Beadle's New York Dime Library No. 158 — page 2: what you’re looking at

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

— D The Doomed Dozen: Dolores, The Danite’s Daughter. A Romance of Border Trails and Mor- mon Tysteries. BY DR. FRANK POWELL, ‘“‘ WHITE BEAVER,” THE MEDICINE CHIEF OF THE WINNEBAGO INDIANS. CHAPTER I. THE SUICIDE’S DAUGHTER. ** DOLORES, I love you,” The words were breathed forth with im- passioned earnestness from the lips of a man. They were addressed to a young and beau- tiful girl, whose face betrayed no pleasure at the utterance of her companion, but rather pain. The two were standing in the conservatory, opening from a parlor furnished with a lux- urious elegance that indicated the home of wealth and refinement. , The man wore the undress uniform of a cap- tain in the army, and his face was noble in ex- pression, resolute and handsome, his form above the medium hight, and indicative of strength and activity. The lady was youthful, scarcely eighteen in fact, attired in a dark silk, with long train, that fitted her faultless form to perfection. Her face was exquisitely lovely, and of an Italian type of beauty, that was in fine con- trast to the blue eyes and golden hair of her companion. “Il am sorry, very sorry, Captain Mon- crief,’”’ was the low reply. “Sorry! sorry that I love you, Dolores Moultrie?” he asked reproachfully. ‘*'Yes, Captain Moncrief, for yours «is a hopeless love, and, knowing your noble nature well, Iam sorry to give you pain, for you and I can never be more to each other than now we are,” She spoke firmly and looked him squarely in the eyes, though her face was very pale; and her lips quivered slightly. ** Will Miss Dolores Moultrie kindly inform me why we cannot be more to each other than the friends we now. are?’ he asked with a tone of sarcasm. ‘“‘Why will-you not take my word tbat we must reinain friends, and not force me to say more?’ she asked pettishly. **T will tell you why, Dolores. *‘One night, now ten years ago, I saw a wo- man spring from the deck ofa Sound steamer, with a child in her arms. ‘Her pale, sad face, when I saw her in the cabin, had touched me, and seeing her take her little girl by the hand and ¢o out upon the after deck in the storm, for it was blowing hardy, I followed her. ‘*T heard her words: ***God forgive me! but it is better so; yes, better so!” ' ‘*Then, ere I could prevent, she seized her child in her arms and sprung into the tempest- lashed waters. **T called loudly for help, tore a life-pre- server from the rack overhead, and bounded after her. “ The officer on duty heard my cry, saw m act, and ordered the steamer stopped immedi- ately and a life-boat launched. ‘* T had, in the mean time, reached the drown- ing woman and her child, and fastened the life-preserver around the former, while I took the latter in my arms, at the same time loudly hailing the boat, to show where we were. ‘The woman seemed determined to die, and was unconscious when taken into the boat; but the little girl did not mind her ducking in the least. . ‘* While I was changing my clothes in my state-room the stewardess came for me and said the lady was conscious and wished to see me. **T obeyed her request, and found her dying. “But she had strength enough to beg me to care for her child, gave me her purse of money, aud that is all I knew of her, other than that I could see that she was a lady. “I pledged my word to care for her child, and carried her to my mother’s, and she took the little girl into her heart and ber household. ** Dolores, I was then just twenty, and had graduated a week before at West Point. “That was ten years ago, and in all that time the image of that little girl has been in , iA ‘love me.” ‘ The Doomed Dozen. my heart, and now you tell me that we can- not be more than we are, friends, ‘* No, no, Dolores Moultrie, I love you, and if you have not, while I have been on the frontier, fallen in love with another, you shall be my wife,” ‘Would you have me marry a man I do not love, Howland?” she asked calmly. ‘“No, no, not that, not that; only I was vain enough to think you did care for me, for when on leave at home, each time you have treated me so kindly. ‘* You do not love me then, Dolores?” he asked in almost piteous tones. ** Only as a brother, Howland,” she faltered. ** Ah, Dolores, I have deceived myself most cruelly.” “Towe you my life, Howland, and, never can I forget you; yet never can I be your wife,” she said firmly. ‘So be it, if you say truly that you do not “ T donot love you, Howland.” He bowed his head an instant, his form quivering with suppressed emotion, and then taking her hands he drew her toward him, pressed a sudden, impulsive kiss upon her fore- head, and said: ‘“‘That is my farewell to love, henceforth we are friends only.” * Yes, friends only.” He made no reply, but turning away, left the conservatory and walked hastily across the lawn. As he departed another approached and joined Dolores, whose face was white, and whose lips were quivering, while ber tiny hands were clasped close together. Dolores; CHAPTER II, THE SECRET. THE one who approached Dolores, when Captain Howland Moncrief left her, and; un- seen by the maiden, glided out from behind the heavy velvet curtains in the parlor, where she had been hiding and heard all that was said, was a stately woman, with a cold, proud face, and the air of one born to refine- ment and riches. Dressed superbly, and sparkling with diamonds, for it was near the dinner hour, Mrs. Marmaduke Moncrief swept up to where Dolores stood, the very picture of despair, and said in a soft, velvety tone that had in it not one atom of sympathy: ‘‘Dolores, my sweet child, you have done well, for I heard all.” She kissed the maiden as*she spoke, and lowered her eyes before the gaze fastened upon her, as Dolores replied: ‘‘T did as you demanded, madam; I sacri- ficed myself and gave pain to your son, that your ambitious views regarding him might be gratified.” ** Dolores, you forget yourself,” said the lady, sternly. ‘*No, Mrs. Moncrief, Ido not forget that I have no claim upon you, and that I came to your house with only my name, and not even knowing whether I have a right to that, “No, no, madam, I have lived on your charity for ten long years, and, in your way you have been very kind to me. ‘But I sinned in loving your son, and for that sin you have punished me. ‘* Now I will no longer than to-morrow bur- den you with my presence, for I can teach, give music lessons, paint, and in many ways earn an honest livelihood, while the little money my poor mother had in her purse will support me until I can make sufficient to sup- port myself, ‘IT thank you, Mrs, Moncrief, for all you have done for me, and one day hope to repay it.” ‘**Dolores, are you mad?” cried the ,woman, evidently frightened at the determination of the maiden, ‘*No, madam, I am sane,” was the haughty reply. ‘*But you cannot, shall not, house.” ‘‘Pardon me, but I will do as I please in this matter, having acted to please you in one that was a more important step.” ‘‘But Howland will not permit you to go,” “Captain Moncrief has no claim upon me, madam.” ** Oh, Dolores, I beg of you not to leave me, for Howland will be furious,” and it was evi- dent that the lady feared her son’s just wrath, should he know that his mother, to have him marry her choice, a silly young heiress, had leave this urged upon Dolores to refuse him, telling her that she was but a charity child, and none knew who her parents were. But Dolores Moultrie, for such she had said was her name, had a proud heart and iron will, and that night, when all was quiet, crept out of the elegant mansion, carrying with her only a small valise in her hand, and going forth into the cold world friendless and alone, determined never again to cross the threshold of the house of Mrs. Moncrief, who so bitterly had made her feel all that she was, as soon us she knew that her son had learned to love the little waif whose life he bad saved and whom he had begged his aristocratic mother to care for, for his sake. CHAPTER IIL. MOTHER AND SON. CAPTAIN HOWLAND MONCRIEF sauntered into the breakfast-room, a cloud upon bis brow and a haggard look in bis eyes, for he had slept lit- tle during the night, the pain at his heart of unrequited love being with him more than a passing emotion. He had not seen Dolores since their parting in the conservatory, as she had excused herself from dinner on the plea of indisposition, and he started at the rustle of a dress in the hall. But it was his mother, and, though she tried to look cheerful it was evident she did not feel so. He greeted her affectionately, and at the same time asked: ‘* How is Dolores, mother?” ‘*T have not seen her this morning.” “* Indeed!” ; Stepping to the bell-rope, Captain Moncrief gave it a decidedly hard pull. ‘* Benson, send Judith to Miss Moultrie’s room and ask her, with my compliments, how she is feeling this morning, and if weare not to see her at brekfast?” The servant obeyed, but Judith soon re- turned with the startling statement that: ** Miss Dolores was not in her room, and the bed had not been slept in.”’ At the same time she handed the captain a note. He took it with trembling fingers and white face, and read, as the girl left the room: **CapTAIN HOWLAND MONCRIEF: My Dear Frrenp—After all your kindness to me in the past, it is a poor return for me to steal from your home in the night like a guilty creature: but I do so forthe wellfare and happiness of us all, as I cannot longer remain beneath this roof. ‘* As we will never meet again, you may ask your’ mother why I leave. ‘* With a heart full of thanks for all that Iowe you, and wishing you a life of happiness, : * Your friend ever, ** DOLORES.”’ Twice he read the letter aloud, and chen said: ‘* Mother, what does this mean?’ His voice was low, earnest and stern, and Mrs. Moncrief felt that she had gone too far: but she was determined to have it out, and said coldly: “Tt means that in return for our devotion to her she has left our home for some one’s pro- tection she doubtless likes better.” ‘* But whose protection, mother?’ **She had many admirers, and I intended to marry her off well; but she has chosen differ- ently.” “Mother! not one word against Dolores: do not dare to cast one aspersion upon her, or I ‘will leave this house forever. **T told you that I loved her and intended making her my wife: but alas! she refused my love, and she has left this house. “Now, I ask you, mother, what does it mean?” She saw that her son was in deadly earnest, and she went into tears, while she cried: ‘‘Howland, my son, my love for you prompted me not to encourage her ambitious hopes, for what is she, who is she, but a name- less beggar?” ‘Silence, mother! not one word, I say, against that girl: I took her from the waves, when she was drowning, and I pledged her | dying motber that I would bea brother to ? ’ ‘*A brother, yes, my son, but you wished to make her your wife.” ‘‘True, and would have done so had she not refused my love. ‘By heaven! but I believe you caused her to do so, for Dolores was no hypocrite, and up to yesterday certainly showed that she cared for me.” ‘* But, Howland, I have other views for you, 900 com C S