Ballou's Monthly Magazine, Vol. XXVII, No. 1 — page 34: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

38 The Lady of Lindenwold. cinders were searing his flesh and scorching the hair from his uncovered head. I could think of nothing but the pictures I have seen of the old martyrs, and, to my eyes, there will always be a sort of halo about his scarred face, for he saved your life, darling, and—” A well-known step on the stairs sent the quick color to Amy’s face, and interrupted her speech. She knew it was Mr. Russel’s step, and half suspected the clear, silvery tones, that mingled with his deeper one, were Miss Livingston’s. She was correct in her impression, and the elegant lady, clad in rich and costly robes, with jewels on her fingers and at her throat, came gracefully and cor- dially into the humble chamber. She was social and courteous, but with a little air of condescension that made Amy glad when the call was over, and the last rustle of her silken robes had died away on the stairs. And beside, she could not help seeing how eagerly Paul Russel watched every movement of the graceful figure, and, though he evidently tried to appear as usual, his in- terest in Alice’s spiritual condition was plainly eclipsed by his interest in Miss Livingston’s material one. “Amy, dear, I am afraid it is very wrong, but I think I don’t like Miss Livingston very well.” Amy did not reply immediately, she was thinking; by-and-by she said abruptly: “Alice, where have I seen Miss Livingston ?” “She was on the Bermuda with us, you know.” “T don’t mean that. I was ill, you know, nearly the whole voyage. I do not remember noticing her once, and do not think I saw her. But somewhere I have seen that face. It seems a great while ago, as everything does that happened in those old happy days, be- fore we knew how long, and weary, and hard it was possible for them tobe. It was ina crowd that I saw her, and I distinctly remem- ber that Harry was with me, and he has been dead near three years. I recollect, because he called her some sort of a queen—ah! I have it now! Alice, don’t you remember when Harry and I went to the “Royal” to Witness the debut of Mademoiselle Olivia? aud how you were ill and could not go? Well, there is where I saw that face. I should know it among a thousand.” “OQ Amy, you must be mistaken. It is not at all likely that Miss Livingston was ever an actress. There may be a strong resemblance —such things happen unaccountably some- times—but it is only a resemblance, be sure of that.” “IT tell you, Alice, I know! Now, that I have the clue, every tone and gesture comes back to me perfectly, and I know there are not two women in the world so entirely and utterly alike in look, tone, gesture and car- riage. But, Alice,O how white you are! I am so thoughtless; I might have known so much excitement would tire you. Lie here on the lounge—let me arrange the pillows. There, is that right, pet?” stooping down and kissing the white, thin lips. A faint smile flickered over the wasted face, as with an air of utter exhaustion she lay back among the pillows, whose snowy whiteness scarce rivalled the pure, shadowy face pressed against them. When Miss Livingston stepped into her carriage she ordered the driver to make the tour of the principal streets, including Car- marthen street; adding, by way of excuse, that having seen the main characters in the drama, it would be in keeping to end by visiting its locale. Perhaps the fact that Mr. Vanstone’s office was in that immediate neighborhood had some slight influence in her decision. Certain it was, a visible ner- vousness possessed her as she neared that locality, which Mr. Russel attributed to her quick sympathy with suffering. But he did not note the deepening crimson in her cheek, or the softened light in her eyes, when, a moment after, she bowed, with one of her brightest smiles, as a thoughtful student face, with clear, truthful gray eyes, looked suddenly up from their writing at one of the little ding windows. They rode leisurely through the broad streets, pausing occasionally to admire some fine view. Perhaps it would have been diffi- cult for Paul Russel to analyze the peculiar feelings with which Olive Livingston inspired him. That she attracted him powerfully he did not attempt to deny. Her presence over- powered and intoxicated him, and her voluptuous beauty held his senses in thrall. But the very intensity of the attraction tired and exhausted him. He did not realize it while the spell was on, but after he had left her presence a sense of nerveless languor and a sort of restless dissatisfaction oppressed him. It was so different from the feeling of rest and strength, the earnest longing for greater purity and holiness of thought and life, that burned in his soul when he sat in that hum- ble chamber in Germain.strees pnd, aybule Be mi