THE DESTROYER’S DOOM.
For if we do but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power
Which could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search, and vigil long,
Of him who treasures up a wrong.
Mazeppa.
The night was waxing late, when the beautiful and witty Mrs. Anson was promenading at a party where all the élite of the city were assembled, with an imposing looking man, who seemed to unite—rare combination—high fashion and dignity of bearing. His face was almost constantly turned toward the lady, and he seemed careful that his words should reach no ears but those for which he uttered them. His last remark, whatever it was, seemed to have offended the lady, for she stopped suddenly, and gazing full in his face, exhibited as dark a frown as those bright, beautiful eyes could be made to produce. It was but a passing cloud, however, for the next moment she said, laughingly, “Upon my word, Major Derode, you give your tongue strange license.” His peace was soon made, and drawing the arm of Mrs. Anson within his own, he asked her if she would dance any more.
“No,” she replied, “if you’ll tell them to draw up, I’ll go home; the rooms are close; I am fatigued; besides, in the absence of my husband, I must keep good hours.”
“Excuse me,” said the major, “if I am not anxious for his return. I should not dare to hope for so much of your precious society, were he to command it.”