men leaned forward simultaneously, and then as simultaneously | sheet. A comfortabler bed than this, sir, no corpse ever had, if drew back with startled exclamations. There was nothing! "Mr. Trenholm !-sir!-my God!'' huskily muttered one. Yorke Fitz-Hugh Trenholm-it was he, indeed-set his thin lips firmly. He turned to his helper. "You must explain it. Hush!" speaking calmly, yet with an awful threat in every distinctly-uttered word. "Tell me the truth-who has done this thing?" there only was a corpse here to say so. Mr. Trenholm, sir, it's a clear case, your lady's been resurrected." This piece of information seemed wasted upon its recipient, who still knelt beside the empty coffin, frowning and silent. "Gospel truth, sir," continued Barrows, eagerly. "An' the body was took before this 'ere humbug left your house. There's been a reg'lar contrived fraud somewhere, sure as you're born, Mr. Trenholm-there's been that." "As the Lord above cars me, Mr. Trenholm, not a soul has been in here since the day of the funeral. Oh, I'll swear to it, sir!" was the sexton's vehement declaration. "What are these?" asked the widower, touching the contents of the coffin. "What are these, Barrows?'' Mr. Barrows gave his answer in tones of intense disgust. "Them?" said he. "Them's pillers an' weights rolled up in flannel an' strapped down again; an' here's a blanket an' a "It is as he says. I am not his wife. It cannot matter what I ever may have been to him. Of this be sure: I am far too vile a thing to merit that fair name." "Do not speak so," said Clinton, almost kindly-" do not speak of yourself-only tell the truth." "I obey," she continued, never once looking away from Trenholm. "He did not love me. How could he? Other women had been to him fully as much as I. But I was mad with jealousy and despair; I learned his secret. I went to you with a falsehood, and then, at your command, I took the tale to her. That is all." "And that will do," said Clinton. "Come!" He led her to the next room, and closed the door upon her; then returned.. "She did that at your command; of course. any husband would have acted precisely as you did under similar provoca "BUT I cannot discern your motive in coming to me," de- tion. Are you satisfied now that this woman is nothing to clared Mr. Trenholm to his visitor. "Yes," continued Mr. Chamberlayne, "long ago, before you knew her; but I was not wealthy then, and her father made trouble for us. I will not annoy you with details. During my forced absence abroad, she was won to your way of thinking. The means employed were simply devilish. The poor girl came to you, imagining herself the only price at which her father's honor might be preserved stainless. The old, old story. Yet this had not even the merit of a single truth." "Do you be careful," was the calm retort. "Sit still and listen. Attempt no folly. I could handle you like a toy, you poor, haggard-eyed picture of remorse. Ill? Bah! 'tis not your body but your conscience that needs nursing, and you know it. Hear me, now. You lied to her" "Hear me," interrupted his companion. "I believed all that I had heard. man said it, and I believed it." The wo me?" "I am satisfied-yes." "I am glad of that; and, sir, regarding your late wife, let me declare that it pains me to think that a vile suspicion should have blurred the good name of the woman I loved." Something in the last word impressed the listener. "Loved?" he echoed, half wonderingly. "Is she nothing to you, now that she is dead?" "Nay, sir, to the dead I give reverence-to the living only love. Do I astonish you? Ah, what will you say when I tell you that I intend to take a wife?" Trenholm turned slowly, his great black eyes fairly glowing. A wife?" 66 "Why not? I have been widowed since your wedding-day, remember." "A wife? Why, I shall say but this-that I wish you joy. Women, as wives, are heavenly treasures." The sneer was evident, but Mr. Chamberlayne would not heed it. "A heavenly treasure will mine be," said he, very reverently. I thank my God for his gracious gift." "GOING to take a wife, eh?" mused Yorke Fitz-Hugh Trenholm, when his strange visitor had gone. "Now, I am fearful lest this gentleman's cunning has overreached itself. Still, as he is young and hopeful, it is certainly a pity that he should throw himself away upon a wife. At all events, I am quite anxious to see this new divinity. Ah, Mr. Clinton Chamberlayne, my good Mr. Clinton Chamberlayne, I am not a fool yet-no, thank God! not yet." MR. CHAMBERLAYNE took a wife. She was from the West, and but little was known of her; still, the few who saw her went GATHERING PEPPER.-PAGE 145. into raptures over her beauty. The gossips were thrown into a "Wife? Ah, do not say that word!" and the poor creature state of frenzy; for, almost simultaneously with the marriage shuddered and hid her face in the pillow. "Do not! Ah, me announcement of society's rich favorite, came the intelligence-how vile am I!" of the departure of the pair for Europe. CHAPTER VI. A dreary day DAYLIGHT had long since faded from the sky. had it been, and now an evil night crept on as a dull, bloodcolored moon stole up above the dense forest. A little lake lying in the lap of the valley seemed all aglow with the weird radiance. The low, rambling building, whose base the waters bathed, sulkily gathered in its shadows, letting fall only one blur of blackness, and that glided off stealthily to the ferntufted, dew-wet banks. Away beyond the hills was famed Homberg; but this cozy nook was not for those who took pleasure in the glare of lights and jingle of gold. It was, in fact, nothing but a German farm-house, and the good people's guests were only three in number-an American, his wife, and the maid Janet. The American was Clinton Chamberlayne. His wife-well, she was alone upon that little balcony, whose steps led to the water's edge. By the moon-rays, one might have seen a small, delicate woman with great gray eyes and fair hair, clustering in large, loose rings about an exquisite head. She was sitting half in the shadow, well forward, her arms resting upon the low balustrade, her sweet lips curved in a tender smile. She was alone. Once she turned, indolently, half aroused by a rustling in the vines beside her. Just at that moment a keen air swayed the branches, and from the forest there arose the sob and wail of the fast-coming storm. Mrs. Chamberlayne's hands fell apart, but she neither stirred nor spoke. "Geraldine! my wife, Geraldine!" came again in lowest whisper, "I am here-I, Yorke. Did you imagine that I would forego or forget? Not I, faith. I shall settle matters with that treacherous jade, Janet. This moment is for you-oh, my pure angel! That fellow is in there-not twenty paces distant. Presently he will come running out, and then must his turn follow. Look! Do not be afraid; I am not mad. Look at me, Geraldine Trenholm!" With a shriek of horror, the woman started to her feet. "Silence!" The man bounded forward. As his arms closed around her shrinking form, the low window was dashed open, and some one sprang upon the balcony. "What is it?" called the last. "Isabel, where are you?” "She is here," answered a voice; "she whom you call Isabel is here. Come and take her from me again." Clinton Chamberlayne understood all now. "You have killed her!" he cried. He approached Trenholm, who evidently was awaiting this movement; for, with a hoarse cry, he cast the woman from him, and turned upon Chamberlayne. "At last!" he shrieked-"at last!" Mr. Chamberlayne leaned over the bed, and half raised her in his arms. "Not say it? But I shall say it. You are my wife now-my own-mine only-thank God!" ple of the consulate, those who knew him, affect to believe that he was mad. Perhaps they do think so; but you and I know better than that; at all events, he meant mischief; he held a dagger when he fell." "Madame," sobbed a tremulous voice-and Janet's spare form parted the curtains at the foot of the bed-"madame, dear mistress, say that you forgive me." For what?" asked the lady, gazing wonderingly at the pale, tear-stained face. "For everything. Ah, how can you ask? You know that but for me all this would never have happened." "But, my good girl, you forget how much I owe you; for, if you had not betrayed that fiendish farce of death and burial, where would I have been ?" "Oh, ma'am! I was like a straw in his hands, and he didn't give me time to reason; he just followed me to the office, and when I took the letter, there was he beside me! He made me give it up, ma'am ; I couldn't help it; and he said that if I told you, he would surely kill me; and, oh! my heart was like lead when he gave me the letter again the next day, and ordered me to take it to you. I felt that there must be trouble; but how could I know that he would be in Mr. Chamberlayne's carriage?" "It was not Mr. Chamberlayne's carriage, Janet. Mr. Chamberlayne did not expect me to go with him. He knew nothing of it. Mr. Trenholm arranged that plot to try me; he returned to you another letter in the place of that which he had taken -that was all. "Oh, I was too cowardly-too base to live!" Mrs. Chamberlayne reached over and took the woman's hand. "Do not torture yourself, Janet; he frightened you into compliance; I can understand that. Hush! don't cry." "God bless you for the word!" came now, 'twixt sobs and moans; "and I thought you was really dead. Oh, ma'am, shall I ever forget how he looked when he came to me and counted out money in my hand, and said that you were only drugged, and how he wanted me to help, and then we three should go away to some far-off land, never, never to see our home again?'' "Do not speak of all that, Janet," interposed Mr. Chamberlayne. Nay, let her tell it," said madame; "let her never tire of "Great God! he is mad!" and his opponent involuntarily telling, nor we of listening, to that story. Go on, Janet." made a step backward. That step proved his salvation. "Then I went to Mr. Chamberlayne and told the truth." continued the maid. "Then he went to the sexton and bribed At that instant came a sharp report- -a groan-and Yorke him, and, soon as Mr. Trenholm and all the rest had gone from Fitz-Hugh Trenholm fell prone-shot through the heart! CHAPTER VII. "WHAT is it? Where am I?'' "Hush!" said Clinton Chamberlayne; "be quiet, darling." "Tell me," she pleaded. "Did I dream? Is it"No dream, my own--no dream, my wife!" the cemetery, then we-Mr. Chamberlayne, the sexton, and I -went to the vault. Night was coming on. Yes, I went too ; I stood there when they opened the coffin. You had a key, sir. I saw them lift you out; Mr. Chamberlayne did that; he would not permit us to touch you. Oh, my dear! my dear! shall I ever forget your poor white face, and you all stiff and stonecold as the dead! Ah, how heavy was my soul then, ma'am !" "Poor Janet!" "And we filled the casket with what things we'd brought from the sexton; then we wrapped you in a shawl, and he who loved you so dear lifted you in his arms and carried you out, and so, through by-ways, we got you to the good sexton's lodge. No one met us but some workmen; but in the twilight they could detect nothing strange; and they said only, 'poor lady!' for I told them some story about your fainting through grief for a dear friend's loss; and I never went back to Mr. Trenholm's house. I dared not; I had got all my things away without causing suspicion; and I never saw him again until I saw him-murdered! Oh, mistress! oh, sir, my weakness has done it all! How can you forget that? How can you ever trust me again?" "Janet," spoke her master, in his calm, reassuring way, "do not reproach yourself. This has been God's own work, and you but an humble instrument in His hands. We trust you-be sure of that." He turned to his wife, now lying back upon the pillow. "Isabel !" Two great tears were on her cheeks, and at sight of these a keen pang wrung his heart. She looked up with a sweet smile. "I am happy," she murmured. my husband!" THE PAGE. Ho! PRETTY page with the dimpled chin, Lappets and bows of beautiful dyes. Bear in the wine of the bright ruby tint, Oh, say, pretty page, would'st not die for her love? Let thy heart lie still 'neath its velvety shield, DANTE. DEGLI ALIGHIERI DURANTE, generally shortened to Dante, was "Believe and love me-oh, born at Florence, some time in May, 1265, or six hundred and five years ago. Since then twenty generations of men have been born and died, and yet he remains the great poet of Italy; for although Ariosto and Tasso may be more interesting to the CHAPTER VIII. ONE day, a few months later, when the Chamberlaynes were million, on account of the more general subjects they have in Paris, Clinton came to his wife with a letter. "Read it," he said. And she read: "Come to me; I am dying. Yet, lest when you come it may be too late, hear me now. I killed Yorke Trenholm, but the bullet was intended for you! He and I were together; we had joined hands over our wrongs. He followed you abroad. We were always near you. He hated you wonderfully well, and with reason. I know all about the wife whom you won from the tomb; I know who she is. He knew, and he told me. Together we planned and plotted. But I had my own purpose, and that was to kill you. You should die by no hand but mine. Well, Yorke Trenholm did not know that. But I failed, and I have been punished. I am dying; remorse and fear have brought me to this pass. Come to me! Remember that I have been silent. You will say that I dared not speak lest I might implicate myself. Perhaps so; but come to me! I loved you so; and you cared for me once, remember. Ah, come! "ELEANOR." "Dead. I found her in the most luxurious chamber of a chosen, yet, for sustained loftiness of thought and force of language, no poet has ever yet rivaled the great author of the "Divine Comedy." His father dying when he was in his ninth year, he became very much his own master. His tutor was Brunetto Latini, a man of great learning and ability. In 1274, when only nine years old, he first saw Beatrice Portinari. She gave him that imaginative birth which results from the recognition of beauty, through the antithesis of sex, and the consequent creation of passion. In 1289 he was present at the battle of Campaldino, fighting on the side of the Guelphs. In the same year he assisted at the seige and capture of Cafrona. In 1286. Beatrice, the profound passion of his life, married Simone dei Bardi, and in 1290 she died. In 1291 Dante consoled his sorrow by marrying Gemma dei Donati, the head of whose family was the powerful Corso Donati. By this lady Dante had seven children, the youngest of whom he called Beatrice, in memory of his absorbing divinity. In 1300 Dante was made one of the six priors in whom was vested the government of his native city. In 1301 he was sent on a mission to Rome. In 1302 a sentence of exile and a heavy fine were pronounced against him, a hostile faction having obtained possession of the government. The charge against him was pecuniary malversation in office. The fine not being paid by the indignant poet, on March 10, 1302, he was condemned to be burned alive, if taken within the confines of the Florentine territory. For the next nineteen years he lived in various towns of Italy. On the 14th of September, 1321, he died, and was buried in Ravenna. Boccaccio gives this portrait of him: "Dante was of middle height, his face was long, his nose aquiline, his jaw large, and the lower lip protruding somewhat be little villa at Neuilly, with all the surroundings of great wealth, yond the upper; he stooped a little in the shoulders; his eyes only-dead." Madame sighed, softly. "And alone?" she asked. "No; there was an old, gray-haired man, an Austrian nobleman; he had been her protector. That he had cared for her was evident. He wept when he spoke of her to me." "Did you ever fancy that she had done that?'' Yes, dear; the idea came to me." "May God forgive her!" murmured Isabel. The husband knelt at the feet of his wife. "May God forgive us all!" said he. "Ah, my love-my love, neither death nor the grave can part us now!" were large and dark, his complexion was also dark; his hair and beard crisp and black, his countenance sad and thoughtful; his walk was grave; in meat and drink temperate; he seldom spoke, except when spoken to; he was very fond of music and singing; he was very reserved, and fond of solitude; his memory was very tenacious." Such is the picture the great novelist of Italy gives of her great epic poet. There have been many translations of Dante's "Divine Comedy," which is divided into the Paradiso, Inferno, and Purgatorio. The most successful is undoubtedly the latest-that by our great American poet, Longfellow. This was first published by Fields, Osgood & Co., in three expensive volumes, but so great is the demand, that a cheaper edition is advertised. It is not, perhaps, too much to say that to this country belongs the PURITY OF LIFE.-Let our lives be as pure as snowfields, distinction of having produced the finest translations of Homer where our footsteps leave a mark, but not a stain. and Dante, the former being Bryant's, and the latter Longfellow's. |