Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, July 1, 1899, Page 6

Aes A THRILLIN BY FRANCES Frozen Heart, G LOVE STORY. WARNER WALKER. CHAPTER XX—(Continued.) ince innocent though she was in re- luw was thrown upon her by anothe in, Moreover, she shuddered at thought of entering the bondage of the passion ; he termed love. Yet today she felt that only thus might she gain the end she coveted. ‘But to-day it was doubly, trebly _ bitt for te she, had learned that a man”s voice might yet sway and a ma touch thrill her. But he had left her forever, and she had let him go. “I—I am not too late “Too late, madame To prevent th Y wordsm ight ht have been the victim!” “You feared fer my life, ma chere? Since your fear lent it such value, do you not know that it would possess a magic charm for its safety do not know my skill. Spare me an hour and I will return to tell you that this stripling’s insolence is forever si- lenced, and, in trophy, show you the tip of the sword which will bear the stain of his heart’s blood.” She shuddered and recoiled. “No, prince—no! she murmured. “You must neither risk your own life, tgke another’s. All this is a mis- she sighed. For what?” zht—this duel! ‘ou are, some nor take. Listen, and you shall hear it all. Ar hastily she repeated to him the story to which Arkwright had already ] ned -erhaps,” she added, “I wished to know if you would resent my another—perhaps I wished to rofession you had made; but, indeed, { dreamed not such results might fol- It is true that I gave the boy the But do not let his life y the You will spare him because I low. ask it? Low sunk the sweetly-modulated but the prince frowned as he ered. “But not for the stain of blood rest on Your courage, prince, is gheut’ Europe. You can refuse to fight, and no man will ques- tion why. Listen. If I promise nev- er to see him again—if I swear never to let him know that through my inter- cession this duel was averted—if I pay price of his life by my heart’s ss gratitude, will you refuse is ge She clasped her hands in entreaty as ane must r soul. own thro she spoke, and the lovely fa¢e was up- turned to his own; had but hard as hers been when Beatrice made her er, so was his hard now. “You talk like a child, ma belle! This insolert stripling insulted me last night —he tossed in my face the wine left in his ¢ , and as the red wine was spilled, so will his life-blood be spilled; only, the former ; precious—the lat- ter valueless.” “Oh, re him!” she cried. “If not for his sake, if not for your sake, then for mine, that all my life I may not bear the burden of his sin! Whatsoev- i you Gaim for mercy, that price A sudden gleam shot across the dark, cold face, Full well she knew what she had held forth to him; full well she knew the deadly temptation which lay in her words, but, giving him no time to she went on: # boy must not die,” she said. 4d to fight with you means death. him, and name your guerdon— him, and by the heavens which shay he: paid the my gue he whispered, » hot blood seethed through at the thought of his coming triumph. “What shall it be?” she replied, and her eyes’ languid glance uplifted itself to his. “That within the week you become my Ld “Within the week she repeated. And so might a condemned criminal have spoken the date appointed for his exccution. en so,” she whispered. be as you say.” He stooped then, and, for the first time, pressed his lips to hers. She shucdered, as under the infliction of a d dation unspeakable, and a bright, on blush lent her new beauty; but he saw only its added brilliancy, and dreamed not of its cause. “Adieu, ma belle!’ he whispered, as he handed her back into the carriage— “adieu, until to-morrow!” “Oh, God!’ she moaned, as she leaned heavily back, “that ere to-mor- row { might die!” Had the prince forgotten his prom- ise? Was royal word so lightly brok- en? Not an hour had elapsed since he had pledged tt, when, with all the pre- liminaries ended, all the formalities complied with, in a quiet spot beyond the city limits, in the dark shade of a friendly wood, Carl Dameroff met him face to face. The young lieutenant was white, as though all blood had left his. body; but his eyes were dauntless and his mouth proud and firm. he thin lips of the rince were curled in a cruel sneer. Hach held in his right hand an un- sheathed sword. The sun had gone to his kingly rest; .the moon refused to look up on the slaughter; the dull gray of the coming darkness shadowed the silent group. Then a white handker- chief fluttered im the air; the signal bad been given; the sharp clash of steel broke the stillness. A minute only it lasted; then the younger man stood defenceless. His sword, by marvellous skill, had been wrenched from his grasp. He was at the mercy of his enemy. “It shall CHAPTER XXI. The steel of his foe was at his heart, ut his eyus never quailed, nor his lip trembled. No coward blood was in . But you! Dameroff’s veins; no coward blood would flow from the deadly thrust he awaited so calmly. He started only when the sharp blade fell harmless by the prince’s side; but as it fell, the prince leaned for- ward and whispered words as unex- | pected as the life gained—bitterer than the death looked for. There was no redress, no retaliation. All the laws of honor had been com- plied with. The prince’s outraged hon. or and his own had been avenged. The whisper held vo new insult. It but told him he had been a dupe—a toy —his life the wedding gift of his ene- my to his bride, because, forsooth, no blood must stain their wedding eve. Yesterday he had deemed the world | well lost for the sake of a flower which j}had lain an instant on a woman’s breast; to-day the flower had turned into a snake that stung him with a deadly sting. In pleading for his life, Florence had not averted from him a humiliation worse than death. * * . * * | “You prevented the duel?’ asked the jlovely intended bride of the prince, when, some hours later, he entered her drawing room. =, She had denied herself to all visitors, and awaited him alone, “No, ma belle; we fought,” he an- j swered. “Ah, do not grow so pale! 1 kept my word. The boy needed a les- sen; I gave him one. I could not, in honor, refuse to fight, or allow him } equal privilege. It was but the work of a moment. I disarmed him; then-- made him a present of his life. I told him it was his wedding gift to you.” And as she listened, Florence knew t rather would Damerofl have re- ceived in his heart the blade than in 8 ear the whisper, Perhaps because the prince thought ad infatuation which tempted him to give his proud and ancient name to one who boasted ‘herself no lineage—per- haps because the innate vanity of the man led him to believe any act of hi | must meet approval—perhaps because he wished to blazon the beauty of his bride in the sight of all— he insisted that the ceremony should be publicly performed with pomp and splendor. The momentary softening which had swayed Florence into her plea: for Dameroff’s life had hardened. As the Princess de aux, let them, if they would, resurrect the story of the buried past, It would pass her by unharmed, unscathed. She was as eager as the prince that the ceremony might take place, lest some whisper of her past might reach his ears, and so bring defeat in the moment of her triumph. She had for- gotten that once she had shrunk from it. From him she still shrank, but not from his title and his rank. So dawned, at last, her wedding day. Peerlessly lovely she looked in he’ wedding robes but as the mirror re- flected the exquisite picture, she shud- dered and grew whiter than her dress. She remembered that so might the Countess d’Aubigny have looked upon herself on that terrible morning more a year ago. “A little rouge, ma chere,” ‘said the Countess D- , Who was to accom: pany her to the chapel, where the prince was to meet her at the appoint- ed hour. 3ut Florence shook her head. She knew no artificial aid could heighten the beauty which was a cold and mar- ble-like 2s she felt her heart. Just before she left the house she went alone into the ante-room, where hurg the picture of the cross, ; “Farewell, Dorothy!’ she whispered iow. And as the low murmur trembled in the air she started and turned around. Who ‘had spoken her name? No one. The rcom silent and deserted; yet standing, as she had seen him stand, on that evening which now seemed so long p he almost fancied she could see Arkwright, and hear again the low- voiced utterance of her name. What had brought him at this mo- ment to her mind? Could it be that she had never banished him from the thought which had proved stronger than her will? Absurd! What had the Princess de Vaux to do with Harry Arkwright? Henceforth, ambition must be her god, and power her scepter! ‘The church was crowded. The bride was waiting in the vestry. The organ rang out its triumphant notes; but the bridegroom had not come. At last, when wonderment began to find truth in words, the well known iiveries drew rein before the door, ‘The signal was given, and Florence, lean- ing on the arm of Duke de Robano, walked proudly up the aisle. Two men awaited ker on the altar steps—her bridegroom and some chosen friend. She never glanced toward them; but haughty, triumphant. let gaze sweep the faces of the aristocrat- ic assemblage gathered to see a wo- man’s beauty gain, by its own right, undisputed titles to their ranks. As Madame Florence, they might question; as the Princess Carauach, they dared not. She reached the altar steps. The gaze of all the multitude had followed her. It now centered on the prince? Where was he? It was not the prince that stepped out from the concealing shadows of the pillar against which he had been resting, half-screened by the floral adornments—not the prince—yet he stood awaiting the bride, and ex- tending his hand in greeting. She, too, now raised her eyes and saw him. A low cry of untold horror escaped her blanched lips. Inyolun- tarily she clasped her hands above her face. For the first time she looked up- on the awful work her hand had wrought. It was Louis Gervase who awaited her upon the altar steps—Lou- is Gervase, with the pitying bandage torn from his face—Louis Gervase, with the beauty that had been her curse and his made hideous as that curse itself. . of his order might smile at the | i “You fear to look upon your work, Madame Florence!” he hissed. “You thought to bury all traces with this hour, You thought the Prince Cara- nach would give his name and title to Louis Gervase’s ——” So low he hissed the last title of in- famy that it reached her ear alone. Her hands fell from her face. She let her eyes rest on the fearful wreck and ruin of his once god-like beauty, and a, smile wreathed her lips. Suffer as she would, the weakness which could cause its betrayal for the world’s gloat- ing had passed. “Duke,” she murmured, turning to the pallid nobleman whose arm she still held, “the prince does not come. Will you take me back to my car- riage?” But, like a grip of steel, Gervase laid ‘his hand upon the bare, quivering flesh cf her exquisite wrist. “You are mine!” he hissed. “My property! Have I not bought and paid for you? Did you not set the seal upon the bargain when you refused to trans- fer it to another? And if yet the price paid must be the altar, come—the altar awaits us It is only a change in bride- grooms. Do you hesitate?” She wrenched, with proud, imperious gesture, her arm from his contaminat- ing touch. She looked around upon all that assembled multitude as the stag. might look, proud, dauntless, knowing that his death-hour had arrived, but his defeat more kingly than the tri- ‘mph ef the bloodhounds in pursuit. The gaze of all that throng was on he, With his old, courtly, polished grace, Gervase turned toward them, his te’ ble disfigurement unconcealed, undis- guised, “My friends,” he said, in the strange ical voice, whose magic he had yet exercised in vain—low, yet so perfectly distinct that no single syl- lxble was lost—‘‘some explanation is due you of this scene. Only this morn- ing I learned that this marriage was to take place” (he uttered the falsehooa with every accent of truth.) “I could j not let so cruel an imposition be im- posed upon one of your order and of mine, and I hastened to the prince to tell him who was the woman who would wear his coronet. You have heard of last year’s tragedy in France. It’s victim nds before you. Thus, on Louis Gervyase, this woman wreaked her vengeance—this its. signet” (and he fo ant bowed his head as if ing the cruel reality ana ng from the gaze he directea towards himself.) “You know now why I stand here in the place of one ; Whom her fa al beauty would e made the dupe of the adyeturess—Flor- ence Vane!” A murmur of pity ran from lip to lip. yinpathy was with the man, hor- the woman. But, of all he had | said, only two words had struck like a knife to her soul. They were the ut- terance of her old name—Florence } the name of her girlhood, now | 7oned with shame’s stigma,. But} | even yet she gave no sign. Suddenly she felt her arm dropped by the nobleman on whom she leaned, “Pardon, madame!” he said, with icy courtesy. She stocd alone. This man had dined at her table, whispered his flat- teries in her éar, hung on her smile. But*he had believed her of his order All rer then. Now—ah, she understood the deadly insult of the act! Again she swept the throng with her imperial gaze. Whose face did she ex- pect to see? Whose support did she; look for? The face, the support which never yet had failed her, but which now were absent—Arkwright was not’ a witness to her degradation. Alone, then, she turned and swept! dcwn the aisle, her cheeks blanched, | but her step firm, and her head, with the diamond star blazing in its rippling golden waves, proudly, haughtily erect. | At the church door her lackeys wait- amd one of them, bribed by the Ger- | vase gold, shouted in the ears of all the gathered gaping, curious crowd: “The carriage of Madame Florence Vane!” CHAPTER XXII. On the evening preceding the events just related, Carlo Damerolf sat alone } jin his rooms, watching the smoke float upward from the cigar held between | his teeth, while his thoughts swept backward over the record of the past. Alone in the stillness of his solitude, a flush of Shame rose to his brow, He knew now that infatuation, not love, had been the feeling which had swayed him for the beautiful woman for whose sake*ie had bartered honor and challenged death!—infatuation that was a madness; yet, in a measure, it held him still. Her voice still would allure, her eyes’ wondrous gleam in-| toxicate. He had been her dupe, her plaything. She had but stimulated the passion which had carried him along on its tempestuous current. ‘Then, regret- | i ful, she had entreated the prince (oh, | bitterest humiliation of all!) to spare and save the‘life which she had ren- dered worthless. If she had not crossed his path, a young and lovely girl would ere low have been his wife, And he had loved her! Aye, by the sense of his great misery, he knew that he still loved hert But how dare approach her? How dare wipe from her mind the memory of the cruel past? How give her back the faith that he had wrecked? Im- possible—it might never be. No bu- man hand can restore the lost dew to the flower, nor the bloom—hastily crushed by wanton hand—to the rose. His heart was sore, his pride quiv- ered beneath the knowledge of his bu- niliation; but the only touch which might have purchased healihg, he had banished forever. As Beatrice had loved, so, doubtless, now, she hated; as she had honored, so she now despised! He was exiled from the heart which, however weary he might grow, might nevermore pillow his weariness, He sprang from his chair, as all the bitterness of his empty future seemed thus to mock him. At the same in stant, his orderly brought him a letter marked “immediate.” As he took it from the man’s hand into his a faint, delicate odor of wood violets was waft- ed upward from the paper. It was a perfume he knew well—the perfume which had stolen too often across his senses to deceive him now. For a moment his hand trembled and his vision was blurred; the next he was tempted to thrust the white mes- senger, unread, into the heart of the fire. With what new temptation did his temptress now assail him? He broke the seal and read: “What prompts me to write you?” she began. “Why have I let softer, | he registered a s memories sway me to-night? and why, among them, does the thought of your boyish worship linger, until it asks at my hands its recompense? What must that recompense be? For once I will be frank with you. Its recompense must be to tear the mask from the heart you thought might beat for you. You shudder as you look, for the heart is frozen on which your eyes. rest, and frozen hearts, Carlo, cannot beat in love’s measure. I never loved you; you were for me but the plaything I swore beside a grave (whose, matters not) to make all men in my hands. I saw the girl to whom you were engaged (you remember the night, do you not?—how long ago it seemed. Her face told me that she was young, and pure and in- nocent, as I was once. “I knew that you were weak. Why should I spar; you, when,, in alluring you, I saved her, perhaps, from such a fate as mine? So I let you drift with the current, and the current snappe:. the feeble ties which bound you to her, and instead led you to my feet. You amused me, and I liked you—liked you too well, Carlo, to let your young blood spill itself for me and feel no pang: but even then I told myself that 1 was blameless—that men had died before for women, and life was not so sweet that I should plead its boon for you. “But, Carlo, the day that you and the prince were to fight, an angel came to me to intercede for you. The wo- man you had wronged and outraged sought me out, and demarded at my hands your life. You do not deserve to know this—do not deserve to know how well she still loves you—but you shall not say the life I spared to you was barren through my act. “She is proud, and you may not ly win her back; but such hearts are gold and worth the struggle. You must not let her know that I betrayed the secret of her intercession. I do it only to prove her loyalty, and to tell you why I demanded at the prince’s han:!s your life. “To-morrow is to make me his I may never see you again, but times remember that she who r the fair web of your happine tried to cement the broken th The day which unites you to Bea Leonard I shall know wins me pardon. Adieu! ss So the strange note ended. The pa- per fluttered downward to the floor, It lay there unheeded. A mist was fore Dameroff’s eyes, a choking in throat. Beatrice did not hate him then? Merciful heaven! she must still love him. What had he done to deserve from heaven such a boon? Proud! Yes, better than the woman who had penned the assurance, he knew her pride; but, standing there, min vow that his pa- tience should be untiring as his re- ward would be great, Madame Florence’s letter had done its work. The spell was broken, the madness scattered, the infatuation powerless. Beatrice alone usurped his thoughts, his heart. His allegiance. could waver never again. ‘Through the dark clouds which had shadowed him one gleam of sunshine broke. He swore it should widen into perfect day, or scatter in the darkness of a perpetual night. Two hours later he sought admit- tance to Beatrice’s presence. The ser- vant looked his surprise when he asked if his young mistress was at home, but meekly received his card to hand it to her. She grew very white when she re- ceived it. She had been ill since the day of the duel. It was the first day she had been sitting up. For a moment strength and courage failed. She was tempted to deny her- self; but, lest he should attribute it to her weakness, she rose and went down to meet him. Entering the room, she paused a lit- tle beyond the door and sank into a chair, waving him to resume the seat from which he had risen. “You are surprised to see me,” he said, and his voice was low and brok- er, She glanced toward him with indif- ferent erase. Who could have fancied that she had so lately pleaded for his life as the one boon craved on earth? “Some grave reason must have brought you,” she answered, coldly. But, even as she spoke the words, he had crossed the dividing space between them and flung himself at her feet. “Grave, indeed, Beatrice!’ he mur- mured, hotly, impetuously. “I have come to plead to you as lost souls pray at heaven’s gate—as the man who, at- ter long blindness, knows that his eyes 2re opened—of one who ,having lost reason, has it again restored to him. 1 have no right here, save the right of a great sorrow and a great penitence! 1| have no hope save the hope that wo- manly pity may once more waken wo- manly love. Beatrice, I was in. the wiles and meshes of a sorceress. Do not forever condemn me that my honor was the price of her enchantment.” He felt that she trembled, and he lifted his young face, an which was written all the ardor of his prayer; but the voice with which she answered him was cold and firm. “Had I dreamt this your errand,” she replied, “I would have spared you and myself its pain. To-morrow the ‘woman of whom you spoke weds an- otrer. Would you prove to her that the game at which she played was equal, -since you, too, return to her to whom once your faith was pledged? I am sorry, Lieutenant Dameroff, that I cannot give you your pitiful revenge!” “Beatrice!” Indignant wonder was in his tone. “Oh, God!” he said, “have I, indeed, sunk so low that you can im- pute to me this thing? Do not think that I have hoped to take with you the place I once held. I only ask to win my way, by whatever means you may exact, to once hear you call me— friend. I will toil for it as I have nev- er struggled in my life. Oh, Beatrice, will you not believe me that I love you with the old love, purified, strengthen- ed, intensified! Will you not hold out to me the hope, however faint, that at some future day—future however dis- tant—I yet may win your pardon?” “T have nothing to pardon,” was her answer; but her voice, too, trembled ever so little now. “Rather have I cause for grateful thanks, since you saved me from a fate worse than death. Accept my thanks, then, Lieu. tenart Dameroff, in pardon’s place, and may I ask that we end this scene? I have been ill, and am not strong.” (To be continued.) His satanical majesty never gets tired jollying people who boast of be- ing self made. COLONIAL POSSESSIONS Their Varied Resources and Rich Possi- bilities Fully Demonstrated. THE EXPOSITION OF AN EMPIRE What Is to Be Shown at the Greater America Exposition From the Rich Country Acquired by Uur Government in the War With Spain—A Display that Will Command the Admiration of Hundreds of Thousands. In days gone by the road from em- pire to republic has been long and marked by desperate struggles. In our own time we have seen a republic be- come an empire almost in a day; a free republic annexed, a kingdom wrested from an old world tyrant and added to the possessions of a younger nation. The thunder of Dewey’s guns announced the opening of a new and strange chapter in American history, a chapter of grand achievements and mighty potent. The destinies of a peo- ple may be at stake, the fate of a na- tion may hang in the balance as the result of the stirring events. crowded into the brief space of a single year. It has been said that “the dreams which nations dream come true,” and those who would give form and force to such dreams must needs under- stand not only the possibilities of suc- cess, but the dangers of failure. When the war with Spain began a great exposition was well under way, an exposition international in its scope. Its promoters realized that war was likely to be detrimental to such tles, to bring together in one vast co lection the material evidences of resources and to display pep! modes of life, their commerce their art, is the mission of the first Greater America Colonial Exposition, which opens its gates at Omaha on July ist. That it was possible to do this in so short a time was cate to the fact that the beautiful grounds =\ magnificent buildings of the Trans- Mississippi Exposition were still in- tact and were secured for the new en- terprise. The task of collecting repre- sentative people and exhibits from Cuba, Porto Rico, Hawaii and the Philippine Islands was made compara- tively easy by. government assistance and the results so far attained haye surpassed even the expectations of the enthusiasts who inaugurated the great enterprise. The ordinary work of years has been compressed into a few s*ort months. The officers cf the army >~t other representatives of the goveia- ment in the several islands have an enterprise and yet their work was steadily pushed forward to a success- ful conclusion and the world saw a na- tion strong and vigorous enough to wage a mighty war with an old world power and at the same time hold a grand exposition, typifying its great resources, its marvelous progress and its infinite possibilities. That same it possible to organize another grand exposition which shall exploit the pos- sessions so recently acquired. The American people are eagerly discussing a most absorbing topic, and spirit of indomitable energy has made: spared no efforts to assist in the col- lection of exhibits which would ex- haustively illustrate each salient fea- ture of each of our new possessions, and whole families of natives, repre- senting almost every racial character- istic of the inhabitants of these sea- washed lands, have been induced to travel to the land of Stars and Stripes, there to build their homes and villages for a brief time and to faithfully re- produce their daily life and customs. In the colonial exhibits building wilt be found the manufactures and prod- ucts of Cuba, Porta Rico, Hawaii and differ widely as to the solution of a great national problem. Imperialism and expansion find earnest advocates and bitter opponents, and the future of the young nation depends largely upon a proper solution of this ques- tion. To meet a widespread demand for information, to bring special knowl- edge on a special subject to the Amer- ican people, to illustrate and exploit the characteristics of the peoples who have recently found shelter beneath our flag, to show without prejudice or favor their capabilities and possibili- the Philippines. In the Government pbuilding the historical relics of the late war with Spain and the present war in the Philippines will prove of interest to all. In the Horticulturak building, or Winter Garden, may be seen the trees, plants, fruits and flow- ers of tropic and sub-tropic lands, a splendid collection, the like of which has never been surpassed at any ex- position, and which presents a rich field of study to the lover of nature. Many of these rare plants and flowers are used in decorating the grounds. colonial features of the exposition and but serve to foreshadow the wonderful results which have been achieved in securing a representative exhibit from our colonial possessions. tt The people of Hawaii are proud of the fact that they are a part of this great nation, and have made extensive preparations for an exhibit of their products and resources. There will also be a village of the native people, the | former owners and rulers of these rich \ islands, in which native life and cus- toms will be accurately_ reproduced. The illustrations shown herewith | give but a faint idea of a few of the; Greater America Colonial Exposition In all other departments “the first | bids fair to far. surpass the great suc- cess scored last year by the Trans-Mis- sissippi exposition. Each department y is under the supervision of a manager well versed in the art of exposition — building, and from July Ist to Novem- ber 1st no efforts will be spared to score a grand success. ‘ The Enchanted Island at the Grea Ameriea Exposition in Omaha eae summer will contain a c troupe of Marionettes amidst elaborate scenic * . a