The Stark County Democrat

BEAUTY'S SECRET
BY ALAN MUIR.
Author of "Vanity Fair," "Golden Girls," Etc.

"Ah," Percival remarks with a sigh, "it is no use. I can never stand against you."

Sophia thinks she understands this, and sighs, too, faintly, blushes about the thousandth part of a tint, droops her head about the millionth part of an inch. He sees all.

"What a stormy day!" he says next.

"Very stormy."

"And yet it does not seem dull, not in here, does it?" Artful young man! he lowered his voice toward the end of the sentence, as if the very walls must not hear, but she only.

"Oh, no; it does not seem a bit dull in here," she responds. There is a regular lovers' way of saying the same thing to and fro; the simpletons mean to intimate their entire oneness in all things, spoken or thought.

Sophia looked very lovely just at that moment, with the fear that is joy hovering over her, casting lights on her eyes, flushes on her cheek, and making her every slightest motion tender and gentle. He feels that now he is full in the sway of the whirlpool; on and on he will be borne until he has told her all.

"Something very singular happened to me in Australia," Percival says, bending nearer to her; "something I am half afraid to speak of."

Here he stops.

"Tell me about it," she whispers, oh, so low, so deliciously! She meant: Anything you say will be sweet to hear—especially what you are going to say.

"It was something so strange, so unforeseen! One of those things which happen we cannot tell how, leading to we cannot tell what."

He stopped again. Again she murmured one of those sentences which women never speak but to one ear only, unbaring their hearts.

"Tell me about it."

"While I was in Australia I fell in love with a girl, who is the queen of my heart, and shall be till I die."

Her posture never changed, not by the movement of a finger; and I do not think the sharpest watcher would have seen a quiver of her eyelid or a tremor of her lip. But the life went from her face and eyes, and the fear that is joy vanished, leaving behind the fear that is fear indeed.

"Are the girls—the girls—in Australia very pretty?" she inquired, in a death-like voice.

The next moment she would be in his arms; the next moment his kiss would have dropped in a burning seal on her lips; the next moment she would have been his, declared so by signs which even her modesty could not have hidden. Alas! how short is the space allotted to whispering, blushing love in this rough world! Just then the dining room door opened, and in rushed little Mr. Brent, roaring with laughter, stamping on the floor, choking, rubbing his hands.

And Mrs. Barbara Temple followed laughing, but not in his fashion.

"And then," cried the parson between his rapturous bursts, "then, without another word, down sat the dean, looking so important, so dignified, so reproving—just like an angry turkey cock. I assure you, Mrs. Temple. Down he sat on his new hat—crash! it was stove in—his new hat! And up he jumps again, and exclaims: 'Bless me, my hat!'"

Rosy with his boisterous mirth, he went up and down, not knowing what he had done, though quick-eyed Mrs. Temple suspected, and would have withdrawn. Percival looked inexpressibly discomfited. Who should make the next move? It was Sophia.

"Good to have a merry heart, Mr. Brent!" she said, smiling at him in a way which showed—he told his son as they went home—that she at least enjoyed the story. And she darted from the room. But Percival could not see her face before she was gone.

Fixed he stood, poor baffled young fellow; the arms dropped at his side which were to have been wound about the girl he loved: his face a blank, his heart full of vexation.

Meanwhile the little rector fell into a chair, and sent up peal after peal of most obstreperous mirth.

"The dean was new, and the hat was new. When he sat down we heard the crash. When he got up no one living could have told which looked more dismal, his face or his hat. 'Bless me, my hat!' I hear him saying it now, Mrs. Temple. The finest sight I ever saw."

"Percival, Percival, why don't you laugh?"

BOOK THREE.

LADY BEAUTY'S LOVERS.

CHAPTER I.

THE LOVER SAYS "WILL YOU?" AND THE LADY SAYS "YES."

One evening in February Rector Brent appeared about five o'clock, just as the lamps were lighted in the drawing room. Luck had it this time that Sophia should be sitting alone. and as she rose to welcome her visitors she remarked that her mother and Sibyl were in the library and Car out for a walk. The little man, with praiseworthy readiness—perhaps he had got a hint beforehand—remarked that he would go to the library, as he wanted to speak with Mrs. Temple; and at the word he hurried from the room, and left our pair alone. Sophia. glancing at Percival, noticed that he carried a small parcel in his hand: and he, finding himself alone with her, resolved to finish his broken story. He lost no time now, having learned a lesson on that subject already.

"I was interrupted the other day when I was telling you about Australia," he remarked, drawing a chair close beside her.

"Shall I finish what I was saying?"

"Do."

"That girl I am in love with so passionately, who got my heart out there—"all this came out with such tumultuous haste that she might have known what would follow—

"shall I show you her portrait?"

"I should like to see it."

"I thought you would, I brought it with me," he said, opening his packet with trembling fingers. "Only let me tell you this picture gives you a very faint idea of her indeed. It is beautiful, but her actual face is past all likeness and all praise, soft as starlight, pure as snow, tender as the spring sunshine, full of life and truth. Oh, how I love it!"

"She must be happy," Sophia said, with a delicate sadness that whispered all he wanted to know, but the excited young fellow did not mark it. "She must be very happy. Let me look at the picture."

Almost with a sob she said it.

"I shall show it in a moment," he replied holding it ready to turn up to the lamplight; "only let me finish my story first. It was this picture I fell in love with. I resolved when I saw the face that is here to live and die for it. Its heavenly fairness subdued me in a moment and for ever, and all my fear was lest the true face should not be as lovely. I had to wait a long time before I saw the original—many months. All that time I was true to my picture, and gazed at it morning, noon and night, till every feature was printed on my heart. Then the day came when I saw—her. At the sight all memory of the picture vanished quite away. Oh, how I trembled lest she should be promised to another, or lest she should not love me!"

"Was she promised to another?"

"No."

There followed a tiny sigh.

"And did she—did she—Oh. but she must" Sophia said, turning her sad full eyes on his manly face. "I can finish the story; she said she would love you."

"The story is not finished yet." he cried, impetuously. "But you are right in one thing you can finish it. Look, this is the picture of the girl I love."

She bent to look, and as she did so a tear she could not keep back dropped on the cardboard. The next instant she uttered a cry and started to her feet. She had seen herself.

A moment she looked at him, and such was the struggle of surprise, delight, modesty and fear in her face that he was now as far from her secret as a moment before she had been from his. He thought she was angry.

"Miss Temple—Sophia," he said, "don't be angry. If I have offended you, I did not mean it. Surely you won't be angry?"

Still she made no answer, but only looked at him, for speech and action had forsaken her together; and he, foolish fellow, grew certain that she was displeased.

"I loved it so." he said. pleading. "I could not help it: and I wanted to tell you myself before I spoke to others about it. I wanted you to hear the story first from my own lips."

He hung his heady ashamed to look at her.

"I know I am presumptious. I feel sure al ready that you will tell me I am not the man you can love. I wish I had waited a little be fore speaking; the dream was so much bet- ter than this awakening; but I could keep myself silent no longer. Perhaps it is as weli to know it at once. It will save

But as he spoke, her cheek came close to his own, and her little hand fell on his shoulder. Too womanly for coquetry or coyness, she gave her answer at once, and with such readiness that neither Percival nor Sophia were able to settle that night which kissed the other first.

CHAPTER II.

CAROLINE AND SIBYL MARRIED.

And so the third Miss Temple was engaged. Mamma made no objection. She did, indeed, when business came to be talked, remark to Mr. Brent that her daughter's fortune would not be large, and that she hoped he would be able to provide handsomely for his son. At this he waved his hand in a confi- dent way, nodded and said: "That shall be all right." He did not at that time enter into any particulars, but Mrs. Temple, from what she knew of him. was quite satisfied with this assurance and the matter dropped.

It was soon known to the whole town that Sophia Temple was engaged to Percival Brent, and the announcement a little relieved our disappointment at the mysterious disappearance of the rector's flirtation with the widow. Indeed, some of us started the hypothesis that what we superficial investi- gators had mistaken for a flirtation was in reality nothing more than the settling of the preliminaries of the present affair. We said it must have been very pleasant for the two seniors to make the arrangements in that snug way; and thus we explained the little intimacy between them.

Pleasant was the early courtship of this happy pair. The very skies smiled on it. Never, I believe, was there such a February. Day followed day in the softest beauty. Mornings crisp with frost, soft, balmy noons. evenings with red skies and frosty air again.

Their love making was full of satisfaction. Sophia found him an ingenuous young fellow with real enthusiasm, full of active resolu- tions for life. True, she found it hard to be very warm over geology; but his general no- tion of living to use and honor delighted her. I think she would have been better pleased had he talked of getting into parliament or entering the church, rather than of achieving triumphs at the British association, an insti- tution which at that time had not emerged from the age of weakness and scorn. Still she was fully satisfied with him, and gave him all her love. And he, for his part—it could not be otherwise—was entranced with her. Warmth, purity, tenderness, principle all the finer parts of character were hers: taste and no lack of humor, ready speech lively fancy. As to her face, he worshiped it. He always said that her face was beauti- ful. because it was the image of her mind.

Why narrate lovers' raptures? They were all in all to each other these happy days of early spring.

In March the two weddings came off: first Car's. and then Sibyl's. Egerton Doolittle had made a special request that the two should be celebrated on the same day; but to his request the great Goldmore declined to comply—possibly a lurking suspicion that the thing might look ludicrous led him to say no. Accordingly. we married Caroline and Egerton first; and a pleasant wedding it was, everything being done in most elegant style; and little Mrs. Barbara Temple looked not a day more than forty. And Rector Brent between the occasion, the champagne and his own amorous disposition, cast so many glances at her, and these so warm, that it seemed as if he was being captivated anew.

Car, I must say, looked splendid that morning; flashing with wit, fire in her eyes, and her attire faultless. She wore a bridal dress of brocaded satin, and her head-dress, which was somewhat original—those girls had a tasteful way of being slightly out of the com- mon—pleased all the ladies; the men, I be- lieve. looked more at the head which carried it. Her veil, streaming over her superb shoulders, made her dress complete, and we all pronounced her a lovely bride. She went through the service without any ner- vousness; indeed, I thought with slight audacity, as if she would challenge anyone to say she had made a foolish choice. Egerton Doolittle lisped his responses, and the two were man and wife together. Breakfast, as I said. went off well. Little Mr. Brent pro- posed bride and bridegroom, to which, with many a blush and titter, and hand to his mouth. Egerton responded. He thanked them all. He believed that he was a very fortunate man. Here came a long pause.

Fact was—confidentially—it had been his great aim in life to find a tremendously clever woman—a woman who would be able to point out whether any given work was erroneous or not. He did not like erroneous works. He might read an erroneous work without knowing it, and get his mind upset. He had married a wife who could and would tell him if a given work was erroneous, and he was very happy. He thanked everybody and wished everybody in the room would soon be married like himself, except those who were married already. There was no need to wish them married, because— with a sly expression—they were married al- ready. (Here champagne effects became slightly prominent. He believed he had married a tremendously clever girl—woman he meant—wife he meant—and he was very thankful. He hoped his wife would try to make him happy—he meant he hoped he would try to make her happy—no, he meant that he would try to make her happy, and he hoped he would do it. Man was strong. Woman was weak. The man should use his strength to make the woman comfortable and happy, you know. As the poet had said. it was tyrannous to have a giant's strength, but it was excellent to—no, that was not it exactly. He forgot which came first. He would look it up, and send them the exact quotation by post. Anyhow, whatever the poet had said, if it was a manly act, he pledged himself to do it, but not otherwise, and he believed that was the safest way to leave it. Here he sat down with a kind of movement as if he were going to pieces, and we all applauded heartily.

Sibyl's wedding came a fortnight later, more sedate, and even more splendid. Archi- bald Goldmore loaded his young bride with presents so costly that, I think, to have had them, some of the girls would have married Methuselah. Goldmore looked dignified enough during the service, and not old; and he walked down the aisle with a vigorous tread, so that, on the whole, the disparity in years did not appear so great as we expected.

Sophia had been chief bridesmaid, of course; and, in spite of her sister's faultless beauty, in my eyes she looked the lovelier of the two. While they were kneeling, a sunbeam fell on her, and when it touched her head, heaven seemed choosing her as a bride at the same moment. Wonderful it was how the posture of prayer became that girl—the warmth and seriousness of her face seemed framed for worship, or for pure exalted love. But are the two sentiments alien?

No blunder about Goldmore's speech, you may be sure. All sober, proper, truly ele- phantine, and thoroughly Great British. The language in which his revered friend had proposed the health of himself and his wife was in the highest sense gratifying. On his wife's part and his own he thanked them sin- cerely. He felt, indeed, that the lady who had that morning bestowed her hand upon him was all, and more than all, that his rever- ed friend had called her. He felt the honor she had conferred upon him. He could as- sure his wife, and her friends, that whatever lay in his power should be done to make her the return which she deserved. It was a sat- isfaction to them both to know that marriage would not part them from their friends. no from that locality. It would not be long be- fore they should be among them as neighbors: and he could only say, as one of the pleasant- est incidents in that propinquity, that his wife and himself looked forward to seeing the present company gathered round their own table.

One thing was noticed at the wedding feast; little Mr. Brent, usually the loudest laugher in every company, appeared grave and abstracted; indeed, more than one per- son remarked a strange pallor about him which suggested a suspicion that he was struck with illness. Percival, happy with his Sophia, and with a thousand tender thoughts awakened by the ceremony of the day stirring in his breast, was not likely to observe anything except what enforced attention; and no cloud dimmed the brightness of the lover's joy. Had Percival noticed his father's face "he—used to its expression— would have perceived that it was not illness which was impending. But Fate was kind to these loving two. It was for them a day of tender and undimmed delight—not a cloud, not a breath, not a doubt—only playful rail- ery, soft looks, gentle touches, sighs and all the train of lovers' little pleasures. Their love increased wonderfully that happy day; and it was well, for trouble was at hand.

(To be Continued.)