The Superior times. [volume] (Superior, Wis.) 1870-1912, 1878-02-23

!
IN the extravaganza that can do anything
for us-delight the eye, educate the
taste, elevate the senses-but extrava-
gance that is only for the sake of spend
| ing and abusing, is mere vulgarity."
You said | might have everything fit
for princess" said Beatrice, beginning
to cry.
And 1 say these stockings are not fit
for princess" Numbered the cardinal.
"See, it is skill misapplied-the delicate
work of the loom in an article to which
such extreme delicacy is inappropriate.
Those exquisite frescoes on my ceiling
are in place, and it's worthy instinct
that causes me to delight in them If |
ordered them painted on the floor, and
trod on them, defaced them, put them to
base misuse, my instinct would be
coarse and contemplate. A cardinal
must walk, but he would be fool to
walk on frescoes. A princess must walk,
and that gracefully and freely, too, but
she COULDN'T walk an hour in such things
as these. Seep' and he thrust his long
finger right through the frail web at the
toe. g Your stockings are not fit for a
princess. They are fine in texture but
coarse in taste. They are in appropri-
ate; they are vulgar; they are not de-
cent"
ooh, uncle!'
Not decent, say. They are sesthet-
ically improper; they show the extrava-
gance of the plebian, not of the noble"
He grew more excited with every word.
His eyes flashed fire. "Your training
has not made princess of you in heart
and mind, and, corpo di Baccol your
marriage shall not make princess of
you In name, and you are none of mine"
With grasp he swept up the bundle of
stockings. "Your trumpery here shah
go back to the fools who made, and you
shall go-I don't care where, but out of
my sight. Away! Fll none of YOU"
The Cardinal gathered up his skirts.
and crossing the room, passed out like a
whirlwind. The girl screamed aloud in
her terror OF old mans fearful passion
for much as she had heard of the violence
of his disposition, she had never been
made the victim of it before. But the
scream never checked the firm relentless
fall of his steps as it died away along the
corridor; and there lay little Beatrice.
shaken with heart-broken sobs, prone
across the foot-stool, where she had fallen
when in his violence he flung away from
her. She lay there long time, crying
and wiping away her tears with the un-
lucky stocking she had been displaying
on her hand, and in the spasm of her ter
ror had been crushing and rolling up I'M
til she forgot it was not her handkerchief
So the prince found her, as he was
ushered in to pay his usual daily call
upon the cardinal. She naturally turn
ed to her betrothed for consolation. She
told him all ABOUT her uncle's anger, all
he said, all she was suffering, and expect
ed the shield of his love between her and
her wrong. But the prince appeared
grave; be wineed at the Cardinals words
about disowning her, and finally volun-
teered to see the old man himself, and
let her hear by letter how matters really
stood.
Beatrice went to her own apartment
somewhat quoted By the sight of her
lover, but still most unhappy. She
waited, with what patience she could,
until evening, and then note came from
the prince. 1t was short note, care
/ fully and beautifully written. 1t ran
something like this: Your uncle, I am
grieved to say, formally disowns you. 1t
is cruel edict, my dear friend, for me,
loving tenderly as | do, but it seems the
will of heaven, and must submit. May
we meet again at some calmer and hap
pier time"
She swept her pale hands across her
swollen eyes, believing that her sight de-
ceived her, and read again and again
those neat and formal lines, the specious,
cowardly lines, and all the bitter mean
1 ing that lay between the lines.
He had renounced her, too. The
storm of grief that her uncle's cruelty
had reused was healthy and consonant
with her young nature, but the look she
wore after reading her lovers letter
never should come to such a sweet and
tender face. 1t spoke of the deepest
wrong woman can sustain--her affec-
lions spurned and sighted; the worst in
| suit that can be offered her-a marriage
from sordid motives. In an hour this
gentle, loving Beatrice was changed into
a resolved and indignant woman. She
had loved this man, and he had wronged
her. The world--the petty Roman world
| of gossip and slander---should not stare
at her curiously, nor wound her with its
thousand wicked tongues. Then the
uncle she had loved had cast her off.
1t was a secondary thought now, but
still a bitter one, and in the turbulence
and keen sense of injury of which only a
proud and gentle character is capable,
she took h2sty resolve. Almost as she
was, save with some Jewels of her
mothers, her rich trousseau was left be-
hind, its splendor scattered all over her
apartments, she left the palace-left it
in the silence and darkness. and went out
into the world with those richest of pos
| sessions, but poorest of defenses, her
youth, innocence and beauty.
Between the great rage the Cardinal
had INDUCED and his stormy interview
with the the prince, he was threatened
next morning with an old enemy of his
-apoplexy; and when he heard his niece
had disappeared, an attack came on that
held him bedridden and senseless for
weeks. On coming to himself, his first
order was to make search for her, but no
trace could be discovered.
The old man was haunted by vision
of the bright, happy face so lost out of
his life; and as its tender, smiling out
lines came like dream before his fan
cy, he shuddered, as it seemed to
weirdly change expression with the pos
sible wrong and misery his little Beatrice
might be suffering. But the world knew
nothing of this, for the Cardinal was to
all appearances as proud, as magnificent,
as dictatorial, and as keen a judge and
critic as ever.
Some years later picture-dealer ven
tured, cringing and on respectable tiptoe,
into the august presence.