The Work of a Temptress. that hand to his heart, and leaned forward to "I must not give you the seal of love until "Can you doubt it? Do you not see that I am utterly yours?" he cried, wondering what concealed mystery there was in her words. "I believe you," she said. "But do you know that in the chivalrous age a lady could command her lover to any deed of valor she chose ?" "So may you command me!" he responded. "Can I?" she asked, looking questioningly at him. Satisfied with that look, she went on slowly, her musical voice strangely at variance with the words she said: First let me tell you something of my life, that you may understand why I ask this of you. Two years ago, when I was eighteen, my father betrothed me to a man who came from New Orleans and purchased a large coffee-plantation near here. The man was wealthy, handsome, fascinating; he paid me every attention in his power-" She paused and looked at the lowering brow of her companion, touched the straight eyebrows softly with her fingers, and said: "It is not worth your jealousy, Robert. I hate the man. I never loved him, though he had a powerful influence over me. I was to marry him, and I did not shrink from the thought, for he had pictured a glorious future. The night of the wedding came, and with it a throng of gay guests, both his friends and ours. The hour arrived, but not the bridegroom. In an agony of expectation and anxiety, I waited his coming. Can I ever in words convey to you the mortification of that time? A Spanish girl does not usually lack for pride, and I was no exception. The minutes, the half hours rolled on, and he did not come. That was bad enough; that alone would have made me swear a vengeance on him who had despised his faith to a Castilian girl. But at last, late in the evening, some one came, and it was whispered among the guests that he already had a wife, that she had just arrived from New Orleans at his residence in time to stop the marriage. Then the guests dispersed, some smiling cynically, some pitying the poor girl whose affections were thus blasted. They tried to keep it from me, but I found it all out. I knew the fact that would have called a blush to my cheek had been in my coffin. No one, not even my father in his rage, knew the agonies of humiliation, anger and wounded vanity that I suffered. I thought I would follow him to the world's end but his best blood should flow for the insult. I to be pointed at as a deceived and a deserted woman! I to have been so near being that man's mistress! And to be pitied for it!" With a sudden change of tone, with a sudbewitching than her furious indignation had den flush of cheek and dewiness of eyes, more been, she turned toward her companion, and said: "Robert, will you help me? A woman can do nothing." Hastings, who had listened with an indescribable contending of emotions, with pallid face and gleaming eyes, replied in a low voice: ing the horrible reply. "What will you have me do?" half expect "You will kill that man for me, if you love me!" It was impossible for him to repress a shudder. Adventurous, wild as had been his from it-not with timidity, but with dread. life, he had never shed blood, and he shrank "I am no duellist," he said, at last. "And I have fondly dreamed that the man I loved would be anything for me," said the syren tone, close to his face. Intoxicated by that presence, delirious with the thought of a future with love and with her, he rose to his feet, saying: "There is nothing I would not risk for the sake of your love. Tell me who he is, and where he is, and you shall be revenged." "He is at the Hotel, in the city; he has been there but two days. His name is Morton Holmes." his "When I return to you, be it sooner or later," he said, with slow utterance, thoughts overleaping the deed he was to do, and alighting upon the time that should follow, "when I return, that day shall be our marriage day, Castilla ?" She was standing beside him, her hands in his, her sweet breath sighing over his bent face. "It shall be our marriage day," she replied. One long, intense look, a murmur of adieu, and he had disappeared in the warm gloom of the garden. saying to herself: "I do love him-it is love; but life, love itself shall yield, until that man has atoned with his life. I cannot live and know he is in the world." Hastings walked with headlong haste through the wooded path, until he had reached the highway. He did not go to his lodgings. His blood was on fire; his whole frame was too fully alive to the deed before him to allow of one moment's quiet. Not until he could claim his bride could he rest. Was not her life worth any price? Did not the man who had insulted her deserve death? He needed no urging to fight him. As he walked, and thought after thought swept through his mind, he could hardly wait until revenge should be within his grasp. But once did the thought of his own death flash across him. He might fall; the eternal coldness of the grave might be his lot, and not life and love. With a shudder of horror he cast the idea from him. He had never before feared death; but now, life, golden, intoxicating and supreme love awaited him-life beneath the smile of Castilla. Ah, he would live. Fate itself would relent in view of such a future. He walked straight to the hotel to which Castilla had directed him, and was shown up to the private parlor of the American. He had, as yet, no idea of what he should say. He only felt a fierce desire to see the man who, but for an accident, or rather but for an obstacle presented by Providence, would have succeeded in making that beautiful woman his, for the shame and misery of all her after years. As he entered, a tall, dark, elegant-looking man rose from a large lounging-chair by the window, and looked inquiringly at his visitor. Hastings stood for an instant silent, seeing how handsome was the face, noting that, in spite of elegance and beauty, there was an illy hidden look of sensualism, of falseness. Summoning all his self-control, the young man said, in a slow, low voice: "You are Mr. Morton Holmes ?" The man bowed and offered Hastings a seat, who only availed himself of it so far as to lean his hands upon the back of it. "Morton Holmes, from New Orleans?" repeated Hastings. "That is true," was the reply; while Holmes began to be curious concerning his unknown visitor, and to be somehow vaguely irritated by him. My name is perhaps immaterial to you," said Hastings, with a cold dignity. “I am a gentleman. I came here to insult you, to make you fight me; for I consider you a most despicable villain!" It is impossible to describe the contemptuous frigidity with which those words were uttered. Hastings was so intensely, so thoroughly excited, that the little of his father's self-possession that he had inherited came into activity, the call for it was so great. The face of Holmes flushed with an angry, astonished luridness. Then with an apparent effort he governed some desire, and said: "Are you insane? I am an entire stranger to you. Do you court my bullets? In that case, they are ready for you; for I do not exactly relish such words as you address to me." The fiery Southerner knew very well that the furious flame glowing in Hastings's eyes was not the fire of insanity; and there was something in the stranger's manner that angered him more than he could have told. "You wish, then, to combat the assertion that you are a contemptible rascal ?" asked Hastings. "If I fight one who is worthy to be my antagonist," was the quick, haughty reply. "As to that, don't be alarmed. The people here know me-they will tell you whether Robert Hastings is a proper person for you to shoot at; and I shall certainly consider you a coward, and post you as such, if you refuse me." "Your insolence is charming!" said Holmes, with a short, harsh laugh. "My fingers tingle now with my desire to horsewhip you. Have I been so unfortunate as to beguile some fair love from you? The women have not been too chary to me." He could read nothing upon the face of his guest, who only said: 66 Let the arrangements be short. Will you mect me at sunrise, where you please, and with what weapons ?" "The weapons shall be pistols," said Holmes, thoroughly enraged, and impatient for the bloody time. "A little dust would stop your mouth well; I hope to administer that." "And the place?" imperturbably said Hastings. Holmes mentioned a retired spot within about a mile and a half of the hotel, and Hastings bowed in silence and left the room. Holmes, who had fought several duels before, and was considered an excellent shot, told the story to his companions, jested over it, and drank to the confusion of his enemy. But Hastings, who, notwithstanding his wild, irregular life, had never fought thus, sat quietly in his own room, his head bowed upon his hands, thinking only vaguely of the hour of sunrise; not thinking of the possibility of his death, but living over again the last, triumphant, happy hour with the woman he loved. If any thoughts of the evil of such an encounter entered his mind, they did not dwell there; his life had not been one to nourish such ideas; still he felt vaguely that perhaps it wasn't all right-but he could not exactly tell where the wrong was. He hoped he should kill that handsome libertine, and he believed he should. So the night hours wore away, and streaks of light shot up the horizon, In the pearly glow of that light, Hastings walked to the appointed place, with firm nerves, and hope in his heart. He was skillful with the pistol, and he somehow felt a strange exhilaration. Tonight, to-day, Castilla would be his wife; her lips, her smiles, her heart would be his, because she loved him. It was with a smile in his blue eyes that he reached the place, as the first golden glow spread up the east. It was not a minute before Holmes appeared with a couple of friends; and as the full disc of the sun rose in the soft morning blue, the two men were stationed, awaiting the horrible word. The two shots rang out simultaneously upon the clear morning air, and both men fell. Holmes prone upon his face, his hands vainly clutching at the earth; then, with a last, panting breath, his heart ceased to beat, drowned in blood. His friend knelt by him, while the other man ran to the side of Hastings, who was not dead, but senseless from a terrible wound in the side. At last their stimulants revived him a little; he opened his eyes wonderingly, gazed around for an instant, and then said, feebly: "Take me to the plantation of Don Romero. Take me quickly!" He could say no more, and something in his face told them that he must indeed be taken quickly, if he would reach there alive. An hour later he lay on a couch upon the veranda of Romero's house, and Castilla the daughter was bending over him, her face as pallid as his own, in her heart an anguish deeper than in his. Already had her punishment begun. He was looking at her with his passing soul in his eyes. "Now you may kiss me," he said, softly. "He is dead. You will never see him." Then, as she pressed her lips in passion and sorrow to his mouth, murmuring a love greater even than she had imagined, he said: "Yes-you love me-love me-even as I love you. We might have lived in happiness -it was wicked-but we love." The last word was whispered in the last sigh upon her lips, and the man had died in doing her unhallowed bidding. Years after, one might see sometimes on sunny days in a convent garden, a nun with faded face, her hair concealed by the white folds of linen, her eyes filled with a resignation so sad as to draw tears from eyes that met that gaze. The pious, sorrowful sister had once been Castilla di Romero. CHAPTER III. BY AMETHYST WAYNE. BUT when we were fairly at the bottom, Reginald Motley's stiff hands dropped away from me. It was fortunate that I retained my consciousness, and when we came up again to the surface, I was cool and self-possessed. I had not lived on the coast so long to be afraid of water. I had always taken pride in my swimming, and was quite an accomplished diver. So in a few moments I cleared my mouth from the salt water, and took in a good inspiration of air. Then, supporting myself in a stationary position, I looked around for my luckless companion. He had come to the surface with me, but was sinking the second time, when I caught him by his hair, and then cautiously transferred my hold to his jacket-collar; but it required all my strength. A few strokes gave me op portunity to discover the boat, several yards away. I shouted, and even then, in my lamentable position, I could not help laughing at the hearty relief of poor Joe's voice. "The Lord save us, Maury! where are you? I was afraid you were drowned!" he exclaimed, and began to row toward me in a desperate hurry. Poor Reg was no hindrance to me now, except that he lay a dead weight upon my band, for he had lost consciousness. While I kept myself floating, Joe lugged him into the boat, and the woman, his mother, as I soon discovered, seized him and fell to kissing and weeping over him. I, for my part, was so used up that Joe had to help me over the side. "The Lord be praised!" he muttered. "I was just thinking I had better drown myself, too, rather than face your mother. How do you feel, lad? You're all right, aint you, Maury ?" "All right, Joe, only a little used up. Look after poor Reginald, do." Joe turned to the lady and said, bluntly: "Look here, marm; it's no kind of use crying over spilt milk. If you want to save him, you must do something more sensible than crying. Turn him over on his side, and roll him over, and rub his hands, and slap his chest right smartly. I b'leeve there's a flannel jacket in the locker there, and some brandy." And he went fumbling away under the seat in the stern. The lady drew herself up in a haughty fashion, and, even in the moonlight, I saw the indignant flash of her eye.. But she said nothing, only bent down and began chafing Reginald's hands. He came to in a short [Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.] time, and was presently sitting up, out of all danger, but very peevish and terrified still. "O mother, are we safe-are we really safe?" he kept asking, again and again. "When shall we get to the shore? O, I am so wet and cold! I shall catch my death, I know I shall. O dear! Q dear!" We were all wet and cold, for that matter, although our passengers had possession of Joe's flannel jacket, and my dry jerkin, and had somewhat the advantage of us, for Joe had got nearly as wet as I. The stiff breeze was not particularly agreeable, striking upon dripping clothing, as I had discovered sometime before; but I wouldn't have whined in his fashion, if I had been twice as forlorn. "Which way are you heading the boat?" asked Mrs. Motley, suddenly, with a haughty asperity of tone, which betrayed her consciousness of the exceedingly plebeian company into which necessity had placed her. Jack turned his head carelessly, with none too obsequious a manner, even after I whispered to him that it was the wife and son of the great merchant prince who owned the handsomest residence on the shore. "I'm going to land at Mackerel Run; that rock-head you see, straight across. It's the quickest help we can get, marm." "What houses are there, pray? I would rather you took me straight along to our wharf." 66 'Humph! mebbe I would rather take you there too; but this wind happens to prefer going just the other way, and it would take a good spell to tack and row there-longer than these young chaps oughter be setting in wet clothes." "But what help can we get there? Are there any other houses than those little fisher-huts?" she asked, hastily. "No; but that is all we need. We can get a warm fire, and blankets, and a cup of hot tea, besides a Christian welcome to them as has been near their death this night, marm," answered Joe, bending his attention again to the boat. "O mother, go anywhere to get safe on shore. We needn't go into their low, filthy houses. We'll find a team of some sort to get us home. "O, if ever I trust myself again in a sail-boat with Dixon- Why, mother, where is Dixon ?" "I don't know, my darling. He was standing by the tiller when that terrible shock came and the boat went over." "By thunder, marm!" ejaculated Joe Stephens, in a tone of hearty indignation, "you don't mean there was some one else with you, and you let us come away from the spot, and never said a word about looking around to pick him up?" "It was one of the hands belonging to my son's yacht. It was by his reckless management that the boat went over. He was a strong, hearty fellow, and I dare say he swam ashore." Joe sat a moment irresolute. "It's no good going back now, but I say it's a burning shame," he muttered. "Some folks think the life of a poor man is no more'n a dog's. I'll get help from the shore and come back over this track." Not another word was spoken, except for Reginald's "O dears!" until the boat rubbed against the rock at Mackerel Run. I jumped out, stiff and numb as I was, and fastened it so that the lady could step out without wetting her feet, although afterward I had a good laugh, all by myself, thinking how ridiculous the idea was, when there she was drenched from head to foot. Some men lounging by the door of the nearest cabin saw our landing, and came down to meet us. Only a few words of explanation were required to send them all hurrying to their homes, to offer us the very best of their hospitality. I glanced back to judge of the aristocratic lady's impression, when we entered the door of a large, unplastered room, whose great fireplace was one glow of charming blaze, from the great pile of shavings and pine boughs hastily lighted. I am sure I thought it was perfectly delightful. The good fisherman's wife was bustling around, getting out her best teapot and her company teacups; and though everything was common and simple, it was all exquisitely clean, and the floor was so white I hated to walk over it with my dripping feet. There above the fireplace was an open closet, filled with a row of tin dishes and cups as bright as if they had just come froin a peddler's cart. And the good woman herself, though dressed in a common calico, looked the very picture of a thrifty housewife; and the little black-eyed children, huddled in a group by the window, kept the most decorous quiet, only their open eyes showing their curiosity and astonishment. But this Mrs. Motley minced into the room, with a look on her face as if only direful emergency could tempt her to venture her aristocratic person across so rude a threshold. Her thin nose |