Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, April 24, 1897, Page 2

By LOUIS COUPERUS. TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH. FOOTSTEPS OF FATE. BEES EEE HE EE LE OE OE EG EEE PART Ill. CHAPTER = IlII—(Continued.) “At nothing,” said she; and she went en, still smiling affectionately: “Why did you never become an artist, Ber- artist?” said Van Maeren, “what “A painter, or an author. You have great artistic taste—” “I! he repeated, much surprised, for he really did not know that he possess- ed very remarkable esthetic feeling, an exquisiteness of taste worthy of a wo- man, of a connoisseur; and her words set his ch cter before him in a new light. Does man ever know himself and what really lies in him? “I could do nothing,” he replied, somewhat flattered by Eva’s speech; and, in bis astonishment, candid for ence in spite of himself, he went on: “J should be too lazy.” He w: tled his own words, es though he had stripped himself bare; and he instinctively looked across at Frank to see if he had heard him. Vexed at his own thoughtlessness, he colored, and laughed to hide his an- noyance, while she, still smiling, shook her head reproachfully. Iv. When, a little later, Eva was alone with her lover, and she showed him the patterns which his friend had pre- ferred, Frank began: a—”" She looked at him inquiringly, beam- ing with quiet happiness. There was a turmoil in his brain, he wanted to speak to her about Bertie. But he suddenly remembered his prom- ise to his friend never to reveal any- thing of his past life. Frank was a man who simply regarded a spoken word as inviolable, and he suddenly perceived that he could not say what he had on his tongue. And yet, he re- membered his uncomfortable: sensa- tions when, on the top of Moldehot, Eva had so innocently expressed her nge of opinion in his friend’s favor. Had he not then felt as though the black clouds were an evil omen hang- ing over his head? And had he not experienced the same shudder as he saw them sitting side by side on the sofa, as if a noose were ready to be east round her neck? It was an in- stinctive dread, springing up unexpect- edly, without anything to lead up to it. ‘Ought he not to speak, to tell her what Bertie w: But he had promised— and it was foolishly superstitious to allow such an unreasoning terror to have influence on his mind. Bertie was not hke ordinary men; he was very y, and lived too contentedly at the se of others—a thing that West- hove could not understand, and over which, in his good nature, he simply shook his head with a smile—but Ber- tie was not wicked. So he was con- eealing nothing from Eva but that Bertie had no money. Still, he had F, something—something in his brain. Eva was wide-eyed; he must So he went on, embarrassed in speak. spite of himself, coerced by a mysteri- ous force which seemed to dictate the words: “I was going to say—perhaps you will think me silly—but I do not like, L do not think it right——” She still looked at him with her sur- prised eyes, smiling at his hesitancy. Tt w this very indecision which, in her eyes. ¥ so engaging a contrast to his stalwart frame; she sat down on his knee, leaning against him, and her voice sounded like a poem of love. “Well, what, Frank? My dearest Frank, what is it?” Her eyes smiled in his; she laid her armas around his neck, clasping her shands, and again she asked: “Tell me, foolish boy, what is the anatter?” “I do not like to see you always—that you should always—sit so—with Ber- tie.” The words forced their way against his will, and now they were spoken, it ‘seemed to him that he had meant to something quite different. Eva 1 vith Bertie?” she repeated. I sit with Bertie? Have I thing I ought not? Or—tell me unk, are you so horribly jeal- Ou: He clasped her closer, and, kissing her hair, he muttered: “Yes, yes! I am jealou “But of fives with yo fealous of him She burst out laughing, and, carried away by her own mirth, fairly shook er she said, still gasping. Oh, oh, of Ber- But I only think of him as a pret- almost a girl. He is so tiny, as such neat little hands. Oh, oh! What! jealous of Ber “Do not laugh so!” he said, with a frown. “I really mean it—you are so familiar with him. vi “But he is your dearest friend!” “Yes, so he may be—but——” ., She began again to laugh; she thought him most amusing; and, at the same time, she loved him all the better llen and jealous. ?” she said, and her fin- vith his fair, gold-tinted ow foolish—oh, how “How is it possible? tie! mou: foolish you are “But promise me—’ he began again. “Of course, if it will make your ntnd easy, I shall keep more at a distance. But [ shall find it very difficult, for I am so accustomed to Bertie. And Ber- tie must not be allowed to guess it; ‘thus your friendship will remain un- ‘roken. I must still be good friends ‘with him. No, no! I tell you I must be kind to him. Foolish boy that you are! I never knew that you could be so eilly!’ And she laughed again very heartily, shaking his head in her en- gaging merriment, and towzling his thick hair with her two little hands. Vv, ‘7 Frank had of late begun to think of Bertie as an intolerable burthen. Al- though he himself did not unslerstand why. he could’ not bear to see Eva and his friend together, and their intimacy brought this about almost every day. Eya had rightly perceived that she could hardly behave to Bertie other- wise than slie had done hitherto. Meanwhile he had to put up with great coolness from Frank. After one ct his escapades, which had lasted @iree days, the coolness was very conspicu- ous. Westhove, who usually made very pressing inquiries on his return from these mysterious absences, on this occasion said not .a word. And Brtie vowed to himself that this one should be the last of his disappear- ances. But then came the discussion which Van Macren had so greatly dreaded; in a confidential moment, his friend spoke of ‘his impending marriage, and asked Bertie what plans he had for the future . “For you know, dear old fellow,” was Frank's kind way of putting it, “that I will with pleasure do my best to help you. Here, or in Holland, I have a few connections. And so long as you have nothing, of course I shall not leave you out in the cold; on that you may sately reckon. But I shall be leaving White- Rose Cottage. Eva thinks it too much out of the way. and, as you kuow, pre- fers Kensington. But we have had good times together, haven’t we?” And he clapped Bertie on the shoul- der, grateful for the life of good-fellow- ship they had enjoyed within those walls; feeling a little compassion for the poor youth who took so kindly to the good things of wealth, and who had alas, no wealth to procure them with. However, he penetrated no further its Bertie’s state of mind} he had always had a turn for a bohemian existence; he had known luxury after living in misery; now life must be a little less easy for him again. That was all. Bertie. on his part, horrified by the heartless villainy of his first reflections, allowed himself to slide on, day by day, with no further thought of his va- rious plots. He sometimes even had a naive belief that at the last moment Fortune would look upon him with fa- yor; his Fatalism was like a form of worship, giving him strength and hope. vi. Wowever, a moment came when he thought all hope lost; the danger was pressing and imminent. “Bertie,” said Westhove, who had just come home in some excitement, “to-morrow you can find some employ- ment to suit you, I think. Tayle—you know our friend at the club—tells me that he wants to find a secretary for his father, Lord Tayle. The old man lives on his place up in Northumber- land; he is always ailing, and some- times tiresome; still, it seems to me that you will not easily get such anoth- er chance. You will have a salary of eighty pounds and live in the house, of course. I should have spoken of you to Tayle at once, but that you begged me long ago——” “Then you did not mention my name?” said Bertie, hastily and almost offended, “No,” replied Frank, surprised at his tone. “I could make no overtures till I bad spoken to you. But make up your mind at once, for Thayle has two other men in his eye already. If you can decide at once I will go back to Thayle this minute; my cab is wait- ing.” And he took up his hat. Highty pounds and a position as sec- retary with free quarters at the castle! How the splendor of such an offer would have dazzled Bertie not so very long since, in America. But now—— “My dear Frank,” he said, very cold- ly, “I am very much obliged for your kind intentions, but, pray, take no trou- ble on my account. I cannot accept the place. Dismiss your cab——” “What!” cried his triend, in amaze- ment. “Will you not at least think it over?” % “Thank you very much. If you have nothing better to offer me than to be- come the servant’ of the father of a man with whom I have been intimate as an equal, I can only say, thank you for nothing. I am not going to shut myself up in a country house and scrib- ble for an ailing, fractious old man, for the pittance of eighty pounds a year. And what would Tayle think of me? He has always’ known me as_ your friend, and we have been familiar on that footing; and now he is to see me as his father’s hired menial! I cannot say that you have much delicate feel- ing, Frank.” ‘ His brain was in a whirl while he spoke; never before had. he assumed such a haughty tone in addressing Frank; but it was like a ery of despair rising up from the ruins of his false pride. J “But, Good God, man! what do you expect?” exclaimed Westhove. “You know all my friends, and it is only through my friends that I can expect to help you.” . “I will take no help from anyone like the men of our own club, nor from anyone to whom you have introduced me as your equal.” “That certainly makes the case a dif- ficult one,’ said Westhove, with a sharp laugh, for great wrath was ris- ing up in him. “Then you have noth- ‘ing-to say to this?” “Nothing.” “But what on earth do you want?” said Frank, indignantly. “Tor the moment, nothing.” “For the moment—well and good; but by-and-by ?” “That I will see all in good time. And if you cannot be more consider- ate—~—” “ He stopped short, startled by his own voice. He was speaking loudly—as it would seem with domineering vehe- mence, but in fact only with the energy of despairifg indolence and pride at bay. The two men looked at each oth- er for a few seconds, each suddenly feeling as though he had a store of buried grievances against the other— grievances which had accumulated in spite of the friendly intimacy of their lives, and which they were on the point now of flinging in each other’s teeth as foul insults. But Van Maeren checked his out- burst. He recollected himself, or he had not forgotten himself. He smiled and held out his hand. “Forgive me, Frank,” he said, hum- bly, with that voice like beaten gold, and that sad, mitigating smile; “I know you meant well. I can never, no, never, repay you gor all you have done for me. But this place I cannot, real- ly, accept. I would rather be a waiter, or the conductor of a tram-car. Hor- give me if I seem ungrateful.” So they made it up. But Westhove thought this pride on his companion’s part ridiculous, and was vexed that the whole affair must remain a secret from Eva. He would have liked to consult her on the subject. And it was with a deeper frown and more scowling glance that he watched these two, Bertie and Eva, as they sat side by side in the evening in the subdued light of the blue-shaded lamp, chattering like broth- er and sister. It was like some covert dishonesty. It was all he could do to keep from proclaiming aloud that Ber- tie was a parasite, a low fellow, from tearing them apart, from snatching them away from their blissful smiling and guileless intimacy as they dis- cussed furniture and hangings. Vit. After this ineffectual attempt to help, Van Maeren, his friend, took no fur- ther trouble, expecting that when the case became urgent Bertie himself would ask his assistance. But Bertie’s refusal led Frank to perceive, for the fist time the false position in which he had placed his companion, bith with re- gard to himself and to his associates; his kindness to a friend out of luck in allowing ‘him to live for a year as a man of fortune, struck him now—seen in the light of an attachment which had purified, renovated, transformed his whole nature—as indescribably pre- posterous, as trampling on every law of honor and veracity; an unjustifiable mockery of the god faith of the world he lived in. Formerly he had thought this all very amusing, but now he felt that it was mean, base, to have en- joyed such amusement as this. And he understood that he had himself en- couraged the growth, as of some pois- onous weed, of Van Maeren’s false pride, which now forbade him to ac- cept a favor from any one of their boon companions. The days glided by, and Westhove could not shake off the sense of self-re- proach, which, indeed, grew upon him as time went on. Van Maeren cast a shadow over the happiness of his love. Eva saw that some dull grief made him silent; he would sit brooding for many minutes at a time—his brows knit and a deep furrow across his fore- head. “What ails you, Frank?” “Nothing, my darling.” “Are you still jealous?” I will cure myself of*it.” “Well, you see it is your own fault; if you had not always sung the praises of Bertie as your best friend I should nev- er have become so intimate with him.” Yes, it was his own fault; he saw that very clearly. “And are you satisfied with menow?” she asked, laughing. He, too, laughed. For, indeed, it was true; for Frank’s sake, she had sudden- ly changed her behavior to Bertie; she would rise and quit the sofa where they sat while he was yet speaking; she sometimes contradicted him, re- proached him for his foppishness and laughed at him for his dainty #ttle hands. He looked at her in amaze- ment, fancied she meant it for flirta- tion, but could not understand what she would be at. One evening, for hour after hour, she pestered him with petty annoyances, pin-pricks,which she intended should reassure Frank and not wound Bertie too deeply. The con- yersation presently turned on heraldry, and Sir Arthur wanted to show the two men the blazoned roll of the fam- ily tree. Frank rose, ready to follow him tq his study, and Bertie did the same. Eva felt a little rompunction, thinking she had carried her teasing rather far this time, and she knew that her father’s pedigree would not interest him in the least. “Leave Bertie here, papa,” said she. “He knows nothing about heraldry.” And, at the same time, to comfort Frank, who dared not betray his jeal- ousy, she added, lightly, with a molli- fying twinkle of her long eyelashes: “Frank will trust us alone together, I daresay.” Her yoice was so simple, her glance so loving, that Frank smiled and nod- ded trustfully, though annoyed at see- ing Bertie sit down again, As soon as they were alone Bergte began: “For shame, Eva! how could you tor- ment me as you have been doing?” She laughed and blushed, a little ashamed of herself for treating him so to please Frank. But Bertie’s face was grave, and, with an appealing gesture, he folded his hands and said, beseech- ingly: “Promise me that you will not do so again.” She gazed at him in surprise at his earnest tone. “It is only my fun,” said she. “But a form of fun which is suffering to me,” he replied, in a low voice. And. still she looked at him, not un- derstanding. “He sat huddled up, his head on his breast, his eyes fixed be- fore him, and ‘his brown hair, which waved a little over his forehead, cling- ing to his temples, which were damp with perspiration. He was evidently much agitated. He had no idea what might come of this dialogue, but he was aware that his tone had been sol- emn, that these first}words might be the prelude to a very important inter- view. He felt that these few minutes were destined to become a precious link in the chain of his life, and he waited with the patience of a fatalist for the thoughts which should take shape. in his brain, and the words which should rise to his lips. He kept an eye on himself, as it were, and at the same time spun a web about iva, as a spider entangles a fly in the thread it draws out of its bowels. “You see,” he went on, slowly, “1 can not bear that you should terment me | ‘so. You think less well of me than you used. But if'I have little hands, I can not help it.” She could not forbear a smile at the intentionally-coquettish tone he had as- sumed, an affectation of spoiled child- ishness, which she saw through at once. But she replied, nevertheless: “Well, I beg your pardon for teasing you. I will not do so again.” He, however, had risen from his chair, and, pretending not to see the hand she held out, he silently went to the window, and stood there, looking out on the park-like greenery of Ken- sington Gardens, dimmed with mist. She sat still, waiting for him to speak; but he said nothing. “Are you angry, Bertie?” Then he slowly turned around. The gray daylight fell through the muslin curtains, and gave’him a pallid look—a hue of Parian china—to his delicate features.. Very gently, with a deep, melancholy smile, he shook his head in negation. And to her romantic fancy, the sadness of that smile gave him a poetic interest as of a youthful god or a fallen angel; the celestial softness of a sexless mythological being, such as she had seen in illustrated books of verse; a man in form, a woman in face. She longed to invite him to pour out his woes; and at this moment it would scarcely have surprised her if his speech had sounded like a rythmic- al monologue, a long lament in blank verse. “Bertie, my dear fellow, what is the matter?” { There he stood, speechless, in the pale, slanting light, knowing that the effect mufst be almost theatrical. And she, sitting where it was darker, could see that his eyes, glistened through tears. Much moved, she went up to him; she took his hand and made him sit down by her side. “Speak, Bertie; have I vexed yeu? Can you not tell me?” But again he shook his head, with that faint smile. And, at last, he said, huskily: “No, Eva; Iam not vexed. I can be vexed no more. But I am very, very sad, because we must so soon part, and I care for you so much——” “Part! Why? Where are you go- ing?’ “Indeed, I do not ‘myself know that, sweet girl.I shall remain until you are married ,and then I must go, to wan- der hither and thither, quite alone. Will you sometimes think of me, I wonder?” “But why do you not stay in Lon- don?” He looked at her. He had begun this conversation without knowing whither it might lead him, abandoning himself to chance. But now, with this look, which her eyes met in response, tliere suddely blazed up in him a little dia- bolical flame. He knew now what he was driving at; he weighed every word he uttered as if they were grains of gold; he felt himself. very lucid, very logical and calm, free from the pain- ful, incoherent agitation of the last few minutes. And he spoke very slowly, in a mournful, hollow voice, like a sick man: “In London! main here.” “Why not?” “I cannot, dear girl. I cannot, not with any decency. It is impossible.” The hypocrisy of his eye, the lan- guor of his tone, his assumption of in- consolable grief, distilled into her mind a vague suspicion like an insidu- ous poison—the suspicion that it was on her account that he could not re- main in London, because he would have to meet her as his friend’s wife. It was no more than a suggestion. The wordless despair which seemed to ex- hale from him inspired the inference. Gut her mind rebelled against it; it was a mere suspicion and groundless. He went on, still very slowly, consider- ing every word as if with mathematic- al accuracy. “And when I am gone, and you are left with Frank, always with him, will you be happy, Eva?” “Why, Bertie?’ She paused. It would be almost cruel.to say “Yes,” in the security of her happiness, in the face of Lis pain. “Why do you ask?” she said, almost timidly. He gazed into her face with the deep, soft, misty blackness of his fine eyes. Then he bent his head, and they filled with tears, and he clutched his hands as if they were cold. “Why—why?” Eva insisted. “Nothing, nothing. Promise me that you will be happy. For if you were not happy I should be heart-broken.” “What should hinder my being hap- py: 1 love Frank so dearly?” she ex- exclaimed, though still fearing lest she should hurt his feelings. “Yes; and so long as you are happy all is well,” he murmured low, still rub- bing his hands. Then on a sudden, while her inquir- ing gaze still rested on his face, he said: “Poor child” “What—why ‘poor child? ” she asked in dismay. He seized her hands, dropped on her fingers, “Oh, Eva, Eva- God, who can read my heart—If you—oh! I feel such pity, such great, passionate pity for you. I would do I know not what—I would give my life if I—if you— * * Poor, poor child!” She was standing up now, trem- bling. and as pale as death; her fingers clutthed the table-cover, which slipped as she pulled it, and a glass vase in which a few flowers were fading was upset; the water trickled over the vel- vet cloth in great silvery beads. She let it flow into pools, staring at it, with wide, terrified eyes, while he cov- ercl his face with his hards. “Bertie,” she cried, “oh, Bertie! Why do you speak thus? What is it all? Tell me. Tell me everything. I must know. I desire you to speak out!” His reply was a gesture—a perfectly natural gesture of deprecation, with no touch of theatrical insincerity, a gesture as though he would retract his words, and had said something he should have kept to himself; then he, too, rose, and his face changed; its ex- pression one of suffering or of pity, but of cool decision. “No, no. There is nothing to tell, Eva.” : “Nothing! And you could exclaim, ‘Poor child! And you pity me! Good God, but why? What is this—what evil threatens me?” She had Frank’s name on her lips, but dared not utter it ,and he was conscious of this. e “Nothing, really and truly, nothing, No, Eva, I cannot re- his tears -dear Eva. I assure you, nothing. I sometimes “have the most foolish thoughts, mere fancies. Look, the vase has fallen over.” eae: “But what were you thinking, then— what fancies?” He wiped the water off the table- cloth with his pocket handkerchief, and replaced the flowers in the glass. “Nothing—nothing at all,” he mur- mured, huskily; he was tremulous with nervousyess, and his tone was deeply compassionate, as if his words } were meant to shroud some awful se- cret. Then, as he said no more, she sank on the sofa and broke into uncon- trollable and passionate sobs, scared by the indefinable terror which rose up in her soul. “ya, dear Eva, be calm!” he en- treated her, fearing lest some one should come into the room. And then —then he knelt doxn close by her, tak- ing her hands and pressing themten- derly. “Look at me, Eva. I assure you; I swear to you there is nothing wrong— nothing at all, but what exists in my own imagination. But, you see, I care for you so fondly; you will let me say So, won't you? For what I feel for you is only ‘guileless, devoted friendship for my friend’s bride and my own little sister. 1 love you so truly that I can- not help asking myself, ‘Will my dear Eva be happy? It is a foolish thought, thought, no doubt; but in me it is not strange, because I am always thinking of those I Iove. You see, I have known so much sorrow and suffering. And when I see anyone I care for so truly as I do for you—see her so full of con- fidence in life and of fair illusions, the thought comes over me, terrible but ir- vesistible: Will she be happy? Is there, indeed, any such thing as happi- | ness? Oh, I ought not to say such} things; I only darken your outlook, and | give you pessimistic notions; but soine- | times when I see you with Frank, my | heart is so full! For I love Frank, too. I owe so much to him, and would so gladly see him happy with some wo- mau—with someone—still, I can only say, trust wholly in Frank. He loves you, though he is a little fickle, a little | capricious in his feelings; but he} adores you. The delicate shades of a} Woman's nature are above his compre- | hension, perhaps, and he is apt to ear- | ry his ligh-heartedness a little too far —still, he means no harm. He is so} candid, so honest; you know always} so exactly what he is at. And so, Eva, dear Eva, never let any misunder. standing come between yoy—always be open with each other; will you not, my child? Oh, my poor Eva!” And he, too, sobbed Iow in his mys- | terious anguish, which was not alto- | gether a pretense, for he was realiy in despair at the prospect before hin. | She locked down on him in dismay, greatly distressed by his words, from | which she inferred something which he | would not reveal; each word a drop of | subtle venom, and the germ of strange | doubts, which shot up like poisonous | weeds. j “Then there is nothing to tell?” she | said, once more, in a weary tone of en- | treaty, clasping her hands. “No, dear Eva, nothing at all. Only | I am worn out, you see—quite an old man—and so I worry myself some- | times about you two. When I am fa: away—far from London—will you be} happy? ‘Tell me, Eva, will you be_ happy? Promise me, swear to me that | you will.” . She gently nodded in the affirmative, with a sigh of regret that he must | leave London—regret for what he had | suggested, worst of all for what he had | left unsaid; the mystery, the terror! | He, meanwhile, had risen; holding out his hands to her, aud shaking his head, | as though over the follies of man, he | said, with the most pathetic smile: | “How silly you must think me, to tor- | ment myself so about nothing. I ought | not to have said so much; perhaps I) have saddened you with it ae Have I?” “No,” she replied ,with a_ gentle | smile, shaking her head. “No, not really.” He let himself drop into a chair, | sighing deeply. j “Alas! such is life!” he murmured, | with a fixed gaze full of sinister siz- | nificance. Shc made no answer, her | heart was too full. by this time it was dark. Van Mae- ren took his Ieave. Frank alone had | been asked to stay to dinner. | “Have you forgiven me?” he asked; | very humbly, with his most insinuat- | ing and romantic air ,as the last rays | jot daylight shed an ethereal glow én} Lis face. “For what?” she said, but she was | silently weeping. | “For having distressed you, even for | a minute?” She nodded and rose, trembling, ex- | hausted and tottering. i “Oh, yes; you gave me a great frizht. | But you will not do so again, I beg.” “Never,” he murmured. “He kissed her hand; a couteous ear- ess he was accustomed to bestow, with | a touch of foppery like an eighteenth- certury marquis; and he went away. She was left alone. Standing there. ‘in the middle of the room, she closed | her eyes, and she felt as though a mist } had fallen and enwrapped her. And in | that mist she saw Moldelhoi and the | spectral fjord gleaming between the two ranges of protecting. mountaips, | and far away in the west those three | thin bars of gold, And suddenly she felt, as she had never felt before, so forlorn, so lonely, in that midst of the cloud, without even a thought of Sir Archibald and Frank, remembering nothing but her iong-dead mother. A ‘weight pressed on her brain, like the ‘icy palm of a giant’s hand; dusky gloom closed in upon her, and suddenly the living warmth within her was chilled as with a deadly frost. She felt as if she were standing in vast space, and through it—invisible, intan- gible, and yet sensibly and undeniably real—she was aware of a coming hor- ror, rolling dully on like distant thun- der. She stretched out her hands, feeling for some support. But she did not fall senseless: she recovered her- self; and found that she was still in the middle of the room, now almost dark, a little tremulous, and with a feeble sensation about the knees. And she could not but think there was something yet—something which Ber- tie had concealed from her. vir. Next day she thought it all over once more. What was it? What was it? | bea | ly, shuffling, pushin: Would Bertie have pitied her so if there had really had been nothing in it but his own pessimistic fears for her happiness? Or was he, indeed, not hid- ing scmething? And had it anythiag to do with Frank? And then Frank came, and she saw him sit quite still for a time, with a frown on his brow. ey. = : wWhat is the matter?” she asked ‘And he replied, just as usual: “Nothing, 8 And they chatted , at first a little constrained rope again in their plans dreams getting what weighed their aaa Eva would laugh brightly, and Tere “4 herself on Frank’s knee, and play wit his moustache. But if Bertie came te something seemed at once to come 4 tween them; a shadow whieh parte ‘ it was when the friends were alone together that they were most fl-at- case. Then Westhove could only long to turn Van Maeren out of doors at once, without the smallest perceptible cause, like a mangy hound. He pict- ured Bertie, as he had seen him stand- ing shivering in his wretched raiment, that snowy night. Now he was such a dandy, and nothing was too good for him; and he was irreproachable; he did not even go otf for a few days at a time, wandering obscurely, like a cat. He was always “interesting,” with his halo of melancholy; and since the scene over the secretaryship, he often assumed. a reproachful- tone in his yoice and expression when speaking tc Frank. Eva, when left to herself, was deep ly wretched. Chaotic doubts tortured her soul, doubts which, for the mo ment, she could not set aside, and which would force themselves on her as soon as she thought of Bertie’s sym- pathetic smile and strange compassioD for her. Oh! what was it? What vas it? She had often meant to talk it over with Frank, but when she was oD the point of beginning the subject, she did not know what to say. That Ber- tie pitied her? It could be nothing but his own pessimism which, in its uni yersal humahity, regarded the world as worthy of pity, since it seemed cre- ated to be wretched. Should she ask Frank whether he had any silent grief—if he had any- hing to trouble him? This she did nce or twice, ard the answer was al ways the same: “Nothing, dearest.” What, then, oh! what’ was the hor- ror? Alas! she could get no further; | she stood, as it were, blindfold in an enchanted circle, which she could not ' overstep, and her hand felt all around, | but could grasp nothing. If she reso- lutely banished such thoughts, they came back persistently. They over- whelmed her afresh, they re-possessed themselves of her brain, suggestnig endless doubts; and ending, always, in the same question, which was the in- variable outcome of these miserable cegitations: “What can it be—is there anything t all?” And never an answer. She had once questioned Bertie; but he had only smiled, with that terrify- ing smile of woe, and had implored her not.to rack her brain over anything which he might have inconsiderately let drop as the natural outcome of his melancholy temper. Otherwise he should henceforth always be afraid of speaking to her with any frankness; he must weigh his words, and their confidential intimacy as brother and ister would be at an end. And her wn feeling in the matter was full of dubious ‘half-lights, in which no out- linc was distinct. no color decided—a confusion of shadowy gray tints which dimmed the clear brightness of her love with incressing gloom, fatiguing her spirit with their indefiniteness, their non-existeace ir. actual life, and their intangible semblance of reality, like a dream. 1x. Once, however, the dream took sub- stance; once she touched—she saw—shs Something. But what was It? They were coming out of the Lyce- The crowd streamed forth, slow- ¢, impatiently now and then, shoulder to shoulder. And in the crush next to her Eva saw the flaming-red plush opera cloak of a tall, stout man, and under a baybish “Cherry-ripe” hat, a face rose, white | and black, with a doll-like smile, which suddenly leaned across to address Frank. The brim of the hat rested on mass of yellow curls, a scent of musk and rice-powder greeted her nos- trils, and, like a blow in her own face, she heard the words: “Halloo! good evening, Frank; how are you, old boy?” She started and shrank back, looking hastily first at the rouged face and then at Frank; she saw his flashing look of rage, nor did the tall woman’s. confusion escape her notice—a dameel ef the skating rink—thougi the strang- er drew back at seeing a lady on Frank’s arm; she had evidently at first seen him over Eva’s head in the crowd, and she now vanished, disconcerted by her own blunder in addressing a man who had a lady with him. But she shot a glance of amazed in- quiry at Van Maeren, who was close behind. Bertie might have warned her; for it was Bertie who had whispered three words under the “Cherry-ripe”™ hat, with a nod toward the front, say- ing: “Tnere goes Frank.” She was vexed with herself; but she really had not seen the young lady. When they reached home, Sir Archi- bald, who had observed nothing, was bidding them good-night at the door, but Frank exclaimed: “I beg your par- don—but I must speak to Eva—I beg of you——” It was already late, but Sir Areh bald was no stickler for etiquette. They were alone, looking at each other with anxious eyes, but neither spoke. Frank began hurriedly, stum- bling over his words as if he were eager to forestall any evil sspicion she wight entertain. “Eva, believe me, Eva; you must be- lieve me; it was nothing. Yow must not think anything of—of what hap- pened just now.” In a few brief words he told of a former acquaintance—a young man’s © acquaintance—of the skating-rink. ‘This * was all at an end; it was a thing of t past: she must know that every man had a past. She knew that—surely?” “A past-” she echoed, coldly. “Oh? every man has a past? But we—-we have no past.” “Eva, Eva!” he eried, for through the irony of her tone there pierced such acute pain that he stood dismayed and Peinlese, not knowing how to comfort uer, To Be Continued. _-—_— BE iter They Do It. ‘astidious—I wonder w ony rouge their cheeks? ee See Wouldn’t have them ige their noses, would you?—1 er's Bazar. oer y