Produced by Joel Erickson, Dave Avis
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
[Illustration: LOUIS DASHED THE GLOWING END OF HIS CIGAR IN THE NEGRO'S
FACE.]
In one of the fairest of the West Indian islands a simple but elegantvilla lifted its gabled roofs amidst a bewildering wealth of tropicalbeauty. Brilliant birds flitted among the foliage, gold and silverfishes darted to and fro in a large stone basin of a fountain whichthrew its glittering spray over the lawn in front of the house, and onthe vine-shaded veranda hammocks hung temptingly, and low wicker chairsinvited to repose.
Behind the jalousies of the library the owner of the villa sat at adesk, busily writing. He was a slight, delicate looking man, with anexpression of careless good humor upon his face and an easy air ofassurance according with the interior of the room which bespoke acultured taste and the ability to gratify it. Books were everywhere,rare bits of china, curios and exquisitely tinted shells lay inpicturesque confusion upon tables and wall brackets of native woods;soft silken draperies fell from the windows and partially screened fromview a large alcove where microscopes of different sizes stood uponcabinets whose shelves were filled with a miscellaneous collection ofrare plants and beautiful insects, specimens from the agate forest ofArizona, petrified remains from the 'Bad Lands' of Dakota, featheryfronded seaweed, skeletons of birds and strange wild creatures, and allthe countless curiosities in which naturalists delight.
Lenox Hildreth when a young man, forced to flee from the rigors of theNew England climate by reason of an inherited tendency to pulmonarydisease, had chosen Barbadoes as his adopted country, and had neversince revisited the land of his birth. From the first, fortune hadsmiled upon him, and when, some time after his marriage with thedaughter of a wealthy planter, she had come into possession of all herfather's estates, he had built the house which for fifteen years he hadcalled home. When Evadne, their only daughter, was a little maiden ofsix, his wife had died, and for nine years father and child had been allthe world to each other.
He finished writing at last with a sigh of relief, and folding theletter, together with one addressed to Evadne, he enclosed both in alarge envelope which he sealed and addressed to Judge Hildreth,Marlborough, Mass. Then he leaned back in his chair, and, clasping hishands behind his head, looked fixedly at the picture of his fair youngwife which hung above his desk.
"A bad job well done, Louise—or a good one. Our little lass isn't verywell adapted to making her way among strangers, and the Bohemianism ofthis life is a poor preparation for the heavy respectability of a NewEngland existence. Lawrence is a good fellow, but that wife of hisalways put me in mind of iced champagne, sparkling and cold." He sighedheavily, "Poor little Vad! It is a dreary outlook, but it seems my oneresource. Lawrence is the only relative I have in the world.
"After all, I may be fighting windmills, and years hence may laugh atthis morning's work as an example of the folly of yielding tounnecessary alarm. Danvers is getting childish. All physicians get to beold fogies, I fancy, a natural sequence to a life spent in hunting downgerms I suppose. They grow to imagine them where none exist.