Eagle River review. [volume] (Eagle River, Wis.) 1890-1927, 1899-08-10
CHAPTER I

LuluSS are uldue eQudA. SnoulU Inv "
zee any wise man who would tell me tnat
1 am as happy, as prosperous, as beloved
as Lenore Audley."
The girl musing stood at the open
French window of beautifully furnished
drawing room. On a couch at the end OF
the room lay lady sleeping, with an ex-
preston of angelic patience on what had
been a beautiful face; the blinds We're
drawn to shut out the sunlight. On ia
bic by her side stood every luxury that
love could procure-a plate Of grapes,
ripe peach, books periodicals, flowers. The
hands Of the sleeping woman Were.folded
in that most pitiful and helpless fashion
which tells that one is almost blind. The
girl at the open window had been reading
to her, and, finding her asleep, had gone
to look for the first amusement which
offered itself. From the window she
saw one of the prettiest pictures that even
a poet could dream.
A beautiful girl, with figure graceful
and perfect, was standing ON the lawn--a
girl who, from the midst of a thousand
others would rivet the eyes and atten-
ton; a fine, supple figure, full OF grand,
free grace, with frank, brave courage;
limbs that might have made sculptor's
study; beautiful face, fair and sweet,
yet full Of fire and courage-the face OF
a dauntless woman, whose resources
would be endless. Looking at her, one
thought almost involmtarily, of the great
queens whose names live in legend and
song.
She was standing near large acacia
tree the white blossoms Of which she
shook from time to time from her dress
and her bright hair. Two gentlemen were
with her, and at first sight you you'd have
dubbed one knight, the other poet. Cyril
Leslie Vernon, tall, dark man, with a
proud yet frank face, a courtly manner,
knightly figure, powerful and well
built, stood on her right hand. Austin
@Cnandos, on whose spiritual face poet was
written, stood on her left. She looked
from one to the other with laughing
light in her lovely eyes.
"My knight and my poet" she said,
''you will fatter me until l believe my
self really a queen. Who says l am like
Diane, who is a dream of loveliness?"
II say II" replied Cyril Vernon, raising
his cap and bowling.
"Who says l am like the queen, whom
to look at was to listen to music, and to
love was madness"
II say so," replied Austin Chandos,
bowling low.
The sweet, sunny laugh rang out in the
.sunlit air.
81 must thank you both gentlemen"
said the cheerful voice. 'You compare
me to heroines Of every kind and degree
to queens, whose very souls were dark
with guilt, and to sirens who by songs
lured men to death. l ought to be more
sdattered than l am"
The laughter died away in her face, and
light came over it, as she raised her
head proudly and said:
There's only one title that pleases me,
and it is "a soldiers daughter 1 am
prouder of being Col. John Audley's
daughter than should be Of being crown
ed sovereign of the British Isles and In
.dia"
"Do you remember anything Of India p
asked Austin, the poet.
mot very much. At times a dream
comes to me of fierce sunshine and huge
trees, of dark figures, with quiet, sly
movements, of sitting under the shade
and listening to the military band, my
hand fast clasped in my fathers"
India can have no very pleasant mem
vories for you." said Cyril the knight.
The beautiful face grew pale and sad.
NO, uO uOL speak Ol IL. 1O OluST pcO-
pie it is adj thing of the past, to me
1t is so horribly real We lived at Gavin
pore: we had lovely house there; it was
buried in scarlet flowers. / have the
whole of the scene before me now. There
was fierce clamor-a wild, terrible
shout. My father rushed into the room
pale, breathless, sword in hand. My
mother clasped me to her. heard moth
ing but the clash of swords, the cries of
my mother and aunt, my fathers deep
voice ringing as he called them dastards
to hurt a woman and child. l, who speak
TO you so safe in the heart of this green
land, l saw my pretty girlish aunt kill
ed! l saw my father carried off; and !
was left, so they told me, with my moth.
.er as dead. My father was shot that
ssame day, fighting to the last moment fol-
the English ladies' and children who were
alone and defenseless."
Her voice rang out, clear as the sound
of clarion.
mo nooler soldier ever served England
or fell in India, than my father, John
Audley; my one great pride is that an
his child. My mothers life and mine
were saved by Sergt. Maj. Henry Bea
ton; he helped us safely off to England
and my mother brought his daughter
Glade. back with her. Both her parents
were subsequently killed, and she has
been our adopted child and sister ever
since, and viii be while We live; the ole
ties are strong.
What a childhood said Austin, the
poet; Il do not like to think of it.
Yes, it was different to the childhood
of little English girls, who seem to me tc
live among flowers and kind words. One
thing often recurs to me; we brought with
us an old Indian ayah, who had been my
nurse: she used to open my hand and looE
into it, Warfare and bloodshed.' she
would say, when the line of life begaI
and, bloodshed again-what fate fol
little missy"
THAT is all nonsense" said Cyril, the