The Sunday herald. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1866-1887, 1886-05-23

qcestionings, and who sometimes, II she hap
pened TO be in a communicative mood,
deigned TO respond with variations OF her
own doings. All day long David looked for
ward to the tete a-tete Of the dinner hour.
Every evening he went to the Piazza, and
marched up and down In solitary state, his
eyes continually travelling in one and the
same direction, or he sought table at the
cafe where he could furtively watch his new
friend, who was pretty sure to be in sight.
In his letters to Whitechapel he never once
mentioned her. For one thing he did not
know her name. Once, in a III Of more than
ordinary curiosity, he had curiously glanced
through list Of names In the "visitors'
Book" but among them all how could he
distinguish the one in which he was inter-
estedi The ladies were known by the waiter
fraternity Of the hotel as les danes du numero
pingt-cing, the number Of their sitting room.
When speaking to his neighbor David had
often had at his tongues tip downright
question concerning her name, but he had
hitherto been too shy to utter II. He fully
intended TO be holder one day. Meanwhile,
In his verses--she had found her way into
most Of his verses written at this period-he
chose, for some fanciful reason Of his own, TO
call her "ITera."
II turned out that the length OF the girls
stay in Venice was Identical with David's /;
they were both to leave on the same day.
On the last evening In Venice David and
Hera found themselves walking together,
and actually unaccompanied, along the Pr
azsa. incoming along in his usual fashion,
the young man had happened TO brush
against the ladies as both he and they were
bound for the "Angleterre," It was natural
that they should walk together.
But the elder lady Of the company was
presently pounced upon by an Italian
countess, who insisted on mouopolizing her
attention. David moved on with Hera; he
could hear ceaseless stream of foreign
sounding English flowing on behind him.
A strange silence came over the young
man. Intently-almost breathlessly : he
watched his companion. She had drawn of
one Of her gloves; on one Of her fingers was q
| ring, with a forget. enot in turquoises
David wondered, with touch Of utterly I'M
reasonable jealousy, whose hand had placed
| IL there.
The silence seemed oppressive TO the girl.
"Let us hurry toward the Riva and see the
moonlight on the water" she sail. "Moon-
| light on the water is the most correct Of all
Venetian beauties"
"Certainly." David tried to shake off his
taciturnity-to emulate his companions gay
ETY.. But the attempt ended in failure; he
was obviously dull and miserable.
Oh, the beauty of the evening-an evening
never to pass from David's memory How
grand and solemn the Ducal palace looked in
the moonlight how still was the water, how
sweetly came the sound of singing voices
from the Grand Canali On the top Of the
steps of one of the many bridges OH the Riva
bothl walkers came simultaneously to stand
still.
$50 this Is our last evening in Venice |"
said the girl, resting her arms on the top
of the bridge, aud looking musingly down
into the water.
"Why do you tell me that Surely know
IT," burst out David, savagely. The girl
glanced up, startled by the sharpness of his
voice.
whats the matterf'
"Ah mel Sic transit gloria mmi."
| III beg your pardon"
81 beg yours; Twas quoting Latin. What
want to say is that-that-the prospect Of
bidding you goodbye is-well-is the re-
verse of an enlivening one to me-"
How solemn you are," with laugh.
"And for no reason at all. We shall often
meet again."
"Shall weP" David leaned his elbow on
the top Of the bridge; he bent his head
down close to the girls; her hair almost
brushed his cheek.
"Of COURSE" little impatiently. "My
friend and go to Florence to morrow, aud,
AS l told you, am great friend of Mrs.
Wilton's; look in upon her every day."
"But am not going to Mrs. Wilton's."
David spoke in suppressed voice; he did
not raise his head.
"What do you meanr'
"What say. cannot 60 to her now.
had not been day in Venice before | grew
aware of that fact. But could not-forgive
me-resign the pleasure Of staying on here
with you. My expenses at Venice must be
Notwithstanding" with grim smile.
"You are going tomorrow; then l leave
the same day for London"
from her STOPPING position. GLOW changea
BILE and incomprehensible You are! What
has happened since you left home to change
your plans so suddenly ?"
Everything has happened" Half me.
chemically Hera had moved ON few PAGES
and David walked beside her. They de-
scended the bridge steps and made their way
slowly along the river.
"You know of-you spoke OLA matri
monial scheme for me which was the caus,
of Mrs. Wilton's invitation. When l lef
home was free it was at least possibl,
that an introduction TO Miss Balfour might
il my advances proved acceptable, end in tn,
accomplishment of my aunt's scheme. Nov
all that possibility is over"
"Why overH'
} 81 am not free now," cried the younj
man passionatsly. "Sincs have met you
have learned that Miss Balfour and coul,
never, at best, be more to each other thai
good friends"
An inscrutable expression came into tn
girls face. She stood still, and eyed he
companion searchingly. "Surely," sh
said, 'if You oppose your aunt's plans, yol
will injure your prospects for lifs."
eyes," answered David, with simpl
candor. "My mother will be sorsly disap
pointed; she had hoped so much from m
aunt's new interest in me. l am sorry 70
my mother, but Il don't fear the future 70
. myself if" David broke off.
"Won't you wait till you see Miss Balfou
before You decide on opposing your aunt
views?"
"Why should see her 2" (vehemently.
"The very thought of Miss Balfour is hid
: eous to me-"
"And how shall you explain your chang
/. Of plans to Mrs. Wilton 2"
"Explainl l shall write and tell her th
truth-shail say that have met you"
The girls lips parted In curious smil,
. she stood st0ck-still, facing David 10 I'll
. moonlight. "Whom shall you say that 20
3 have metz" she asked, lifting her eyes sue
denly to her companions face.
8 w-I-don't know; a thousand times
have wanted to ask your name. Will 20
r tell it to me now ?" faltersd David humbiy.
"To be sure. | am Joyce Balfour."
(; "Joyce Balfour!" II thundsrbolt ha
. fallen at David's feet he could hardly ha,
been more astounded. II ever he were dun
: founded in his life, he was SO at this oris
4 of his fate.
II A merry laugh recalled his wanderin,
Z eyes, | am Joyce Balfour and Mrs. Wilton
r ward; 1t Is Mrs. Wilton with whom al
!. staying at the Angleterre. never sxpscte
! to remain unknown to You SO long; men al
. so slow at guessing; woman would ha,
8 found us out long ago. Why, there were
!. thousand ways Of learning our names, an
often wondered why you didn't ask II
. mine downright. When We first heard TIL
d you were going to stay in Venice pc
n suaded Mrs. Wilton to come over here ar
make your acquaintance under the ros
i II was no more pleasant TO me than to yo
J. | can tell You, to be under orders matrim
u NAL to Mrs. Wilton. was no more willii