The Magic Cameo
A Love Story
_By_ MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON
AUTHOR OF
“The Churchyard Betrothal,” “Mona,” “Wedded
By Fate,” “A Hoiden’s Conquest,” “The
Lily of Mordaunt,” etc.
[Illustration]
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Popular Books
By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON
In Handsome Cloth Binding
Price per Volume, 60 Cents
Brownie’s Triumph
Earl Wayne’s Nobility
Churchyard Betrothal, The
Edrie’s Legacy
Faithful Shirley
For Love and Honor
Sequel to Geoffrey’s Victory
Forsaken Bride, The
Geoffrey’s Victory
Golden Key, The; or a Heart’s Silent Worship
Heatherford Fortune, The
Sequel to The Magic Cameo
He Loves Me For Myself
Helen’s Victory
Her Faith Rewarded
Sequel to Faithful Shirley
Her Heart’s Victory
Sequel to Max
Heritage of Love, A
Sequel to The Golden Key
Hoiden’s Conquest, A
How Will It End
Sequel to Marguerite’s Heritage
Lily of Mordaunt, The
Little Miss Whirlwind; or Lost for Twenty Years
Lost, A Pearle
Love’s Conquest
Sequel to Helen’s Victory
Love Victorious, A
Magic Cameo, The
Marguerite’s Heritage
Masked Bridal, The
Max, A Cradle Mystery
Mona
Nora, or The Missing Heir of Callonby
Sibyl’s Influence
Threads Gathered Up
Sequel to Virgie’s Inheritance
Thrice Wedded
Tina
Trixy, or The Shadow of a Crime
True Aristocrat, A
True Love’s Reward
Virgie’s Inheritance
Wedded By Fate
For Sale by all Booksellers
or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
52 Duane Street New York
Copyright, 1898 and 1899
BY STREET & SMITH
THE MAGIC CAMEO
THE MAGIC CAMEO.
PRELUDE.
THREE PICTURES.
Picture number one shows us a young man of about twenty-eight years
standing on the veranda of a fine country residence that rises out of the
midst of spacious and well-kept grounds, while stretching out and around
on every hand are many broad acres of carefully tilled fields of grain,
luxuriant waving grass, and, in the distance, a belt of woodland.
Behind the mansion are roomy and substantial barns and outhouses for
various purposes, all in perfect repair and telling of comfortable
quarters for horses, cows, and other kinds of stock. It is, in fact, a
thrifty and ideal New England farm, and a home of which any man might
reasonably feel proud.
But the young man standing upon the broad veranda has at this moment no
thought of his prospective inheritance. His form is as rigid as that of a
statue; his face is set and colorless; his eyes wide and staring and full
of hopeless wretchedness, as they scan the letter which he is holding in
his hand. The missive had been brought to him a few moments previous by
the hired man who had just returned from the village post-office, and
who had shot a sly glance and smile up at his young master, to indicate
that he had not been unmindful of the delicate and flowing handwriting in
which it had been addressed, that had caused such a glad light to leap
into the eyes of the recipient and made him blush like a girl as he tore
it eagerly open.
Let us read the lines which occasioned such a sudden transformation,
blotting out the love-light from his eyes, burning to ashes all the
tenderness in his nature and writing hard and cruel lines upon his face:
“ALFRED: I know that you can never forgive me the wrong I am
doing you, but, too late, I have learned that I love another
and not you. When you receive this I shall be the wife of that
other—you well know who. I wish I could have saved you this
blow, so near the day that was set for our wedding; but I
should have doubly wronged you had I remained and fulfilled my
pledge to you with my heart irrevocably given elsewhere. Forget
and forgive if you can.
“T. A.”
“My God! and she was to have been my wife one month from to-day!” bursts
from the white lips of the reader as he finishes perusing the above for
the second time.
He sways dizzily, then staggers toward one of the massive pillars that
support the roof of the piazza, and leans against it, too weak from the
terrible shock he has received to stand alone; and there he remains,
staring sightlessly before him, oblivious to everything save his own
misery, until an elderly gentle-faced woman comes to the door and says:
“Alfred, supper is ready.”
The man starts, stands erect, his brows contracted, his lips set in a
white line of determination. He deliberately folds the letter, returns it
to its envelope, and slips it into an inner pocket. As he crushes it down
out of sight a look of hate sweeps over his face and blazes in his eyes.
Then he turns and follows the woman into the house.
* * * * *
Picture number two was sketched more than two years later, and shows
a small, meagerly furnished room, in an humble tenement, located in a
narrow street of a great Western city. It has only one occupant—a young
and attractive woman, who is sitting before a fire in an open grate, for
it is a chill November night.
Her face is stained with weeping; her eyes are red and swollen; great
heart-rending sobs burst from her every now and then, and she is
trembling from head to foot.
As in the first picture, there is a letter. She holds it in her hands,
upon her lap, and she has crumpled it with her fingers, which are
twitching nervously, causing the paper to rattle in her grasp.
“Merciful Heaven! can it be true?” she breathes, between her quivering
lips. “I cannot, will not believe a human being could be so heartless, so
lost to all honor and manliness.”
She raises the missive, spreads it out before her, and reads it through
again, although every word was already seared, as with a hot iron, upon
her brain. It was brief, cold, and fiendishly cruel. It was addressed to
no one, and was also without signature.
“I’m off,” it began. “There is no use in longer trying to
conceal the fact that I am tired of the continual grind of the
last two years. It was a great mistake that we ever married,
and I may as well confess what you have already surmised—that
I never really loved you. Why did I marry you, then? Well, you
know that I never could endure to be balked in anything, and as
I had made up my mind to cut a certain person out, I was bound
to carry my point. You know whom I mean, and that he and I were
always at cross-purposes. The best thing you can do will be
to go back to your own people—tell whatever story you choose
about me. I shall never take the trouble to refute it, neither
will I ever annoy you in any way. Get a divorce if you want
one. I will not oppose it; as I said before, I am tired of the
infernal grind and bound to get out of it. I’ll go my way, and
you may go yours; but don’t attempt to find or follow me, for I
won’t be hampered by any responsibilities in the future.”
The woman fell into deep thought after this last perusal of the letter,
and she sat more than an hour gazing into the fire, scarcely moving
during that time.
The cheap little clock on the mantel striking eight finally aroused her,
and, with a long-drawn sigh, she arose, walked deliberately to the grate,
laid the epistle on the coals and watched it while the flames devoured
it, reducing it to ashes, which were finally whirled in tiny particles up
the chimney by the draft.
“So that dream has vanished,” she murmured; “now I will come down to the
practical realities of life. But, oh! what has the future for me?”
* * * * *
Picture number three is not unveiled until fourteen years later.
In a palatial residence on Nob Hill, in San Francisco, a
distinguished-looking gentleman may be seen sitting in his luxurious
library. Its walls are hung with an exquisite shade of old rose, the
broad frieze representing garlands of flowers in old rose, gold, and
white. The furniture is of solid mahogany, richly carved, upholstered in
blue velvet and satins; costly draperies are at the windows; Turkish rugs
of almost priceless value are strewn about the inlaid and highly polished
floor, and statues, bric-a-brac, and fine pictures, gathered from many
countries, are artistically arranged about the room.
The gentleman, who is in evening dress, excepting that he has on a
smoking-jacket of rich black velvet, is lazily reclining in an adjustable
chair, and engaged in cutting the leaves of one of the late magazines,
while he smokes a cigar.
Presently the portieres of a doorway are swept aside, and a beautiful
woman enters. She is in full evening dress, and clad like a princess in
satin, of a deep shade of pink, brocaded with white. Diamonds encircle
her white neck, gleam in her ears, and amid her nut-brown hair.
The gentleman turns to her, his face glowing with mingled pride and
pleasure.
“Nell! what a vision of loveliness!” he exclaims, with an eager thrill in
his tones.
She comes to him with a fond smile upon her lips, lays her fair arms
around his neck, and kisses him.
“So much for your flattery,” she playfully responds.
“Ah, I am tempted to try for the same reward again,” he returns, in the
same vein, as he captures one jeweled hand and lays it against his lips.
“But, dear, do you know how late it is getting to be?” questions the
lady, as she glances at the gilded clock on the mantel.
“Well, I am all ready, except getting into my coat. Run away for your
opera-cloak, and I will not be a minute behind you, though really, Nell,
I am too comfortable to move,” concludes the man, in a regretful tone.
“Oh, you lazy, unappreciative fellow,” gaily retorts his companion. “Here
one of the leaders in society is about to tender a brilliant reception
to the distinguished mayor of the city, and he is so indifferent to the
honor that he prefers to sit and smoke at home to receive the homage
awaiting him. Come, sir; your wife is ambitious if you are not.”
She administers a playful box on his ear as she ceases, then trips away,
while the gentleman watches her with a smile on his lips and his heart in
his eyes.
He arises the instant she disappears, and is on the point of following
her when his glance falls upon a paper which, until that moment, has lain
unnoticed upon the table. He picks it up, and runs his eyes up and down
its columns.
Suddenly a shock seems to go quivering through him, and every particle
of color fades out of his face. He stands up as if transfixed for a full
minute. Then the paper drops from his grasp.
“At last!” he mutters; “at last!”
He draws a long, deep breath, like one who, having been long oppressed,
suddenly feels a weight removed. Then he throws back his shoulders and
walks with a proudly uplifted head and elastic step from the room.
CHAPTER I.
AN ACT OF HEROISM.
A long and heavily laden passenger-train—the 3 o’clock limited express
from Boston to New York—and composed chiefly of parlor-cars, was almost
ready to pull out of the station. The engineer and fireman were in their
places, while the porters, standing beside their steps, were awaiting the
last signal from the gong.
Midway of the train, and sitting at the open window of her section, a
young girl of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years, was sitting. She was a
veritable pink-and-white beauty, with golden hair lying in soft, fluffy
curls about her forehead, beneath which a pair of mischievous blue eyes—a
saucy light gleaming in their azure depths—looked out and down upon the
handsome face of a tall, well-formed youth, with an unmistakable air of
high breeding about him, who was standing on the platform outside with a
somewhat lugubrious expression on his countenance.
He was evidently about eighteen years of age, and everything about him
indicated a scion of a wealthy aristocrat.
“Remember, Mollie,” he was saying, “you have promised to write me every
week, and I shall expect you to tell me everything you hear, see, and
do—yes, and think. I don’t know how I’m going to stand it to have you
gone, for nobody knows how long, with the ocean between us and all our
good times at an end.”
“Nonsense, Phil, you silly boy! You are going to be at Harvard, and,
absorbed in your studies and your various clubs and societies, you will
soon forget all about those ‘old times,’ and be bored beyond expression
if I should take you at your word and inflict a letter, filled with
foolish, girlish gossip, upon you every week,” the girl laughingly
retorted.
Nevertheless, her saucy eyes grew a trifle sad while she was speaking,
and a deeper pink glowed upon her cheeks.
“No, it is not ‘nonsense,’ and I shall never ‘forget,’ as you will prove
to your satisfaction, if you will only do your duty,” the young man
earnestly returned. “So send on your letters, and mind, Mollie, you don’t
let any one steal your heart away from me, for you know you are to marry
me just as soon as I am through college.”
He had lowered his voice during this last sentence, while he regarded the
lovely face with a tender, admiring look that spoke volumes. The azure
eyes drooped and a scarlet wave leaped to the delicately blue-veined
temples; but she replied:
“Marry you as soon as you are through college, indeed!—who said so, I
should like to know?” A tantalizing laugh revealed two rows of small
white teeth between the ruby lips.
“Mollie! Mollie! don’t torment me,” the youthful lover returned, with a
note of earnest entreaty in his tone. “You know that we have planned it
all a hundred times, when you and I were playing ‘keep house’ together in
the tent under the old elms at your home on the Hudson.”
“Oh, but that was only play, Phil. In another month you’ll be dancing
attendance on the pretty Cambridge girls, and, after four years of such
fun, you’ll cease to remember that such a being as Mollie Heatherford
exists, or that she ever played Joan to your Darby under the elms at
Sunnyhurst,” and two roguish eyes gleamed with mischief as they scanned
the clouded face beneath her.
“You are cruel, Mollie. I shall always be faithful to you, and I wish
you would give me some pledge before you go; say,” as his glance fell
upon the small, white hand that rested upon the window-sill, and on which
there gleamed several costly rings, “give me that cameo you are wearing
to seal the compact. It really isn’t a lady’s ring, and would look far
better on my hand than yours, and I’ll send you something pretty and nice
in place of it. Now, Mollie, dear, be good to me—don’t go away and leave
me in suspense.”
But Miss Mischief had no intention of being caught in the net so cleverly
spread for her. She laughed roguishly back into the handsome face
upturned to her, and saucily shook her head.
“No, I can’t give you the cameo, Phil,” she said, “and I’m not going to
make any promises—now. Hark, there is the last bell. Good-by, and do
yourself credit at college.”
The train began to move as she spoke. Phil clasped the hand outstretched
to him while he ran along beside the car.
“Remember, it is mine. I shall claim it in four years, promise or no
promise. Now, write me every week; don’t forget me; good-by.”
He had to relinquish the hand at last, but he took off his hat and waved
a farewell, while his fond eyes lingered upon the sweet, smiling face
looking back at him, until the train rolled out of the station.
He knew it would be the last time he would see it for a long while,
for pretty Mollie Heatherford was soon to go abroad for an indefinite
period. She had been spending a week with the Temples in Brookline—Phil’s
home—making a farewell visit previous to her departure, and she was now
on her way to New York to rejoin her father and mother, and the trio were
to sail for Europe within a few days.
“By Jove! I believe she is the prettiest girl I ever saw, and she’ll have
a pile of money some day. I’ll stick to Mollie and her pile, and the
Cambridge girls may hang their harps on the willows for all me. I’m going
to look out for number one.”
Such were the mental comments of Philip Wentworth, whose mother—a
widow—had married a wealthy man by the name of Temple some four years
previous. And these comments were an index to the young man’s character,
which, summed up in a word, might be written selfish.
The express-train steamed rapidly on its way, bearing the pretty heiress
of the Heatherford million toward her home. The day had been very hot
and sultry—it was late in July—and some three hours after leaving Boston
ominous clouds began to gather in the West. A little later the train ran
into a terrific electric-storm.
Mollie Heatherford sat crouching in her section, white and trembling, and
dreading every instant a deadly bolt which would bring swift destruction
and annihilation to her, yet too proud and sensitive to confess her fear
and seek the reassuring companionship of some fellow traveler.
The heavens were so thickly overcast, and the rain descended in such
torrents it seemed almost like night in the car, and the porter began to
light the lamps.
He had only half-completed his task when there burst upon the affrighted
ears of the awe-stricken passengers within the train a startling, warning
whistle from the engine, then a sudden shock and crash, followed by
shrieks and cries of men, women, and children.
On this same afternoon, while “the Limited” was speeding on its way
from Boston to New York, a youth of perhaps seventeen years might have
been seen toiling beneath the blazing sun in a hay-field, adjoining the
grounds surrounding a stately mansion, and which was located on the
outskirts of a beautiful country town not far from New Haven.
Every now and then the young man would glance anxiously up at a small
cloud that was floating along the western horizon, and every time he
looked it seemed to have grown larger and larger. Then he would fall to
work again with fresh vigor, apparently unmindful of the broiling heat
and of the great beads of perspiration which rolled over his face and
dropped upon the ground.
He was working alone, and it did not seem possible that he would be able
to get all the hay in the field into cocks and covered with caps before
the storm would be upon him. But there was a resolution in every glance
of his eye, determination in every vigorous movement of his body, and
he pressed on, while the cloud grew, mounting higher and higher in the
heavens, while vivid flashes of lightning, followed by the heavy roll of
thunder, gave warning that the storm was coming nearer and nearer.
He had timed himself well; the task was completed; the last cap spread as
the first drops fell, when the youth shouldered his rake and turned his
steps toward the farmhouse. He had to run for it, for the storm was fast
overtaking him, but he reached the great barn just in season to escape
the deluge.
Hanging his rake upon a beam, he removed his broad hat, wiped the
perspiration from his face, and heaved a long sigh of relief.
“Well, I did it,” he observed, with a satisfied uplifting of his head,
“but small thanks I’ll get for my efforts. However, that is not my
affair. My part was to do as I’d be done by, thanks or no thanks. Great
Cæsar! how it rains! What lightning! What thunder!” he exclaimed, as
flash after flash swept athwart the murky sky and almost simultaneous
reports crashed like the continuous firing of mighty cannons, while the
rain came down in sheets and drenched the thirsty earth.
He stood watching the conflict of elements for a few moments, then he
remarked again:
“I am sure I have earned the right to rest a while, so I’m going in to
have a tussle with Tacitus for an hour or two. Ho! hum! I wonder if I
shall be able to pass the exams. and enter college this fall.”
He tossed his hat upon a peg, then, passing through a side door,
traversed a short passage, then a shed, and finally entered the roomy,
pleasant kitchen of the farmhouse, where a tidy, good-natured looking
woman was mixing biscuit for supper.
With a smile and a pleasant word to her, the young man crossed the room,
opened a door and mounted a flight of stairs to a small room on the back
of the house, and which overlooked a winding stream, and, a few rods
away, the railroad. Here he threw himself into a chair before a table,
upon which there were several books, and was soon absorbed in the “Annals
of Tacitus.”
Suddenly there came a blinding flash of lightning, followed instantly by
a crash that seemed to shake the very foundation of the earth.
“That was very near,” muttered the youth, looking up from his book and
glancing out of the window.
A startled cry burst from him as he did so, and he sprang to his feet.
“Heavens! the old crooked maple has been struck and fallen directly
across the track!” he exclaimed.
He snatched a cheap watch from his pocket and glanced at it, his face
growing white with a terrible fear.
“The New York limited express will be due here in exactly half an hour.
Unless something is done, some warning given before it rounds the curve
there will be a horrible accident,” he soliloquized with pale lips.
He rushed from the room, down the stairs, through the kitchen, and into
the shed, where, seizing an ax, he darted out of a back door unmindful
of the pouring rain, through a garden, and down a bank beyond, and, in
another moment, was on the railroad beside the great tree, whose trunk
was at least twelve inches in diameter, and whose branches spread out
over the track for many feet.
This maple had stood there on the bank for many years, while storm
after storm had gradually undermined it, until it was held only by the
strength of its own roots. The roadmaster of that section had, for some
time, contemplated having it removed, as he felt that it was unsafe to
allow it to remain. But he had neglected it just a little too long, and
the present tempest had wrenched it from its place, causing it to fall
directly across both tracks.
With quick and vigorous strokes the young man trimmed away some of the
branches, so that he could get at the trunk, and then he fell to work
with his ax as he had seldom worked before, forgetting that he had
already performed the labor of two men that day, and the tree was finally
severed just outside the rails nearest the roots.
But another division must be made before it could be removed from its
dangerous position, and he sprang between the two tracks and fell to work
again, the elements still keeping high carnival around him. The chips
flew right and left, while with every blow of the ax the youth’s breath
was forced from him with a shrill, hissing sound, showing that he was
putting forth his strength to the utmost. But he had hewn only about
two-thirds of the log when the whistle of a locomotive fell upon his ear
and warned him that the train was only a mile away, speeding on toward
swift destruction.
What should he do? He knew there would not be time to complete his task
and drag the tree from the track before the train would be upon him,
while there was a bridge over the road not fifty feet behind him, and
beneath it a foaming, rushing, thundering torrent, into which the engine
and coaches, if derailed, would doubtless plunge headlong.
A wild look of fear shot into his eyes. An expression of horror was on
his pallid face as these thoughts flashed through his mind. The next
instant he snatched a red bandanna from his pocket and started on a swift
run down the track, tying the handkerchief to a branch of the maple as
he went. On, on, like a deer he ran. The curve was reached and rounded.
The train was in sight. Nearer and nearer it came thundering on; then the
short, sharp sound of the danger-whistle fell upon the boy’s ear, and
his heart bounded into his throat with a sudden sense of relief as he
realized that his signal had been seen and recognized.
Then he dashed it to the ground, and, turning, sped back to the maple,
and fell to work again with his ax with all his might.
The moment the engineer had espied the improvised flag he knew there was
danger ahead, and, blowing the signal to warn the brakemen, he reversed
his engine, and opened the valves, and it was this ready response to
the waving bandanna that had caused the crash and shock which had so
frightened and shaken up everybody on the train, although no real damage
had been done, and he finally brought his engine to a standstill within
three feet of the youth, and just in season to see the last blow from his
ax, which cleft the trunk of the maple asunder.
Both he and the fireman sprang to the ground and ran toward him, reaching
him just as, with a faintly murmured “Thank God!” he fell forward
exhausted, and was caught in their strong arms before he could touch the
ground. He did not entirely lose consciousness; but he was too spent and
weak to move or even speak.
Many of the passengers left the train and gathered around him in spite
of the rain, which continued to fall heavily, although it was gradually
abating.
The conductor, comprehending at once what had occurred, and anxious
to lose no more time than was absolutely necessary, ordered the youth
to be put aboard the train and made as comfortable as possible until
they reached the next station. Then the brakemen, with the engineer and
fireman, removed the debris from the tracks, after which everybody was
ordered back into the coaches, and the train went steaming on its way
once more.