Litchfield enquirer. [volume] (Litchfield, Conn.) 1829-current, 1880-11-18
THE DRIFT-WooD FIRE.

THE DRIFT-W0OD FIRE.
It was our last night at the Beach House.
and those OF US that were left had clustered
round the fire that had been laid on the
hearth of the great hall, where all summer we
had been wont to do our masQuerading and
our dancing. !5
We were none of rs very gay; indeed, we
were some Of US very sad. We were just
about 10 separate, and the summer was over
1t was . wild autumn storm outside. and
there was not another house within half
dozen miles of this lonesome hosiery; hut,
more than all, it was two days and night
since we had seen or heard of Raymonde, and
everybody about the place loved Raymonde,
whose royal foreign name only bespoke roy
al foreign nature for how such tropical soul
came out of our commonplace, temperate ex-
istence and civilization was not to be explain
ed. He Vas wonderfully charming in his ap-
pearance: dark and pale, with glowing eyes
as dark as eyes dare be, and the dark locks
falling over wide low white brow As you
looked mp at his face, you were reminded of
something OF the princes in the halls of Eblis
before their hearts took fire, SO gentle mel
ancholy was stamped there. Yet it was not.
easy tounderstand this melancholy he seem.
ed to have almost everything in his life that
"doC othCif' pCOpiC TAU duu gay. 11t was
rich, and had no sordid cares he was SO man
ly that women adored him, and so gentle that
men loved him; he had such marvellous pow
ers that he could acquit himself well in al
most every one of the arts-could paint, could
model, could harmOniZe; and he had such
discretion that he contented himself with
swallow flights, and stretched no broad can
vases, planned no great symphonies. He
liked his gun better than any of his playthngs
and really seemed to be little proud of being
able to toss a penknife in the air, and split
bullet on its descending blade, and of nothing
else He had been at the Beach House since
June, and had 'unconsciously led all hearts
captive, although he cared for nothing less
We were little interested to see how he
would strike Marion Mercer when she arrived,
with her mother and her aunt, and the maids,
and the birds, and the dogs, without which
Mrs Mercer never travelled. Apparently be
struck her no more than il he had been the
shadow OF somebody else. She never had
any color, and so none rose to her cheek, and
no fresh light came to her eyes, as-when-
hailed and saluted on the piazza, as she came
in, by Salie Worthen-Mr. Raymonde, stand
ing near, was presented by Salie with the air
of treasure trove; and Miss Mercer bowed in
her slow, graceful way, and passed on, while
MIR. Raymonde lifted his hat as indfferently.
We wondered little that Marion did not give
so extraordinary person, as we had come to
consider him, a second glance, and at Mr..
Raymonde's laBguid carelessness as we'll in
the presence of Marion, who had never known
anything but conquest but perhaps we were
just as we'll content, although, for my part,
nothing of the sort made any difference to me
"a sick old maid, on the outside of such mat
tiers. But sometimes the lookers-on in Vienna
have better time than the players in the
pageant and realized it one evening, after a
week had gone by. in which no one saw Ray.
monde looking over Marion's sketching book.
or asking her to dance, or exchanging single
glance with her, or Marion's eye once flashing
in his direction. 1 had taken longer walk
on the lonely beach than had intended, and,
quite tired with hurrying had stopped to
rest, on my way back, in the shadow of the
cliff. and think / must have fallen asleep a
few moments; for all at once started, shiv-
ering to think what had happened, and find
ing that it was quite dark, and to hear voice
"a voice that knew at once was Raymonde's
-exclaiming,, Marion, how long do you
think can endure this?'
II don't know what you mean, SIR" was
the cold reply.
"Aha, Miss Marion Mercerl" thought /
f''now l know why it is that none of these
suffers suit. And you and Mr.. Raymonde
such strangers, too"
Marion !" he exclaimed again, in tone
that would have rent her heart if she had any,
l thought.
"Be so good as to let me pass" she said,
very low and Distinctly.
mo" he returned. ''not till I know of
what it is, that you hold me guilty, why my
letters have been returned, unopened, and my
name refused at your door" -. -... u
L =. - 4 .
repression suddenly ceased, and the food
gates were opened. "You dare to address me
so-yOu, whose wife | had promised to be,
whom adored, who forsook me for dancing
girl, and left me desolate!"
There was one moments silence
"And you believe this!' he gasped. II
suppose it was the dancing girl who stood to
NE for my picture of the Almee-that inno-
cent little thing, the support of mother and
sisters Since you could believe that" he
said, in voice shaking with suppressed pas
sion, Il will not ask you to believe the truth,
Il at, sketching in the Maremma, was seized
with fever, and nursed back to life by the
peasants living in a tomb, and came to my
reason only to find that you and all of yours
had left Rome-had left it with insult and OBJ
loquy to me. AS for the dancing girl-my
God is it possible? You believe that of me
l ask nothing more of you" And heard
his steps ringing on the single; and then
Marion had sunk down where she was, in a
storm of uncomfortable and unappeasable
sobs, from knowledge of which | crept away
like a contemplate eavesdropper. for those
sobs said more than either she or Raymende
had. But if / had stirred before, it would
have only increased the trouble, after all.
1t was the night for the band to play but
did not see Marion that evening among all the
gay couples, TILL just before eleven o'clock,
she was visible. leaning against an open win
dow-way, in her creamy Grape, and her sha W
of red Madeira lace like crimson cobweb
round her hair and shoulders, not a trace of
tears or of any emotion on her proud and
lovely face, as she listened rather dreamily to
the music, took one turn down the room with
Mr. Munson, and going up the stairs, in her
slow, calm way of doing everything, passed
MIR. Raymonde coming in wild and wet from
the sea. kept my own counsel, and rather
pleased myself with the idea of being the
single spectator of the spectacle z...i7 ss
1t was day or two before Mr.. Raymonde
appeared upon the scene-delving at his
sketches in his own rooms. they said-and
then as naturally as ever he sauntered down
among the bathers, and took his dip, and
frolicked with the children as usual Water
did not make him look as it does some peo-
pie; the more he was wet, the closer curled
the dark rings of his hair, that had only long
wave in it when dry, and the rich color light
ed his cheek, that was always so pale on
shore. Marion, too, was one of those women
that are not ruined by bathing; she came
down to the brink completely wrapped In her
long thick white cloak, which one of the Mer.
Ger maids became useful for once by taking,
and the moment that she was in, the water the
waves all seemed to flow down from her
shoulders like the folds of garment about
her, and as she swan away she was more like
q Nereid than boarder at the Beach House.
But ] suppose even Nereid might have had
cramp, or shark or other sea- monster seize
her beautiful foot. or something of the sort
for one morning, as | sat on a rock sketching
the bathing scene, there was cry from Sallie
and Charlotte and the rest, but none at all
from Marion, who had thrown up her arms
and gone under Arthur Santley was swim
ming to the spot directly, followed by young
Maybank, and almost before one knew it a
boat was putting out from shore, when Mr..
Raymonde, who had been playing with the
children at the other side 0f the little hafhinU