL TUESDAY, FEBKUAKY ELEVENTH. 1590, sune ae By order of the Trustees. f7-ite The Difference. one arenes - A woman's bureau drawer will hold half a ton of | ‘J'#0MA® DOWLING, auctioneer. cloth: ASSIGNEDS A parasol, some bandboxes and goodness only oF = ea eros a knows MiLLIN| How many scores of othor things within it shemay | NO. 1400 Tatts i store, . as TRIM! UNTREI And yet there's always lots of room for iwice as 7 But give a man that self-same drawer and justone FANCY APHONS. BU r An undershirt, some dirty cuffs, an empty collar OTHER AMTICLES 1 And when he’s put them in {t its capacity he'll THREE NDSOMWE aE EMO’ And gilt up o awful full he'd never got itsifit.| Pint OUP SAE AE ey a SMALL LOO iC. yw Excursion Rares To Mant Gnas Can- | op Py} MIDAS. ~¥ § NES See FE PENS. Oo NERNPEDAY AFTERNOON, ,FEBRU ere Rr improvements. fae etati seers ‘ARY froms of the | iy j Sud at the hours heresnatter waned, tu wit: ON TUESDAY, FEBRUARY VENT at POUR O'CLOCK FM. oF DRY CLOARS boNEAINED 1 STORE 08 INS, ke, Hsikery Nok Taw i. LD ALARCTION. COMMENCING TL AUR, me . CLOCK. AND i AT SAME HOUR U Doe follows Silks The stock consists m 3 Plorhes, Cashm ? ieee Goods, Cloth Casmimen Bisane Tatie Linens, Towels, PKs, Sheetings, ‘Biankets, cade, Tux Hosiery and Gloves, chiefs, Umbreliza Kul to attend Teserve, in consequence CANES 1M business, FOLNY, Auctioneer. CHANCERY SALF ¢ oF VALUABLE IMPROVED AND UNDIPROVE PAI REAL PSTALE, BEING HOUSES WOO MPOHTRE AVE. ThENTH Tt 2. AND Dy RAME BUILDING LOT ON What » BEAST BETWEEN BWUARES sy oF ND UNIMPRUVED Lots IN 4 ue of a decree of the Supre ‘olumt e Court of the quity, In w compyginante an W. Fitazerald’s subi improved by @ G-reom. Line, beung Nos, we TUESDAY VE CK ent brick Y06 nnd 1908 New Matupehire FEBRUARY AL, lots 1, 2 G-room 2-story and basen out brie street between T and W str ON SA. AY ATE tne Ni ONS: 1s8u, Ad FOU! N-W. Fitzxoraid owed by PTT itu ate jot a de cash : d two Years, with 6 per Jf Which notes of purch en, eecured by deed oF deed ty" # all cash, at complied with within ten the trustees reserve the rict to resell, Ing purchaser, alter Ut An SUE LEWNpaper UAE ait st EDWARD H. FMOMAS, O16 F st. now WIS-eodtfeiGidta IOMAS DOWLING, Auctioneer, CHANCERY SALE_OF VALUABLE IMPROVED PROPERTY ON F STREEL By Ly THIKD AND _FOUR-AND-A-HALE SiLELiS SOUTH- Wrst AT AUCIION, BEAD 2. By virtue of a decree of the Supreme Court of the seed in Ryuity cause No, ENTH, 18 wine descr 0, bed Ak 7 kira cach, balance in six, and twelve terest gist Sect Hy a deed of tru "Sloo wun we required % with i tem, day Of sale the drutees romerve the mht to et the M@sk and cost of the detaute "notice of S. __ FAMILY SUPPLIE Great Reovetiox I; Prices, Granulated Sugar, Oe. ps. Best Re Dried Appies, 200. ** Best Lanndry Starch, 25e, “ Turkish Prunes, 2c. Best Pork Roast Sc, A Full Line of Groceries at Wholesale Prices, Term cash. X. A. POOLE, tet 944 Louisiana ave, __GENTLEMEN’S GOODS. _ Mirxcuasr ‘Lamontso, FALL AND WINTER, "89-90. Our own importations now rece and you are invited tv insject at the well-known house a H. D, BARR, IMPOKTING TAILOR sell 1111 Penne. ave. __ EOUSEFURNISHINGS. _ **FROFAL, 1QQUID GLUE” MENDS EV cRY= thing! “Peer Chive, Glass, # uruiture, Wood, Metals, 107s, Shoes, Pipes, Jewelry. Everlasting Te hecity! Drugs ana Grocers. 10c,aud uibldcoly Cooma By Gas A fall line of GAS COOKING STOVES Gn band and for sale, _ 308-1 Have rer ADGET & Fo. ATTORNEYS Telephone 1197 YAMPEELL Car! T Webster Law building, D.C. Kemdence, 1215 4 MEDICAL, &c. IRE THE 7%, LEON, Drie ident Pstantisnea ana only Kelisble Ladiest YaIcian in the City, can be consulted duuy, 464 C st. between 434 and Gt Prompt treatm ‘n t. Consuluition strict] tial. Separate rooms for Ladica, Medi 21." Office always open, ME, DE FOREST, LONG-ESTABLISHED AND Teliable Ladies’ Piysiciau, can be consulted tiber residence ec. 4Ul It st. uw. Ottice hours f m.; with only. } ANHOOD KESTORED BYU! SF twoot Dr. BAUTHEACS Invigorating Cordiak, Nill “cure ‘auy case of Nervous Debility and lows of rve power. It imparts vigor tu the whole «ystem, or Female, 906 Bat. aw. f1-lau* Di. BROTHERS,006 B ST, made osth EAD AND BE WI. peared bet day. Sub teploet and "ewer to tadboe me by ben Fakic EL C, MILLS, sary Public District of Goluinbin this Sauay of July, 1880. = fi-Lim* oO i—HER DISEASES, WEAKNESS: ager oe for bons e ot ex FTER ALL i Ear Consus 0, 329 N. 15th st, below Callowhill st... Philadelphia, ‘years’ experience in diseases: cures: sun ues Se Prvous Cena Boca "yetsone A gd ety ae ‘Treatment Strictly Confidential. fac aciane™ £0 Sin Met t,t 2 TRON =e