People's Pilot, Volume 5, Number 43, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 April 1896 — THE NEXT HEIR. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE NEXT HEIR.

A Thrilling Recital of Adventure and Love. Founded on Actual Occur- /ggk \ A rence in American Life.

Back numbers of the Pilot containing this story will be kept on hand at this office. New subscribers can begin their time with the first chapter of story and receive all back copies. Ten cents pays for the Pilot thirteen weeks, from April 30 to July 23 inclusive, to new subscribers only. CHAPTER I. IN YOUTH WHEN I DID LOVE. “Age, I do abhor thee, Youth, I do adore thee: Oh, nay love, nay. love is young!” It was a clear, bold, manly voice that caroled playfully the quaint old song, and its owner’s honest, handsome eyes looked down, with a mixture of tenderness and fun in their brown depths, upon Dorothy Lisle’s bowed golden head, and flushed averted face. The singer lifted one of her long bright tresses, and pressed it with infinite pride and gentleness to his lips; only to have it pettishly twitched away the instant its pretty mistress became aware of his fond caress. “I wish you wouldn’t be so silly, Frank,” she said, with a quivering lip and tears in her large blue eyes, and she gave her haughty little head a petulant toss that set the glittering treasure of golden hair floating, and shining in the sun, and wind in perfect bewildering beauty. If lam young, I’m not a baby, and I won’t submit to be treated like one, either.” The young man laughed good-naturedly. “Do I treat you like a baby, Dolly dear?” he said fondly; “sweet love, you must forgive me that. You seem such a little, delicate thing beside me; so frail and beautiful, like a bird or a flower. I feel as if I couldn’t be gentle and kind enough to such a tender little darling, especially when she is my own love, my very own. But I don’t wish to treat you like anything but what you truly aie, Dolly dearest—the one woman whom I love first and best of all living creattfres in the wide, wide world. ” The pleasant, manly voice took new depth and intensity with thisrexpression of true and honest passion. The speaker caught the girl’s reluctant hand and held it in a clasp, tender and warm indeed, but withal secure and masterful. “Dear little lily-leaf of ahand!” he said, spreading it lovingly on his own broad palm, and stooping down to kiss it. “It looks, in mine, like a flake of snow now. new-fallen on the dark, rough precious little hand! How weak, and yet how powerful you are! For you hold a man’s heart—his life—his every hope and chance of happiness within your tiny clasp!” He put the pretty prisoner to his lips once more; it did not flutter nor struggle now, but it trembled and grew cold with real fear. It was fear, too, that stole the roses from Dolly’s lips and cheeks, and peeped out like a guilty shadow from among the gathering tears in her downcast violet eyes; eyes that might have wakened him from his dreams of. secure'joy if he could only have seen them! But he could not; they were kept down too persistently; their owner knew how much they mightreveal, and if he feltand saw the trembling of the little, chilly hand, he was too confident of his young sweetheart’s faith and truth—too sure of his own happiness—too little versed in “women’s wiles and ways,” to take alarm at such a trifle or guess at its true significance. Of course his betrothed loved him! No shadow of a doubt cast its gloom upon his heart or warned him of the secret cry of pain and self-reproach that arose from hers. “Oh, Frank! Poor, trusting, loving Frank! Oh. God forgive, what shall I do? What have I done?” These two had been betrothed for full three years. Dolly was the only child of Mr. Egbert Lisle, a decayed gentleman, who owned his country house and modest grounds, as well as a small income; which latter he eked out (being a man of parts and education) bv taking a few pupils to board. Those pupils were never very numerous, and their stay was usually brief, until Frank Osborne came—a merry, thoughtless, fifteen year-old boy, and fell in love at once with the little fairy maiden, Dolly, just turned of twelve. This boyish love grew with his growth, gathering strength from year to year. Frank was an orphan, but with fair prospects in life, and wealthy relatives who made his welfare their care. I suppose he might easily have found an abler tutor than Mr. Lisle, and in a less out-of the-way country village than quiet, sleepy Glendale—a place famous for nothing but the beauty of its scenery; but to leave the place where Doily dwelt, to exchange the positive bliss of her

companionship and presence for any possible educational advantages! I don’t really imagine that such an idea ever actually entered young Osborne’s head; but, if it had, I am sure he would have scouted it indignantly. So he remained an inmate of Lisle Cottage for three years, and long before that period was over the little golden-haired village beauty realized her power full well. An innocent little coquette, she trifled with her adorer sometimes, but her heart was warm and true, and there can be no doubt that she sincerely loved him. With an affection half childish, half womanly, and sisterly altogether, she was too young—barely fifteen—to realize a deeper, warmer, stronger passion. But her young lover never comprehended this,’ and her pretty, tyrannical, coquettish ways, her girlish vanity and pride in her conquest, helped to deceive him; to deceive them both, for she loved him, and in that belief promised to, some day. be his wife. The promise was made when Frank—being justeighteen-was about to go abroad. The young man’s inclinations had always been for the sea, and an opportunity had arisen to gratify them. He had an uncle, quite wealthy man, and the owner of a trading vessel. This vessel, The Saucy Kate by name, was about starting on a three years’ cruise. It was arranged, Frank being willing, that he should go abroad her. Willing to ship aboard The Saucy Kate he was; but oh, how unwilling to leave Dolly! It was when the sight of his grief had pained her tender heart, and thrown gentle pity into the scale with sisterly love, that the poor child yielded to her lover’s prayers and her parents’ wishes, and engaged herself to marry him if his circumstances should allow it, immediately upon his return. “And if not, she can wait for two years more, Frank,” said Mr. Lisle. “She’ll only be twenty then; you’re both very young; and I never did approve of early marriages.” Dolly approved of either arrangment, with, perhaps, a little unspoken preference in favor of waiting five years. What was the use of getting married so soon? You never knew how it would turn out. Beside, she had got along so charmingly with Frank upon the old footing, she felt a little dubious about the new; but she kept these thoughts to herself, for fear of wounding Frank, he was so sensitive, so proud of his promised bride, so sorry for going ajvay. Poor fellow! She wished, with a little, involuntary sigh, that he had not taken this “marriage notion,” but then, what need she care? Five years—or even three years—was a long time ahead, and after all, if* Frank and papa were satisfied, what did it matter to her? “I shall have to get married some day, of course,” she argued philosophically ; “I shouldn’t like to be an old maid. Oh it will be all right. I shall like it well enough, I dare say. There can’t be any question that Frank and papa know best.” And thus she dismissed, with innocent, girlish thoughtlessness, the great question that in volved, perhaps, the happiness of many lives—on which depended, beyond all doubt, the whole success or failure of her own. The engagement was kept a secret on account, of her extreme youth. The concession to. her own feelings she had stipulated for. “For Iknew how all the girls would tease and laugh ac me,” said the child; “and I won’t be made ridiculous even for Frank.”

She was happy and joyous as ever. Weeks changed to months and months grew into years,' save that her beauty ripened to richer bloom ,as time wore on. Frank’s letters came seldom, and from long distances, but breathing unaltered love. She was always glad to receive them when they came—never uneasy when they were delayed. “He is all right,” she would say to her anxious father; “he’ll write when he gets a chance.” Sometimes a misgiving would enter Mr. Lisle’s mind as she spoke so lightly; he would say to her with mild reproach: *‘You seem to care but little. Frank’s is u true and noble heart—l fear you are too frivolous to care for him as he deserves.” But she only laughed and kissed him as she answered: “I care for him next to jou, you dear papa: doesn't that satisfy you?” “Not quite,’? Mr. Lisle would answer gravely; “a woman should love her husband first of all.” She stood quiet and thoughtful for a moment when he told her that. “First of all!” she remarked almost wonderingly. Then, shrugging her white, dimpled shoulders, and making a mutinous, rosy moue: “Ah, well, but I’m scarcely a woman yet, papa, and Frank won’t be my husband for this long, time—if ever! Be patient; no doubt I shall love

him as much as even you can wish when once I am married' to him.” And so, no doubt, indeed she would have done, if another had not crossed her path; another, whose fate it was to awake the woman’s heart within her bosom, and teach her too truly, what a mighty difference exists between even the fondest sisterly affection and the reality of an ardent, passionate love.

CHAPTER 11. “There’s nothing half so sweet in life As love’s young dream!” A love that carries all before it like a resistless flood. Sweeping away, or hiding out of sight, all the familiar landmarks. Duty, filial affection, the bond of a solemn promise to another, the safeguard of maiden reticence and pride; what power had these—so powerful at all other times—when Cyril’s soft, low, tender, pleading tones made heaven’s own music in her charmed and willing ear! Who was he? Dolly would have told you: “Something superior to all other created beings; a perfect man, a hero, almost a God!” To ordinary people, however, he was simply Mr. Cyril Vernon; a pleasant,handsome fellow enough; and evidently a man of the World; an artist. well bred and probably well born, who had considerable ability and seemed to have ample means, and who stopped for several weeks, during the third summer of Frank’s absence, at the Greendale Hotel. Not that Dolly took note either of his coining or going in connection with Frank’s movements at all. I verily believe that from the first day in which she made the artist’s acquaintance the existence of her lover was forgotten, This was her real lover; the fairy prince who came to wake the enchanted princess from her dreains. before whose smile the mists of earth dispersed and fled away, and this dull, prosaic world became a glorious paradise, in which, with him, she could have wished to dwell forever. He had seen her first in the church, into which he had strolled, in sheer idleness, one Sunday morning, and after that he had resolved to see her again. To make Mr. Lisle’s acquaintance was an easy* matter, as he belonged to a club that held its meetings at the hotel; and to a club man and to a person of Mr. Vernon’s nerve and to praise the daughter’s beauty to the father’s, face within the very hour of their acquaintance, was by no means so difficult or task as a less accomplished courtier might have found it. Mr. Lisle was a simple, uususpicious man and this praise of his child, from an artist’s lip, rather gratified him than otherwise. When Vernon half timidly hinted at the treasure this paragon’s portrait would be *to him in his art, the father played into his hands. “Call on us, sir, call on us. My little Dolly will give you a sitting, no doubt, and feel very proud to do so. Call on us. if you have time to spare to-morrow.” * And. of course, the visit was paid, and was only the first of many. That day Dolly’s heart thrilled with its first awakening—that day the roses slipped aside, from the chain that bound her to her childhood’s friend, and gave her a glimpse of the cruel fetters beneath. ‘ ‘But we have not heard from Frank for months,” she reflected, with a sensation of relief. “He can’t be coming home this year; he may have changed and* ceased to care for me; oh, Heaven grant it! I cannot be his wife—l cannot; I don’t want to marry at all.” She did not say th sit to Cyril, though, when, three weeks later, he told her of his love; to be sure, just at first, .it was not marriage that he spoke of. t The man of the world was fascinated, charmed by the innocence—quite as much as by the beauty—of the simj|le, lovely, village Virl; with what intentions or ideas he had sought her first, he did not even ask* himself, but he loved her madly now. She was as pure as she was beautiful—it needed but a very brief acquaintance to teach him that. “To approach her with disrespect— to associate her pure and gentle image with so much as an injurious thought, would be impossible,” he told himself. “And yet two things are certain. First, that I love her, and will have her; secondly, that to marry her is to destroy myself.” So in this predieament he refrained from the mention of marriage, although, in her presence, his utmost self-control could not keep baqk the declaration of his love. She received it with an emotion that surprised him. She was top guileless, too little versed in coquettish arts, too much in love (half unconsciously).herself to pretend indifference or surprise. i I Joy and regret struggled for the mastery in

her innocent soul, and the conflict #as reflected in her beautiful, flowerlike face, as if in some clear, unspotted mirror. Her gentle bosom heaved with its load of love and pride, and joy, and timid fear; sweet maiden shame dyed her cheeks a deeper rose, that spread to brow, and neck, and down to her delicate Anger tips, as she put out her hands appealingly, as if to keep her lover off. The breath came flutteringly from the parted, ripe, red lips, that Cyril thought he would have given his soul to kiss; and, as she gave him one swift tell tale glance from her deep blue eyes, the last remnant of worldly prudence and discretion flew to the winds, and he resolved, at all costs, to possess her. “For what do I care for life, the richest, the highest, unless she shares it w’th me? I love this girl; I love her in truth; this is no passing affair, like others have been that I shall tire of and get over; just as this girl is different to other women, so is my passion for her different to other passions; I feel that I would rather lose life itself than lose her!” And aloud he said, reproachfully, and gazing wistfully at her perfect lips and downcast eyes: “Ydu shrink from me? You put out your pretty hands to drive me away. What have I done? Why are you angry? Is it a crime for me to love you?” “To love me!” The words were breathed forth low and sweet. “Oh, you have known me such a little time, how can you love me?” He caught her little hands and pressed them to his hands—they were all alone in the oldfashioned orchard, no one saw. “How can I choose but love? Ah, Dolly, to say I love you does not say enough; I worship, I adore you, my sweet, sweet darling! Why not, oh, my own, since you love me?” And then she was in his arms, her own clung around his neck; she never knew, thought, questioned how. Frank was forgotten; all care, fear, misgiving had fled away, the quiet orchard had become enchanted ground, and Dolly and lover were in heaven! From this delicious dream her father’s voice aroused her, calling her from the house. She started, and turned pale, and would have withdrawn herself from Cyril’s embrace, but he held her jealously. “Papa!” she whispered, trembling. “What will he say? How shall I dare tell him?” Her lover smiled, superior to her fears. He knew himself more than a desirable match for Mr. Lisle’s daughter, and any expectation of that gentleman’s disapproval was the last thought that troubled him!

“tpu Shall nd| tell him at all Thatis my IdutylswwvjAMl as soon as ydfegive deleave. PFor I must havejyou, I must!” he passionately, “ir all the world stood itt'the wayr She raised her eyes to his in innocent surprise, not quite unmixed with a soft alarm at his vehemence. --“Of course you shall have me,” she said, tenderly, blushing like a rose, as she nestled in his embrace. “How could I marry any one but you! Oh, it would be impossible! Surely, Frank himself, will see that!” “Frank!” He started, and put her from him quickly, holding her at an arm’s length, while he gazed into her face. “And who is Frank, pray?” She was frightened now; her lovely color died away, and her violet eyes grew large and wet with tears. Everthing was going wrong she thought; she was offending Cyril, and wronging Frank. “Oh. what shall I do? What shall I do?” she cried, and wrung her hands in deep perplexity, looking around as if for some escape. Her hesitation set the man on fire; quick jealousy sprang up full grown in his heart, and blazed from his dark eyes. . “Answer me!” he said, more sternly than he knew. “Answer instantly—who is Frank?” And trembling, weeping, she stammered out: “The man—whom—papa says—l must marry!” In an instant he caught her to his breast again, kissing, again and again, her quivering lips and tear-wet eyes. “My love! my sweet! my own! Did I make you cry? Forgive me, forgive me! I feel so jealous, Dolly—oh, child, I think I should kill you if you could be false to me! And so papa says you are to marry Frank, does he? And what have you said, darling?” Then she told him all. Clinging in his embrace, hiding her flushed and tearful face upon his breast, she told him the story of her childish betrothal much as I have told it to you. It needed only that to decide him. He had hesitated, he had wavered even while he held her in his arms and realized how bitter to himself would be the pain of parting—even then he had held back from the one decisive step which once taken could never be recalled—but he ceased to waver now. Another man claimed her. Another who might return at any time and hold her bound, and her father would support his claim. His claim! Frank Osborn’s claim to the woman Cyril Vernon loved! Cyril Vernon, who had never known what it was to deny himself or be

(ftnted a single Atffl he loved ttm girl so pltes innately that life If she had sSemedto nun lovely and desirable while he believed that he had to ask and have, oh. how much more dear and precious was she now —now that another claimed her and formed an obstacle to the fulfillment of his desires. He held her in an embrace that was almost fierce in its jealous psssion. “Could you keep your vows to him?” he demanded; “could you marry him and say farewell to me, Dolly, now?” She grew pale with anguish at the thought. “Oh, no, no, no? It would be wicked—it would be impossible—l love you, only you!” He kissed her again and again. “Then make the fulfillment of your promise to him impossible. Become my wife at once. Marry me secretly—there are reasons, dearest, which I will not now explain, that make it impossible for us to wed openly without some delay, and for us delay may mean ruin; besides, in a week I shall be compelled to return to town, for a short time at least, and if I leave you here—still free—and exposed to this fellow’s influence, we shall be parted forever. When Igo let me feel that I leave a wife behind me. with whom no man’s eqtreaties can prevail.”. And his arms were around her, his pleading lips caressed her cheek, his words and eyes and kisses, all at once implored her, as well as her own fond heart—what could poor, simple, loving, childish Dolly do but yield? Although she made conditions: their marriage was to be kept a profound secret, until her father’s consent could de obtained. “And you will leave me with him and never take me away from him, until he does consent —consents to give me to you as your wife?” He agreed to that. Concealment was even more desirable to him than to her for the present, if only he did not lose her by it. Bright dawned her wedding-day—a day whose importance and solemnity none guessed save only Cyril and herself; she was stirring with the lark, poor child—hopeful, happy, fearful—and had left the house “for a day’s shopping in the neighbording town,” she said, before Mr. Lisle came down to breakfast. The day passed by like an enchanted dream—she lived, moved, acted, spoke, as if under the influence of a spell—doubtless she was so—the spell of consummated happiness and love. First there was the quiet marriage, most like a dream of all, and the pretty breakfast in the charming private rooms that Cyril had secured where no one could stare at or disturb them.

J Thin twre was the bliss of hearing him call her wifeßgaifcand Kain, as if he could not say the yrcffioo often, and the delight of being caressed, and careaior.and cherished, by her idolized lover and husband. Afterward they went for a long pleasant stroll in the summer woods, where no sights or sounds of common life jarred on the music of their souls, but the cool, green solitude and silence like heaven. And then, when the long, sweet dream drew near its close, there was the homeward journey side by side in the cars—when to sit thus side by side seemed bliss enough, and their happiness was so perfect that even the thought of parting for a few brief hours, though it might cloud, was utterly powerless to mar it. They parted at the station, Dolly returning home alone, and in time for tea, in order to avoid exciting suspicion. As Cyril stood, gazing after her retreating form, with love in his eyes, a gentleman, who had been watching him, suddenly approached and slapped him on the shoulder; he turned hastily, and held out his hand. “Hastings! you! What’s the matter, for God’s sake?” “Your uncle is dead.” “Dead!” Cyril fairly staggered beneath the shock. “Dead—and they never sent me word that he was sick! How dead? When? Where?” “How? By apoplexy: frightfully sudden, dear boy; took us all by Surprise, so couldn’t let you know about it. When? Yesterday afternoon. I would have come down last night, but there was no train. Where? In his easy chair, sitting with May in the library.” “May!” At that name Cyril Vernon started and paled, a circumstance not lost on his companion. “Of course you will come home at once.” “Of course. At, least —that is, not at once, for there’s a train directly, and I have adieux, preparations to make,” and in his heart he thought, in great distress—“ Dolly! How am I to break the news to her?” Fred Hastings caught at the word “adieux,” “To your pretty companion of the cars, I suppose. e Jove! what a little ruStic beauty! Looked at you with all her soul in her eyes, too. Take care, dear boy, take care—May will hear of it—” ‘ ‘Curse May!” broke in Cyril impatiently. ‘ ‘At least, I beg her pardon, I don’t mean that of course, but you drive a fellew wild with your clatter. What the devil is May Ellis to me?” “Humph!” said the other, meaningly. “Not so much as she was two months ago, when you left town; rustic Hebe has cut her out, I guess. Well, that’s all right if the fortune’s yours without conditions, as it will be, I hope. What’s the next move then?” To Be Continued.