People's Pilot, Volume 6, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 April 1897 — THE BEACON LIGHT. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE BEACON LIGHT.

BY M.T. CALDOR.

INTERNATIONAL PRESS ASSOCIATION*

CHAPTER IX. —(Continued.') "God bless you, sir. If ever Charles Collinwood can serve your son, believe me, it shall be done. Heaven will reward you.” This was Mr. Vernon’s parting with the admiral. Both were conscious of a subtle, mysterious whisper, telling them it was their last meeting on earth —and so it was. That of Walter and Eleanor was still more brief. The young hero forced back the wild tumult that clamored eagerly to ask of her one promise to remain faithful, and pallid and calm, held out his hand, saying earnestly: "May heaven bless you with all the happiness it has for earth! Good-bye, Ellie.” She had come weeping and sobbing from his father’s embrace. The blue eyes had drenched with their briny rain the soft rose of her cheek to a faded white; the sweet lips quivered sadly. Walter’s eye took in all, yet he said only: “Good-bye, Ellie!” Eleanor had no voice to reply. Parting thus from the only friends she had ever known, with but a vague, unsatisfactory hope of some time, somewhere meeting them again, quite prostrated her sensitive temperament. Weeping, fainting, nearly broken-hearted, her uncle carried her in his arms back to the cabin, while Walter, with dry, burning eye and rigid lip, descended swiftly to the boat that was to take them back to the ‘Hornet.* In silent grief his father took a place beside him. The woTd was given to cast off, when suddenly the admiral himself appeared above, leaning over the railing and calling Walter’s name. He threw down a Ting wrapped in a slip of paper. Walter grasped it nervously. Full well he knew the ring; many a time had Ellie brought it out to see the sparkles play in the sunshine that came flickering through the Hibiscus and palm trees; but he stopped not to examine it anew, but spread out the paper to read the brief line written there. Hurried, blotted as they were, no diamond in England or India could be so precious to Walter Vernon, though they were only these: “I shall wait for you, Walter.” Walter’s face was covered by his hands, but the straight, shapely lingers could not hide the tears that at length came pouring through them. CHAPTER X.

IVE years after the ‘Hornet’ and ‘ColjjT linw oo d’ parted G) company' upon the W ocean, was gathered f in merrie England, at a famous gallery , j\ of paintings in j) London, a fashion- * able crowd —the living tide swaying to and fro, yet lin-

gering ever, some for Art’s dear sake, and some from obedience to a more tyrannical mistress —Fashion—at a group of pictures which bore the mark of a new genius, whose star had but lately shot up brilliantly on the sky of fame. Upon a seat not far from these pictures sat a gentleman, whose foreign cloak and slouch hat nearly concealed his face and figure; only the brilliant, melancholy black eye roving restlessly over the crowd, and the glossy black moustache shading the scornful lip, were visible. There \yas a listless languor in his attitude that seemed belied by the keen attentiveness of his glance. Suddenly the eye sparkled in earnest attention, and quite unconsciously he bent eargerty forward. A gay party passing by floated toward him the sound of a well-known name. “Lady Eleanor Collin wood —pray tell me in what direction you saw her?” asked eagerly an aristocratic-looking gentleman. “Ah, there it is.,” spiritedly replied a brilliant-looking girl, twisting her pearl and gold opera glass affectedly, “yon are no exception to the general rule. Viscount Somerset, the attractions of our new star outweigh all others. Were she not as lovely in character as in person, I should be jealous of her, but as it is, one must acquiesce gracefully. I give you full permission to leave us and find her. We saw her in their carriage with Lady Annabel and Sir Marcus Willoughby.” “Upon my word, Lady Isora, you are as keen and sharp as the frosty air of this November day. I assure you I find present company agreeable enough to keep me here until we meet or overtake the Collinwoods. I have a message for Lady Annabel from the admiral, whom I met at Bath. By the way, I fancied I discovered a likeness in that beautiful girl on the canvas yonder to Lady Eleanor. This Vernon keeps so private no one knows about him. Pevhaps, after all, it was a glimpse of her face that inspired him to so grand an effort.” The gay talkers chattered on, unmindful of the eager listeners behind them. At length came a stir of expectation. “Here they come, Somerset. See what a crowd of elite follows. You’ll have little chance for conversation.. HoW wonderful is the sway Lady Annabel holds over all hearts, with her pale, spiritual face and gentle dignity! See, the Duke of B- is talking with her. Have you ever doubted she might be a

duchess any day? But never was wife so faithful and devoted to a husband’s memory as she. How she must have loved him!” “Duchess! Yes, she might have had her choice of two or three coronets at the least. Everybody knows how our best and noblest men have sued in vain. She wins almost as much admiration as her daughter now.” “Hush, they will hear you! Good afternoon.” “A fine day, Lady Annabel. I have a word for you from Bath.” The muffled figure bent forward yet farther. How the eye glittered with a lustre feverish and unnatural! “Lady Annabel Collinwood, Eleanor’s mother!” At the very name came the flood of old emotion, sweeping away the breastwork that for five years of strenuous toil, of stupendous exertion, had b6en closely guarded, lest a single wave should overleap the restraining barrier. No wonder Walter Vernon: —Signor Vernoni he had allowed the Italians to call him, and the name came with his fame to England—no wonder he gazed with breathless interest as the group advanced, to see for the first time Lady Annabel Collinwood! He could have selected her from a crowd of ladies as fair and graceful as she —a slender, pale-faced woman, with a well-bred, quiet grace, deep, mournful eyes—not like Eleanor’s, blue and sunny, but dim and dark as the midnight sea, carrying with her a nameless, invisible and yet potent atmosphere of refinement and purity. This he saw at first,.but a second look showed him flashes of light corruscating over the dim iris, and making the eye resplendent; waves of rich thought breaking over the symmetrical features, and glorifying them with light and shade of eloquent meaning; smiles rare and seldom, but wonderful and magical when they came, arching into beauty the lips that were Eleanor’s own. He felt at once the spell by which Lady Annabel still swayed all hearts, although more than forty years had passed over her smooth, fair forehead. She was leaning lightly upon the duke’s arm, but her attention was given to the young viscount, 'who was relating in his lively way the meeting -with the courteous admiral. The tall figure and massive head of the noble duke concealed the couple who walked behind, and Walter was obliged to wait until Lady Annabel and her companion turned to the pictures before he beheld her for whom his heart had sighed so long. Eleanor was only sixteen when they parted upon the far-off Pacific. Five years, replete with the important change fi'om girlhood to womanhood, had passed—would she seem the same? His beating heart nearly suffocated him as Walter once more gazed upon Lady Eleanor Collinwood. Ah, the relief!—it was still his Ellie, though the youthful grace and beauty had ripened into matured perfection—though the slender form had grown more stately, and the girlish diffidence had merged into a calm, self-possessed dignity—a well-bred grace that the island experience could never have given her. Still the soft blue eyes wore their guileless look of pleading innocence; the sweet lips dimpled with the very smile poor Tom had so often compared to the first sunbeam that glistened through the cloud over the sea, when the “Petrel” lay a wreck among the reefs. How swiftly his pulse leaped, his eye burned! Would that smile ever beam for him again? Not a breath of intelligence had passed between them since their parting; for all he knew she might have forgotten his very existence. He could test it speedily. And then, with jealous rage, the unknown artist turned to her companion, on whose handsome face so plainly was written his devoted admiration. There was a manly, highbred air about him that piercc-d poor Walter like a sword. He was good, he •was noble, he was worthy of her—that could be read at a glance. No wonder she listened so graciously to his animated words. With a stifled groan Walter turned away. Duke, marquis, noble lord — whichever he was, he had a right to offer his homage and suit; but for the plebeian painter, where was there any hope, any plea whereby to win the favor of that high-born, aristocratic mother, even though Eleanor herself were true to that voluntary promise—“I will wait for you”? The black folds of Lady Annabel’s dress swept across his feet, and while the hot blood mounted his cheeks Walter bent his head, as though his presumptuous thoughts were laid bare before that sad, dark eye. Then a single word in Eleanor’s wellknown voice came to his ear—it was hurried, agitated, vehement. So well he understood every tone of that beloved voice, he knew something had startled her, and yet she had spoken but one word—“ Mother!” “What is it, my love?” asked Lady Annabel, turning at once where her daughter, alternately flushing and paling, stood before the famous pictures that had won so much attention. They were evidently champion pictures, representing the same scene by daylight and at midnight—a high, steep point of land, jutting out into the sea, whose

surf beat in frothy petulance against the reef. .The feathery palm-tree canopy and gorgeous vines whose brilliant blossoms lay like garlands over the white rock, betrayed the tropic clime no more plainly than the intense blue of the over-arching sky. Nature was inexpressibly lovely, but the gazer’s eye was caught and riveted by the human figures. A young girl, graceful and beautiful, was seated there like a queen upon her throne, and beside her, nearly at her feet, reclined a youth whose countenance was partially concealed as he was looking up eagerly into her face, which wore a wild, sorrowful, yearning look, as her eyes and extended hand pointed to the far-off line where sky and water met. Not one could gaze upon the picture and not know the whole was not yet comprehended —the story not half told. CHAPTER XI.

W 7 TS companion was dark in the background—a dim sky ’ and stars showing faintly the outline of embowering tree; i— but upon the rock, instead of its queen, blazed a bonfire that lit up luridly the foamy sea, and gave a

ruddy gleam to three figures waiting near —the youth and maiden and tall, grave man, who were all gazing off with a wild intensity of expression that gave a gloomy look to every face over the water. “Ah, the pictures!” said Sir Clement Willoughby. “I have looked at .them full an hour before, to-day. They are thrilling, are they not? I must seek out the artist; it will be an honor for any man to know him. That midnight is,superb.” Eleanor stood with wild eyes that could not drink in eagerly enough the old familiar scene. Now the blue orbs kindled joyfully, and again the tears came welling over them. “Oh, Walter, Walter!” cried she, in a tone of anguish that startled all and thrilled one heart with joy. “What ails you, Eleanor?” asked her mother anxiously. “Oh, mamma, take me home, and let us come alone. I must see the pictures alone.” The ladies and gentlemen gathered around her looked astonished and embarrassed. “But. my child.” said her mother gravely, “we do not understand;.you owe the company some word of explanation.” Eleanor struggled for composure, and dropping her veil over the flushed cheek and tearful eyes, said more collectedly: “I was taken by surprise. It is our island home, mamma, and that is Walter and Mr. Vernon and myself. Oh, those well-known scenes—it breaks my heart to go back to them, and yet to know nothing of the friends who shared them with me! It was Walter who painted the pictures. Oh, I am sure it was Walter! I must see him —I must find him.” Lady Annabel turned hastily to the pictures, while a look of pain and annoyance swept across her face. She was evidently revolving some subject carefully in her mind, for after the first swift glance she dropped her eyes to the floor. Sir Clement Willoughby was re-ex-amining the pictures, more especially the first one. His eye wandered questioningly over the graceful form of-the youth at the feet of the island queen, ard when he turned to the other it was to catch what knowledge he could from the side glimpse of the boyish face. ito i..: * uvnx' Ei.. i